by Barbara Pym
'Wilmet, how lovely!'
I thought we must have made quite a pleasing picture - two tall tweedy young Englishwomen embracing on a Surrey roadside. Rowena was as tall as I, but fair, with blue eyes and a typically English complexion. We had met during the war in Italy where we had both been in the Wrens. We had also met our husbands there, two rather dashing army majors they had been then - and now they were Harry going up to Mincing Lane every day and Rodney working from nine-thirty to six at the Ministry. Both were slightly balder and fatter than they had been in Italy. I liked to think that Rowena and I had changed rather less.
We drove up to the large comfortable house, which was built in Elizabethan style and had the date - 1933 - carved into a stone over the front door. The gardens were extensive and well laid out. Harry had always wanted a cedar tree on the lawn, as there had been in his old home, but had done the best he could by planting a monkey-puzzle, which was said to be quicker growing. He employed a fulltime gardener and the house was always full of beautiful pot plants. As we came into the hall I admired the early chrysanthemums, primulas and cyclamen.
'Your usual room, darling,' Rowena said. 'Let Sara take your case up for you. She's been so looking forward to your coming.'
Sara, a plump fair child of nine, seized my case and staggered up the stairs with it. I tried to think of something to say to her, but although she was my godchild there did not seem to be any particular mystical rapport between us. I thought that talking to children was one of those things one shouldn't have to make any effort about, and my few platitudes seemed to satisfy her and set her off chattering about her own doings which were no more remarkable than those of other children of her age.'
I was glad to be alone in my room, with the view over the garden, well polished mahogany furniture, pink sheets and towels, and a tablet of rose-geranium soap in the washbasin. Rowena always remembered that it was my favourite. The room seemed so very comfortable, somehow even more than my room at home - perhaps because I could be alone in it. I saw that Rowena had put reading matter on the bedside table, glossy magazines, and two new novels in bright jackets.
Tea was ready in the drawing-room. The children had been taken away by the Italian girl who looked after them, and Rowena and I were able to enjoy an uninhibited talk. The room was almost Edwardian in its charming clutter of furniture and objects, for Rowena had inherited her mother's things and had been unable to bring herself to get rid of any of them, just as her mother before her had kept all her own mother's things. There was a great deal of china, some of it rather ugly Portuguese ware which she kept for sentimental reasons, mixed up with good Chelsea, Dresden and Meissen pieces. There were many photographs in-silver frames on the grand piano, but they were somehow not like Miss Prideaux's photographs. There were Rowena's parents, Piers and Rowena as children, Rowena as a young girl of nineteen - this last taken by a fashionable Mayfair photographer and showing her, for all her tweeds and pearls, in a kind of misty aura - Harry in uniform, and the children in all stages of growth; there was even one of myself in Wren officer's uniform.
'Now,' said Rowena comfortably, 'what have you been doing? Tell me all.'
'Well, not much really,' I admitted. The days when we had confided our emotional secrets to each other were gone now, or perhaps it was the secrets themselves rather than the days which were gone, I thought rather sadly. 'I saw Piers at St Luke's, as I told you when I wrote. That was rather surprising.'
'Yes, poor Piers. I suppose nothing is really surprising about him now. Let's hope that this time...' Rowena raised her hand and let it fall in a helpless gesture.
'He seems to have two quite steady jobs,' I said, 'proofreading for a very good press and then the evening classes in French and Portuguese.'
'Well yes, the proof-reading may be all right if he doesn't get bored with it; but he's really not much good as a teacher, though he speaks the languages very well. He's the kind of person who ought to have a steady unearned income.'
'He might marry money,' I suggested.
'Oh, marriage! We've given up hope long ago. The numbers of eligible girls I've tried to put into his path,' Rowena sighed, 'awfully dull most of them were, I must admit, but all with money of their own.'
'Sybil and I are thinking of going to his Portuguese classes - she thought it might be nice to have a holiday in Portugal.'
'Then perhaps Piers will make an effort with his teaching if people he knows are going to be in the class. Though why you should want to learn the language I can't imagine.'
'You know what Sybil is.'
