by Barbara Pym
Unconsciously she moved out of range of Adam’s study window, and led Mr Tilos towards the seat under the cedar tree. ‘Let’s sit down,’ she said. ‘It’s so hot this evening, and you must be tired after your long walk. But did you want to see my husband?’ she asked, for it had just occurred to her that the flowers might not, after all, be the main object of his visit.
‘Oh, no, I saw him through the window, I think,’ laughed Mr Tilos. The idea of Stefan Tilos coming to see the husband was quite the funniest thing he had heard since coming to England.
‘I’ve been doing some gardening, as you can see,’ said Cassandra. ‘I’m afraid I’m terribly dirty and untidy,’ she said, glancing down at her hands.
‘You have charming hands,’ said Mr Tilos, ‘and why do you complain when you look so nice? I don’t care that you are dirty and untidy,’ he said emphatically.
‘Don’t you?’ said Cassandra, unable to think of any other reply, and realizing at the same time that it was hardly Mr Tilos’s business to care or not care how she looked. On such a short acquaintance it should have been a matter of indifference to him. And yet it had been so kind of him to bring the lilies. ‘I’m so fond of flowers,’ she said, ‘and lilies are some of my favourites.’
‘You looked so much like a lily the day I first saw you,’ said Mr Tilos.
‘I had them in my wedding bouquet,’ said Cassandra firmly, thinking that it was time she made some allusion to her married state, as Mr Tilos seemed to have forgotten it.
‘And when I am dead you will send some to my funeral, I hope,’ he said simply, taking her earthy hand in both his and raising it to his lips.
Cassandra hardly knew what to do, especially as out of the corner of her eye she could see Adam coming out on to the lawn. ‘There must be lovely flowers in Budapest,’ she said loudly.
‘The gardens there are beautiful,’ said Mr Tilos. ‘In the moonlight they are so romantic.’
Then, before Cassandra had time to disengage her hand or say anything more about the gardens, Adam came up to them, and after bidding Mr Tilos good evening asked him if he would like a glass of sherry before dinner. He then sat down on the other side of Cassandra and began a cordial conversation about the weather, in which Mr Tilos joined him.
Cassandra thought that Adam might at least have shown a little surprise at seeing her and Mr Tilos sitting there with a huge bunch of lilies spread out on their knees. They must have looked peculiar, to put it mildly. And then surely an English husband ought to think it forward of a strange foreigner to be kissing his wife’s hand when he had only met her on one previous occasion?
‘Mr Tilos brought me these lovely flowers,’ she said to Adam. ‘I must go and put them in water.’ She got up and, after thanking Mr Tilos again, went into the house.
She arranged the lilies carefully in large glass jars and bowls, and put some on the table in Adam’s study, thinking that they would be a reproach to him every time he saw them. Then she went up to her room to change for dinner.
When she came down again Mr Tilos was just going. He and Adam had been drinking sherry, and she heard Adam say in very cordial tones, ‘You must let us show you the countryside some time. There are some charming villages round here.’
Cassandra smiled as she imagined them all together in the car, Adam and Mr Tilos sitting in front, while she sat demurely in the back with the picnic basket, in which would be tasty sandwiches, made for them with her own hands. She was glad that Mr Tilos had been able to see her looking really nice in her black velvet dress. Not that she particularly wanted him as an admirer, but she had some natural feminine vanity, and she liked him to see that although his compliments were ridiculous when she was in her old gardening clothes, there was at least some truth in them when she was respectably dressed.
‘I think he’s quite an interesting man,’ said Adam patronizingly, as they sat down to dinner. ‘He was telling me that he walked all the way here.’
Cassandra did not think much of this as a specimen of his intelligent conversation.
‘Perhaps he has fallen in love with you. I don’t very much care for this fish. Is it plaice?’ Adam lifted up a piece on his fork and sniffed it suspiciously. ‘Do you think it’s quite good?’ he asked.
Cassandra looked at him. It saddened her to think that her husband could be more concerned with the goodness or otherwise of a piece of plaice than with the possibility of a rival for his wife’s affection.
