by Barbara Pym
‘Oh, dear, perhaps the remover’s men will have to bring it all back again—I hadn’t thought of that. And perhaps this time the worm-eaten desk really will fall to pieces.’
Everard looked puzzled.
‘When they came to move Rocky’s desk it was all worm-eaten at the back,’ I explained. ‘I nearly telephoned your mother to ask her what to do.’
‘Oh, my mother has been in Bournemouth for the past fortnight,’ said Everard quickly, as if he could not bear that any of the Bone family should be associated even with the Napiers’ furniture.
‘Then it would have been no use my telephoning her,’ I said, putting on my gloves and gathering up my bits and pieces. ‘Thank you very much for my lunch.’
‘It has been so nice seeing you,’ he said, rather too politely to be sincere, I felt. ‘We must meet again after you come back from your holiday. I hope you will enjoy it.’
I thanked him but did not offer to send him a postcard, for Everard, unlike William, did not seem to be the kind of person one sent postcards to. Although, I reflected, if one should happen to come across something of anthropological or archaeological interest, some stone circle or barrow or curious local custom, perfectly serious, of course, no jokes about windows marked with a cross or fat ladies, it might be quite well received.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘Of course it rains a great deal in Austria and Switzerland in the mountains and even in Italy at certain times of the year,’ said Dora cheerfully, as we stood at the window of the hotel lounge gazing at the steady downpour.
‘And in Africa and India, too,’ I added.
‘Yes, but there the wet and dry seasons are carefully defined,’ said Dora in a schoolmistress’s tone. ‘It depends on the monsoons and other things.’
‘We might go and look at the Abbey this afternoon,’ I suggested, ‘as it’s so wet.’
‘Oh, well, I suppose so,’ said Dora, who did not really like looking at buildings but was an indefatigable tourist. ‘We can go on the bus.’
The bus-stop was just outside the hotel and there were already a few people waiting when we got there. A crowd of little black priests from a nearby Roman Catholic seminary came and waited in the queue behind us. Dora nudged me. ‘Like a lot of beetles,’ she whispered. ‘I hope we don’t have to sit near them. I bet they’ll try and push in front of us.’
The bus was half full when it came and some of the priests were left behind. Dora looked down gloatingly from our superior position on the top deck. ‘Serve them right,’ she said. ‘The Pope and all those Dogmas of his!’
‘Oh, poor things,’ I protested, pitying the dripping black priests who would have to wait another twenty minutes. ‘It’s not their fault.’
‘I suppose the Abbey will be swarming with priests and nuns,’ Dora went on, with a fierce gleam in her eye.
‘Well, naturally there will be a good many. After all, it must be like a kind of pilgrimage for them and it’s certainly rather wonderful to think that the Abbey was built by the monks themselves. I expect there will be quite a number of ordinary tourists as well, though.’
After a ride of about half an hour we got off the bus and found ourselves in what seemed to be open country with no sign of an Abbey anywhere. A woman came up to me and asked me the way. ‘I think it must be somewhere along here,’ I said, indicating what seemed to be the only path.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she said. ‘I hope you didn’t mind my asking, but you looked as if you would know the way.’
I pondered on the significance of this as we walked along in a straggling file, led by Dora and me. Even the priests had accepted our leadership. This seemed a solemn and wonderful thing.
‘You’d think they’d have a signpost saying “This way to the Abbey” or an arrow pointing,’ grumbled Dora in a satisfied way. ‘I wonder if we’ll be able to get a cup of tea there? I expect they’ll have thought of every way of making money.’
As we rounded the next bend in the lane we came upon a rather new-looking building of an ecclesiastical appearance.
‘That must be it,’ said Dora.
‘Yes, I think so,’ I said, relieved that it had shown itself at last, for it would indeed have been a dreadful thing if I had led priests astray. ‘I suppose we can join a conducted party.’
‘Oh, if you like,’ said Dora, ‘though I’d rather poke about by myself. You can be pretty sure they won’t want to show us everything,’ she hinted darkly. ‘Like those tours of Russia.’
