by Barbara Pym
I sat down at my table and began going grimly through a card-index of names and addresses. Edith Bankes-Tolliver, 118 Montgomery Square . . . that was quite near me. I wondered if she came to our church. Perhaps Julian would know her. . . . I really ought to make a list of the distressed gentlewomen in our district and try to visit them. Most of them lived alone and it was quite likely that I might be able to do some shopping for them or read to them or even just sit and let them talk. . . . I was deep in thoughts of the good works I was going to immerse myself in, when Mrs. Bonner came into the room and reminded me that it was Wednesday and that we had arranged to go to the lunchtime service at St. Ermin’s. This meant that we had to hurry over our lunch—unlike yesterday’s meal, it could not, I felt, be called luncheon—which we had at a self-service cafeteria near the church. Our trays rattled along on a moving belt at a terrifying speed, so that at the end of it all I found myself, bewildered and resentful, holding a tray full of things I would never have chosen had I had time to think about it, and without a saucer for my coffee. Mrs. Bonner, who always came to such places, had done much better and began explaining to me where I had gone wrong.
‘You get the saucer after you’ve taken a roll, if you have one. I generally don’t as we are told not to waste bread, and before you get the hot dish,’ she said, as we stood with our trays looking for two vacant places.
‘Oh, that must be where I went wrong,’ I said, looking down at the bullet-hard roll which I was sure I was going to waste. ‘I think one ought to be allowed a trial run-through first, a sort of dress rehearsal.’
Mrs. Bonner laughed heartily at the idea and at that moment saw two places at a table with two Indian gentlemen. ‘I shouldn’t go here if I were alone,’ she whispered before we sat down, ‘you never know, do you, but I think it’s all right if you have somebody with you.’
Our companions certainly looked harmless enough and were evidently students of some kind, as they appeared to be discussing examination results. I listened fascinated to their staccato voices and the way they kept calling each other ‘old boy’. They took no notice of us whatsoever and I do not think Mrs. Bonner need have feared even if she had been alone.
We settled ourselves and our food at the table and I paused for a moment to draw breath before eating. The room was enormous, like something in a nightmare, one could hardly see from one end of it to the other, and as far as the eye could see was dotted with tables which were all full. In addition, a file of people moved in through a door at one end and formed a long line, fenced off from the main part of the room by a brass rail.
‘Time like an ever-rolling stream
Bears all its sons away . . .’
I said, more to myself than to Mrs. Bonner. ‘This place gives me a hopeless kind of feeling.’
‘Oh, it’s quite cheap and the food isn’t bad if you don’t come here too often,’ she said, cheerfully down-to-earth as always. ‘It’s useful if you’re in a hurry.’
‘One wouldn’t believe there could be so many people,’ I said, ‘and one must love them all.’ These are our neighbours, I thought, looking round at the clerks and students and typists and elderly eccentrics, bent over their dishes and newspapers.
‘Hurry up, dear,’ said Mrs. Bonner briskly, ‘it’s twenty past already.’
The Indians had left us by now so I ventured to tell her what I had been thinking.
She looked up from her chocolate trifle, rather shocked. ‘Oh, I don’t think the Commandment is meant to be taken as literally as that,’ she said sensibly. ‘We really ought to be going, you know, or we shan’t get a good seat. You know how crowded the church gets.’
We managed to find places rather near the back and Mrs. Bonner expressed doubts as to whether we should be able to hear—the man last week had mumbled rather. Today the preacher was to be Archdeacon Hoccleve, a name that was unknown to me, and I guessed that he would be some old country clergyman who would certainly mumble. But I was completely wrong. He was an elderly man, certainly, but of a handsome and dignified appearance and his voice was strong and dramatic. His sermon too was equally unexpected. Hitherto the Lenten series had followed a more or less discernible course, but Archdeacon Hoccleve departed completely from the pattern by preaching about Judgment Day. It was altogether a most peculiar sermon, full of long quotations from the more obscure English poets, and although the subject may in itself have been a suitable one for Lent, its matter and the manner of its delivery occasioned dismay and bewilderment rather than any more suitable feelings. It was also much longer than the sermons usually were, so that some of the office workers, who no doubt had stringent lunch hours, could be seen creeping out before it was finished.
