by Barbara Pym
'Well, Sophia likes me to, you know. But most of these good people are a dead loss when it comes to planning anything unusual or amusing,' said Penelope fiercely. She was hoping very much that Rupert Stonebird would be there. Surely it was his duty to be? she told herself, not realizing that at that very moment he was sitting listening to a paper being read at a learned society, his mind occupied with a particularly tricky question he intended to ask when the speaker sat down.
'I shall see you later then,' said Ianthe, when they reached her house. 'Eight o'clock, isn't it?'
Penelope went hopefully into the vicarage where she found Sophia smiling over a letter which had just come by the evening post.
'Isn't it splendid,' she said, waving the letter at Penelope, 'Mother has persuaded Lady Selvedge to come and open our bazaar. That ought to draw people — the title, you know.'
'But Sophia, would people here care about that sort of thing?' said Penelope doubtfully. 'Now if it were Lady — ' she named a titled person at that time popular on television — 'it might make a difference. But who is Lady Selvedge, after all?' she asked on a note of challenge.
'The former wife of Sir Humphrey Selvedge — his relict, but not his widow, I suppose you might say. Oh dear,' Sophia looked depressed, 'perhaps it isn't so splendid after all. Sir Humphrey was unfaithful and she had to divorce him — at least she did divorce him so that he could marry again, I believe.'
'But she hasn't remarried?' asked Mark anxiously.
'No. One hopes that her principles wouldn't allow it.'
'I don't suppose for a moment that anyone has asked her,' said Penelope. 'She's pretty dreary, as far as I remember.'
'Penny, we do not look upon divorce and remarriage in that way,' said Mark sternly, but — Sophia thought — rather in the tone he used when Faustina jumped on to the table and began licking the butter dish. 'I'm sure that Lady Selvedge is a woman of the highest principles.'
'You've met her, dear,' said Sophia. 'She was at that cocktail party the Sheldonians gave — don't you remember? — when we were staying with Mother the summer before last.'
'Well, I suppose I must have met her, then, if you say so, but somehow I can't remember anything about her.'
'No, I don't suppose you do,' said Sophia soothingly. 'And in any case high principles aren't the kind of things one notices at a cocktail party — or perhaps only in a negative way, as when somebody drinks tomato juice rather than gin.'
'And that might be only because of her figure,' said Penelope.
But Mark had now become absorbed in an idea for a sermon that had suddenly come to him. He was quite a forceful preacher, too intelligent for the majority of his congregation, so that the rather dry instructive sermons to which he inclined personally had to be diluted and sweetened to suit their taste. Mark usually achieved this by thinking out an arresting beginning, nearly always of the same type, asking his congregation to imagine themselves standing gazing at the Pyramids or the Acropolis or even the New York skyline, hardly realizing, until Sophia pointed it out to him, that these sights would be unfamiliar to the majority of his hearers. But now these beginnings had become something of a joke between them and the congregation had learned to accept them with amused tolerance. They always made Sophia think how much more Mark would be appreciated in a different sort of parish, though she never said anything about it. If he felt that his work lay here, it was not for her to question his decision, but she sometimes wished that something might happen to make him change his mind.
'People seem to be coming to the door,' said Penelope. She saw with disappointment that Rupert Stonebird was not among the little group that Sophia was now bringing into the room. Ianthe Broome, Daisy Pettigrew, Sister Dew and one or two others whose names she could never remember, now sat down round the table and began to discuss the final arrangements for the bazaar, which had always been exactly the same and always would be, except that from one year to another a pint more or less milk might be ordered for the teas.
Penelope's way home took her along St Basil's Terrace, or if it had not done she would have arranged her journey to include it, even if it had meant a slight detour. In the weeks that had passed since she had met Rupert Stonebird at the vicarage her interest in him had deepened, mainly because she had not seen him again and had therefore been able to build up a more satisfactory picture of him than if she had been able to check with reality. It was therefore important and exciting to notice that there was a light in a ground-floor window of his house and that, by a fortunate piece of carelessness on somebody's part, the curtains had not been drawn.
