Crampton Hodnet

by Barbara Pym

  After the service he lingered in the vestry, feeling disinclined to make conversation, but when he got outside he saw that he had not escaped. Miss Doggett and Miss Morrow were waiting in the porch. He felt like some pet animal being led home. As he walked by Miss Doggett’s side, a sudden feeling of despair came over him, wrapping him round like the heavy crimson eiderdown which he so often tossed onto the floor when he woke in the night.

  When they got to Leamington Lodge he sat in the drawing-room, waiting for dinner, while Miss Doggett knitted. At her request he read some extracts from In Memoriam. He chose them at random, but, as so often happens, the lines seemed to be appropriate.

  Thou wilt not leave us in the dust,

  Thou madest man, he knows not why,

  He thinks he was not made to die—

  And Thou hast made him—Thou art just.’

  Perhaps there was a message of hope here. It referred to a life after this. But he didn’t want to think about that. What he was concerned with was how to escape from the life he was living now; he didn’t care what happened afterwards. Oh, this place! These heavy velvet curtains, green-papered walls, high-collared clergymen of the eighties and nineties, Swiss water-colours and Bavarian engravings… . His voice droned on through In Memoriam. Miss Doggett’s needles clicked. The marble clock on the mantelpiece chimed to remind him that the days of man are three score years and ten and that he was sitting in a North Oxford drawing-room, reading Tennyson to an old woman. He felt he wanted to make some loud noise, to roar, bellow or scream at the top of his voice, as if by so doing he might have the same effect on the walls of Leamington Lodge as the trumpet on the walls of Jericho.

  He put down the book and stopped reading. But all the noise that came out of him was a weak, faltering, bleating sound, something between a yawn and an ‘oh’.

  ‘Poor Mr. Latimer, I’m afraid I’ve made you read too much,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘You must be tired after taking evensong. You shall have some Ovaltine before you go to bed.’

  Mr. Latimer slumped down in his chair. He was a creature without bones, a poor worm of a man. He laughed as he remembered his idea of marrying Miss Morrow. A creature without bones, a worm, marry? How was it possible? He was fated to live and die in a gloomy house in North Oxford, where the sun was not allowed to shine through the windows in case it might fade the carpets and covers.

  ‘Mr. Latimer, you look quite pale,’ said Miss Doggett in a solicitous tone. ‘I don’t know if it is against your principles, but perhaps you would like a glass of sherry?’

  I have no principles. I am a worm, thought Mr. Latimer, gladly accepting her offer. ‘You must have some too,’ he said, with something of his usual gallantry. ‘I can’t drink alone.’

  ‘Well… .’ Miss Doggett hesitated. ‘Perhaps I could do with something. Elderly people need stimulants sometimes, you know.’

  Mr. Latimer emptied his glass in one gulp and then suddenly and without warning burst out,

  ‘O for a beaker full of the warm South,

  Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

  With beaded bubbles winking at the brim …‘

  Miss Doggett looked at him with some anxiety, but before anything could be said, the door opened and Miss Morrow came into the room, wearing her new dress of leaf green. She had meant to slip in quietly, but now her entrance only added to the dramatic quality of the scene. The appearance of Miss Morrow in this most unsuitable dress combined with the sight of Mr. Latimer standing on the hearthrug waving his empty glass and reciting Keats was too much for Miss Doggett.

  ‘Really, Miss Morrow,’ she began, ‘really …‘ and then muttered a word that sounded like ‘popinjay’.

  ‘Doesn’t she look splendid?’ said Mr. Latimer. ‘Every woman should have a new dress in the spring.’

  Miss Doggett said nothing. Perhaps in her opinion Miss Morrow hardly counted as a woman, certainly not the kind to be associated with spring and new dresses.

  ‘I think dinner is just going in,’ said Miss Morrow in a hurrying tone, to hide her embarrassment.

  ‘Allow me to escort you, Miss Morrow,’ said Mr. Latimer, offering his arm.