'Yes, so unlike Harry's mother who only thinks about household linen and knitting for the children. By the way, I did ask Piers to come this weekend, but he hasn't even answered my letter.'
'Perhaps he will turn up unexpectedly.'
'Yes, that would be just like him. My dear?' Rowena leaned forward, her blue eyes sparkling, 'talking of the unexpected, who do you think I met in Piccadilly when I was in town last week? Rocky!'
'Not Rocky Napier!'
'Yes, our darling Rocky.'
We paused in a kind of rapturously reminiscent silence, for Rocky Napier had been flag lieutenant to one of the admirals when we were in Italy and each of us had been in love with him for a short time.
'How extraordinary! What happened?'
'He asked me to go and have a drink with him, so of course I did, though I was supposed to be meeting Harry's mother for lunch at Fortnum's. We went into a bar and had two dry Martinis, and do you know I didn't feel a thing!'
'What, from Rocky or the drink?'
'From Rocky - wasn't it sad? And to think of all the agony of that six weeks when I was in love with him!'
'Was it only six weeks?'
'Yes, because then I met Harry. That letter I wrote to Rocky - oh dear, I feel quite ashamed now, quoting Donne and all that - "but after one such love can love no more ..." Aren't women foolish!' Rowena's eyes sparkled even more brightly. I couldn't help thinking about that letter all the time I was sipping my Martini. Why does one say sipping a cocktail? I was positively gulping it down!'
'I don't suppose Rocky remembered the letter,' I said, meaning to be consoling rather than catty, but perhaps a little of both.
'No, that's a comfort. He must have had so many. Now he lives in the country with that rather formidable wife, and they have a child - just think of it!'
'Well, you have three.'
'Yes, I'm very lucky. It's a pity you haven't any, Wilmet,' she added tentatively. 'Do you mind?'
'A little, I suppose. It makes one feel rather useless. Still, there's plenty to occupy my time.'
'Oh, surely. You would never be idle, you're so much more intelligent than I am, anyway. Listen, there's Harry! I heard the car. He's been longing to see you, but first he'll go into the dining-room to get his large pink gin, then he'll come into the room carrying it very carefully.'
Harry did precisely as Rowena had prophesied. He was a tall dark man of thirty-nine, his hair now streaked with grey and his manner more pompous than in the days when I had stood on his shoulders to write my name on the ceiling of an officers' mess somewhere near Naples.
'Wilmet, how very nice to see you, and looking as beautiful and elegant as ever. You really must bring old Rodney with you next time.'
'Yes, he'd love to come, but work wouldn't allow it this weekend.'
'A shocking life - I don't know how these civil servants stand it!'
'How are things in Mincing Lane?' I asked, unable to keep a hint of mockery out of my tone.
'Not too bad, thanks. In fact, business is pretty good. But I won't bore you with details.'
Harry was one of those non-intellectual men who are often more comforting to women than the exciting but tortured intellectuals. He might not have any very interesting conversation for his wife at the end of the day, might indeed quite easily drop off to sleep after dinner, but he was strong and reliable, assuming that he would be the breadwinner and that his wife would of c
ourse vote the same way as he did.
Dinner was a very pleasant meal. Rowena was a good cook and would have liked to make exotic dishes, but the tyranny of Harry and the children made it necessary for her to keep to plain wholesome English food.
'Well, this looks all right,' said Harry, as a joint of veal was brought to the table. 'I hope you like veal, Wilmet?'
'Oh dear, I'd forgotten it was Friday,' Rowena lamented. 'Does your high vicar command you to eat fish?'
'Not really,' I said, 'though I daresay he and Father Bode will be abstaining from meat this evening.' A sudden anxious picture came into my mind - the two priests in the clergy house kitchen, trying to cook fillets of plaice or cod steaks. Perhaps in the end they would have to open a tin of sardines or spaghetti, unless they had decided to dine out. They might even have got a housekeeper by now. How wonderful it would be if Father Thames had interviewed and engaged Mr Bason, and he was even now preparing them a delicious sole véronique! I saw him at the kitchen table, peeling grapes. Of course I had no idea what he looked like - I just saw his fingers, long and sensitive as befitted an Anglo-Catholic fond of cooking, removing the pips. I was smiling to myself at the thought of it so I had to tell Rowena and Harry.
