Civil to Strangers and Other Writings

by Barbara Pym

  Cassandra said that she had left her luggage further up the train, but that she would go and fetch it and then join Miss Edge and her companions in their carriage.

  ‘I’m sure Canon Coffin would go along with you and help you carry it,’ said Miss Edge.

  Cassandra, remembering his kindly face, was sure that he would, but then he would see Mr Tilos and everything would be spoilt. ‘Please don’t trouble him,’ she said hastily. ‘I’ve only a dressing case – I sent the rest of my luggage on in advance.’ She marvelled at how adept she was becoming at lying.

  Cassandra found Mr Tilos sitting just as she had left him, still sulking in his corner seat. He showed some interest when she came in and looked up hopefully.

  ‘What are you doing with your case?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘It has all my make-up things in it,’ said Cassandra. ‘I am going to have a wash and tidy myself up.’

  She made her escape from the carriage, hoping that he would not come searching for her. She had had to abandon her big suitcase and hoped he would look after it for her. It was labelled with the name of the hotel in Budapest, so she trusted that he would see that it arrived there safely. She would be joining it in her own time.

  She almost ran down the corridor and was relieved to see Miss Edge standing by the carriage door, obviously waiting for her.

  ‘Oh, good,’ she said. ‘There are four of us in here, plenty of room for another,’ and she introduced Cassandra to Mrs Dewbury, Miss Lomax and Miss Fye.

  Mrs Dewbury was sitting in a corner by the window, and looked rather defiantly at Cassandra, as if expecting that she might have to give up her seat and being determined not to. She was a plump woman who looked about sixty-five. She wore an assortment of gold chains round her neck, from one of which hung a pair of eyeglasses. Her fingers were loaded with old-fashioned rings, set with diamonds and turquoises.

  Miss Lomax and Miss Fye were much younger. Cassandra would have said that they were in the late thirties. They looked very much alike, rather dim and faded, with wispy brown hair, and sensible brown tweed costumes. They both looked up at Cassandra with quick, friendly smiles, and made room for her on their side of the carriage.

  ‘I do hope I’m not disturbing you,’ said Cassandra.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Miss Lomax and Miss Fye together. ‘We’re glad to have you with us.’

  Cassandra learned after more experience that they nearly always seemed to make their remarks in chorus. She sat down, and glanced at Mrs Dewbury, who had not as yet shown any signs of welcoming her. ‘I suppose I ought to introduce myself,’ she said shyly. ‘I’m Mrs Gibbon.’ She had decided to leave out the ‘Marsh’, in case people should ask if she were any relation to the author of that name, although she was not at all certain that Adam’s fame would have reached the inhabitants of a remote West Country cathedral town. Still, it was better to be safe, and Mrs Gibbon was a good plain name without actually being an assumed one.

  ‘Where are you travelling to?’ Miss Edge enquired.

  ‘Budapest,’ said Cassandra, trying to look like a seasoned traveller.

  ‘Alone?’ asked Miss Lomax and Miss Fye in sympathetic chorus.

  ‘Well,’ Cassandra hesitated, and then realized that she would have to say something. ‘I’m meeting my husband there.’ How she wished that it was true.

  ‘Are you going straight through, or are you spending the night in Brussels?’ asked Miss Edge.

  ‘I would like to spend the night in Brussels,’ Cassandra said, thinking of her escape from Mr Tilos. ‘But,’ she added, trying to sound pathetic, ‘I’m not sure where … ’

  ‘I don’t like to think of you wandering about Brussels on your own,’ said Miss Edge, with a worried frown. ‘You hear of such things … Now, I wonder … ’

  Cassandra sat back and listened contentedly. Obviously Miss Edge was the sort of person who was used to arranging things and loved it. For although she could perfectly well have gone to a hotel, she would feel much safer from Mr Tilos if she spent the night at the Pension Flora.

  ‘Of course,’ said Miss Edge tentatively, ‘you would have to share a room with one of us. Would you mind that?’