Parties of tourists arriving in cars and buses or on foot filled the space in front of the Abbey. There was a large car-park and Dora nudged me and pointed to a notice which said LADIES and another which said TEAS. ‘I told you the whole place would be commercialised,’ she said.
I did not answer, for by now we were inside the Abbey and I was almost overwhelmed by the sudden impression of light and brilliance. The walls looked bright and clean, there was a glittering of much gold and the lingering smell of incense was almost hygienic. Not here, I thought, would one be sentimentally converted to Rome, for there was no warm rosy darkness to hide in, no comfortable confusion of doctrines and dogmas; all would be reasoned out and clearly explained, as indeed it should be.
A neat-looking monk with rimless glasses took charge of our party or rather the group of people in which we found ourselves, for we were an ill-assorted company—a few young soldiers in uniform, a priest or two, middle-aged and young ‘couples’, a cluster of what seemed to be Anglo-Catholic ladies of the kind who might advertise their services as companions in the Church Times, and a crowd of nondescript or unclassifiable bodies, among whom I supposed I should have to include Dora and myself, though I dare say I should have been quite happy with the Anglo-Catholic ladies.
We moved from place to place with reverence and admiration while our guide explained the history and meaning of this or that in a kind patient voice.
‘I don’t suppose any of you are Catholics,’ he said smoothly, ‘so you may not understand about Our Lady.’
I saw the Anglo-Catholic ladies gather more closely together, as if to distinguish themselves from the rest of the group. They seemed to be whispering indignantly among themselves and one looked almost as if she were about to protest. But in the end, perhaps remembering their manners or the difficulty of arguing with a Roman, they calmed down and listened patiently with the rest of us.
Dora was looking particularly fierce, though for different reasons, and I was afraid that she might challenge our guide at any moment and start an argument, but evidently she too thought better of it and moved sulkily on to the next point of interest.
‘Of course it’s no use saying anything to them,’ she muttered. ‘They’ve got it all off pat and just recite it like parrots. I’m tired of being led round like this. I’m going to explore on my own.’
When we had finished our tour I found her waiting outside the Abbey, her eyes gleaming triumphantly.
‘I hope you didn’t put any money in any of those boxes,’ she said. ‘They’ve got a shop round the corner to sell rosaries and images and all sorts of highly-coloured junk. I can’t imagine why anybody should want to buy such stuff.’
I tried to explain that Roman Catholics and even non-Romans found these things comforting and helpful to their faith, but Dora would not be convinced.
‘Parts of the place are roped off,’ she said in a low voice. ‘One certainly isn’t allowed to see everything here. I wonder what goes on there?’
‘That must be the monks’ enclosure,’ I said. ‘One would hardly expect to be able to go in among them.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t want to,’ said Dora huffily. ‘Nothing would induce me to.’ She grasped her umbrella and waved it like a sword.
‘Well, then, we may as well find somewhere to have tea. After spiritual comes bodily refreshment.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t get any spiritual refreshment,’ said Dora. ‘Quite the reverse, the smell of that incense made me feel quite ill. It would pr
obably penetrate into the tea place here and anyway I don’t fancy the look of it. Could we find somewhere on the way back, do you think?’
‘Yes, there’s a nice village we came through,’ I suggested. ‘It’s where Helena Napier’s mother lives, as a matter of fact, and Helena is staying with her now. Don’t you remember that black and white café we saw from the bus?’
‘Oh, Ye Olde Magpie? Yes, we might try that.’
‘You never know,’ I ventured, ‘we might even see Helena.’
‘Oh, you can’t keep away from those Napiers,’ said Dora good-humouredly. ‘Though somehow I don’t think it’s Helena you really want to see.’
I could think of no suitable answer to make to this, so let Dora think what she liked. Rocky’s easy and obvious charms were in themselves a kind of protection, for no sensible person could be supposed to feel anything for him. I had to admit to myself that the thought of seeing Helena did not please me particularly, but it seemed a kind of duty to Everard Bone to find out what was happening to her and what, if any, were the latest developments.
I had hardly expected to come upon her as quickly as we did, standing outside Ye Olde Magpie with a shopping basket.
After we had greeted each other with suitable exclamations of surprise and even a certain amount of pleasure, she said, ‘Mother sent me out to buy cakes. The vicar is coming to tea.’