'It would be much better if all clergymen were married,' said Harry dogmatically. This new man we've got here is proving very troublesome.'
'Is he married?'
'Actually he is, but he's got High Church leanings, though he hasn't had much opportunity to put them into practice yet.'
'But High Church services are much the most interesting kind,' I said rather feebly.
'That's what Piers always says,' said Rowena.
At the mention of her brother, Harry gave an angry snort, so we thought it more prudent to change the subject.
After dinner we had coffee in the drawing-room and watched a television programme. There was a film about the habits of badgers, which showed the creatures rootling about in a kind of twilight in what seemed to be rhododendron bushes. But in reality, as we were told by the commentator, there were lights suspended from the trees because badgers only come out at night and so couldn't be filmed naturally. There was something melancholy about the creatures in the half darkness, with their long sad faces.
It was not until half way through the entertainment, if such it could be called, that I realized that Harry had edged nearer to me on the sofa and was holding my hand. My main feeling on discovering this was one of irritation. The silly old thing - not unlike a badger himself, I thought; but then I felt flattered and a little guilty. Rowena, who was sitting in a little pool of lamplight by her sewing table, was absorbed in smocking a dress for Patience. She never once glanced at the television screen.
I withdrew my hand gently. Perhaps Harry was not so solid and reliable after all. Had he always rather liked me in Italy? I wondered, smiling to myself in the badgery dusk.
'Funny thing happened today,' he said in a rather booming voice. 'I was having lunch with Smollett and he suggested a dozen oysters. Well, you know what the oyster and I think of each other!'
'Indeed yes,' I said, for Harry and I had both been poisoned by oysters, and had many times exchanged cosy reminiscences about our dreadful experiences.
'Darling, not another oyster story,' said Rowena despairingly. 'Anyway, I hope you didn't eat them.'
'No, of course I remembered in time; but the funny part of it was - the whole point of the story, in fact, as you may remember- that Smollett was with me that other time ...' Harry yawned and stretched his arms. 'What's this we're looking at?' he asked rather irritably. 'Seems to be all in the dark.' He leaned forward and moved a knob on the set. The picture now became brighter and full of curious dancing lines. 'Does anybody want it anyway?' he asked.
'You know I never look at it,' said Rowena placidly..
'I think I've had enough now,' I said.
'Early bed tonight, I think,' said Rowena. 'We've got quite a full programme tomorrow. Shopping in the morning, and we shall have to spend the afternoon getting ready for the party, I suppose.'
'The party?'
'Yes, surely I told you? We're having a cocktail party.'
'How exciting!'
'It won't be that, I'm afraid,' said Rowena. 'Just the same old people we owe drinks to, though I suppose they'll be different to you. Your breakfast will be brought to you in bed, Wilmet. Ours is a terrible meal on Saturdays because we have the children with us. I shan't inflict that on you.'
I was glad to lie in bed next morning, listening to the sound of the children getting up and Harry shouting to them to be quiet, until a tray of orange juice, coffee and toast was brought to me. I got up at ten o'clock and we all went shopping in the near-by market town. There was an air of leisure about the restaurant of the large shop where we had our morning coffee. The children gambolled and capered with other children on the thick moss green carpet, and the chirping of their high-pitched well bred young voices mingled with the yapping of dogs, mostly poodles, whose tweed-suited owners made feeble efforts to control them.
'I always do this on Saturdays,' said Rowena. 'It's so nice to be able to relax for a minute.'
'What do the husbands do?' I asked, for very few of them seemed to be drinking coffee.
'Oh, they potter about doing the more manly shopping - going to the ironmonger, ordering things for the garden and that kind of thing, then they assemble in one of the pubs.'
'Men seem to do that in London, too,' I said. 'Winter Saturday mornings one sees the duffle coat and the paraffin can - carrying paraffin does seem to be quite a manly job, doesn't it.'
