by Barbara Pym
‘But we always have lilies on the alter,’ I heard Winifred say.
‘Oh, Winifred, why are you always so conventional!’ came Mrs. Gray’s voice rather sharply. ‘Just because you’ve always had lilies on the altar it doesn’t mean that you can never have anything else. I think these peonies and delphiniums would look much more striking. Then we can have the lilies in a great jar on the floor, at the side here. Don’t you think that would look splendid?’
I could not hear Winifred’s reply but it was obvious that the flowers were going to be arranged in the way Mrs. Gray had suggested.
‘Of course she’s been a vicar’s wife,’ said Sister Blatt, ‘so I suppose she’s used to ordering people about and having her own way with the decorations.’
‘I suppose it’s really a question of whether a vicar’s sister should take precedence over a vicar’s widow,’ I said. ‘I don’t imagine that books of etiquette deal with such refinements. But I didn’t realise Mrs. Gray’s husband had been a vicar—I thought he was just a curate and then an Army chaplain.’
‘Oh, yes, he had a parish before he became a chaplain. They say he was a very good preacher, too, very slangy and modern. But I have heard,’ Sister Blatt lowered her voice as if about to tell me something disgraceful, ‘that he had leanings . . .’
‘Leanings?’ I echoed.
‘Yes, the Oxford Group movement. He had tendencies that way, I believe.’
‘Oh, dear, then perhaps . . .’
‘You mean that it was just as well that he was taken, poor man?’ said Sister Blatt, finishing my sentence for me.
‘Do you think Mrs. Gray will marry again?’ I asked craftily, wondering if Sister Blatt had seen or heard anything.
‘Well, who, that’s the point, isn’t it? She’s an attractive woman, I suppose, but there aren’t really any eligible men round here, are there?’
‘What about the clergy?’
‘You mean Father Greatorex?’ asked Sister Blatt in astonishment.
‘He did give her a pot of jam.’
‘Well, well, that’s certainly news to me.’
‘And Father Malory gave her a hearth-rug,’ I went on, unable to stop myself.
‘Oh, that moth-eaten old thing out of his study? I shouldn’t think that means anything. Besides, Father Malory wouldn’t marry,’ said Sister Blatt positively.
‘I don’t know. We have no reason for thinking that he wouldn’t. Anyway, widows nearly always do marry again.’
‘Oh, they have the knack of catching a man. Having done it once I suppose they can do it again. I suppose there’s nothing in it when you know how.’
‘Like mending a fuse,’ I suggested, though I had not previously taken this simple view of seeking and finding a life partner.
It was just as well that we were interrupted here by Miss Statham, asking if we had any greenery to spare, for our conversation had not been at all suitable for church and I really felt a little ashamed.
The church looked as beautiful as its Victorian interior would allow when we had finished decorating. The altar was striking and unusual and the lilies stood out very well, so that even if Lady Farmer had been present, which she was not, she would not have thought that they had been overlooked.
The next morning we were all singing Hail Thee Festival Day, as the procession wound round the church, and the smell of incense and flowers mingled pleasantly with the sunshine and birdsong outside. The Napiers were away and I was feeling peaceful and happy, as I had felt before they came and disturbed my life. As I walked out of the church Mrs. Gray came up to me. We were both wearing new hats for Whitsuntide, but I felt that hers with its trimming of fruit was smarter and more unusual than mine with its conventional posy of flowers.
‘Oh, dear, that is a difficult hymn,’ she said, ‘the one we had for the procession.’
‘But so beautiful,’ I said, ‘and well worth singing even if one falters a little in the verse part sometimes.’
‘I was wondering if you’d have lunch with me one day,’ said Mrs. Gray suddenly and surprisingly.
‘Lunch?’ I asked as if I had never heard of the meal, for I was wondering whatever could have induced her to want to have lunch with me. ‘Thank you, I should like to very much.’
‘Of course tomorrow is Whit-Monday, so perhaps we had better say Tuesday or Wednesday—if you’re free, that is?’
