He didn’t mention the idea again for an hour or two. We went to the Veals’ for lunch, our midday dinner. Afterwards I walked up to Angel Farm, followed by the reluctant Faraday, in case Mr Witney had decided on a second day of ratting. But the farmyard was deserted apart from a dog that barked furiously at us and made savage little runs towards us to the limit of its chain.
‘Let’s go to the Cathedral,’ he suggested.
I didn’t say anything but we fell into step together and, as we had done the day before, walked through the long street leading from the green to the west door.
It was much earlier in the afternoon than it had been on our last visit. The Cathedral, even on this grey day, seemed brighter and more welcoming. I took this as a good omen. We stood in the very centre of the space beneath the west tower and looked up at the painted ceiling.
More than a hundred feet high, Mr Ratcliffe had said.
‘You can’t see the trapdoor,’ Faraday said, clearly disappointed.
I wondered what a fall from that height would do to a man. Would it compress him, ram his legs into his body and his head into his shoulders?
‘What’s the painting of?’ I said.
Faraday stared upwards. ‘I don’t know. It looks like angels playing harps and things.’
He went over to a short flight of steps in the thickness of the wall, almost invisible because it was in the shadow of one of the great columns that supported the tower. At the top of the steps was a heavy door. This was where the stairs to the tower began.
I glanced over my shoulder. No one was in sight. I tried the door. It was locked. We stood and looked at it. The door was made of old, scarred oak with great iron hinges. The lock looked more modern, judging by the size of the keyhole, and smaller than I would have expected.
There was a clattering behind us as a small party of visitors burst through the west door. One of them had a guide book in hand and was acting as tour leader.
None of them gave us a second glance but we scurried away like a pair of startled animals.
10
I had underestimated Faraday, or perhaps underestimated the power of his desperation. When we went to the Veals’ for tea that evening, Mr Veal was not at home. He had gone to visit an assistant verger who was in hospital after breaking his leg by falling off his bicycle.
‘Never liked those bicycles,’ Mrs Veal said. ‘Nasty dangerous things. Against nature.’
She gave us scrambled eggs and filled us up afterwards with bread and dripping. It’s strange how clearly I remember the food she gave us. I suppose it must be because we were so poorly fed in term time.
After we had finished, Faraday touched my arm. ‘Take the plates out to her,’ he whispered. ‘Ask her how she makes her eggs like that.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Go on.’ He gave me a little push. ‘Ask her anything you like. Just keep her in the kitchen for a few minutes.’
I did as he told me, though it seemed quite wrong that Faraday should be giving me instructions. I didn’t need to ask Mrs Veal about her scrambled eggs. She was already washing up so I dried the plates and cutlery for her, and she asked me about my aunt in hospital and my parents in India. She was a kind woman, kinder than we deserved.
When I returned to the parlour, Faraday was sitting by the lamp and reading, or pretending to read, the local paper, which Mr Veal had left on the arm of a chair. He looked up as I entered and gave me a small, sly smile.
We walked back to the Sacrist’s Lodging through the College.
‘I’ve got the key,’ he said. ‘It says “West Tower Stair” on it.’
‘Won’t Veal notice?’
‘I don’t think so. There’s two other ones there on the same hook. This is one of the spares.’
We walked in silence for a moment. Faraday was probably right. The verger had finished his inventory of the keys, so he would have no need to look closely at them. Besides, the Cathedral was now locked up for the night.
I was suddenly struck by such an obvious and insuperable objection that I laughed out loud — partly, I suspect, from relief.
‘What is it?’ Faraday said, staring down and looking at me.
‘It’s all very well us having the key to the stairs,’ I said. ‘But the Cathedral’s locked up at night. And we can’t go up in daytime. Someone would see us for sure.’
He gave a snicker of laughter. ‘Don’t worry about that. I can get in the Cathedral whenever I want. We can go tonight.’
I nearly kicked him. The smug little Rabbit.
We passed an interminable evening with Mr Ratcliffe, the three us reading by the fire. I was bored. Living with Mr Ratcliffe was turning me into an old man like him, a creature of habit. On the other hand, part of me wanted this time by the fire to last for ever. Part of me wanted to be bored.
Mordred disgraced himself again. He brought in another mouse, which he played with, despite our attempts to stop him, and then allowed to escape for the time being into the relatively safe haven of the floor beneath the piano. During the struggle he scratched my hand, drawing blood. Finally he went to sleep on the hearthrug with the air of a job well done.
‘I’m so sorry he injured you again,’ Mr Ratcliffe said. ‘He’s quite unteachable, I’m afraid, and I suspect he doesn’t have a very nice nature to begin with.’
‘Why do you keep him then, sir?’ Faraday asked.
‘One must try to make the best of animals, don’t you think? And of people, for that matter. He’s a farm cat by breeding, you see. Mrs Thing’s sister is married to a farmer, and I believe he came from there… But farm cats never truly adjust to living in houses. They never quite lose their wildness.’
At last it was time for bed. The sky was still cloudy but the rain had gone, and most of the wind. It was colder.
‘We’ll have snow before long, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Mr Ratcliffe said.
Faraday nudged me behind Mr Ratcliffe’s back. This time I kicked him. I was growing tired of his nudges.
Mordred rose and stretched. He stalked out of the sitting room and sat by the front door, where he miaowed like a rusty hinge.
‘Let him out, would you?’ Mr Ratcliffe said.
I opened the door. Mordred slunk outside and disappeared into the darkness.
‘Where does he go at night, sir?’ I asked.
‘Mordred? Heaven knows. Better not to enquire.’
‘He can’t stay outside all night, can he? Not in this weather.’
‘I’m sure he manages quite well.’ Mr Ratcliffe locked up and hung the key on the hook beside the front door. ‘He’s not an animal to go without his creature comforts.’
In our bedroom, I began to undress.
‘Don’t take too much off,’ Faraday hissed. ‘There’s no point. It’ll probably be freezing.’
‘I’m tired. Let’s do it tomorrow.’
‘No, it’s got to be tonight. We need to get the key back tomorrow. Besides, it’s going to snow. If we wait till after that we’ll leave tracks.’
I shrugged. ‘This is stupid.’
‘I know what it is,’ Faraday said. ‘You’re yellow.’
‘I’m not yellow.’
‘Yes, you are.’
We glared at each other across the room.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘It’s easy enough to prove it, isn’t it?’
I said nothing. But I put on my pyjamas over my underclothes.
He was still watching me. His face was flushed. ‘We’ll have to wait until Ratty’s in bed and fast asleep.’
‘It’ll be hours.’
‘I don’t care. I’ll stay awake.’
We got into bed. I didn’t bother reading. I turned on my side, away from Faraday, and closed my eyes. I knew I wouldn’t sleep. I was too angry. Too afraid. So I sent up a prayer to my provisional God, promising to believe in Him for the rest of my life if He made Faraday fall asleep at once and stay asleep until morning.