‘That will be a nice change for you,’ said Dora brightly, and, I thought, impertinently.
‘Oh, but didn’t you know? I get on splendidly with clergymen. Father Malory was quite taken with me—wasn’t he, Mildred?—and asked me to let him know if there was anything he could do for me.’
‘They always say that,’ said Dora, ‘and hope to goodness there won’t be. It’s part of their duty.’
‘Oh, come,’ I said, but feebly, I’m afraid, ‘Julian Malory certainly does a lot of good and so do many other clergymen. He would even have taken Helena out for a drink if that was what she really wanted.’
‘Only it happened to be his boys’ club night and it always would be something like that, wouldn’t it?’ asked Helena rather sadly. ‘Mother is a real holy fowl. She and Mildred would get on splendidly.’
‘Like a house on fire,’ said Dora inevitably.
‘Won’t you come in here and have a cup of tea with us?’ I suggested. ‘It’s only a quarter to four and I don’t suppose the vicar will be punctual,’ I added, with no possible means of knowing.
‘You should really come to tea with us,’ said Helena, hesitating, ‘but it might be a little embarrassing. Perhaps I will just have a cup, then.’
We went into the café and sat down at an unsteady little round table which was just too small for three people. After what seemed a long time, a young woman with flowing hair and dark red nails came to take our order.
Helena ignored Dora and began questioning me. Had I seen Rocky? Had he written to me? Had I visited him at his cottage? I answered ‘No’ to all these questions, and added, ‘he did say something about my going to see him, but nothing has been arranged yet.’
‘Oh, I expect he has forgotten all about it,’ said Helena. ‘That would be just like him.’
‘Yes, I expect he has forgotten.’ I bowed my head and peered into the teapot. It had been assumed that I should pour out and until the young woman brought us more hot water I could not have a full cup of tea.
‘You must go and see him,’ said Helena, ‘or at least you must write. We really must make up this stupid quarrel or whatever it is. You can’t imagine how bored and miserable I am here.’
‘I expect your mother is glad to have you,’ I said helpfully.
‘Oh, yes! Nothing has been touched in my old room, so terribly depressing. The girlish white painted furniture and the hollyhock chintz—even photographs of old loves on the mantelpiece.’
‘I think white painted furniture is nice in a bedroom,’ said Dora. ‘Do try a piece of this sandwich cake. It’s really good.’
‘Imagine finding photographs of old loves on the mantelpiece after all these years,’ Helena went on, refusing the cake.
‘Yes, it must be a little unnerving,’ I agreed, seeing as usual Bernard Hatherley’s face, the sepia print a little faded behind the glass, yet not faded enough to be romantically Victorian. ‘Didn’t you think of putting them away in a box or a drawer before you left home? It would seem quite decent and suitable to find them there.’
‘Oh, you know how it was in the war. Things did get left.’ Helena stood up. ‘I must go now. Look, there’s the vicar already. He must be on his way to our house.’
I looked through the window and saw a round jolly-looking little man hoisting himself up on to a bicycle. ‘Does he,’ I began, ‘I mean, will he—have been told about things?’
‘Oh, Mildred, your delicacy is wonderful!’ Helena laughed for the first time that afternoon. ‘I am sure Mother has already told him all. She can never keep anything from a clergyman.’
‘Well, they are often able to help, as I’ve said before.’
‘Oh, you can help much better than any vicar. Promise me that you will write to Rocky soon and tell him about me.’
I said I would try to do this.
‘But soon, Mildred. I may already have lost him to one of the Wren officers. And think how noble your position will be, a mediator, a bringer-together of husbands and wives.’
I agreed that it certainly did sound noble, but like so many noble occupations there was something a little chilly about it.
Dora and I sat in silence for a little while after Helena had gone.
‘Well, well,’ said Dora at last, in her comfortable manner which seemed to dispose of difficulties, ‘some people don’t seem to know when they’re well off. It sounds delightful, I think.’
‘What sounds delightful?’