'We'd better not stay here too long,' said Rowena, and began looking anxiously round for the children. 'There's lunch to eat and then the party to get ready for. Would you like to go in and have a gin with Harry, while I wait in the car with the children?'
I found Harry at the bar with some rather unattractive- looking men and one or two women, all of whom were laughing at some joke. It occurred to me that these were probably the people I should be meeting at the party, and I began to look forward to it with rather modified feelings. It was some time before Harry seemed disposed to leave, and by the time we were outside in the fresh air I found that the two drinks I had so quickly tossed off had made me a little hazy and unsteady.
Harry took my arm. 'Pity we have to hurry back,' he said. 'I wanted to show you the church.'
'The church?' I asked in surprise.
'Yes, you always liked things like that,' he mumbled.
'Some other time, perhaps,' I said in a rather stupid party voice. I tried to remember if I had ever known what the church was like - Victorian gothic with much brass, or cool austere eighteenth century with fine wall tablets? It seemed so unlike Harry to suggest going into a church.
He began to hum 'We plough the fields and scatter', and got into the driving seat. The children began to scuffle and fight among themselves, fractious at being kept waiting for their lunch.
'I'm longing to see what you've brought to wear,' said Rowena later, when we were cutting up things to go on bits of toast and little biscuits. 'Your clothes are always so elegant.'
'It's a sort of mole-coloured velvet dress,' I said, 'and I shall wear my Victorian garnet necklace and earrings with it.'
'How lovely it will be to see somebody not in black! We all wear it here for parties - like a kind of uniform, just with different jewellery and little touches, you know. I suppose it's because we get so few opportunities to wear it, and women always think black suits them, don't they? Or they heard some man once say that it did.' '
'Yes - an old love, or one of those rather mythical men who pronounce on such matters, a Frenchman or a Viennese.'
Rowena laughed. 'I wonder if I have time to put on some nail varnish? It might do something for my hands.' She held them out and glanced down at them a little sadly.
I hate coloured nail varnish myself, though I could not but agree that Rowena's hands did need something. Even though she had a reas
onable amount of domestic help they looked stained and rough, the nails uncared for, hardly even clean. But suddenly, from studying them with critical detachment, I found myself remembering her hands as they had been when we were young and gay Wren officers in Italy. The hand that Rocky Napier had once held on the balcony of the admiral's villa had been soft and smooth, delicately pink-tipped, like those in Laurence Hope's Indian Love Lyrics which my mother used to sing in Amy Woodforde Finden's settings. My eyes filled with tears, both at the memory of the song and of Rowena's hands as they used to be. Perhaps it was the contrast of the rough little hands with the elegant black dress that so moved me, and the feeling that they had done so many more worthwhile things than my own which were still as soft and smooth as they had ever been.
'Leave them as they are,' I said rather brusquely. 'They look perfectly all right. Besides, the nail varnish wouldn't really have time to dry now and might get smudged.'
'Yes, you're right. Doing one's nails can be such an anxiety, can't it?'
Later, when the guests had begun to arrive, nearly all the women in black as Rowena had prophesied, I found myself looking at their hands and liking better those that seemed a little careworn, however cunningly they might have been camouflaged with bright nail varnish and jewelled eternity rings. The only ring I wore myself was my engagement ring, an eighteenth-century setting of rose diamonds, so much prettier than a modern one.
The conversation was inclined to be heavy going, even though the drink was strong and Harry was good about replenishing glasses. The guests were nearly all married couples; and although husbands seemed to enjoy a conversation away from wives, one was often interrupted in such a conversation by the appearance of the wife, usually with some bright domestic remark that made one feel unwanted and shut out of the dreary cosiness of their lives.
'Darling, the coke did come after all, just as you were getting the car out.' Or, 'I do hope Ingrid has managed to cope with putting the children to bed. Do you think we should just ring up to make sure, darling?'
The husbands usually murmured rather sheepish replies, but really they were more like bears than sheep, I thought - performing bears, who might rove round the room but only within the limits of their chains. A sharp tweak would soon bring them to heel again. In another way they reminded me of the dark blundering badgers which we had seen on the television the night before.