have got across; because when she mounted her bicycle again she was actually trembling with rage.
“You’ll be sorry for this!” was her parting shot, as her well-brogued foot drove against the pedal. “You’ll be sorry! As the dear Vicar was telling me only last week …”
I wish now that I’d listened more carefully to what the dear Vicar had been telling her. But how was I to know, then, that it would be worth hearing? I had met the Rev. Pinkerton only once since taking up my residence here, and I had formed the opinion—a snap judgment, I have to admit—that he was crackers. Either that, or that he was a very, very holy man indeed.
It was on that first Monday morning that our encounter had taken place. I was on my way up the lane that led to Green End Cottage, full of dark thoughts about the week-end boyfriend (I didn’t know then, of course, that he hadn’t turned up after all), when I heard footsteps round the bend ahead of me; quick, loud footsteps, almost running; and a moment later, down the lane towards me, black as a crow in his clerical garb, the Reverend Pinkerton came striding. He was muttering as he came, and as he drew near I heard the words:
“Evil! … Before my very eyes … the embodiment of Evil …”
I thought at first that he was addressing me, personally; and I was just trying to think of the right reply—I mean, “And good morning to you, too, Sir,” didn’t seem to strike quite the right note—when I realised he wasn’t speaking to me at all—hadn’t, indeed, actually seen me, for all that his pale, wild eyes seemed to be staring right into mine. He was in some sort of trance, or state of prayer, or something, I decided; and when he strode on past me without a backward look, I breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing I wanted was a lecture on the Nature of Evil on this, my beautiful morning.
And so, naturally, I’d written him off, poor old chap—well, not so old really—around fifty, I’d guess—but you know what I mean. And equally naturally, when Miss Fry invoked his name to clinch her crazy argument, I’m afraid I could only laugh. I wish now that I hadn’t—as I say, I wish that I’d actually listened to those parting shots of hers: but how could I have guessed—how could I possibly, at that time, have conceived—that above the Rev. Pinkerton’s grim clerical collar and beneath his sparse greying hair, dwelt the only brain which already knew the secret which would have saved me? I didn’t even know there was any secret; there had been nothing to Miss Fry’s melodramatic maunderings to make it cross my mind, even for a moment, that there might actually be something mysterious about Green End Cottage; that those ancient walls really might be harbouring forces of evil; that in that cottage where Theresa spent her days and her solitary nights there might be danger—real, deadly danger—lurking.
And so, as I say, I laughed. After all these humiliating and unfounded accusations, to which I was debarred from replying, it was good at the end to have the last laugh. I laughed as Miss Fry angrily hoisted her great tweed-clad bottom into the saddle; and I was laughing still as I watched her pedalling umbrageously down the street, her front wheel wobbling with temper, as I’m sure it couldn’t have done for decades.
*
Theresa thought it was all very funny. And I suppose it was, really. Certainly, I tried to make it sound so, because I didn’t want Theresa to imagine that I had for one moment taken Miss Fry’s far-fetched allegations seriously—particularly the bit about Theresa having knocked on Miss Fry’s door in such an uncharacteristic state of nervous alarm. Reassuringly, this was the bit that made her laugh most of all—though not until she had ascertained, with a couple of sharp questions, that I had at no point given away to Miss Fry the subject of her thesis. Reassured as to this, she relaxed, and I’ll never forget the fun we had that
“You’ll be sorry for this!” was her parting shot, as her well-brogued foot drove against the pedal. “You’ll be sorry! As the dear Vicar was telling me only last week …”
I wish now that I’d listened more carefully to what the dear Vicar had been telling her. But how was I to know, then, that it would be worth hearing? I had met the Rev. Pinkerton only once since taking up my residence here, and I had formed the opinion—a snap judgment, I have to admit—that he was crackers. Either that, or that he was a very, very holy man indeed.
It was on that first Monday morning that our encounter had taken place. I was on my way up the lane that led to Green End Cottage, full of dark thoughts about the week-end boyfriend (I didn’t know then, of course, that he hadn’t turned up after all), when I heard footsteps round the bend ahead of me; quick, loud footsteps, almost running; and a moment later, down the lane towards me, black as a crow in his clerical garb, the Reverend Pinkerton came striding. He was muttering as he came, and as he drew near I heard the words:
“Evil! … Before my very eyes … the embodiment of Evil …”
I thought at first that he was addressing me, personally; and I was just trying to think of the right reply—I mean, “And good morning to you, too, Sir,” didn’t seem to strike quite the right note—when I realised he wasn’t speaking to me at all—hadn’t, indeed, actually seen me, for all that his pale, wild eyes seemed to be staring right into mine. He was in some sort of trance, or state of prayer, or something, I decided; and when he strode on past me without a backward look, I breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing I wanted was a lecture on the Nature of Evil on this, my beautiful morning.
And so, naturally, I’d written him off, poor old chap—well, not so old really—around fifty, I’d guess—but you know what I mean. And equally naturally, when Miss Fry invoked his name to clinch her crazy argument, I’m afraid I could only laugh. I wish now that I hadn’t—as I say, I wish that I’d actually listened to those parting shots of hers: but how could I have guessed—how could I possibly, at that time, have conceived—that above the Rev. Pinkerton’s grim clerical collar and beneath his sparse greying hair, dwelt the only brain which already knew the secret which would have saved me? I didn’t even know there was any secret; there had been nothing to Miss Fry’s melodramatic maunderings to make it cross my mind, even for a moment, that there might actually be something mysterious about Green End Cottage; that those ancient walls really might be harbouring forces of evil; that in that cottage where Theresa spent her days and her solitary nights there might be danger—real, deadly danger—lurking.
And so, as I say, I laughed. After all these humiliating and unfounded accusations, to which I was debarred from replying, it was good at the end to have the last laugh. I laughed as Miss Fry angrily hoisted her great tweed-clad bottom into the saddle; and I was laughing still as I watched her pedalling umbrageously down the street, her front wheel wobbling with temper, as I’m sure it couldn’t have done for decades.
*
Theresa thought it was all very funny. And I suppose it was, really. Certainly, I tried to make it sound so, because I didn’t want Theresa to imagine that I had for one moment taken Miss Fry’s far-fetched allegations seriously—particularly the bit about Theresa having knocked on Miss Fry’s door in such an uncharacteristic state of nervous alarm. Reassuringly, this was the bit that made her laugh most of all—though not until she had ascertained, with a couple of sharp questions, that I had at no point given away to Miss Fry the subject of her thesis. Reassured as to this, she relaxed, and I’ll never forget the fun we had that
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