‘Do you think it’s quite good?’ repeated Adam urgently, for he had already eaten nearly all of his.
‘Of course it’s good,’ said Cassandra sharply, almost wishing for the moment that it wasn’t. ‘It only came this morning and has been in the refrigerator since then. You’ve got too much imagination.’
‘An author naturally has imagination,’ remarked Adam with dignity.
‘Don’t the lilies smell lovely?’ said Cassandra, feeling unequal to a debate about the author and his imagination.
‘I believe you like Mr Tilos,’ declared Adam. ‘It would be something for Up Callow to talk about if you fell in love with each other.’
‘You seem very calm at the prospect of losing an excellent housekeeper,’ said Cassandra evenly.
‘You talk as if being an excellent housekeeper were something derogatory. It is really extremely important. I know you’re too sensible to fall in love with anyone else. Besides, do you suppose that even if you wanted to your faithful, tender heart would let you? You know you are much more to me than just an excellent housekeeper,’ he declared kindly. ‘Although I’m not quite sure about this fish,’ he added, as he finished up what remained on his plate.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Oh! knew he but his happiness, of men
The happiest he … ’
‘The Marsh-Gibbons seem to have taken quite a fancy to that foreigner, or is it the other way about, do you think?’ said Mrs Wilmot to her husband one Sunday evening after church. She always felt that this was a good time to introduce any subject which bordered on the frivolous, for with all the worries of Sunday behind him, her husband was usually in a good mood, and as he was more fond of cold beef than of hot, Sunday supper was nearly always the most pleasant meal of the week. Tonight Janie had made a nice potato salad, and everything was very peaceful because the younger children had gone back to school.
‘He seems quite a good fellow,’ said the rector. ‘He’s promised a subscription to the Cricket Club although he doesn’t play, which is very sporting of him. I was glad to see him in church this morning. It shows the right spirit.’
‘He sat just behind the Marsh-Gibbons,’ observed Mrs Wilmot. ‘Did you notice how he stared at Cassandra?’
‘You can hardly expect me to have noticed how Mr Tilos was occupying his time during Divine Service,’ he said sternly. ‘I hope he comes to church for better reasons than to stare at a young married woman as respectable as Cassandra.’
‘Oh, yes, it would be hard to find anyone more respectable than Cassandra,’ observed Mrs Wilmot in a flat voice, which hinted that she might almost have been more pleased had it not been so.
‘If only we could get someone like that for Paladin,’ mused the rector. ‘That young man needs a wife.’
‘Oh, but Rockingham, he’s so young,’ said Mrs Wilmot.
‘Every man should have a wife,’ declared the rector firmly. ‘A single clergyman is the prey of every spinster in the parish. He should marry for safety, if for no other reason.’
Mrs Wilmot looked up from her cold beef in surprise. Could it be then that Rockingham had married her for this reason, and not because he considered her a worthy partner to share with him that high position which must of necessity await one with his exceptional gifts?
‘We shall have to see what we can do for Mr Paladin,’ she remarked. ‘What about Miss Gay?’
‘She might put ideas into his head,’ said the rector darkly. ‘We couldn’t have that.’
‘No, of course not,’ agreed Mrs Wilmot, who would hav
e liked to know what sort of ideas her husband meant, but felt she could hardly ask. ‘But surely all women put ideas into men’s heads?’ she suggested, with a suspicion of coyness in her manner.
‘Of course, of course, and quite right that they should,’ said the rector heartily, ‘but we must remember that Miss Gay hasn’t had the advantages of a good upbringing and a healthy family life. Also, she has lived in France … ’ Here the rector made a sweeping gesture with his hand, for he had just remembered that Janie was at the table, and he judged that a sweep of the hand was the wisest conclusion to his sentence.
Mrs Wilmot nodded wisely, and began to serve out the blancmange.
‘A healthy and normal family life is of great importance in the formation of character,’ said the rector, thinking that it was time the conversation took a more general turn. ‘We should do all we can to preserve it, shouldn’t we, Janie?’
‘But surely Mr Paladin is very clever?’ ventured Janie.
