by Barbara Pym
‘Then I’m afraid you’re going to be unlucky again,’ said the young man. ‘They’re away.’
Aylwin looked up at the windows of Mrs Williton’s house. They were all tightly shut, the net curtains appearing to be of an even more impenetrable denseness than usual.
‘Oh, I see,’ he said lamely. ‘I must be going, then.’
‘Sorry about the squirrel!’ the young man called after him.
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Aylwin, not knowing what to say. But really the whole episode had upset him. It was obviously an omen of some kind, though it was difficult to guess what it might mean. He continued walking until he came to a pub, into which he went. He ordered a Guinness, feeling that he had need of the qualities it was said to give. While drinking it he decided that Mrs Williton and Marjorie had probably gone to Taviscombe. He would go there the next day and get everything settled once and for all.
He took the morning train from Paddington, travelling first class in a carriage which was already occupied by a clergyman and a woman who looked like his sister. He would have preferred an emptier carriage, and had seen one with only a single lady in it, but just as he was about to enter it he had noticed that the lady was Miss Randall, who had brought him a cup of early-morning tea at the conference last summer. She in her turn, and of course without his knowing, had avoided him at an earlier stage in the journey when she had seen him standing at the bookstall. She had not known exactly which train he was getting on, but the thought of a whole journey with Aylwin Forbes talking about ‘some problems of an editor’, or the equivalent in train small-talk, had been too much for her, especially as the girl at The Times Book Club had that morning given her the latest novel by her favourite female author. Thus, there may be mutual avoidance between men and women, the men not always realizing that they are not the only ones to be practising the avoidance.
As soon as the train started moving, Aylwin opened the literary weekly he had bought at the bookstall and tried to become absorbed in it, or at least to seem to be absorbed, for he suspected that the clergyman and his sister might well be the kind of people who would try to get into conversation with him. But as he turned the pages he was thinking of Laurel and the charm of her youth and freshness — à l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs — though of course that sort of thing didn’t last for ever. Some women never seemed to have had it. Miss Mainwaring (Laurel’s aunt), Miss Randall, Miss Foy, even Vi Dace — or Viola, as she liked to be called — one could not imagine these women, working on the seedier fringes of the academic world, sparkling with that exciting freshness. True, he had not know any of them at the age of nineteen, so perhaps he wasn’t really being fair to them. It was just possible to imagine that Dulcie, who was of course younger than the others, might have had it. Indeed, she still had that trusting, vulnerable look in her eyes which some women never lost, however unsuitably it went with their age-ing exteriors.
Aylwin now turned to The Times and found himself confronted by an obituary notice of a man well known to him, cut down in his prime, as it were. And of course a contributor, identified only by his initials, had quoted Marlowe’s lines from Dr Faustus:
Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,
And burned is Apollo’s laurel bough …
Perhaps not the happiest of lines if one remembered the whole play, Aylwin thought, wondering if anybody would do the same for him. As he amused himself by thinking of suitable and unsuitable quotations, he was conscious, so sensitive and imaginative was he, of a sweet, almost sickly, smell that immediately took him back to his childhood, to the room in Eagle House banked with wreaths and ‘floral tributes’, which had been sent for his father’s funeral. Then he realized that the smell was in the railway carriage, now, more than thirty yars later, and that it seemed to be coming from the luggage rack in the opposite corner. Looking up he saw two shrouded bundles, bunches or sheaves of flowers, judging by the shape. Could it be that the clergyman and his companion were going to a funeral, Aylwin wondered. He was still not anxious to start a conversation with them, so he turned to his reading again and had become absorbed in it when he was aware that the woman was saying something.
‘Freda never did have a sense of proportion,’ she said, ‘and after all it’s only for a cousin whom she probably hasn’t even seen since the war — I’m sure of that. She and Basil were never very close, anyway.’
‘I suppose she thought it was the thing to do,’ said the clergyman mildly.
‘But the notice in The Times distinctly said “cut flowers only”.’
