by Barbara Pym
‘Oh, yes, I do remember meeting somebody on the stairs once or twice,’ he said indifferently. ‘Was it you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How marvellous that you were here when Rocky arrived,’ said Helena in a quick nervous tone, ‘too awful for him, coming home to an empty house, but he said you were marvellous and I don’t believe he’s missed me at all, have you, darling?’
She did not wait for him to answer but ran back into the kitchen to fetch something. Rockingham was pouring the wine, so that I was left standing awkwardly with Everard.
‘I believe you’re an anthropologist,’ I said, making what I felt was a brave attempt at conversation. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t know anything about anthropology.’
‘Why should you?’ he asked, half smiling.
‘It must be fun,’ I floundered, ‘I mean, going round Africa and doing all that.’
‘“Fun” is hardly the word,’ he said. ‘It’s very hard work, learning an impossibly difficult language, then endless questionings and statistics, writing up notes and all the rest of it.’
‘No, I suppose it isn’t,’ I said soberly, for he had certainly not made it sound fun. ‘But there must be something satisfying in having done it, a sort of feeling of achievement?’
‘Achievement?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘But what has one done really? I sometimes wonder if it isn’t all a waste of time.’
‘It depends what you set out to do,’ I said rather crossly, feeling like Alice in Wonderland. I was doing very badly here and was grateful when Rockingham came to the rescue.
‘Oh, they hate you to think they get any enjoyment out of it,’ he said rather spitefully.
‘But I do enjoy it,’ said Helena; ‘we aren’t all as dreary as Everard. I simply loved it. And now we’ve got to do all the writing up; that’s what we’ve been discussing this evening. We’re to give a paper before one of the learned societies. Miss Lathbury,’ she turned to me with unnatural animation, ‘you simply must come and hear it.’
‘Yes, Miss Lathbury, you and I will sit at the back and observe the anthropologists,’ said Rockingham. ‘They study mankind and we will study them.’
‘Well, the society is in many ways a primitive community,’ said Everard, ‘and offers the same opportunities for fieldwork.’
‘When is it to be?’ I asked.
‘Oh, quite soon, next month even,’ said Helena.
‘We must get on,’ said Everard in an irritable tone. ‘The thing will never be ready if we don’t hurry.’
‘It must take a lot of work putting it all together,’ I said. ‘I should be very nervous at the thought of it.’
‘Oh, well, it isn’t that. Our stuff is quite new but one wants it to be good.’
‘Oh, certainly,’ I agreed.
‘Well, darling . . .’ Helena looked at her husband and raised her glass. ‘Isn’t it lovely to have him back again?’ she said to nobody in particular.
Everard said nothing but raised his glass politely, so I did the same.
‘More to drink!’ said Rockingham with rather forced gaiety. He came towards me with the straw-covered flask and I let him refill my glass, although it was by no means empty. I began to see how people could need drink to cover up embarrassments, and I remembered many sticky church functions which might have been improved if somebody had happened to open a bottle of wine. But people like us had to rely on the tea-urn and I felt that some credit was due to us for doing as well as we did on that harmless stimulant. This party, if such it could be called, was not going well and I did not feel socially equal to the situation. My experience, which had admittedly been a little narrow, had not so far included anything in the least like it. I wished that Everard Bone would go, but he was talking seriously to Helena about some aspect of their paper, ignoring or not noticing the awkwardness. At last, however, he said he must be going, and said good-night quite pleasantly to Rockingham and me and rather more coldly to Helena, mentioning that he would be ringing her up within the next few days about the kinship diagrams.
‘We must get on,’ he repeated.
‘I shall look forward to hearing your paper,’ I said, feeling that some effort was required and that it was up to me to make it.
‘Oh, you will find it deadly dull,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t expect too much.’
I forebore to remark that women like me really expected very little—nothing, almost.
‘Well, well,’ said Rockingham as we heard the front door close, ‘so that is the great Everard Bone.’
‘Great?’ said Helena, surprised. ‘I’m afraid he was at his worst tonight. Don’t you think he’s intolerably pompous and boring, Miss Lathbury?’ She turned to me, her eyes shining.