‘Oh, yes, undoubtedly. But a First in Theology needs to be leavened with a great deal of experience in the School of Life before it can be expected to bear fruit,’ said the rector.
Mrs Wilmot looked up in surprise. Rockingham was not usually like this on a Sunday evening. ‘Well, well,’ she said brightly, as her husband rose from the table, ‘we must find Mr Paladin a wife.’
‘Yes, he would go far if he had some good woman at his side,’ said the rector. ‘I think I shall go and oil my cricket bat,’ he said, and with that he left the two women alone.
I wonder if I’m a good woman, thought Janie, or just a nice girl? She liked Mr Paladin, and if he was going far that meant that he wouldn’t remain in Up Callow all his life. Surely it was obvious that being a nice girl was the next best thing to being a good woman?
‘I really think you had better be Mrs Paladin,’ said Mrs Wilmot, almost as if there were nothing else for it. ‘Nobody could say that you would put ideas into his head,’ she declared proudly.
‘No, Mother, he would put them into mine,’ laughed Janie. ‘But not the sort of ideas Father meant when he was talking about Miss Gay.’
‘I think Miss Gay must have Mr Tilos, if it can be managed,’ said Mrs Wilmot. ‘After all, she did see him first.’
‘But what about Cassandra Marsh-Gibbon? Remember what Mrs Gower told us about the lilies.’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs Wilmot, suddenly realizing that Janie was only a young girl, and that she herself was the rector’s wife. ‘I expect it is a foreign custom to send flowers to your hostess after you have visited her house.’
Janie got up, rather disappointed. She could not help thinking that it was time something interesting happened in the town. And Mr Tilos had certainly been to The Grotto many times in the last ten days.
He had, in fact, been so many times that if Cassandra heard the bell ring now she knew just what to expect. He always brought something with him, flowers, photographs of Budapest, specimens of peasant embroidery, even bottles of Tokay and peach brandy, which Cassandra was expected to taste solemnly in the drawing room. Because of this, even Adam had taken quite a fancy to him. He noticed that Mr Tilos was attracted by Cassandra, but he treated the whole thing as a joke, and was always teasing her about it, at the same time priding himself on being the one love of her life. This annoyed Cassandra because she knew that it was true. She found herself wishing that it wasn’t. Adam might be shaken out of his complacency if he found that he was in danger of losing her.
One fine afternoon she was sitting in the garden thinking that she was too devoted to Adam, and gave in to him too much.
Into the midst of these thoughts walked the rector. He often paid an afternoon call at The Grotto, which was particularly pleasant in the summer, for, if he timed his call for about half past three or a quarter to four, they would not have been talking long before Lily would bring tea out into the garden. This afternoon he saw that Cassandra was busy with some embroidery. He fingered it rather clumsily and asked what it was.
‘A firescreen. I’m making it for the Sale of Work,’ explained Cassandra.
‘Oh, but it’s too nice,’ the rector said, remembering the useless and ugly things that usually cluttered up the stalls. But then, recollecting his duty as rector of the parish, he added, ‘I mean, it will far outshine anything else that we shall have.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it won’t,’ Cassandra protested.
‘But your embroidery seems to be so much better than anybody else’s. I wonder why that is?’
‘I’m sure it isn’t. Mrs Gower does lovely work,’ said Cassandra. ‘But I think some people don’t put in enough stitches, so that the rich effect is lost and it looks rather thin. I like to put in as much as I can, so that everything looks really well filled.’
The rector looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, that must be it. Some people don’t put in enough stitches,’ he repeated, half to himself.
Cassandra looked at him with a surprised look on her face. No doubt he would feel better when tea arrived. ‘Mr Tilos was showing me some of the Hungarian peasant embroideries the other day,’ she said. ‘They really put my efforts to shame.’
‘Ah, Tilos. A nice fellow, as far as one can judge,’ said the rector cautiously, remembering what his wife had said about him staring at Cassandra during the service.
‘Oh, yes, he’s quite nice,’ said Cassandra indulgently, as if she were speaking of a child or a friendly dog. Indeed, that was just how she felt about Mr Tilos. It would have been far more exciting if she could have regarded him as someone to fall in love with.