‘Quite — and you picked something out of the garden, mostly leaves, as far as I remember,’ said the clergyman, with a hint of malice.
‘That’s far more what poor old Basil himself would have wished,’ said the woman firmly. ‘A few natural flowers — whatever there happened to be in the garden, even if it wasn’t very much — rather than an expensive sheaf of wired flowers from a Kensington florist. He would have hated the idea of wired flowers — he abhorred cruelty in all its forms
Aylwin, listening quietly, thought again of the Times obituaries and wondered if there had been one for cousin Basil.
‘Of course, Freda hasn’t got a garden, has she?’ asked the clergyman.
‘She has the use of the garden — she could easily have slipped down and got a few flowers. Mrs Wedge would certainly have raised no objection if Freda had explained … The whole thing is so …’ She stopped, at a loss for a word. ‘And then asking us to take them to the funeral — so awkward to carry, a big sheaf like that. And when people see the difference in size — so embarrassing — especially when you are taking the service — unfitting, somehow …’
‘Could you not exchange the cards?’ suggested the clergyman. ‘That might solve the problem.’
‘George! What a dreadful idea! For a clergyman’s sister even to think of doing a thing like that. Besides, the card might be rather awkward to remove …’
‘Well, in that case… and, as you pointed out, Basil wouldn’t have liked the wired flowers.’
Fortunately there had been no need for Aylwin to join in this conversation, and, rather to his relief, the brother and sister left the train at the next stop, taking their sheaves with them. Aylwin also saw Miss Randall hurrying along the platform after them, which gave him a double sense of relief.
The idea of death and funerals, which had so far been the theme of his journey, had depressed him, as if he might find death waiting for him when he arrived at Taviscombe. When the sea came into view there was nobody to exclaim to, no exchange of facetious quips about not being too keen for a dip in that, thank you, and his thoughts turned to Arnold’s poem, so appropriate to human relationships in general and to his own in particular —
Yes! in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
Well, one knew that anyway. The years either brought people nearer together or drove them further apart.
A God, a God their severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb’d, salt, estranging sea.
But it was less noble than that — his relationship with Marjorie and their drifting apart. Nothing in common but a stone squirrel, he thought derisively, contemplating the rows of beach huts which they were now passing. One of them even had net curtains.
The train drew into Taviscombe. A taxi driver waiting at the station recognized Aylwin and, greeting him as ‘Professor’, took his bag from him. The small inaccuracy irritated him — these good, simple people, always so pleased to see him and with such exaggerated respect for any kind of book-learning! The last time he had arrived at a country station had been in Italy and he had taken a carozza, he thought, with what was surely an unreasonable feeling of irritation. But the contrast was painful. There had been sunshine there and noble architecture, even at the station. H
ere every building was repellent; there was nothing upon which the eye could dwell with pleasure.
Dulcie, seeing from the window the taxi draw up and Aylwin getting out and giving what seemed to be an over-large tip to the driver, thought, how wonderful if she were the person he was com-ing to see! Impossible that one’s heart should not turn over at the unexpected sight of him coming up to the door. Who would come out running, to be gathered to his heart, as it said in the poem so beloved by schoolgirls (and by all women who retained any trace of sentimentality in their make-up)? Not Marjorie, who had gone out for a walk with her mother, not Viola, who was sitting at the dark little table in the writing-room, composing a letter to Bill Sedge. Perhaps he would not be greeted by any woman but his mother, though Neville might well be loitering in the hall in his cassock.
And this was exactly what did happen. Neville had often imagined himself speaking ‘strongly’ to Aylwin should they come face to face with each other, but he had not thought out the precise words he would use on such an occasion. Something about the sanctity of marriage, the need for give-and-take in every relationship, the shame he was bringing upon his mother and upon himself in his position in the public eye (if it was that), the distress he was causing Mrs Williton and Marjorie. This last was surely the most important aspect of the situation. But here Neville was at a disadvantage, for, having now seen his sister-in-law after some time, he had been struck by her dreariness and found himself wondering how his clever and handsome brother could ever have chosen her as his wife. And Mrs Williton was, if anything, even drearier. Therefore, when the taxi stopped and he saw Aylwin getting out, Neville’s first feeling was one of simple pleasure at having another man to keep him company.