  Cassandra felt that she would rather share a room with all the eight spinsters and three widows than be in the same town alone with Mr Tilos. So she thanked Miss Edge and smiled at everyone and asked what to do about paying.

  ‘Oh, that will do later, dear,’ said Miss Edge. ‘We can settle that on the train going to Frankfurt.’

  It was very comforting to be called dear and to know that she was to be safe until they reached a place as remote as Frankfurt. Cassandra leaned back against the hard clean wood of the carriage and thought of Mr Tilos, sulking in his cushioned second-class luxury.

  As the train drew into Brussels, Canon Coffin came down the corridor and warned people to get ready and collect their luggage. Miss Edge introduced Cassandra to him and he beamed kindly on her, which made her feel like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, which was quite a new experience for her.

  While the group was bustling about on the platform fussing with their luggage, Cassandra moved up the platform to where Mr Tilos was surrounded by his own and her luggage.

  ‘I am staying the night in Brussels,’ she said pleasantly. ‘With some friends,’ she added, indicating the three clergymen, their wives, the three widows and the eight spinsters. ‘Do you think you could very kindly see to my luggage for me? I will only need my dressing case,’ and she gave him the name of her hotel in Budapest.

  For a moment it looked as if he was going to protest, and she held her breath. But then he bowed coldly and said something in Hungarian which, fortunately, perhaps, she was not able to understand. He was upset and annoyed, but, thought Cassandra resentfully, I certainly never gave him any encouragement, so it’s all his own fault.

  She felt a mixture of guilt and annoyance and was glad to be interrupted by Canon Coffin, raising his voice to command the attention of the group. ‘Now come along everybody. The luggage is going to the Pension Flora, so will you please leave it over here in a pile? Then we can all go to the restaurant where we are to have dinner.’

  The party moved off the platform and Cassandra joined them quickly. As she went she turned her head and saw Mr Tilos still standing there amid the luggage, looking very forlorn.

  ‘Now are we all ready?’ came Canon Coffin’s voice, and they filed out of the station. Cassandra marched happily between Miss Edge and a tall thin woman called Miss Crump.

  In the restaurant, when they were arranging themselves at their tables, a clergyman sat down heavily next to Cassandra.

  ‘I think this is the best place,’ he said rather anxiously, looking around him to see how far he was from the door. ‘Since my recent illness it is quite fatal for me to sit in a draught. Quite fatal,’ he repeated, so that she should realize the gravity of the situation. She was somehow reminded of Adam and for a moment she felt quite melancholy, until Canon Coffin addressed the clergyman cheerfully.

  ‘Well, Langbaine, we certainly couldn’t have that! Now then, everybody, what are we all going to drink?’

  ‘Water,’ said one of the spinsters firmly.

  ‘Oh, you can’t have ordinary water,’ said Miss Edge. ‘I believe it isn’t fit to drink, but I believe you can get some very nice mineral water, non-alcoholic, of course.’

  ‘Personally, I think some wine would be nice. It would revive us after our long journey,’ said Canon Coffin, making it seem quite respectable.

  ‘Well, perhaps it would be rather nice,’ ventured another of the spinsters. ‘It isn’t as if we often have it.’

  Cassandra smiled. While the question of the drink was being settled she was able to observe her neighbour.

  The Reverend William Langbaine was a tall man of about forty-five. He was dark and going a little bald. He had a thin pale face and wore horn-rimmed spectacles. Cassandra noticed that he was wearing a thick grey hand-knitted pullover under his jacket. She won
dered whether it had been knitted for him by some devoted lady of the parish, but decided that he did not look like the sort of clergyman who would inspire such devotion and that it had probably been made by his wife.

  ‘I think I will have some mineral water,’ she said. ‘I think it would be more refreshing than wine.’

  ‘I believe it is delicious,’ said Miss Edge. ‘Mrs Dewbury told me that they always have it at the Embassy. Is your wife not well, Mr Langbaine?’ she asked, putting on her pince-nez and giving him a sharp glance.

  ‘No. Ethel is a poor traveller,’ he said carelessly, ‘so she has gone straight to the Pension. Mrs Coffin has gone with her, I believe. She will be taking a little Bovril in bed. Much the best thing for nausea,’ he said with authority.

