A Mixture of Frailties Read online

  “I have indeed.”

  (4)

  “If you’re absolutely stuck for somebody to squander your Mum’s money on, why don’t you have a look at Monny Gall?” said Cobbler to Solly. It would be wrong to say that Solly had confided the growing embarrassment of the Trustees to his friend; Cobbler had been insatiably curious about everything connected with the Bridgetower Trust since he heard of it on Christmas Day, and he wormed information out of Solly and Veronica at every opportunity. It fascinated him, he explained, to think of so much lovely money looking for somebody to spend it.

  “Who’s Monny Gall?”

  “If you ever listened to your local radio station you would know. She is the soprano of the Heart and Hope Gospel Quartet, who broadcast on behalf of the Thirteenth Apostle Tabernacle five mornings of the week, from nine-thirty to nine forty-five. I breakfast a bit later than you proletarians, and I never miss the H. & H.”

  “Do you mean that it is good?”

  “It is very good in its way. That’s to say, it primes the pump of sweet self-pity, mingled with tremulous self-reproach and a strong sense of never having had a square deal from life, which passes for religion with a lot of people—housewives mostly. It is run by an unctuous gorilla who calls himself Pastor Sidney Beamis; he dishes out the Hope in a short, moderately disgusting prayer in which he tells God that we’re all pretty awful but that the Thirteenth Apostles are having a bash at sainthood. The Heart is supplied by the Quartet, which is composed of his own family and Monny Gall. Pastor Beamis supplies a hollow, gutty bass; his son Wesley weighs in with a capon tenor—all head-voice and tremolo; Ma Beamis has a contralto tone like a cow mooing in a railway tunnel; and Monny Gall has a very nice soprano indeed—sweet, pure, and very naturally produced. You should hear them in Eden Must Have Been Like Granny’s Garden, or Ten Baby Fingers and Ten Baby Toes, That Was My Mother’s Rosary.”

  “It sounds perfectly filthy.”

  “It is. It fills me with perverse glee. But Monny is worth redeeming from this musical hell. She has positively the most promising voice I have ever heard in an untrained singer.”

  “Then what is she doing with the H. & H.?”

  “Why shouldn’t she be with it? Her Ma, who is an extremely formidable old party, is a pillar of the Thirteenth Apostle Tabernacle. She tells Monny to sing for Beamis, and Monny sings. For nothing, what’s more. For the greater glory of Beamis.”

  “But if she’s musical, why does she sing Granny’s Toes, and so forth?”

  “I didn’t say she was musical; I said she had a lovely voice. You make the common error of assuming that singers are necessarily musicians. There are people, my dear Bridgetower, who sing because God has made them singers; very often they have no taste at all; they will sing anything, so long as they can open their mouths and give. That’s Monny. Caught young, and taught well, I don’t know what she mightn’t rise to.”

  “You appear to be greatly interested in her.”

  “I am.”

  “Is she pretty, as well as stupid?”

  “Bridgetower, you wound me! She isn’t pretty and she isn’t plain; she’s just a girl. But she has an unusual voice, which Beamis is wrecking. You ought to remember her; she’s the girl who sang My Task at your Mum’s funeral.”

  “I don’t remember anything about her.”

  “I do,” said Veronica, who usually kept silent while Solly and Cobbler carried on their long, wandering, often quarrelsome conversations. “I thought it was a lovely voice. Sweet and pure and rather remote.”

  “Exactly. Monny can take a lot of the sting out of My Task. It’s sheer gift; she hasn’t any ideas about it. But something in her voice suggests beauty, and calm, and even reason, when what she is singing is unalloyed baloney.”

  “She hasn’t put in an application for the Trust.”

  “Don’t suppose the notion ever occurred to her. She’s no climber. Her Ma keeps her down.”

  “Are you suggesting that we should write her to consider it? Snelgrove would have a fit!”

  “Yes, and if it were thought that I had brought her name up, old Puss would have a fit. She hates me with the one pure passion of her life; she’s always trying to get my job away from me. I’m not her notion of a Cathedral organist. But I could get hold of Monny and ask her to put in a bid, if you like.”

  “We’ve got to find somebody, and I don’t give a damn who it is.”