‘Well, this is a surprise!’ he said. ‘We thought you were in Italy.’
‘So I was, but one can’t stay there for ever, unfortunately. Work calls one back,’ said Aylwin, wondering if it could have done. Then, remembering the unpleasant object of his visit, he said firmly, ‘I’ve come to sort things out here. I thought it was about time I did.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Neville gravely, in a clergyman’s manner, but that was all he said. ‘Mrs Williton and Marjorie have gone out for a walk, I believe.’
Aylwin felt relieved that he would not have to face them just yet. ‘And what are you doing here?’ he asked almost jauntily. ‘Leaving your parish like this at the busiest time of the year.’
‘Oh, there was some trouble with one of my female parishioners,’ said Neville lightly. It seemed so far away now, that business with Miss Spicer, that he hardly even thought of it as ‘trouble’.
‘Many visitors here?’ Aylwin asked.
‘No — just two women from London at the moment. Quite pleasant, but we don’t see very much of them.’
‘Good!’
At the moment both brothers felt that this was just how women should be — not allowing themselves to be much seen. But Aylwin knew that he could not put off his unpleasant task much longer. He had come to see Marjorie and see her he must — probably with her mother in attendance, too.
Chapter Twenty-Two
AYLWIN was reminded of the conference of the summer before as he unpacked in his room, but this time it was a bottle of whisky he had brought with him-more medicinal, somehow, than gin. Of course he did not need to bring his own and keep it secretly, but he feared his mother’s comments. This time, too, there was no photograph of Marjorie and no copy of’Some problems of an editor’ — just a Henry James novel, The Portrait of a Lady, which he had been rereading in Italy. He wished sentimentally that he had a snapshot of Laurel to keep it company on his bedside table.
There was a tap on the door and his mother came in.
‘It doesn’t seem right, somehow, you and Marjorie not being together,’ she said. ‘I was just saying to Nev, I’m sure Mrs Williton would turn out if you wanted the other bed — it’s the twin beds, you know.’
Oh, the dreadful cosiness of family life, Aylwin thought. ‘I should hardly feel like asking her,’ he said rather coldly, ‘and I’m sure it’s the last thing Marjorie would want. I suppose they’ve already — er — retired for the night?’
‘Yes. They had their Ovaltine — they needed it too, when I told them you’d come. You should’ve seen their faces! I can’t think why you didn’t burst in on them — give them a surprise. A bit of a joke that would’ve been.’ Mrs Forbes laughed — callously, it seemed to Aylwin.
‘Their sense of humour might not have been equal to it,’ he said. ‘I plan to see them tomorrow. Things are usually easier in the morning,’ he added, hoping that they would be.
‘What time will you have breakfast? Half past eight?’ asked his mother.
Aylwin hesitated. He had imagined himself taking coffee and croissants in his room at about nine o’clock. He should have remembered that breakfast at Eagle House had always meant tackling a plate of bacon and eggs and drinking strong tea, downstairs and fully dressed. Besides, if he suggested breakfasting in his room his mother would immediately jump to the conclusion that he was ill and suggest some homely remedy or even call the doctor.
‘We’ve got some people come for bed and breakfast,’ said Mrs Forbes craftily. ‘It s easier to make all the-toast at once and do the cooking — saves fuel. And they tell us to save fuel, don’t they.’
‘Who tell us?’ asked Aylwin irritably. ‘You must be thinking of the war, Mother. Now that it’s a question of one’s own fuel bills one can surely do as one likes — and if you’re in any financial difficulties, you know you’ve only got to say so.’
‘You’re a good lad,’ said Mrs Forbes affectionately. ‘You’ll be down to breakfast about half past eight, then?’