‘He seems very nice and he’s certainly rather good-looking.’
‘Oh, do you think so? I don’t find fair men at all attractive.’
It seemed pointless to follow up that line, so I admitted that I had found him difficult to talk to, but that that was not surprising since I was not used to meeting intellectuals.
‘Oh, he’s impossible!’ she burst out.
‘Never mind, wait till you see what I’ve brought for you,’ said Rockingham in a soothing tone as if speaking to a child. ‘I’ve got some majolica and a pottery breakfast set packed up with my other luggage, and the usual trifles here.’ He opened one of his suitcases and took out a bottle of perfume, several pairs of silk stockings and some small pottery objects. ‘And you mustn’t go yet, Miss Lathbury,’ he called, seeing me moving uncertainly towards the door. ‘I should like you to have something.’
He put a little china goat into my hand. ‘There, let it go among the bearded archdeacons and suchlike.’
‘Oh, it’s charming—thank you so much. . . .’
I went upstairs and put it on the table by my bed. Had he been a little drunk? I wondered. I believed the wine had made me feel a little unsteady too, but then I was not used to it and the whole evening had a fantastic air about it, as if it couldn’t really have happened.
I lay awake feeling thirsty and obscurely worried about something. Well, there was really no need for me to see very much of the Napiers. Circumstances had thrown us together this evening but tomorrow we should all be keeping to ourselves. I did not suppose that Helena would remember her invitation to me to hear their paper at the learned society, so I would not expect it. I would ask Dora to stay in the Easter holidays. I couldn’t see her getting on very well with Rockingham, or Rocky as I now thought of him. He was not at all the sort of person either of us had been used to meeting, yet I seemed to have found it quite easy to talk to him, I thought smugly. But then I remembered the Wren officers and I knew what it was that was worrying me. It was part of his charm that he could make people like that feel at ease. He must be rather a shallow sort of person really. Not nearly so worthwhile as Julian Malory, or Mr. Mallett and Mr. Conybeare our churchwardens, or even Teddy Lemon, who had no social graces . . . as I dozed off I remembered that I had forgotten to say my prayers. There came into my mind a picture of Mr. Mallett, with raised finger and roguish voice, saying, ‘Tut, tut, Miss Lathbury . . .’
CHAPTER FIVE
The next afternoon I was helping Winifred to sort out things for the jumble sale.
‘Oh, I think it’s dreadful when people send their relations to jumble sales,’ she said. ‘How can they do it?’ She held up a tarnished silver frame from which the head and shoulders of a woman dressed in Edwardian style looked out. ‘And here’s another, a clergyman, too.’
‘A very young curate, just out of the egg, I should think,’ I said, looking over her shoulder at the smooth beardless face above the high collar.
‘It might almost be somebody we know,’ lamented Winifred. ‘Imagine if it were and one saw it lying on the stall! What a shock it would be! I really think I must take the photographs out—it’s the frames people will want to buy.’
‘I don’t suppose their own relatives send them,’ I said comfortingly. ‘I exp
ect the photographs have been in the boxroom for years and nobody knows who they are now.’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s it. But it’s the idea of being unwanted, it’s like sending a person to a jumble sale—do you see? You feel it more as you get older, of course. Young people would only laugh and think what a silly idea.’
I could see very well what she meant, for unmarried women with no ties could very well become unwanted. I should feel it even more than Winifred, for who was there really to grieve for me when I was gone? Dora, the Malorys, one or two people in my old village might be sorry, but I was not really first in anybody’s life. I could so very easily be replaced. . . . I thought it better not to go into this too deeply with Winifred, for she was of a romantic, melancholy nature, apt to imagine herself in situations. She kept by her bed a volume of Christina Rossetti’s poems bound in limp green suède, though she had not, as far as I knew, had the experience to make those much-quoted poems appropriate. I feel sure that she would have told me if there had been someone of whom she could think when she read
Better by far you should forget and smile,
Than that you should remember and be sad . . .
‘Well, you’ll never be unwanted,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Goodness knows what Julian would do without you.’
