by Barbara Pym
Leonora also dismissed the episode from her mind. Funny old Humphrey, it must have been the brandy. One really couldn’t have him going on like that. Examining her dress she found that the material was not torn, only the stitching at the shoulder seam, and it could easily be repaired.
XII
Soon after the visit to the furniture depository Phoebe had occasion to go to London to buy carbons and a new typewriter ribbon, the outpourings of the journal she was editing having exhausted it to a pale, barely decipherable grey. As tea-time approached, though this was not an hour that registered itself in Phoebe’s consciousness, she found herself near Sloane Square, walking in the direction of the antique shop. She had made a kind of plan to get into conversation with somebody—she hadn’t got quite as far as imagining who this might be—in the hope of obtaining more recent news of James than his last postcard had given her.
There was nobody visible as she approached the window, but then she saw that a woman, with a white teacup in her hand, was lurking at the back.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, as Phoebe entered, ‘I’m expecting Mr Boyce back at any minute. Perhaps I can help you?’
‘I’m a friend of Mr Boyce’s nephew,’ said Phoebe boldly.
‘Oh, then perhaps you’d like a cup of tea,’ said Miss Caton with an air of relief. ‘I was afraid you might be a potential buyer.’
Phoebe accepted the tea almost gratefully, though it was horribly strong, for her wanderings had made her tired. Miss Caton was a kind old thing and very ready to chat. It was the easiest thing in the world for Phoebe to ask casually if she knew Miss Eyre, who had packed up James’s furniture for him.
‘Oh, Miss Eyre,’ she breathed, almost with reverence. ‘She’s a great friend of Mr Boyce’s. Do you remember when we had the burglary? She sent flowers —wasn’t that a lovely thing to do? And I happen to know,’ here she paused rather coyly, ‘Mr Boyce is taking her to Co vent Garden tonight.’
So Miss Eyre was a friend of Humphrey’s — that explained everything. What more natural than that she should supervise the packing up of James’s furniture? She must be a sort of aunt to James. There was no time to glean any further information before Humphrey himself came into the shop, evidently annoyed about something. Phoebe noticed that Miss Caton whisked the teacups away very quickly, almost as if she didn’t want him to see them.
‘This is too bad!’ he exclaimed. ‘A wasted afternoon.’
Phoebe felt she ought to say something but he went on, apparently not noticing her, ‘Lot 90 should have come up around three o’clock, but when I got there at ten to they’d reached Lot 105.’
‘Oh dear, I wonder why that was,’ murmured Miss Caton.
‘Because some stupid woman had decided to withdraw her miserable things from the sale — “The Property of a Lady—withdrawn”.’
‘This young lady is a friend of Mr James’s,’ said Miss Caton, indicating Phoebe.
Humphrey looked startled. Phoebe’s rather strange appearance did not appeal to him personally, but she was a woman and young. Ha! he said to himself, deliberately melodramatic, so young James has been keeping a mistress somewhere. What will Leonora say to this?
‘You know James well?’ he found himself asking.
‘I met him some time ago at a party,’ Phoebe explained. ‘He sometimes comes to see me in the country—I’m working there at the moment.’
So that was how it was, thought Humphrey. Now he could admit to himself that he had always had some doubt as to the sex of James’s lovers. Perhaps, as uncle and nephew, they had been in too close a relationship for James to confide in him. Or perhaps they had not been close enough. And this most decidedly was a girl. He had put on his spectacles to make quite sure, for it wasn’t always easy to tell these days.
‘My dear, I hope Miss Caton has been looking after you,’ he said cordially. ‘Perhaps you would care for a glass of sherry?’
‘Well, thanks,’ said Phoebe awkwardly.
‘James writes very happily from Zaragoza,’ Humphrey went on, giving the word a laboriously correct pronunciation, ‘but of course you probably have more recent news of him.’
‘Not really,’ said Phoebe unhappily.
‘The Spanish postal system is appalling and ours is not what it was,’ said Humphrey smoothly. ‘James will be going on to Portugal and then home. He seems to have picked up a companion on his travels.’