  “Oh come, Bridegtower; you are speaking of money; don’t be bitter.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be bitter? I’m not greedy, God knows, but I’m human. The income on more than a million dollars, that might have been mine, is to be spent on a stranger. If my mother had left no money at all, I wouldn’t have cared. If she had left the bulk of it to a charity, I wouldn’t have cared. But she left it as she did to hurt me, and to register a final protest against my marriage. God, you’d think Veronica was a leper, and not just the daughter of a man she and Father quarrelled with twenty years ago. She has done everything that a will can do to humiliate and hurt me. I’m convinced she left me that hundred dollars simply to make the will hard to break. It would serve her right if her money did go to some wretched gospel-howler. If it outraged her cankered old soul in its smug Anglican heaven I’d be glad of it!”

  “Oh Solly darling, you’ll only make yourself ill,” said Veronica.

  “Let him have it out,” said Cobbler. “Choking back hatred and hurt feelings causes ulcers, high blood-pressure and arthritis. Fact. All the medical books say so. Better get it out in words. It’s the inarticulate people, who can’t rail against fate, who get nasty diseases. Have a good rage, Bridgetower. Would you care to hit somebody? You may hit me one moderate blow if it would really help. Pretend I’m your late Mum.”

  “Don’t joke about it,” said Solly. “Don’t you realize we’ve got to maintain this bloody great house on my cottage salary? That old Ethel hangs over us and pities us and bullies us because we’re poor, and makes a favour of staying here when we’d a thousand times rather she went somewhere else. Just try to teach an extravagant old cook something about economy, if you want to break your heart! And people keep writing to us for money; they think this damned Bridgetower Trust is a grab-bag for every kind of good cause. If we say the Trust can’t give, they ask us for something personally. What have we got to give? The estate pays the taxes on this house, but apparently the estate has no obligation to pay its running expenses without a special meeting of trustees. So last week I had to beg the Dean and old Puss for enough money to get the downstairs drain unplugged, and it took an hour and a half of humming and hawing, and suggestions about trying Draino, to get it. I face a future of that kind of thing. A happy prospect, isn’t it?”

  “As Molly said, it’s the Dead Hand,” said Cobbler.

  “Dead Hand!” Solly thumped the table. “It’s the live hand, too. This house is part of a trust. During the summer Veronica put away some trinkets and odds and bobs that used to clutter up the mantelpieces. Last week old Puss came in, missed them at once, and insisted that they be put back. And when we boggled at it, she got Snelgrove to phone and say that, legally, we must maintain the house precisely as the Trust received it. Isn’t that a sweet situation? She hinted that we ought to put away the Rockingham, but I’m going to use it every day, to spite her. I’ll feed the cat off it; that’s my right, and I’ll do it.”

  “Your late Mum was really a corker,” said Cobbler. “Most people want to ensure that everything they leave will remain untouched, but she has actually found a way to do it. Of course she was singularly fortunate in having an old poison-pot like Puss for a best friend.”

  “Well, you see how it is,” said Solly. “I’m completely tied, and Veronica is put in a most humiliating position. What can we do? The only possible thing is to maintain what dignity we can, and insist that the terms of the will be kept as strictly for everyone else as they are for us. Therefore I insist that somebody be chosen and sent abroad by the Trust within the allotted time
, and I do not give a damn who it is or what they are studying, or what rage, despair and misery comes of it. What Mother began, I shall finish, and nothing will come in my way.”

  “All right,” said Cobbler; “I’ll talk to Monny Gall.”

  (5)

  It was well into October before Monica Gall met the executors. She had, prompted by Cobbler, written a letter of application, in which she said simply that she liked singing, and wanted to learn more about it, and mentioned her connection with the Heart and Hope Quartet as evidence that she was serious, and had sung publicly. She gave the name of Pastor Sidney Beamis as a reference.

  Miss Puss Pottinger was inclined to dismiss her application on the first reading. Miss Pottinger knew nothing of Pastor Beamis, and had never set foot in the Thirteenth Apostle Tabernacle, but she had a powerful contempt for what she called “back-street religion.” This condemnation was superficially unjust, for the Tabernacle was in a disused shop on a business street. But it was to the back streets of the religious life that Miss Puss referred; in her Father’s house were many mansions, but some of them were in better parts of the Holy City than others; the Thirteenth Apostle Tabernacle obviously belonged in the slums of the spirit.