  ‘Mr. Latimer isn’t feeling very well tonight,’ said Miss Doggett, as if explaining away his courtly gesture. ‘I persuaded him to take a glass of sherry.’

  I don’t imagine he needed much persuading, thought Miss Morrow sardonically.

  ‘I took a glass myself,’ went on Miss Doggett deliberately. ‘It has considerable medicinal value.’

  ‘And Miss Morrow is the only person who hasn’t had any,’ said Mr. Latimer eagerly. ‘She must have some.’

  ‘I don’t want any, thank you,’ said Miss Morrow. ‘I am feeling perfectly well.’

  Dinner was a strained meal and nobody said very much. Miss Doggett darted occasional glances of disapproval at her companion, who seemed unconscious of having done anything wrong. Miss Morrow knew that she was looking nice this evening, or as nice as it was possible for her to look, and she was feeling happy and excited, as one does on an unexpected sunny morning in winter. She realised as she sat eating her boiled mutton and caper sauce—the kind of food calculated to bring anyone down to earth again—that this was a most unsuitable state of mind for the companion of an elderly lady. It was the feeling that had made her plunge boldly among the drab dresses in her wardrobe and take out the new green one, which she knew she ought to be keeping for some special occasion that would never happen.

  ‘Do have some cheese, Mr. Latimer,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘You are eating hardly anything.’

  Mr. Latimer took some without seeming to know what he was doing. The moment he had seen Miss Morrow in her green dress it had all come back to him—the realisation that he might do worse than marry her. Of course that was what he should do. He would ask her tonight, before anything could change his mind. How pleased she would be! They really ought to be quite happy together: that was perhaps the most one could expect of any marriage and more than many people got. He could hardly wait for dinner to be over and for Miss Doggett to have gone to bed, which she usually did between half past nine and ten.

  But tonight it seemed as if things were being specially arranged to suit him, for before dinner was over Florence came in to say that old Lady Halkin’s companion had telephoned to ask whether Miss Doggett would go and play bezique with her ladyship. Miss Doggett, who had never been known to refuse an invitation from a titled person, sent Miss Morrow running upstairs for her hat and skunk cape and did not even wait to have her coffee.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Latimer. ‘We shall have an evening to ourselves.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Morrow. ‘I wonder if there’s anything good on the wireless.’

  ‘Oh, don’t let’s have the wireless,’ said Mr. Latimer quickly. ‘We so seldom have a chance to be by ourselves. Let’s make the most of it.’

  Miss Morrow sat down and assumed an attitude of patient expectation, as if ready to receive suggestions as to how this might be done.

  ‘I think we always get on very well together,’ began Mr. Latimer.

  Miss Morrow laughed. ‘A curate and an old lady’s companion?’ she said. ‘But what else would you expect?’

  Mr. Latimer wished she hadn’t put it like that, making them sound slightly ridiculous. It was a bad beginning, he felt. But he was not yet discouraged, i meant that in some ways we seem to be very close to each other, very near,’ he went on.

  Miss Morrow took her knitting out of its bag and began to count stitches.

  Mr. Latimer looked round the room, as if expecting to receive inspiration from the objects in it. Oh, Canon Tottle, he thought, gazing at a faded sepia photograph, how would you do what I have to do this evening? How would you lead up to it? What words would you use? Looking at the heavy, serious face with its determined expression, Mr. Latimer decided that with Canon Tottle there would be no leading up to it. He would plunge straight in and say what he had to say quickly and definitely. That was obviously
the right thing to do if one had the courage. He looked round the room again. The sherry and glasses were still on one of the little tables.

  There’s no need to look so furtive,’ said Miss Morrow, following his glance. ‘It’s quite natural to want cheering up occasionally. I’m not sure that sherry after a meal is the correct thing, though. Shouldn’t it be port?’

  ‘Oh, I suppose so,’ said Mr. Latimer, impatient at the turn the conversation was taking.