‘Her room with the white painted furniture and the hollyhock chintz. Of course at school we have bed-sitting-rooms so one can’t have anything really dainty-looking, but I was thinking of getting a new divan cover this autumn and possibly curtains to match. I’ve got a brown carpet, you remember, and my colour scheme has usually been blue and orange. What do you think, Mildred?’
‘Oh, hollyhock chintz would look charming,’ I said absently.
‘You don’t think it would be too much? Having curtains as well?’
‘Oh, no, of course not.’
‘I might not be able to get hollyhock, though I shall have to see what there is, of course.’
‘Yes, you will have to see what there is.’
‘There seems to be a little garden at the back here. Shall we go out and look at it?’ said Dora, springing up from the table. ‘It seems to have stopped raining now.’
We walked out through the back of the café into another room, also full of unsteady little round tables, but empty now. It was damp, cold and silent and the tables needed polishing. On one wall there was a spotty engraving of a Byronic-looking young man who reminded me of Rocky. The room led out into a romantic little garden, shut in with high walls covered with dripping ivy.
‘Oh, what a gloomy place!’ exclaimed Dora. ‘You’d think they could brighten it up with a few striped umbrellas.’
‘Oh, we do have umbrellas in the season, madam,’ said the waitress in an offended tone. She had followed us in with our bill, as if fearing that we might escape without paying for our tea. ‘But of course we aren’t doing many lunches and teas now, you see, the season’s really over.’
Yes, I thought sadly, the season was really over and in the little garden I could see the last rose of summer. ‘This must be an old house,’ I said, ‘almost Elizabethan.’
‘I don’t know about that, madam, but of course it’s called Ye Olde Magpie, so it must be old,’ said the girl. ‘It’s a pity they don’t spend a bit of money on it and make it more modern. The kitchen’s terrible.’
‘I don’t feel like going in that garden,’ said Dora. ‘It looks a bit damp to me. You don’t want to go out, do you?�
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‘No, not really.’ I could see a little lawn and a stone cupid with ivy growing on it and it seemed rather too melancholy. ‘I wonder if they have any picture postcards of this garden?’
‘Oh, to send to William, you mean?’
‘Yes, perhaps to William, but I’ve already sent him one.’
‘Oh, you mustn’t overdo it, or he’ll think you’re running after him.’
I agreed that I mustn’t and imagined William’s beady eyes, round and alarmed. But there were no postcards of Ye Olde Magpie at all, and even if I had been bold enough to send one to Rocky I should not have been able to say anything about the last rose of summer and the ivy-mantled cupid.
‘We should just catch the five o’clock bus,’ said Dora, ‘if it isn’t too full of those awful priests.’
When we reached the bus-stop we were a long way behind in the queue and when the bus came it took only half a dozen people. I noticed a group of priests looking down on us from the upper deck and I felt that somehow the Pope and his Dogmas had triumphed after all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A week later I sat at my desk trying to compose a letter to Rocky. It was one of those sad late September evenings when by switching on a bar of the electric fire one realises at last that summer is over. I had been sitting for over half an hour, listening to the heavy rain falling outside rather than writing, for I did not know what to say. It had been difficult enough to write about the furniture but it seemed infinitely harder to know how to tell Rocky that Helena regretted their quarrel and that they must come together again, that he must take her back. And yet, who was to take who back? That was the point, for I had forgotten, if I had ever really known who was to blame. The inability to wash a lettuce properly, the hot saucepan put carelessly down on the walnut table . . . it seemed now as if it had been nothing more than that. But there was Everard Bone—where did he come into it? His position now seemed to be merely that of an anxious onlooker, who did not want to become involved in any ‘unpleasantness’. I smiled to myself as I remembered the carefully worded postcard I had sent him. A Dolmen on Dartmoor—at least the title was pleasing. ‘We walked here today—I wonder if you know it? A lovely spot. Luckily it was a clear day so we had an excellent view. All good wishes—M. Lathbury.’ With that ambiguous signature, which was one I never normally used, I might have been man or woman, though the wording of the card was perhaps not very masculine. William Caldicote had been luckier in my choice for him, a fine picture of the Diamond Jubilee bandstand, with a few little jokes which it would be tedious to repeat here. I had not been able to find a suitable card for Rocky.