‘Oh, I’m always free,’ I said unguardedly. ‘Tuesday would suit me very well. Where shall I meet you?’
She named a restaurant in Soho which I had often seen from the outside. ‘Would that be convenient for you? At one-fifteen, say?’
I went back to my flat puzzling a little about this friendly overture. I was sure that she did not really like me, or at best thought of me as a dim sort of person whom one neither liked nor disliked, and I did not feel that I really cared for her very much either. Still, this was no doubt an interesting basis for social intercourse and we might even become friends. The people I was going to become friendly with! It made me laugh to think of them and I began playing with the idea of bringing them together. Everard Bone and Allegra Gray—perhaps they might marry? It would at least take her away from Julian, unless he was really determined to have her. Did the clergy display the same determination in these matters as other men? I wondered. I supposed that they did. And who would win if it came to a fight—Julian or Everard Bone?
On Whit-Monday I decided to tidy out some drawers and cupboards and possibly begin making a summer dress. I always did these tidyings on Easter and Whit-Mondays, but somehow not at any other time. It seemed to be connected with fine weather rather than the great Festivals of the Church—a pagan rather than a Christian rite.
I started with the pigeon-holes of my desk, but I did not get very far because I came upon a bundle of old letters and photographs which set me dreaming and remembering. My mother in a large hat, sitting under the cedar tree on the rectory lawn—I would be too young to remember the exact occasion but I knew the life, even to the shadowy curate who could be seen hovering in the background, his features a little blurred. Then there was one of Dora and me at Oxford, on the river with William and a friend. Presumably the friend, a willowy young man of a type that does not look as if it would marry, had been intended for Dora, as William was regarded as my property. But what had happened that afternoon? I could not even remember the occasion now.
I opened a drawer and came upon a large and solemn-looking studio portrait (in sepia) of the young man with whom I had once imagined myself to be in love, Bernard Hatherley, a bank clerk who occasionally read the Lessons and who used to be included with the curates in Sunday evening supper parties. The face reminded me a little of Everard Bone, except that the features were less striking. It seemed incredible to remember now how often at nineteen I had pressed my cheek against the cold glass, and I found the recollection embarrassing, turning from it quickly and from the remembrance of myself hurrying past his lodgings in the dusk, hoping yet fearing that I might see his face at the window, his hand drawing aside the lace curtain of his first floor sitting-room. ‘Loch Lomond’, Victoria Parade . . . I could still remember the name of the house and street. He had given me the photograph one Christmas and I had given him an anthology of poetry, which seemed an unfair exchange, my gift being so much more revealing than his. It had all seemed rather romantic, hearing him read the Lessons at Evensong, seeing him by chance in the town or through the open door of the bank, and then the long country walks on Saturday afternoons and the talks about life and about himself. I did not remember that we had ever talked about me. Eventually he had gone on a holiday to Torquay and things were not the same after that. I had suffered, or I supposed that I had, for he had not broken the news of another attachment very gracefully. Perhaps high-principled young men were more cruel in these matters because less experienced. I am sure that Rocky would have done it much more kindly.
I got up stiffly, for I had been crouching uncomfortably on the floor. I bundled the
letters and photographs back and decided that it would be more profitable to make tea and cut out my dress. Tidying was over now until next Easter or Whitsuntide.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I dressed rather carefully in preparation for my lunch with Mrs. Gray and my appearance called forth comments from Mrs. Bonner, who assumed that I was going to have lunch with ‘that good-looking man you spoke to after one of the Lent services’. She was disappointed when I was honest enough to admit that my companion was to be nobody more exciting than another woman.
‘I did hope it was that young man,’ she said. ‘I took a liking to him—what I saw, that is.’
‘Oh, he’s not at all the kind of person I like,’ I said quickly. ‘And he doesn’t like me either, which does make a difference, you know.’
Mrs. Bonner nodded mysteriously over her card-index. She was a great reader of fiction and I could imagine what she was thinking.
I was punctual at the restaurant and I had been waiting nearly ten minutes before Mrs. Gray arrived.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she smiled, and I heard myself murmuring politely that I had arrived too early, as if it were really my fault that she was late.
