A conversation with Mrs Cutley

Mrs Cutley would not be drawn on the use of her croquet lawn for the Jubilee Fireworks - she said she would have to check the bookings - as she keeps body soul and roof in one piece by hiring out the place for weddings, christenings and other respectable events, since her husband had been lured into becoming a Lloyds name shortly before the whole insurance business had collapsed like a sponge-cake in a hurricane.

She showed no inclination to settle the matter by retrieving the ledger in question, from her office, but she did ask what Abbot Charlie was using, now that they were chalice-less after the little adventure I related earlier. I had to admit that I had not given the matter much thought, as I was currently involved in rather a spat with the 568745 descendents of the McMurrough-Kavanaghs who had seen the hoo-hah on the interweb thingy and produced legal claims reflecting varying interpretations of agnastic kinship, concubinage, and property rights in the Mediaeval kingdom of Leinster. Mrs McElhone says this is an average amount of litigation over an Irish Will, and that everyone will forget about it in about 700 years, which I did not find too reassuring.

"Ah" said the dear chatelaine, "I nearly forgot!" She disappeared, locking the door behind her (rather unnecessary as the cavaliers will only attempt the door handles if there is chocolate on the other side, and I know that Mrs C keeps a strict Lent). She reappeared with a decent and serviceable chalice such as one might have found in any small parish which had slipped under Mgr Porter's radar. I was a little worried about its provenance, but she assured me that it was one of a number of odds and ends that she kept  "in a secure place" and looked after reverently for Fr Crusty, who would vouch for its authenticity. I thanked her profusely, and said that the monks would be thrilled, and that it would serve as an exemplar (as after I had checked a few bits and pieces with a friend at the CDF, I had decided to do a full audit of all such items in the diocese, to ensure that they were of precious metal and generally fit for purpose).

"Oh - no trouble", she said. "There are plenty more...fish in the sea" she began confidently and ended rather lamely, as if she had changed her mind about something midway through the sentence. I know it is generally held that la donna e mobile, but it is a cliche that does not seem to apply to those females within my circle.

That reminded me that it was time to boldly go (though the phrase makes even the most amateur of latinists, like myself wince) and seek out the Monsignor, while my petition to the Fisherman was still fresh in both our minds.


I promised Mrs Cutley I would try to pour oil on troubled waters with Mgr Porter, and told her I would call upon him straight away. The dear lady pointed out quite sensibly that generations of muddy dogs had left their mark on the interior of Trollbury Manor, going back to the time it was a Saxon hunting lodge built around two hefty oak trees which held up the roof of the Hall, (and against which many a wolf hound and spaniel had cocked a leg) leading to a certain insouciance on the part of her ancestors and herself about the presence of canines.

Mgr Porter's withdrawing room

Mgr Porter, however, had been brought up in a modest semi in Chestnut Crescent, Trollford - and his notions of cleanliness were bourgeois, even if his politics were not.

Over the years, he had acquired a good many nice pieces of furniture from elderly parishioners in Trollbury, which is one of the more desirable postcodes in the diocese, and his retirement bungalow had rather a decent collection of Beidermeier furniture which would not appreciate the patina of spaniel bite marks or worse. Flash photography is verboten chez Porter, in case it fades the antique velvet curtains, but I found a picture which gives you a flavour of his residence here.

I therefore hurtled back across the fields at a speed not seen since I the spaniel racing qualifying heats at Husborne Crawley last year (We will begin our training in plenty of time this year - and I am very hopeful that Hetty will not be distracted by a dead duck again, as the Referee agreed with me that the Frisbee Baptists were probably to blame, and would in future be thoroughly searched before gaining admittance. It was certainly a giveaway that they were hiding in the hedge dressed as Puritans and made a joke about predestination when the old girl veered off course. Pre-cognition, more likely).

Having decanted the dogs into Mrs McElhone's pristine kitchen, I snatched the keys to the Yaris, and left precipitately before the yelps of dismay (from all parties concerned) could weaken my resolve.