Walking as slowly as she dared, Penelope was able to see that there were two figures in the room — Rupert himself and a woman, not very tall and wearing a dark, tweedy-looking suit. It was difficult to see exactly what she looked like, for she and Rupert were bending down over a table examining something together. The room looked like the dining room; a sideboard with some bottles and a bowl of fruit on it was visible, and Penelope was now able to see that the remains of a kind of meal — a loaf of bread, a hunk of orange-coloured cheese and two glasses — were set out on one half of the table. Altogether it was a little disturbing — the man, the woman, the Omar Khayyâm-like details — or like a Victorian problem picture in the Royal Academy. What exactly had they been — or were they now — doing?
Penelope walked slowly away from the house, then pretended to be looking at an empty house which was to be sold two doors away from where Rupert lived. As she did so she was conscious of voices by his front gate. Rupert's visitor, whoever she had been, was now leaving and he was giving her instructions how to get somewhere.
'Goodbye, Esther,' he called out, 'and many thanks for bringing them.'
Penelope walked on, thinking, 'Esther', some glamorous Jewess, no doubt. And what had she been bringing? The footsteps behind her seemed to be hurrying, almost as if they were trying to catch her up.
'I suppose I can get a bus for Baker Street somewhere here?' said a rather gruff voice, addressing Penelope.
Penelope turned round. 'Oh yes, I'll show you.' She smiled for the woman was short and dumpy, with roughly-cut grey hair — in her middle fifties, at least. So it was all right. The appearance of her 'rival' so encouraged Penelope that it was as if Rupert himself had come out of his house and made her a declaration of love.
5
Lady Selvedge and Mrs Grandison arrived at Victoria Station on the day of the bazaar shortly after noon, and proceeded to look for a place where they might have lunch, or luncheon, as they called it. Mrs Grandison had promised her daughter that they would not inflict themselves on her for a meal — realizing that Lady Selvedge might well be something of an infliction — and had assumed that from Victoria they would take a taxi to some Soho restaurant or perhaps Simpsons in the Strand. Indeed, during the train journey she had been weighing in her mind the advantages of an Italian dish — 'something with funghi'— as against sole in an exquisite sauce or a cut off a splendid sirloin. She was therefore a little disconcerted to find when they left the station that instead of waiting for a taxi Lady Selvedge began to stride away in the direction of Victoria Street, saying 'I know just the place for us to get a snack. There's a very good tea-shop just near here.'
'Don't you think,' Mrs Grandison suggested, 'that we need a little more than just a snack? After all we have a long and tiring afternoon ahead of us?' But of course, as she now remembered, Lady Selvedge had the reputation of being mean.
'Oh, you can get quite substantial dishes here,' she said. 'I used the word "snack" figuratively.'
Mrs Grandison followed her apprehensively into one of those ubiquitous tea-shops which cater for the multitudes of office workers and others who want a cheap meal at any time of the day, and which, excellent though they are, can hardly be compared with the restaurants Mrs Grandison had been hoping to lunch in.
Fortunately, as it was still only a quarter past twelve, there was no queue and Lady Selvedge and Mrs Grandison were able to
walk straight up to the counter and take their trays.
'Do not handle food you do not intend to consume', Lady Selvedge read loudly from a printed notice. 'That seems most sensible and hygienic, don't you think so, Dorothy?'
Mrs Grandison could not but agree with her.
'I will have steak pudding and masked potatoes,' said Lady Selvedge. 'And do I see greens there? I will have some of those.'
Mrs Grandison chose ham and salad, thinking sadly of the splendid sirloin, for she had decided that it would have been that if she had been given the choice.
They found a table for four occupied by one young man, and arranged their food around them. Perhaps they looked a little incongruous sitting in their smart hats and fur coats, talking more loudly than anybody else. Lady Selvedge was a tall, pale-faced woman, with a camel-like cast to her features — perhaps a Habsburg lip if one took a more kindly view. Because of her husband's matrimonial adventures and the fact that she was by no means the only Lady Selvedge she was usually known as Lady (Muriel) Selvedge. The parentheses gave her a sense of not existing, un-being perhaps was not too strong a word. She would have preferred Muriel, Lady Selvedge, with its dowager-like dignity. Sometimes people addressed letters mistakenly to Lady Muriel Selvedge, and on these occasions she imagined herself as the daughter of an earl, a marquess, or even a duke, comfortably unmarried.