  After dinner they all trooped off to the Pension Flora. A few of the bolder spirits had gone sight-seeing in the dark, but Cassandra was feeling tired after her full, exciting day. She found that she was to share a room with Miss Edge. The proprietress of the Pension, a grim, dark-haired woman, showed them into a room papered in dull crimson damask, with heavy red velvet curtains and massive furniture. She indicated with a sweep of the hand what were its advantages and amenities, and shut the door behind her.

  Cassandra was relieved to see that there were two beds, very high, with ornately carved wooden headboards and covered with strange plumped-up feather quilts.

  If the shocked inhabitants of Up Callow could see her now, she thought, as Miss Edge made polite remarks about wardrobe space, how surprised they would be, perhaps even a little disappointed, that instead of being with Mr Tilos she was sharing a room with the secretary of the St Monica’s Guild.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Books are but formal dulness, tedious friends.’

  In his lodgings in Oxford Adam finished his breakfast quickly and hurried out to work. He was not at all sure what that work was to be, but he thought he would start by going to Balliol to call on his old tutor.

  In the lodge the porter remembered him. This pleased Adam and made him feel more cheerful. This mood did not last, however, for when he enquired for his tutor he was told that he had died the previous month.

  ‘But he wasn’t an old man,’ said Adam, half to himself.

  ‘Well, no, sir, but he wasn’t young. He was in his fifties.’

  ‘I shall be in my forties quite soon,’ said Adam despondently and he turned and walked out of the lodge and along Broad Street to the Bodleian feeling very depressed. It was ridiculous to be plunged into gloom by the death of his tutor, a man he hardly ever thought of, but this and the fact of Cassandra’s absence induced in him a mood of melancholy, so that by the time he was walking up the steps of the Bodleian he had almost resigned himself to never seeing Cassandra again.

  He walked into the Picture Gallery and then through into the English Reading Room. He set out his things on a desk and began walking vaguely round, looking at the books on the open shelves. Eventually he took down de Selincourt’s edition of ‘The Prelude’, thinking of Cassandra’s impatience with Wordsworth. After trying to read for a few minutes, Adam began to feel impatience too.

  He shut up the book with a bang and looked around at his neighbours. One was busily writing an essay, another was engrossed in Emerson’s Middle English Reader. Adam saw that he was writing down all the unfamiliar words in a notebook.

  Outside, the clocks began to strike eleven. At once the Reading Room was full of movement. It seemed as if everybody had an eleven o’clock lecture. Then he suddenly remembered that it wasn’t that at all; it was the coffee hour. This depressed him still further. It made him feel old to see all the young people going off to Elliston’s to drink coffee, eat chocolate biscuits and criticize the people around them. He saw them putting PLEASE LEAVE notices on their piles of books and going out together. He decided that he was at least ten years too old for this place. He got up quickly and walked out. It had been just the same in Mr Gay’s drawing room, but there it had been old people. There was nothing for him here either.

  After lunch, Adam found himself walking round the Botanical Gardens. Here it was very pleasant and he began to feel a little less gloomy. The sun was out, the rock-garden and borders were ablaze with flowers and there were some orchids in the tropical houses. How Cassandra would have loved it!

  Adam felt so much better after tea that he decided to give the Bodleian another chance. He would go and work in Duke Humphrey. There, enshrouded in history, he would find peace and contentment. As he walked up the stairs, he met a crowd of minions clattering down to their tea. The library was quiet and deserted. Adam walked up to the Selden End, looking into the little alcoves as he passed. Eventually he chose a seat by an old man who had his back to him. He seemed to be a clergyman and he wore a suit that looked quite green with age. The top of his head was bald and fringed with greenish-grey hair. He took no notice of Adam but went on reading in a large calf-bound volume.