Mrs. Bonner was disgusted. ‘That talk about the Dies Irae,’ she said, ‘that’s Roman Catholic, you know. It ought not to be allowed here. Not that he seemed very High in other ways, though. I couldn’t make him out at all. Some of the things he said were really quite abusive.’
We were by now at the church door, moving slowly out. I had been so absorbed and astonished by the sermon that I had forgotten to look for Everard Bone and I now saw that he was standing almost beside me. I remembered my resolution to try to think well of him and to make some friendly advance if the opportunity should arise. I felt that there could never be a better one than the extraordinary sermon we had just heard.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said quietly; ‘what did you think of the sermon?’
He looked down at me with a puzzled expression and then his rather austere features softened into a smile. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I was so busy trying to keep myself from laughing that I was hardly able to take it in. I had always thought that grown-up people should have no difficulty in keeping their composure, but I know differently now.’
We were standing by ourselves, for Mrs. Bonner, seeing that I was talking to a man, had slipped tactfully away. But I knew that I should have to face her questionings, unspoken though they might be, at the office next day. For she was both inquisitive and romantic and could not bear that anyone under forty should remain unmarried.
‘Yes, it was certainly most unexpected,’ I said, liking him better for admitting to a human failing. ‘How is your paper getting on?’ I asked, trying to put an interested note into my voice.
‘Oh, we are giving it in two or three weeks’ time. I believe you wanted to come and hear it, but I shouldn’t advise you to. It will be frightfully dull.’
‘Oh, but I should like to hear it,’ I said, remembering that Rocky and I had been going to observe the anthropologists.
‘Well, Helena can get you an invitation,’ he said. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must hurry off. Perhaps I shall see you there.’
I felt that I had made a slight advance, that an infinitesimal amount of virtue had gone out of me, and although I did not really like him I did not feel as actively hostile to him as I had before. But how was it possible to compare him with Rocky? All the same, I told myself sternly, it would not do to go thinking about Rocky like this. Yesterday, with the unexpected spring weather and the wine at luncheon there had perhaps been some excuse; today there was none. The grey March day, the hurried unappetising meal and the alarming sermon made it more suitable that I should think of the stream of unattractive humanity in the cafeteria, the Judgment Day, even Everard Bone.
I decided to call in at the vicarage on my way home to see Winifred. It seemed a long time since I had had a talk with her and she would be interested to hear about the sermon.
I rang the bell and Mrs. Jubb came to the door. Miss Malory was upstairs with Mrs. Gray, helping her to get settled in. Perhaps I would like to go up to them?
I walked slowly upstairs, pausing on the first landing by the picture of the infant Samuel which hung in a dark corner and wondering if I should not turn back after all, for a talk with Winifred and Mrs. Gray was not quite the same as the talk with Winifred which I had intended. But I decided that as Mrs. Gray was coming to live a
t the vicarage I might just as well get to know her, so I went on and knocked at a door from behind which I heard voices.
‘Oh, it’s Miss Lathbury; how nice!’ Mrs. Gray herself opened the door. I looked beyond her into the room which Julian had been distempering not many weeks earlier. It was now attractively furnished and there was a coal fire burning in the grate. Winifred was crouching on the hearth-rug, tacking up the hem of a curtain.
‘Hasn’t Allegra made this room nice, Mildred?’ she said as I came in. ‘You’d never recognise it as being the same place.’
‘Well, Winifred has helped me so much,’ said Mrs. Gray. ‘You know what a lot there is to do when you move.’
I agreed, noting to myself that they were now ‘Allegra’ and ‘Winifred’ to each other, and being surprised and, I was forced to admit, a little irritated. ‘Moving is certainly a business,’ I observed tritely, ‘but you seem to have everything beautifully arranged.’ I remembered that I had not helped Helena Napier with the hems of her curtains when she moved in. I had merely peered through the banisters at her furniture being taken in and had only offered to help when it seemed almost certain that there would be nothing for me to do. What a much nicer character Winifred was than I! And yet perhaps the circumstances were a little different. One could hardly offer to help complete strangers, especially when they were as independent as Helena Napier. ‘Can’t I help with the curtains?’ I asked.