Mrs Grandison, the mother of Sophia and Penelope, had the remains of her daughters' Pre-Raphaelite beauty, now much faded and overlaid with some other quality, which had made her the President of the Women's Institute in the village where she lived but which did not seem to be quite Pre-Raphaelite.
Lady Selvedge ate quickly, commenting on the excellence and cheapness of the food as she did so. 'Luncheon for only three and ninepence,' she declared, reaching out towards a miniature steamed pudding and drawing it towards her, 'excellent!'
At this point the young man, who had been reading a folded newspaper, looked up and said in a slightly truculent voice, 'Excuse me, madam, but that's my pudding you're about to eat.'
'Oh no, this is mine,' said Lady Selvedge firmly, making a shielding movement with her hands round the pudding in its little dish.
'I think the young man is right,' said Mrs Grandison. 'I don't remember seeing you take a pudding. The dishes get rather confused when they're all together on the table,' she added, trying to put things right.
'Oh well then, I suppose it is not mine,' said Lady Selvedge grudgingly pushing the pudding back towards the young man, who then proceeded to eat it in a kind of defiant confusion.
'Those sort of people eat far too much starch,' said Lady Selvedge to Mrs Grandison in an audible whisper. 'Meat pie, chips, roll and butter, and now this stodgy pudding. A dish of greens would be much better for you,' she said, raising her voice and turning towards the young man.
'If you'll pardon me, madam, I think you're — bloody — interfering,' he stammered, flushing scarlet from the — surely unaccustomed — boldness and violence of his language. Then, gulping down the remains of his cup of tea, he got up and left the table.
This would not have happened in Simpsons, thought Mrs Grandison grimly. She had been a fool to let Muriel choose a place to have lunch and would take good care that it did not happen again.
'There will be time for us to have a look round Westminster Abbey,' said Lady Selvedge, not in the least disturbed by the upsetting little incident of the pudding. 'I always like to have a good look round the Abbey.'
***
We dare not ask for the grace of humility, but perhaps we don't need to when it is so often thrust upon us, thought Sophia, beating together eggs and sugar for a sponge cake, knowing that her cake would not rise as high as Sister Dew's. When she took it from the oven she was pleased with it, but later, placing it on the trestle table in the hall where refreshments were to be served, she saw that Sister Dew's was higher.
'So you've made one of your sponges,' said the latter in a patronizing tone. 'It looks quite nice.'
'But yours is much better, Sister Dew,' said Sophia nobly. 'I don't know how you do it.
'Oh, I'm sure she's got a light hand with pastry,' said Sister Dew. 'I suppose one is born with a light hand in these things!'
'Yes, I suppose so,' Sophia agreed. 'Miss Broome has promised to make some sausage rolls.'
'Oh, I'm sure, she's got a light hand with pastry,' said Sister Dew eagerly. 'I hope I get a chance to taste one of her sausage rolls.'
'Yes — is that her coming now? I thought I saw somebody pass the window,' said Sophia. Her tone was a little agitated for she had also just seen Faustina mount the refreshment table and pick her way delicately among the dishes of cakes and savouries, sniffing the air, ready to pause and pounce when she came upon something that took her fancy.
Luckily Sister Dew allowed herself to be distracted and opened the door for Ianthe and her covered dish.
'Now here's Miss Broome with her sausage rolls,' she said fulsomely. 'They do look good, I must say. But they're not for Pussy,' she added, with a disapproving look at Faustina now held firmly in Sophia's arms.
'I hope they're all right,' said Ianthe. 'It's quite a long time since I made any. How this reminds me of old times,' she sighed, looking round at the hall with its decorated stalls and paper chains and lanterns hanging from the rafters. 'What time is the bazaar to be opened?'