‘Somebody who knows about antiques?’ asked
Phoebe, trying to sound indifferent.
‘He is “an American called Ned”,’ said Humphrey, ‘so perhaps that’s unlikely.’
Phoebe was only too relieved to learn that the companion was male, when it might so easily have been a girl.
‘It must be rather lonely for him,’ said Miss Caton chattily, ‘like going on holiday by oneself. I always prefer to go with a party.’
‘But James is not on holiday,’ Humphrey reminded her. ‘He is on a collecting tour and I hope he’ll bring back something worth having.’
‘I think I must go now,’ said Phoebe. ‘I’ve got to get to Putney where my mother lives. East Putney.’
‘Ah, yes, you can get a train from Sloane Square, I believe,’ said Humphrey with the vagueness of one who never uses public transport. ‘Isn’t that so, Miss Caton?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Miss Caton firmly. ‘It’s on the District Line.’
‘You’re sure of that?’ asked Humphrey. ‘It might be as well to inquire at the station.’
Phoebe, who knew perfectly well that East Putney could be reached from Sloane Square, went away feeling quite satisfied with her afternoon’s work.
As Miss Caton had confided to Phoebe, Humphrey was taking Leonora to the opera that evening. It was not a form of entertainment he cared for overmuch, for he was unmusical, though he knew what he ought to like. Tonight it was Tosca, Leonora’s favourite opera. Was her taste, her passion almost, for Puccini a little unworthy of her? Humphrey wondered. Was there just a hint of the second-rate about it and would he have admired her more if she had preferred Mozart? Yet it was this tiny flaw in her perfection that made her human and it was surely not unnatural that she should identify herself with the heroine. There must be few women, he supposed, who wouldn’t claim to have lived for art and love. It was a pity that he had what might be an unpleasant piece of news for her. He could of course keep quiet about the girl who had visited the shop this afternoon, but he felt it was better that Leonora should know. And who better to tell her than himself?
Leonora was looking beautiful and remote in black lace. ‘Such ravishing music,’ she whispered, leaning towards Humphrey and allowing his sleeve to brush against her bare arm. She had evidently quite forgiven him for his silly behaviour the other evening and he had certainly made amends for it by asking his builder to call round the next day so that the leaking roof had been quickly repaired. That was the kind of thing one really wanted from somebody like Humphrey, Leonora thought, moving a little away from him.
Was Tosca the happiest of choices? he wondered, considering the news he had to break to her. While one could see Leonora as the heroine, living for art and love, it was difficult to imagine James and himself as Mario and Scarpia. He had never forced his attentions on her, Humphrey told himself, not without smugness; he had been content to wait until she should see fit to turn to him and now might be just such a time. When should he break the news to her and where? Not in the crush bar during the interval, for he had been looking forward to his drink all through the first act. And it would be cruel to upset Leonora in the second interval, with the tragic last act to follow. It would have to be when they were having supper.
‘Not smoked Parma ham,’ said Humphrey hastily as, some time later, they studied the menu. A colleague of his had had an unfortunate experience with it. A good hot soup might be best for both of them, but Leonora wanted an avocado pear filled with shrimps. Humphrey allowed her to take a mouthful and pronounce it delicious before embarking on his task.
‘News? What can it be? Something nice?’ she asked in a teasing voice.
‘In a way — it depends how you look at it. I don’t feel that “nice” is quite the word.’
‘Not nice, then. Exciting? Amusing?’
‘Yes, amusing, perhaps.’ Really, he mustn’t delay much longer. ‘What do you think our young friend James has been up to?’ he asked, deliberately more pompous than usual.
‘Oh, it’s about James.’ Her manner seemed to alter. ‘What has James been “up to”, as you put it?’
‘Keeping a mistress!’ There, it was out. ‘All this time he’s had this girl tucked away in the country and we none of us knew about her.’
A shrimp fell on to the tablecloth, but perhaps it would have fallen anyway.
‘How messily one eats,’ said Leonora calmly. ‘Is it a sign of age, or what? Shall I try to get the mayonnaise up with my knife?’