‘Where do you usually have lunch?’ she asked. ‘Or perhaps you go home to lunch as you only work in the mornings?’
‘Yes, I do sometimes—otherwise I go to Lyons or somewhere like that.’
‘Oh, dear, Lyons—I don’t think I could! Far too many people.’ She shuddered and began looking at the menu. ‘I think we should like a drink, don’t you? Shall we have some sherry?’
We drank our sherry and made rather stilted conversation about parish matters. When the food came Mrs. Gray ate very little, pushing it round her plate with her fork and then leaving it, which made me feel brutish, for I was hungry and had eaten everything.
‘I’m like the young ladies in Crome Yellow,’ she said, ‘although it isn’t so easy nowadays to go home and eat an enormous meal secretly. What was it they had? A huge ham, I know, but I don’t remember the other things.’
I did not really know what she was talking about and could only ask if she would like to order something else.
‘Oh, no, I’m afraid I have a very small appetite naturally. And then things haven’t been too easy, you know.’ She looked at me with a penetrating gaze that seemed to invite confidences.
It made me feel stiff and awkward as if I wanted to withdraw into my shell. But I felt that I had to say something, though I could produce nothing better than ‘No, I suppose they haven’t.’
At that moment the waiter came with some fruit salad.
‘I don’t suppose you have had an altogether easy life, either.’ Mrs. Gray continued.
‘Oh, well,’ I found myself saying in a brisk robust tone, ‘who has, if it comes to that?’ It began to seem a little absurd, two women in their early thirties, eating a good meal on a fine summer day and discussing the easiness or otherwise of their lives.
‘I haven’t been married, so perhaps that’s one source of happiness or unhappiness removed straight away.’
Mrs. Gray smiled. ‘Ah, yes, it isn’t always an unmixed blessing.’
‘One sees so many broken marriages,’ I began and then had to be honest with myself and add up the number of which I had a personal knowledge. I could not think of a single one, unless I counted the Napiers’ rather unstable arrangement, and I hoped that Mrs. Gray would not take me up on the point.
‘Yes, I suppose you would see a good deal of that sort of thing in your work,’ she agreed.
‘In my work?’ I asked, puzzled. ‘But I work for the Care of Aged Gentlewomen.’
‘Oh,’ she smiled, ‘I had an idea it was fallen women or something like that, though I suppose even a gentlewoman can fall. But now I come to think of it, Julian did tell me where you worked.’
She said the name casually but it was obvious that she had been waiting to bring it into the conversation. I imagined them talking about me and wondered what they had said.
‘Julian has asked me to marry him,’ she went on quickly. ‘I wanted you to be the first to know.’
‘Oh, but I think I did know, I mean I guessed,’ I said rather quickly and brightly. ‘I’m so glad.’
‘You’re glad? Oh, what a relief!’ She laughed and lit another cigarette.
‘Well, it seems a very good thing for both of you and I wish you every happiness,’ I mumbled, not feeling capable of explaining any further a gladness I did not really feel.
‘That really is sweet of you. I was so afraid . . . oh, but I know you’re not that kind of person.’
‘What were you afraid of?’ I asked.
‘Oh, that you’d disapprove. . . .’
‘A clergyman’s widow?’ I smiled. ‘How could I possibly disapprove?’
She smiled too. It seemed wrong that we should be smiling about her being a clergyman’s widow.
‘You and Julian will be admirably suited to each other,’ I said more seriously.
‘I think you’re marvellous,’ she said. ‘And you really don’t mind?’
‘Mind?’ I said, laughing, but then I stopped laughing because I suddenly realised what it was that she was trying to say. She was trying to tell me how glad and relieved she was that I didn’t mind too much when I must surely have wanted to marry Julian myself.
‘Oh, no, of course I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘We have always been good friends, but there’s never been any question of anything else, anything more than friendship.’
‘Julian thought perhaps . . .’ She hesitated.