'Half-past two,' said Sophia. 'I wonder if Mr Stonebird will come?'
'I didn't see any sign of him when I passed his house,' said Ianthe. 'Not that I looked, really.'
'But you might have seen signs,' Sophia reassured her.
'Yes, one might, though I'm not sure quite what. Is your sister coming this afternoon?'
'Yes, she's promised to help with the teas and refreshments.'
At that moment Penelope appeared, bringing with her a breath of Chelsea — or was there, Sophia wondered, some newer and more fashionable district it might have been, such as Islington, Earls Court or Camden Town? Sophia wished her sister had not been wearing tartan trews, but it would never do to say anything. And what did one wear at these parish functions? Poor though the district was, old Saturday morning clothes would not do — one must be seen to have made an effort. Sophia herself was wearing a green jersey suit and a small hat, but she felt that she did not look so absolutely right as Ianthe, whose plain blue woollen dress was set off by a feather-trimmed hat which had just the right touch of slightly dowdy elegance — if there could be such a thing. Her long training in church circles was evident too in her ease of manner with the other parish women, which contrasted with Penelope's slightly defiant air resulting from shyness and uncertainty.
Penelope wished now that she had worn a dress or suit instead of the elegant tartan trews, but they had seemed the only way to make Rupert Stonebird notice her. Standing behind the refreshment table, though, she now realized that only her upper half was visible. And anyway he had not yet arrived. He would probably slip in at the last minute, just as a matter of duty.
***
We should have taken a taxi, thought Mrs Grandison unhappily as she and Lady Selvedge, jostled by crowds, hurried down the passage leading to the northbound Bakerloo trains. She should have insisted, have pretended that Sophia's part of London was inaccessible by public transport, and of course, when one came to think of it, there was quite a long walk from the station. Mrs Grandison's pointed Italian-style shoes were already beginning to pinch her left foot. Lady Selvedge, she now realized to her surprise, was wearing low-heeled walking shoes, not really quite the thing with her elaborately draped velvet toque but eminently sensible.
'This is the train,' she declared. 'Come along, Dorothy, or we shan't get a seat.'
A great many people seemed to be crowding in, presumably returning home for their Saturday half day. Was it right, Mrs Grandison asked herself, that she should stand while men sat? But the question was academic, for there was nothing she could do about it. This was no way for the opener of a bazaar and the guest of
honour to arrive, she thought indignantly. Perhaps they would be able to get a taxi at the station.
But it was not the kind of station that has taxis waiting outside it, and the two ladies were forced to walk through the crowded streets, now full of people doing their weekend shopping.
'So many black people,' said Lady Selvedge in her penetrating Voice. 'And do I see yams on that stall? I don't think the vicarage can be here — Dorothy, are you sure we're going in the right direction?'
'I have always been by car or taxi before,' said Mrs Grandison shortly. 'Of course the streets near a station are always sordid. Think of Victoria.'
'Well, Buckingham Palace is near Victoria,' said Lady Selvedge unhelpfully. 'And so are some of the best parts of Belgravia — not to mention Westminster Cathedral.'
'That's a Roman Catholic cathedral,' snapped Mrs Grandison, whose feet were now hurting considerably, 'so I see no reason why we should mention it.' If only Mark could have got a living in a better district, she thought, as she had so often thought before. 'My son-in-law was offered the living of St Ermin's when it fell vacant recently,' she said, 'but he felt there would be more scope here.'
'Scope?' echoed Lady Selvedge as if the word were unfamiliar to her. 'Ah, scope, I see what you mean. Yes, scope is a great thing where the clergy are concerned.'
'This part of the district is becoming quite fashionable,' said Mrs Grandison as they approached the terrace where Ianthe Broome and Rupert Stonebird lived. 'Such pretty little houses — and there is St Basil's spire,' she added encouragingly.
'Ah, yes — you see, it hasn't been such a long walk after all,' said Lady Selvedge. 'I always believe in saving a taxi fare where possible.'