  The Very Reverend Jevon Knapp also disapproved of Monica’s sponsorship, but he knew much more about it. He had an eighteenth century distaste for Enthusiasm in religion, which he was prepared to defend on theological and philosophical grounds. He disliked the untidy beliefs of the Thirteeners, as they were often called. This sect had been founded in the U.S.A. by one Myron Coffey, an advertising salesman who found himself, in 1919, forty-five years old and not doing well in the world. It was in that same year that Mr. Henry Ford, speaking in a witness box in Chicago, made his great declaration that “History is bunk.” These apocalyptic words struck fire in Coffey. History was indeed bunk; the seeming division of history into years and eras was an illusion; the whole world of the senses was an illusion, obviously created by the Devil. All mankind of whom any record existed, were in fact coaevals in the realm of the spirit, which was the only real realm. Christ, Moses, Jeremiah—they were all right here, living and breathing beside us, if we could just “make contact.” That could be done by prayer, searching the Scriptures, and leading a good life; Coffey explained the good life in terms of what he believed his mother’s life to have been—unstinting service to others, simple piety, mistrust of pleasure, and no truck with thought or education beyond what was necessary to read the Good Book. All these wonders came to Coffey in a single week, culminating in a revelation that he was the Thirteenth Apostle, destined to spread the good news to mankind. And that news was that the New Jerusalem was right here, if only enough poor souls could “make contact.” God was here: Christ was now. He fought down any last feeling that perhaps it was Mr. Ford who was really the Thirteenth Apostle, and set to work. Thirty-odd years later, in two or three hundred cities in the U.S.A. and Canada, a few thousand Thirteeners continued his mission.

  Dean Knapp knew all this, and thought poorly of it. He also had a poor opinion of the Thirteeners’ local shepherd, Pastor Beamis. The Dean had met him, and thought him an ignoramus, and possibly a rogue, as well. He was professionally obliged to think as well of everybody as possible, but he confided to Mrs. Knapp that Scripture came to his aid in the matter of Beamis; did not Leviticus xxi 18 expressly forbid the priesthood to “he that hath a flat nose?” And had not Beamis the flat, bun-like, many times broken nose of the ex-pugilist? Mrs. Knapp warned him not to speak such frivolities in the hearing of those who might not understand; the Dean’s passion for Biblical jokes had put him in hot water many times. But she knew very well what her husband meant; there was about Beamis a hairiness, a clumsiness, a physically unseemly quality which sat ill upon a spiritual leader. The Jews of the Old Testament had done wisely to forbid the priesthood to grotesques.

  It gave Solly much satisfaction to override Miss Puss and the Dean. Monica Gall should not be passed over because she belonged to a sect for which they felt a Pharisaical distaste, said he, and thereby gave offence to the Dean, who was not accustomed to be called a Pharisee by young men of twenty-seven. He had to swallow it, and after a good deal of haggling it was decided that Monica should be interviewed.

  But should they not have some expert advice, asked the Dean. They had sought counsel outside their own group about Miss Hetmansen’s work; could they judge a singer unaided? By a little juggling Solly was able to lead the Dean into proposing Humphrey Cobbler as advisor to the Trustees in matters of music; Miss Puss did not like it, but she did not oppose the Dean as she would have opposed Solly in such a suggestion. She contented herself with saying that Cobbler was probably a capable musician, though a detestable man.

  Thus it was that on a Thursday night in mid-October the executors and their solicitor gathered in the drawing-room of the Bridgetower house, and there received Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Gall, their daughter, Monica, and Pastor Sidney Beamis.

  Pastor Beamis had not been invited, but he was the first to stride into the room.

  “Well, well, good evening Reverend Knapp,” he cried, seizing the Dean’s hand in his clammy, pulpy paws; “this is certainly a wonderful thing you fine folks are proposing to do for our little girl. Yes, and considering you’re all Church of England people it shows a degree of inter-faith fellowship which is more than warming—more than warming. Now I know you weren’t expecting me, and I’m not going to butt in, but because I have watched Monny grow, so to speak, from a gawky kid into a lovely girl, and because I think I may say that it has been my privilege, under God, to humbly have coaxed along her talent, I just couldn’t stay away. I just had to be here.” He dropped his voice, and whispered to Knapp in a priest-to-priest tone—“Family aren’t much in the way of talkers; thought I might be able to steer ’em a little.” He gave the Dean an understanding leer, and patted him on the back. The Dean reclaimed his hand and wiped it on his handkerchief.