‘Oh, leave it,’ said Humphrey impatiently. ‘Don’t tell me you knew all along about James?’
‘Well, one had guessed something.” Leonora took a sip of Sauterne. ‘After all, James is so beautiful—one always supposed that he must have some love life. Tell me how you found out.’
‘This girl came to the shop, obviously wanting news of him.’
‘Hadn’t he written, then?’
‘No doubt, but you know what posts are.’
‘And one knows what dear James is—one would have thought she did. What’s she like? Young? Pretty? Elegant?’ Leonora tried to keep the eager curiosity out of her voice.
‘Young—about twenty, I suppose. Rather badly dressed, with that droopy look girls seem to have now. Straggly long hair and a coat made of some sort of skin, leather, I think.’
‘James always said he hated leather coats — it only goes to show something. And what’s her name?’
‘Phoebe Sharpe.’
Phoebe Sharpe,’ Leonora murmured, and just as Jennifer had experienced a feeling of disquiet and distaste on hearing the name ‘Leonora Eyre’, so Leonora was conscious of a slight uneasiness now. The name evoked a memory of Gilbert and Sullivan (The Yeoman of the Guard?) and Thackeray’s Becky Sharpe; a disturbing combination, but perhaps in the circumstances any name would have had its disagreeable undertones.
‘I believe her mother lives in Putney—East Putney, I think she said.’
Leonora laughed. ‘What an extraordinary picture you paint. It doesn’t sound at all like James. Are you sure?’
‘Oh, yes. She went to get a District Line train from Sloane Square after she left the shop.’
‘I didn’t doubt the part of Putney,’ said Leonora. ‘I meant, how could you be sure about their relationship?’
‘I had the feeling—one can’t really explain it. Anyway, don’t all young people these days “sleep around”—if that’s the expression?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Leonora fastidiously. ‘One hardly would know such things and one certainly doesn’t attempt to keep up with modern slang. I seem to remember that people used to “sleep around”, as you put it, twenty years ago and more.’
Humphrey looked rather crestfallen. ‘So you aren’t exactly astonished at my news?’ he asked.
‘AboutJames? No, I’m not all that surprised, as I told you. And how does one know that he hasn’t got entangled with a pretty Spanish girl by now?’
‘That’s rather what poor Miss Sharpe was afraid of, I suspect,’ said Humphrey, relieved that Leonora was taking it so well.
In the taxi going home he was rather tender with her, as far as she would permit it, but she did not invite him in. Anyway, they would only have talked about James, he thought.
Leonora stood in the hall, waiting for the taxi to drive away. When lovely woman stoops to folly, she said to the fruitwood mirror with the cupids, though of course it wasn’t exactly that. In the kitchen she thought she could almost ‘fancy’ a cup of strong Indian tea, but of course one couldn’t really see oneself drinking tea after that delicious dinner. She was calm—perhaps numb with shock—for she had certainly had no idea that James was seeing another woman, whatever she may have pretended to Humphrey. Nevertheless she had been thinking ever since she heard the news and now she knew exactly what she was going to do. She undressed, hung up and folded her clothes methodically, then sat down at her desk in her night things and began to write a letter.
‘Dear Miss Foxe,’ it began. ‘I am afraid I may have to ask you to vacate your flat at the end of the month instead of when the lease runs out, as we had arranged.’ ‘Arranged’ was perhaps an exaggeration, for they had done no more than discuss the future in the vaguest terms and Leonora had found herself hoping, unworthily she knew, that Miss Foxe might not be fully aware of her strong position as the tenant of an unfurnished flat. And being of such gentle birth there was always the possibility that she might feel herself bound to do whatever Leonora wanted. Leonora continued, ‘A friend of mine is coming back from abroad and has nowhere else to go, so I am sure you will appreciate the position.’ Leonora paused again, seeing the ‘friend’ as Miss Foxe might imagine this person—a woman who had done some splendid service, nursing or in the mission field. ‘Of course I shall do all I can to help you to find alternative accommodation’—that was the jargon, she believed — ‘Yours very sincerely’ —it was best to be very sincere in this sort of letter— ‘Leonora M. Eyre.’