‘Not if Marjorie and Mrs Williton are going to be there. I couldn’t face them so early and at the breakfast table.’
‘I’ll put them in the dining-room — don’t you worry. They may not want to see you either, first thing!’
So it was that Dulcie and Viola, going to their table in the window next morning, were surprised to see Mrs Williton and Marjorie at another table in the room. There were also two couples who had stayed overnight for bed and breakfast, so that the dining-room seemed quite full.
A sort of early-morning murmur of conversation was going on — almost like the conversation at dinner that first evening at The Anchorage, but there was a different quality about it, as morning is different from evening. Perhaps there was more hope in it, with the promise of the new day, but Marjorie and her mother had an air of grim purpose about them and barely responded to Dulcie’s and Viola’s greetings. It was a fine morning, yes, finer than yesterday, but they did not seem disposed to go further than that.
After breakfast Dulcie decided to go into the lounge and look for a book to read. The bookcase was by one of the two doors leading into the room, and there was an old screen covered with Victorian scraps, behind which Dulcie was hidden as she crouched down, her fingers moving over the shelves among the Marie Corellis, Hall Caines and Annie S. Swans. She was aware that somebody had come into the room through the other door, but took no notice until she heard Aylwin’s voice saying, ‘Well, I suppose this is as good a place as any other.’
Dulcie sat rigid, as if frozen or turned to stone, Kelly’s Directory of Somerset for 1905 clasped to her breast. Escape was impossible now, for she saw that Mrs Williton and Marjorie were in the room. If she had been going to move she should have done so immediately and spontaneously: now she would have to stay where she was. Whatever had induced them to choose this public room for a discussion of their private affairs, she wondered, as she settled herself into a rather less cramped position and began to turn the pages of Kelly. It would be interesting to see who had owned the Eagle House Private Hotel in those days, she thought, but it was too dark in her corner to be able to read the small print properly, and in any case impossible to shut her ears to the conversation going on around her.
To begin with there was not much conversation at all — or at least
none that a gentlewoman might feel ashamed of overhearing.
‘Quite chilly this morning, isn’t it,’ said Mrs Williton.
‘Oh, then we’ll put the electric fire on,’ said Aylwin.
‘One bar will be quite enough,’ said Mrs Williton firmly.
‘You mean we shall generate the extra heat by our discussion,’ said Aylwin — much too frivolously, Dulcie felt.
‘What an odd smell,’ said Marjorie. ‘I suppose it’s the dust burning on the fire. When they aren’t used much they do get dusty.’
‘It was a shock to us to see you here,’ said Mrs Williton, coming a little nearer to the point. ‘I brought Marjorie for a breath of sea air, like you suggested. I didn’t think anything upsetting like this was going to happen.’
Aylwin’s frivolous tone had really been assumed to conceal the fact that he was feeling a little nervous, annoying though it was to have to admit it. He fixed his eyes on the little jewelled poodle, pinned to the lapel of his mother-in-law’s grey tweed suit. She was also wearing ear-clips in the shape of bluebirds carrying something — what could it be? — in their beaks. Or perhaps they were doves bearing olive branches? Odd, her love of trinkets, he thought. She was in so many ways not that kind of person. Even the word ‘trinket’, with its gay and slightly silly associations, seemed in-appropriate to her. It suited Marjorie much better, but at her he dared not look.
She did not appear to be in the least upset. Perhaps love for somebody totally unsuitable dies more completely, when it does die, than any other kind of love. Aylwin himself could not recapture the smallest vestige of his feelings for her — even the stone squirrel seemed ridiculous and embarrassing when associated with Marjorie. He was an impetuous romantic — that was the trouble, Aylwin thought, liking this picture of himself, and here he was being true to form, thinking of marrying a girl half his age!
His thoughts were brought back to reality with a jolt by Mrs Williton asking him point-blank what he proposed to ‘do’ about Marjorie.