Touch Not the Cat by Mary Stewart

Author:Mary Stewart
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
Publisher: Hachette UK
Published: 2011-02-16T13:00:00+00:00

12

. . . a divine, a ghostly confessor,

A sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d.

Romeo and Juliet, III, iii

Next morning, as soon as I could, I went to see the Vicar.

He was on his knees in the biggest of the ruinous greenhouses, contentedly rummaging about among the young tomato plants. The hothouse stood against the twelve-foot wall of the old kitchen garden, and many of its panes were broken, and had been replaced by odd pieces of plywood or polythene sheeting. The heating system, of course, had long been out of use. The original staging, too, had long since rotted; Rob Granger had dragged it out and burned it, and rigged benches from old trestles and some planks from one of the derelict farm buildings. The sun was pouring in, reflecting warmly back from the white-washed wall, and the place smelled pleasantly of newly watered soil steaming in the warmth, and the musky scent of tomato leaves.

‘Hullo, my dear. Were you comfortable in the cottage last night?’

‘Very, thank you. What are you doing?’

‘Tying up the tomatoes. Rob strung all these canes last week, and now the plants are big enough to train. Excellent young plants, aren’t they? I don’t know what’s so fascinating about tomatoes, but they really are delightful to work with. So easy, and such a big return for such a small investment.’

I laughed. ‘That’s too worldly by half, Vicar. You should be drawing morals about it; tall oaks from little acorns grow, and something something fountains flow.’

‘So I should, so I should. Well, there’s a moral in it somewhere, I’m sure . . . Dear me, now I sound like the Duchess in Alice in Wonderland. Did you want me for anything special?’

‘I wondered if I might talk to you,’ I said. ‘Some time when it’s convenient. There’s no rush.’

His hands, holding the furred leaves gently, paused. His eyes, distorted so grotesquely behind the thick glasses, searched my face. ‘It’s always convenient.’ He let go the plant, and began to get to his feet. ‘Here and now, or shall we go up to the Vicarage and make a cup of coffee?’

‘Here and now, if that’s all right. No, don’t leave the tomatoes. Can’t I help you with them? I know how to do it.’

He made no demur, knowing, I suppose, how much easier it is to talk when one’s hands are occupied. He started work again, and I moved to the other side of the row from him, and followed suit. Above us the robin, who was always on the watch for whoever was gardening, flew in through a broken pane, saw there was nothing doing, scolded for a moment, then flew away. Silence, except for the rustling of tomato leaves, the snip of scissors cutting twine and the drip of a tap into the tank.

‘Mr Bryanston, do you believe in telepathy?’

“Believe in”? I don’t query its existence; I don’t think one reasonably can. There have been too many instances of it, thoroughly documented; and now I think it is being seriously researched.

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