‘Well, that would be most kind.’ The words hardly seemed to be out of my mouth before Mrs. Gray had picked up another pile of curtains which were to be shortened along the line of the pins. I was a little dismayed, as we often are when our offers of help are taken at their face value, and I set to work rather grimly, especially as Mrs. Gray herself was not doing anything at all. She was sitting gracefully in an arm-chair, stroking back her hair which was arranged at the back of her head in a kind of Grecian knot. This style, together with her pale oval face and rather vague graceful air, made her appear like a heroine in an Edwardian novel. There was something slightly unreal about her.
‘I’m afraid I’m not very good at sewing,’ she said, as if in explanation of her idleness, ‘but I can at least be making a cup of tea. I do hope you can stay, Miss Lathbury?’
‘Thank you, I should like to.’
She went out of the room and I could hear her filling a kettle and collecting china. I also heard a step on the stairs and Julian’s voice saying ‘May I come up? I can hear the attractive rattle of tea things. I hope I’m not too late?’
He did not come straight into the room where we were, but stayed to talk to Mrs. Gray in the kitchen. Winifred and I sat with our curtains, not speaking. I could feel that we were both wanting to talk about Mrs. Gray, but that was naturally quite impossible at that moment.
‘One of these curtains seems a little longer than the other,’ I remarked in a loud, stilted tone. ‘I wonder if they were hung up or just measured with a tape? You often find when you come to hang them that there’s some inequality in the length.’
Julian came into the room carrying a tray with crockery, bread-and-butter, jam and a cake. Mrs. Gray followed with the tea.
‘Isn’t it fun, just like a picnic,’ said Winifred from her seat on the hearth-rug.
‘I really ought not to be eating your jam, Mrs. Gray,’ I protested in a way one did in those days. ‘I like plain bread-and-butter just as well, really I do.’
‘Oh, please have some of this,’ she said. ‘It isn’t really my ration, it was a present from Father Greatorex.’
‘What, does Greatorex make jam?’ asked Julian. ‘I never knew he had such accomplishments.’
‘Oh, no,’ Mrs. Gray laughed; ‘just imagine it, the poor old thing! This was made by his sister who lives in the country. It’s really delicious.’
‘How nice of him to give it to you,’ I said, ‘it’s certainly lovely jam.’
‘Oh, Allegra’s the sort of person people want to give things to,’ said Winifred enthusiastically. ‘Mildred, doesn’t this hearth-rug look familiar to you?’
I glanced at it and then realised to my surprise that I had seen it somewhere before. In the vicarage, surely, perhaps in Julian’s study?
‘Yes, it’s the one out of Julian’s study,’ said Winifred.
‘Terribly kind of him, wasn’t it?’ said Mrs. Gray. ‘I hadn’t got one suitable for this room and I just happened to be admiring it in Father Malory’s study, quite innocently of course, when he gave it to me!’
‘It looks much nicer in Mrs. Gray’s room than it did in my study,’ said Julian, ‘and anyway a rug isn’t really necessary in a study.’
I noted with interest that they were still ‘Mrs. Gray’ and ‘Father Malory’ to each other. ‘It certainly matches this carpet very well,’ I ventured.
‘Yes, but it matched Father Malory’s carpet too,’ said Mrs. Gray. ‘It was really very self-sacrificing of him to give it to me.’
Julian murmured a little in embarrassment.
‘Of course,’ went on Mrs. Gray in a clear voice as if she were making a speech, ‘I always feel that one ought to give men the opportunity for self-sacrifice; their natures are so much less noble than ours.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’ asked Winifred seriously. ‘I have known some very fine men.’
Julian smiled indulgently, but said nothing. I felt it was not a very suitable remark for a clergyman’s widow to have made, though it was certainly amusing in a rather cheap way.
