The Complete Short Stories (Canons) by Muriel Spark

Author:Muriel Spark [Spark, Muriel]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Canongate Books
Published: 2011-08-18T04:00:00+00:00

MISS PINKERTON’S APOCALYPSE

One evening, a damp one in February, something flew in at the window. Miss Laura Pinkerton, who was doing something innocent to the fire, heard a faint throbbing noise overhead. On looking up, “George! come here! come quickly!”

George Lake came in at once, though sullenly because of their quarrel, eating a sandwich from the kitchen. He looked up at the noise then sat down immediately.

From this point onward their story comes in two versions, his and hers. But they agree as to the main facts; they agree that it was a small round flattish object, and that it flew.

“It’s a flying object of some sort,” whispered George eventually.

“It’s a saucer,” said Miss Pinkerton, keen and loud, “an antique piece. You can tell by the shape.”

“It can’t be an antique, that’s absolutely certain,” George said.

He ought to have been more tactful, and would have been, but for the stress of the moment. Of course it set Miss Pinkerton off, she being in the right.

“I know my facts,” she stated as usual, “I should hope I know my facts. I’ve been in antique china for twenty-three years in the autumn,” which was true, and George knew it.

The little saucer was cavorting round the lamp.

“It seems to be attracted by the light,” George remarked, as one might distinguish a moth.

Promptly, it made as if to dive dangerously at George’s head. He ducked, and Miss Pinkerton backed against the wall. As the dish tilted on its side, skimming George’s shoulder, Miss Pinkerton could see inside it.

“The thing might be radioactive. It might be dangerous.” George was breathless. The saucer had climbed, was circling high above his head, and now made for him again, but missed.

“It is not radioactive,” said Miss Pinkerton, “it is Spode.”

“Don’t be so damn silly,” George replied, under the stress of the occasion.

“All right, very well,” said Miss Pinkerton, “it is not Spode. I suppose you are the expert, George, I suppose you know best. I was only judging by the pattern. After the best part of a lifetime in china –”

“It must be a forgery,” George said unfortunately. For, unfortunately, something familiar and abrasive in Miss Pinkerton’s speech began to grind within him. Also, he was afraid of the saucer.

It had taken a stately turn, following the picture rail in a steady career round the room.

“Forgery, ha!” said Miss Pinkerton. She was out of the room like a shot, and in again carrying a pair of steps.

“I will examine the mark,” said she, pointing intensely at the saucer. “Where are my glasses?”

Obligingly, the saucer settled in a corner; it hung like a spider a few inches from the ceiling. Miss Pinkerton adjusted the steps. With her glasses on she was almost her sunny self again, she was ceremonious and expert.

“Don’t touch it, don’t go near it!” George pushed her aside and grabbed the steps, knocking over a blue glass bowl, a Dresden figure, a vase of flowers and a decanter of sherry; like a bull in a china shop, as Miss Pinkerton exclaimed.

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