  Pastor Beamis was so striking a figure that he temporarily obscured the Galls. He wore the full regimentals of a Thirteener shaman. His suit was of grey flannel, much in need of pressing; he had on a wing collar, and a clergyman’s stock, which was of a shrill paddy green; the ensemble was completed by a pair of scuffed sports shoes in brown and white, above which could be seen socks in Argyll design. Inside these garments was a body which had won him the name of Chimp during his days in the ring; his face was large, baggy and bore blatant signals of hope, cheer and unremitting forgiveness.

  The Galls, thought Solly, might have posed for a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Jack Sprat. Alfred Gall was thin to the point of being cadaverous, stooped, pale and insignificant. His wife was covered with that loose, liquid fat which seems to sway and slither beneath the skin, and she, because she wore too tight a corset, wheezed whenever she made the slightest effort. She had a look of nervous good-nature, and every few minutes she eased her false teeth, which seemed to pain her; indeed, as the evening wore on she began to suck air audibly, as though her dentures were hot.

  Monica, as Cobbler had said, was neither pretty nor plain, though she was of a trim figure. She was plainly dressed, as became a Thirteener, and it was apparent to the X-ray eye of Miss Puss that the disqualification which had brought about the fall of Birgitta Hetmansen did not apply here.

  Conversation proceeded uneasily. It was necessary, first of all, to make it clear to Pastor Beamis that Monica had not been summoned to receive a large sum of money. This task fell to Snelgrove, who found it congenial. It was then explained to the Galls how the Trust was expected to work.

  “If your daughter should become the beneficiary, it would give her a most unusual opportunity to pursue her musical studies,” said the Dean.

  “Yeah, I see,” said Mrs. Gall, and fidgeted with the handle of her purse, sucking air painfully. “It’d take her away from home, though.” She had chosen to sit on a low sofa, and appeared to be suffering discomfort from her corset, which had visibly ridden upward.

  “Never ha
d much of a chance m’self,” said Alfred Gall. “Workin’ since I was sixteen. Never known much else but work, I guess.” He laughed a short hollow laugh, like a man making light of an incurable disease.

  Pastor Beamis was right; the Galls were not great talkers. Nor, it was soon clear, were they among those who eagerly embrace good fortune. They thought it might be nice if their daughter had a chance to study music abroad, but in the depths of their hearts it was a matter of indifference to them. The Pastor supplied all the enthusiasm. He talked a great deal about the opportunities a singer enjoyed to do the Lord’s work, by uplifting people and turning their minds to the finer things of life; in his own work he had been able to observe the splendid harvest of souls which could be reaped through the Ministry of Music. He pleaded eloquently with the Galls not to deny their daughter the chance that was being offered to her to be a force for good in the world. It was at this point that Solly thought it necessary to correct the balance of power.

  “We haven’t made up our minds about Miss Gall, you know,” said he. “We have considered her application carefully, and this interview is merely to find out more about her. None of us has heard her sing; she may not be the person we are looking for at all.”

  “You haven’t heard her on the Heart and Hope?” said Beamis. He was very merry about this. “You folks must be late risers. Certainly is nice to be some people! Our little program enjoys a very high rating locally, you know. And of course we tape it and broadcast it from seven other stations, beside the local one. It’s by far the biggest religious independent in the province—barring metropolitan city broadcasts, of course. Monny’s voice is known—and loved, as I can show letters to prove—by close to twenty thousand daily listeners.”

  “What is she paid for that work?” asked Miss Puss.

  “The Heart and Hope is not a paid quartet. We merely announce that we are unpaid on the air, and freewill offerings come in by every mail. Silver coins—O, it would touch your heart, some of them—and dollar bills and quite a few fives and tens. The law forbids us to ask for money on the air, but it comes, all the same. And every cent goes into the Tabernacle treasury.”