‘I really must be going now,’ I said in a voice that may have sounded a little chilly.
‘Oh, Mildred, you haven’t finished your curtains,’ said Winifred.
‘No I’m sorry, I’m afraid I haven’t.’
‘I know, why don’t you come to tea on Friday and finish them then?’ suggested Mrs. Gray, smiling rather sweetly.
‘Thank you, that would be nice,’ I said, very much taken aback. I had not really imagined that she would expect me to finish the curtains.
‘Then you can see the rest of my little flat,’ said Mrs. Gray. ‘It isn’t really on show yet, but I hope to have got it tidy by then.’
‘Shall I come down with you?’ asked Julian.
‘Oh, please don’t bother. I’ll let myself out,’ I said. I hurried down the stairs, feeling that I had made an ungraceful exit. The three upstairs seemed so self-sufficient, as if they did not want me there. Was I annoyed because Mrs. Gray seemed to be getting on so well with the Malorys? I asked myself. It surely could not be that I was jealous? No, I dismissed that disturbing thought from my mind as quickly as it came in. Today was obviously not a good day, that was it. It had not started well and it would not end well. But I could at least save something of it by going home and doing some washing.
‘Hullo! You look like a wet week at Blackpool,’ Sister Blatt’s jolly voice boomed out of the dusk.
‘Do I?’ I said, forced to smile in spite of everything.
‘Been to the vicarage?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, they’re always with Mrs. Gray now, those two,’ said Sister Blatt bluntly. ‘I wanted to see Father Malory about the Confirmation classes but he was helping her to put up curtain rods.’
‘Well, the Malorys are such friendly helpful sort of people,’ I said.
She snorted and I watched her hoist herself slowly on to her bicycle and move off to perform some good work. Then I went back to my flat and collected a great deal of washing to do. It was depressing the way the same old things turned up every week. Just the kind of underclothes a person like me might wear, I thought dejectedly, so there is no need to describe them.
CHAPTER TEN
At last the day came when Helena and Everard were to read their paper before the Learned Society. I had been afraid that she would forget her promise to invite me, but she came up to my flat the evening before and we arranged what time we should go. There was a tea party first to which guests could be taken.
‘The new President will be in the Chair,’ said Helen
a rather formally. ‘He is such an old man that it’s a wonder he hasn’t been President before, but then there are a lot of the old ones. It will be our turn soon.’
I was a little preoccupied with what I should wear. I did not think it likely that a meeting of a Learned Society would be in any sense a fashionable gathering, but I was anxious not to disgrace the Napiers and had taken the bold step of buying a new hat to go with my brown winter coat even before I knew definitely that I was to go. Helena was very elegant in black. ‘One mustn’t look like a female anthropologist,’ she explained.
‘It wouldn’t matter if you looked like some of those American girls,’ said Rocky. ‘They know how to dress.’
‘Trust you to notice that,’ she said rather sourly.
‘I notice everything. Especially Mildred’s charming new hat.’
I accepted the compliment as gracefully as I could, but I was sufficiently unused to having anybody make any comment on my appearance to find it embarrassing to have attention drawn to me in any way.
‘Nothing is more becoming than a velvet hat,’ Rocky went on, ‘and the brown brings out the colour of your eyes which look like a good dark sherry.’
‘Everard will meet us there,’ said Helena rather impatiently. ‘We shall have a few last minute things to discuss, so perhaps you would look after Mildred?’ she added, turning to her husband. ‘I think we had better take a taxi.’
The premises of the Learned Society were not very far from St. Ermin’s and I pointed it out to Helena on the way.
‘Why, isn’t it a ruin?’ she asked. ‘Fancy having services in a ruin! I should feel there was something particularly holy about that.’
I explained that one aisle was undamaged and that we had the services there, but I suppose she must have been nervous at the idea of the paper, for she did not seem to be listening and a minute or two afterwards the taxi drew up outside a good solid-looking Victorian house, with the brass plate of the Learned Society on its door.