‘He thought that I loved him?’ I exclaimed, in rather too loud a voice, I am afraid, for I noticed a woman at a nearby table making an amused comment to her companion. ‘But what made him think that?’
‘Oh, well, I suppose there would have been nothing extraordinary in it if you had,’ said Mrs. Gray slightly on the defensive.
‘You mean it would be quite the usual thing? Yes, I suppose it might very well have been.’
How stupid I had been not to see it like that, for it had not occurred to me that anyone might think I was in love with Julian. But there it was, the old obvious situation, presentable unmarried clergyman and woman interested in good works—had everyone seen it like that? Julian himself? Winifred? Sister Blatt? Mr. Mallett and Mr. Conybeare? Of course, I thought, trying to be completely honest with myself, there had been a time when I first met him when I had wondered whether there might ever be anything between us, but I had so soon realised that it was impossible that I had never given it another thought.
‘Oh, I hope you weren’t worrying about that,’ I said in a hearty sort of way to cover my confusion.
‘No, not worrying exactly. I’m afraid people in love are rather selfish and perhaps don’t consider other people’s feelings as much as they ought.’
‘Certainly not when they fall in love with other people’s husbands and wives,’ I said.
Mrs. Gray laughed. ‘There you are,’ she said, ‘one does see these broken marriages.’
‘Winifred will be delighted at your news,’ I said.
‘Oh, yes, dear Winifred,’ Mrs. Gray sighed. ‘There’s a bit of a problem there.’
‘A problem? How?’
‘Well, where is she going to live when we’re married, poor soul?’
‘Oh, I’m sure Julian would want her to stay at the vicarage. They are devoted to each other. She could have the flat you’ve been living in,’ I suggested, becoming practical.
‘Poor dear, she is rather irritating, though. But I know you’re very fond of her.’
Fond of her? Yes, of course I was, but I could see only too well that she might be a very irritating person to live with.
‘That’s why I was wondering,’ Mrs. Gray began and then hesitated. ‘No, perhaps I couldn’t ask it, really.’
‘You mean you think that she might live with me?’ I blurted out.
‘Yes, don’t you think it would be a splendid idea? You get on well, and she’s so
fond of you. Besides, you haven’t any other ties, have you?’
The room seemed suddenly very hot and I saw Mrs. Gray’s face rather too close to mine, her eyes wide open and penetrating, her teeth small and pointed, her skin a smooth apricot colour.
‘I don’t think I could do that,’ I said, gathering up my bag and gloves, for I felt trapped and longed to get away.
‘Oh, do think about it, Mildred. There’s a dear. I know you are one.’
‘No, I’m not,’ I said ungraciously, for nobody really likes to be called a dear. There is something so very faint and dull about it.
The waiter was hovering near us with a bill, which Mrs. Gray picked up quickly from the table. I fumbled in my purse and handed her some silver, but she closed my hand firmly on it and I was forced to put it back.
‘The very least I can do is to pay for your lunch,’ she said.
‘Does Julian know this? About Winifred, I mean?’ I asked.
‘Heavens, no. I think it’s much better to keep men in the dark about one’s plans, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ I said uncertainly, feeling myself at a disadvantage in never having been in the position to keep a man in the dark about anything.
‘I’m sure you and Winifred would get on frightfully well together,’ said Mrs. Gray persuasively.
‘She could live with Father Greatorex,’ I suggested frivolously.
‘Poor dears; I can just imagine them together. I wonder if there could be anything in that, or would it be quite impossible? What do women do if they don’t marry,’ she mused, as if she had no idea what it could be, having been married once herself and about to marry again.
‘Oh, they stay at home with an aged parent and do the flowers, or they used to, but now perhaps they have jobs and careers and live in bed-sitting-rooms or hostels. And then of course they become indispensable in the parish and some of them even go into religious communities.’
‘Oh, dear, you make it sound rather dreary.’ Mrs. Gray looked almost guilty. ‘I suppose you have to get back to your work now?’ she suggested, as if there were some connection, as indeed there may well have been, between me and dreariness.