‘Oh, my goodness!’ She laughed as if she had suddenly remembered something. ‘You should just see him now! He had the idea that he’d distemper the rooms we’re going to let and he’s got into such a mess. I started to help, but then I remembered I had to do these things, so Miss Statham and Miss Enders and Sister Blatt are up there giving helpful advice.’
‘Oh, dear, I should think he needs more practical help than that,’ I said. ‘May I go up and see?’
‘Yes, do. I’ll go on sorting out these things. You know, I think I shall buy this skirt for myself,’ I heard her murmuring; ‘there’s a lot of wear in it yet.’
The sound of women’s voices raised in what seemed to be a lamentation led me to a large room on the top floor, where I found Julian Malory sitting on top of a step-ladder, holding a brush and wearing an old cassock streaked with yellow distemper. Standing round him were Miss Statham and Miss Enders, two birdlike little women whom I tended to confuse, and Sister Blatt, stout and rosy in her grey uniform, with a blunt no-nonsense manner.
They were all staring at a wall which Julian had apparently just finished.
‘Well, I hope it’s going to dry a different colour,’ said Sister Blatt; ‘the one it is now would drive anyone mad.’
‘It said Old Gold on the tin,’ said Julian unhappily. ‘Perhaps I mixed it too thickly.’
‘Of the consistency of thin cream,’ said Miss Enders, reading from the tin. ‘That’s how it should be.’
‘Of course it’s difficult to remember what cream was like,’ said Miss Statham. ‘I suppose thin cream might be like the top of the milk.’
‘Oh, Mildred,’ Julian waved his brush towards me in a despairing gesture, showering everybody with drops of distemper, ‘do come to the rescue!’
‘What can I do?’
‘Nothing,’ said Sister Blatt, almost with satisfaction. ‘I’m afraid Father Malory has done the wall the wrong colour. The only thing will be to wait till it’s dry and then do it over again with a lighter shade. And it looks so streaky, too,’ she bent down and peered closely at the wall. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, I’m afraid I shouldn’t care to live with walls that colour.’
‘I believe it does dry lighter,’ I said hopefully.
‘I wish I’d got the boys’ club to do it,’ said Julian. ‘I’m afraid I’m no good at practical things. I always think it must be such a satisfying feeling, to do good work with one’s hands. I’m sure I’ve preached about it often enough.’
‘Ah, well, we aren’t meant to be satisfied in this world,’ said Sister Blatt; ‘perhaps that’s what it is.’
Julian smiled. ‘It seems a little hard that I shouldn’t be allowed even this small satisfaction, but I’ve certainly learnt humility this afternoon, so the exercise will have served some purpose. It looked so easy, too,’ he added sadly.
‘Oh, well, things are never as easy as they seem to be,’ said Miss Statham complacently.
‘No, they certainly are not,’ agreed Miss Enders, who was a dressmaker. ‘People often say to me that they’re just going to run up a cotton dress or a straight skirt, but then they find it isn’t as easy as it looks and they come running to me to put it right.’
‘I wish you could put this right, Miss Enders,’ said Julian, drooping on the top of his ladder.
‘Look,’ I called out, ‘it is drying lighter, and quite evenly too. I suppose it would naturally be darker when it was wet.’
‘Why, so it is,’ said Sister Blatt. ‘It’s quite a nice colour now.’
‘Mildred, how clever of you,’ said Julian gratefully. ‘I knew you would help.’
‘Well, well, now that we’ve seen you on your way we may as well be going on ours,’ said Sister Blatt good-humouredly.
‘Thank you for your help and advice,’ said Julian with a touch of irony.
‘Is Father Malory going to attempt the ceiling?’ asked Miss Statham in a low voice.
‘That’s the most difficult part,’ said Miss Enders.
‘Oh, well, as a clergyman he will naturally wish to make the attempt,’ said Sister Blatt, with a jolly laugh. ‘Perhaps Miss Lathbury will help him. I’m afraid the ladder would hardly bear my weight,’ she added comfortably, looking down at her grey-clad bulk. ‘In any case, I believe the ceiling should have been done before the walls. If you do the ceiling now, Father, the walls will get splashed with white.’