  Adam began to write odd lines of his epic poem and then wandered about looking at various books and reading the Dictionary of National Biography to see if he could detect any mistakes in it. Then he went up to the Catalogue to look up several books he might want to read. He also looked up his own novels and poems and, for some reason, made a note of them. After that he leaned on a radiator and read several volumes of the University Calendar. Finally he went back to his seat and began a letter to Cassandra, but he found it difficult to write, as he really did not know what to say. He was glad when the bell tinkled, for this meant that all readers must leave the library, which closed at seven.

  Adam got up and put his things together. He had had quite a successful evening’s work, he thought, and decided to visit the library again in the morning. The clergyman beside him turned round and without any preamble addressed him.

  ‘I wonder, when you are working here, have you ever given a thought to all those who have died in Bodley’s Library, or as a result of working there?’

  Adam was forced to admit that he had not.

  ‘You should, you know. It is quite an education.’

  ‘It would surely do one more good to concentrate on one’s work,’ said Adam austerely.

  ‘That is my work,’ said the clergyman simply. ‘I am preparing a thesis on that subject for the degree of Bachelor of Letters.’

  Adam said nothing, but looked at him in some surprise.

  ‘Since my wife died,’ said the clergyman, ‘I have thought much of death. And your wife?’ He looked suddenly at Adam. ‘You have a wife?’

  ‘She is not with me here,’ said Adam, hypnotized by the old man.

  ‘No, she is not with you here, but,’ his voice rose, ‘you must believe that you will meet again, that she will be waiting for you, in that other life, perhaps?’

  ‘She is in Budapest,’ said Adam shortly.

  ‘Oh, well, that’s another pair of shoes, isn’t it?’ said the clergyman surprisingly.

  ‘Is it? I don’t know,’ said Adam, in sudden fear.

  They crossed over into Market Street. Why had he let this depressing old man get hold of him, Adam wondered. And supposing he was right? Supposing Cassandra was waiting for him, not in Budapest, but in Heaven? All the misery of the day without her suddenly weighed heavily upon him. The clergyman droned on.

  ‘We may be taken at any time. Do you read Anthony à Wood? I have often thought that he and I would have been friends. Only this evening I came across a passage that I often remember when I am eating. “In the beginning of this month I was told that Harry Marten died last summer, suddenly with meat in his mouth, at Chepstow in Monmouthshire.” Well, here we are. I shall go into Lyons for supper. I can get a delicious meal for one shilling – fried egg, sausage, chips and baked beans, with bread too and a cup of tea. Excellent! Where are you going?’

  ‘Budapest,’ said Adam, and bidding the clergyman a hasty farewell, he was off down the Cornmarket.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ‘Ye prudes in virtue, say,

 
Say ye severest, what would you have done?’

  When the party arranged itself in the train next morning, Cassandra found herself in a carriage with Canon and Mrs Coffin, the Reverend and Mrs Langbaine, and Miss Edge. It had all come about quite easily, this taking her place among the leaders of the party, and Cassandra was pleased by its easiness. It was a proof that she belonged here. She was a respectable married woman once more, and the party had accepted her as one of themselves without question. She was meeting her husband in Budapest, he wrote books, but they had probably never heard of them, for he was not exactly what one could call famous. Cassandra, now known as Mrs Gibbon, lived in Shropshire.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever been there,’ she added hopefully, and was grateful to see half-apologetic smiles hovering on the faces of her companions, as they admitted that they had never actually been there.

  ‘It’s really very remote from us,’ said Canon Coffin. ‘We must make that our excuse for never having visited your county.’

  Cassandra gave a little sigh of relief. She had half-expected that he would know the rector of Up Callow or some other Shropshire clergyman. She looked round the carriage with a happy smile. She had quickly made friends with Mrs Langbaine this morning and had been very sympathetic about her indisposition of the night before, and sorry that she had had to miss the cheerful dinner and retire to bed with nothing but a cup of Bovril to sustain her.

  Mrs Langbaine was a lively little woman. She was teasing her husband about his ‘having taken a fancy to Mrs Gibbon’.

  ‘It’s really a good thing that Willie has a lawful wedded wife,’ she said comfortably. Obviously such things as Mr Tilos or his female equivalent were something quite unknown to her and the circles in which she moved.