‘I hear that he is altering the name of Holmwood,’ said the rector.
‘Yes, I believe he is calling it Balaton, after a lake in Hungary,’ said Cassandra. ‘Personally I think it’s ridiculous. But of course we can’t talk,’ she smiled. ‘You couldn’t find a much sillier name for a house than ours.’
The rector could hear Lily approaching with the tea.
‘Will the master be in to dinner?’ asked Lily.
‘Yes, Lily,’ Cassandra said, looking up from her work, ‘but he may be a little late. I don’t know which train he is getting. I’ll have mine at the usual time.’ She turned to the rector. ‘Adam has been in Oxford for a few days, working in the Bodleian Library.’
It must be very trying, thought the rector, to have a husband who was an author. Certainly Cassandra looked much more cheerful and relaxed when he was away.
Cassandra began to pour out the tea. ‘Help yourself to a scone, or a sandwich,’ she said. ‘They’re cream cheese and walnut, I believe.’
‘My favourite ones,’ the rector beamed.
‘I’m so glad,’ said Cassandra, ‘take two. Bessie is splendid at remembering just what people like. I expect she saw you arrive.’
She composed herself to listen to the rector talking about the Mothers’ Union. ‘I’m sure it must be a good thing,’ she said, trying to appear interested.
‘It makes one realize what a blessing marriage is,’ observed the rector.
Cassandra said that marriage was certainly a blessing, although one could have too much even of a blessing.
‘A fortunate young woman like you has hardly the necessary experience for speaking of those less happy,’ he ventured.
Cassandra sighed. She should have realized that she would never be allowed to be anything but fortunate. ‘I suppose nobody in the world has everything he wants,’ she remarked flatly.
‘No, of course not. Perhaps even you must sometimes feel that you have missed something. I mean,’ the rector gazed at the walnut and cream cheese sandwiches, as if expecting them to help him, ‘do you not sometimes long for the presence of a third person in the house? A little person,’ he explained, just as Cassandra had been contemplating the idea of Mr Tilos as a paying guest.
‘I’m afraid children would disturb Adam writing his epic poem,’ she said with a laugh.
When he had gone Cassandra went into the house. She was feeling depressed. The rector had not cheered her
up at all. If she had let him go on, he would have added that children are such a bond between two people. One always knew just what he was going to say. Only he didn’t know that she and Adam wanted a bond between them at this moment.
Cassandra had dinner by herself. Adam will expect me to have waited, she reflected, but the thought did not give her much pleasure.
After dinner she went into the drawing room and took up her embroidery. As the clock struck eight, she realized that Adam’s dinner would be getting spoilt. Serve him right, she thought with unnecessary intensity. She became tired of the embroidery and thought that she would like to read. She went to the bookshelves and took down one of Adam’s early works, a small volume of poetry, most of which had been written to her. It was not very good, but it reminded Cassandra that she was justified in thinking that there had been what one might call a falling-off in Adam’s love for her. This evening she felt that she wanted to be justified.
At that moment the door opened, and in rushed Adam, carrying an important-looking document case. ‘Cassandra, darling, I shall never forgive myself if you’ve waited dinner for me.’ Adam came over to the sofa where she was sitting, and kissed her. ‘And what has my Cassandra been reading?’ He took the book out of her hand. ‘Her husband’s poems. Could anything be more suitable?’
You weren’t my husband when you wrote them, thought Cassandra reproachfully, feeling annoyed that he should have discovered her reading them. But she could not say it. It was all wrong. Adam ought to have been in a bad temper after his journey, and because he hadn’t had any dinner. He ought to be forgetting to say how glad he was to be with her again, instead of kissing her, and saying in between the kisses that an hour with his dear Cassandra was better than a whole week reading in the Bodleian Library. So I should hope, thought Cassandra indignantly, but there again she couldn’t say it and she found herself laughing at the comparison, and feeling pleased because Adam was so nice.
‘I’m afraid your dinner will be horrid,’ she said. ‘I had mine at half past seven.’