‘So they will,’ said Julian patiently. ‘Excellent women,’ he sighed, when they had gone. ‘I think we will knock off for tea now, don’t you?’
‘You could ask for volunteers from the choir or the boys’ club to finish it,’ I suggested. ‘I’m sure Teddy Lemon would be good at that kind of thing. Men love messing about with paint and distemper.’
‘I suppose I am not to be considered as a normal man,’ said Julian, taking off his yellow-streaked cassock and draping it over the step-ladder, ‘and yet I do have these manly feelings.’
We found Winifred in the hall with a case of stuffed birds.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘from Mrs. Noad—the usual.’
‘The house must be quite bare of birds considering that she sends some to every sale,’ I remarked.
‘Oh, there are plenty more,’ said Julian. ‘I believe these come from the lumber-room. There are even finer specimens in the hall, some quite menacing with raised wings. These are very small ones, almost like sparrows.’
‘Oh, they’ll go like hot cakes,’ said Winifred; ‘there’s always competition to buy them. Let’s go and have tea.’
Tea at the vicarage was a safer meal than most and today there was even a rather plain-looking cake.
‘I must ask the Napiers if they have any jumble,’ I said. ‘He may have some old civilian suit that he doesn’t want or even a uniform with the buttons and braid removed.’
‘One hears that so many husbands coming back from the war find that their civilian clothes have been devoured by moth,’ said Winifred seriously. ‘That must be a dreadful shock.’
‘Oh, the women should look after that sort of thing,’ said Julian. ‘Mothballs, camphor and so on,’ he added vaguely. ‘I believe it’s perfectly possible to keep the moth at bay. Do you think Mrs. Napier has done her duty in that respect?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly, for it occurred to me that perhaps she had not. I could not imagine her doing these methodical wifely things.
‘Have you met him yet?’ Winifred asked.
‘Oh, yes, he’s charming. Good-looking, amusing and so easy to talk to. I’m very much taken with him.’
‘It sounds almost as if you have fallen in love with him,’ said Julian teasingly, ‘if he has made such a favourable first impression.’
‘Oh, that�
��s ridiculous!’ I protested. ‘I’ve only met him once and he’s probably younger than I am. Besides, he’s a married man.’
‘I’m very glad to hear you say that, Mildred,’ said Julian more seriously. ‘So many people nowadays seem to forget that it should be a barrier.’
‘Now, Julian, we don’t want a sermon,’ said Winifred. ‘You know Mildred would never do anything wrong or foolish.’
I reflected a little sadly that this was only too true and hoped I did not appear too much that kind of person to others. Virtue is an excellent thing and we should all strive after it, but it can sometimes be a little depressing.
‘Pass Mildred something to eat,’ said Winifred.
‘I hope she knows us well enough to help herself without being asked,’ said Julian, ‘otherwise I’m afraid she would get very little.’
I took another piece of cake and there was a short lull in the conversation, during which I considered Julian’s suggestion that I might have fallen in love with Rockingham Napier. It was of course quite impossible, but I certainly felt the power of his charm, and I should often have to remind myself of the awkward Wren officers and how he had made them feel at ease in the Admiral’s villa. But I have never been very much given to falling in love and have often felt sorry that I have so far missed not only the experience of marriage, but the perhaps even greater and more ennobling one of having loved and lost. Of course there had been a curate or two in my schooldays and later a bank-clerk who read the Lessons, but none of these passions had gone very deep.
‘And now,’ said Julian, taking advantage of the silence, ‘I have an announcement to make.’
‘Oh, what is it?’ we both exclaimed.
‘I believe I have found a tenant for our flat.’
‘Oh, Julian, how exciting!’ Winifred waved her hands in an impulsive movement and knocked over the hot-water jug. ‘Do tell us who it is!’
‘Is it somebody really suitable?’ I asked.
‘Most suitable, I think,’ said Julian. ‘She is a Mrs. Gray, a widow.’
‘That sounds excellent. A Mrs. Gray, a widow,’ I repeated. ‘I can just imagine her.’