She would get in touch with the furniture depository in the morning—there was nothing more she could do now.
XIII
James was reading a letter from Leonora. The companion he had picked up on his travels (‘an American called Ned’) watched with a smile playing about his lips, as if he expected to have extracts from the letter read out to him.
‘Well?’ he asked, as James folded up the letter and put it back into the envelope.
‘Nothing, really,’ James mumbled.
‘Come now, Jimmie, there must have been something in that letter to make you fold it up and put it away so quickly. You should’ve seen the look on your face . . Ned’s thin gnat-like voice went on teasing and probing. He was small and neat, with smooth fair hair and blue eyes, appearing much younger than his twenty-nine years, until a closer look at his face revealed that life had, after all, left its mark.
They were in a hotel in Lisbon where they were spending some time before returning to London. Their room was cramped and sunless, yet stuffy in the hot afternoon, with no view but a long deep plunge into a well on to which the kitchen quarters opened. The clatter of dishes and bursts of unintelligible shouting could be heard as the hotel servants washed up or prepared some meal of the past or future.
James lay on one of the beds where he had been reading Leonora’s letter. He was staring at the wall which was covered in a kind of striped paper, like the inside of an old-fashioned suitcase. One might almost be in a suitcase here, with the heat and the general feeling of constriction which Ned’s presence and his whining American voice gave. Closing his eyes, James tried to imagine Leonora’s cool green-walled room with the trailing plants and some delicious drink by his side. Her letter, with all its news of her doings, had brought her vividly before him. She had been going to Tosca with Humphrey on the day she wrote and would be wearing her black lace dress. And she had been scanning the papers and estate agents’ windows to see if she could find him a suitable flat. (‘After all, you won’t want to be stuck with Humphrey for ever!’) By the time he got back she hoped to have a list of suitable places for him to look at—wouldn’t it be fun? Of course it would be, but James had rather wanted to do his own flat-hunting…
‘Was it from Phoebe, that letter?’ Ned went on relentlessly.
Phoebe. How remote Phoebe seemed now, as if she had never been. James felt a slight pang of conscience about her, for he had sent her only a few perfunctory postcards and not answered her last two letters. Ned thought it a waste of time to bother with letters when one was travel
ling, though he himself did write twice a week to his mother in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
‘No, it was from Leonora,’ James answered rather shortly.
‘Leonora, your elegant friend …’
‘Yes, you must meet her when you come to London,’ said James, trying to imagine the occasion and relieved that the meeting need not take place for a while, since Ned was staying with friends in Oxford before coming to work in the British Museum. He had a sabbatical year from the small respectable New England college where he was an assistant professor of English, during which time he hoped to complete his doctoral thesis.
‘We’d have such a lot in common, I feel,’ Ned went on in his most guileless manner. ‘I just love elegant English ladies. Does she wear wide-brimmed hats and long narrow shoes?’
‘She dresses very well,’ said James, on the defensive. Indeed, Leonora’s letter had included a description of some of the new autumn clothes she was having made—a lilac-coloured tweed coat and dress and ‘yet another little black number, rather filmy and floating and suitable for feeling emotional in’, as she put it. It was impossible to imagine Phoebe describing her clothes. Her last letter had been very different from Leonora’s civilised account of life—a raw outpouring of feelings, full of references to things he wanted to forget, and running through it all the unspoken reproaches that made him feel so guilty. What an uncomfortable sort of girl Phoebe was and how badly he had behaved towards her!
‘And can I meet Phoebe too?’ Ned persisted.
‘If you like. She’s certainly very intelligent,’ said James hopefully, realising that she and Ned might find a good deal to talk about. All the same, one couldn’t quite see her, or any girl for that matter, falling in love with Ned.
‘I suppose I’d have a lot in common with Phoebe, and not only English literature,’ said Ned, giving James a sideways look. ‘You must bring us all together. How about having a cocktail party in your new apartment?’