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well.
    ‘God!’ He said
in quite a different voice. ‘It’s awful.’
    ‘What is?’
    ‘The piano, of
course. Can’t you hear? It’s awfully out of tune. I bet it’s warped.’
    ‘Good,’ I said,
returning to page two of Oliver Twist . ‘At least that’ll stop you playing it.’
    Whether the
piano was in tune or not was all the same to me. I have never understood music
and its power to affect some people so profoundly.
    He closed the
lid with a bang.

*
    Faraday and I couldn’t afford to
quarrel, or not for long. We needed each other too much. We went into the town,
though the shops were closed, and walked the long way round to the Veals’ house
beside the Porta.
    Mrs Veal
welcomed us like a pair of prodigal sons — she had grown used to us now, I
suppose, and saw us for what we were, a pair of lost children who needed
feeding up. She gave us cold beef and cold ham, and as much mashed potato as we
could cram into ourselves. Then came apple pie, followed by cups of tea so
densely packed with sugar and cream you could almost stand your spoon up in it.
    For the first
time we saw Mr Veal in his shirtsleeves. He was in a jovial mood, with a glass
or two of beer beside him. This time was a sort of holiday to him, he
explained. For the Cathedral’s rhythms built up to the great feasts of the
church, like Christmas; but after these climaxes there came lulls. The daily
round of services continued, but on a reduced basis. The choir was on holiday
so the Cathedral was mute. Dr Atkinson had gone away, leaving what little had
to be done in the hands of the deputy organist. Many of the canons had gone out
of residence and even the Dean was visiting his son in London.
    Mr Veal had his
own deputies, and he allowed these assistant vergers more responsibility at
these times, and himself more leisure.
    ‘Mind you,’ he
said, leaning forward and tapping the table for emphasis, ‘You can’t give them
too much responsibility. They’re not ready for it. So I do my rounds, like
always. I keep the keys.’
    He nodded
towards the table at the window. There was a big tray on it, and Mr Veal had
laid out on it the keys that usually hung on the back of the cupboard door,
together with a black notebook.
    ‘Funny how keys
wander,’ he said. ‘I make sure none of them have strayed. Redo the labels and
check them off in my book. You can’t afford to sleep on this job. There’s a lot
goes on here that most folk never realize.’
    Neither of us
said anything. It wasn’t just the heaviness of the meal that kept us silent. In
my case, at least, it was also the sense that I had no idea what I was going to
do with the rest of the day. Food was, as always in my schooldays, a temporary
distraction.
    Perhaps Mr Veal
sensed something of this. ‘There’s ratting up at Mr Witney’s.’
    I looked up.
‘In his big barn?’
    ‘Yes — all
afternoon till the light goes.’
    ‘We could go,’
I said. ‘He wouldn’t mind, would he?’
    ‘More the
merrier. More than enough rats to go round.’
    ‘Ratting?’
Faraday said. ‘I’ve never done that.’
    ‘It’s ripping
fun,’ I said.
    ‘There are some
sticks in my shed if you want them,’ Mr Veal said. ‘Always best to take your
own. You want one the right weight, don’t you?’
    Faraday was
reluctant but he wasn’t proof against my enthusiasm and Mr Veal’s gentle
encouragement. We found a couple of sticks and walked through the Porta. Angel
Farm was across the green, beyond the theological college.
    ‘Do we — do we
actually hit them? The rats, I mean?’
    ‘Of course we
do.’ I whacked the grass with my stick. ‘But you have to be quick. Or the dogs
get them first.’
    ‘You’ve been
ratting before?’
    ‘Loads of
times.’ I had been ratting only once, in fact, with the vicar’s son at home.
‘It’s awfully good sport — you’ll see.’
    We turned into
the muddy drove to the farm. They had already started — I could hear the
shouting and the excited barking. To