  ‘Still, if you’re considering only its medicinal value I shouldn’t think it matters when you drink it. I should have some now if you feel like it,’ said Miss Morrow.

  A glass of sherry would not do much for him, but Mr. Latimer felt encouraged. ‘How well you understand me,’ he said. ‘You must feel it too, the gloom here, the sense of being imprisoned… .’ He fluttered his hands in hopeless, birdlike gestures.

  ‘Of course I have,’ said Miss Morrow briskly. ‘I warned you about it when you came. It’s different for me, I’m a paid companion and as such I expect gloom; it’s my portion. But on the whole I’m lucky and I really enjoy life.’

  ‘You enjoy life?’ asked Mr. Latimer, as if this were something new to him.

  ‘Yes, of course I do. And you ought to even more because you’re young.’

  ‘But I’m not,’ said Mr. Latimer. ‘We’re neither of us young, if it comes to that. But we aren’t old yet.’ His voice took on a more hopeful note. ‘Oh, Miss Morrow—Janie,’ he burst out suddenly.

  ‘My name isn’t Janie.’

  ‘Well, it’s something beginning with J,’ he said impatiently. It was annoying to be held up by such a triviality. What did it matter what her name was at this moment?

  ‘It’s Jessie, if you want to know, or Jessica, really,’ she said, without looking up from her knitting.

  ‘Oh, Jessica,’ continued Mr. Latimer, feeling a little flat by now, ‘couldn’t we escape out of all this together?’

  Miss Morrow began to laugh. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said, ‘you must excuse me, but it’s so odd to be called Jessica. I think I rather like it; it gives me dignity.’

  ‘Well?’ said Mr. Latimer, feeling now as completely flat as any man might who has just proposed marriage and been completely ignored.

  ‘Well what?’ echoed Miss Morrow.

  ‘I said, couldn’t we escape out of all this together?’

  ‘Do you mean go out this evening?’ she said, with a casual glance at the marble clock on the mantelpiece. ‘To the pictures or something?’

  Mr. Latimer was now so exasperated that he was determined to make her understand. Surely her stupidity must be intentional? She was trying to irritate him. ‘I am asking you to marry me, to be my wife,’ he said in a deliberate tone.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Miss Morrow. ‘I thought you meant just to go out for this evening.’

  Oh, I see. Had anyone proposing marriage ever before been so answered? ‘You might at least give me an answer,’ he said coldly.

  ‘But are you really serious?’ asked Miss Morrow. ‘You don’t sound as if you were, but I suppose you must be. A man would hardly propose to me as a joke, in case I might accept him.’

  ‘You’re a very charming woman,’ said Mr. Latimer sulkily and without any enthusiasm whatever.

  ‘Well, I am certainly flattered that you should have wanted—or thought you wanted—to marry me,’ said Miss Morrow calmly, ‘but I’m afraid my answer must be no.’ She paused and went on in a solicitous tone, ‘I don’t think you’re quite yourself this evening. Perhaps you’re overtired. I’ll ask Florence to make you some Ovaltine, shall I?’

  ‘You might at least give me the credit of knowing my own mind!’ said Mr. Latimer angrily. ‘I respect and esteem you very much,’ he went on in the same angry tone. ‘I think we might be very happy together.’

  ‘But do you love me?’ asked Miss Morrow quietly.

  ‘Love you?’ he said indignantly. ‘But of course I do. Haven’t I just told you so?’

  ‘You have said that you respect and esteem me very much,’ said Miss Morrow without elaboration. ‘But you said something about escaping together? Hasn’t it occurred to you that if we did, you would soon find yourself wanting to escape from a marriage with a woman you didn’t love? And how much more difficult that would be than just finding new lodgings!’

  ‘I don’t believe in divorce,’ said Mr. Latimer stiffly. ‘And anyway, I shouldn’t want to escape.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Miss Morrow smiled. ‘Clergymen aren’t the escaping sort, but you’d feel you wanted to and that would be just as bad.’

  ‘You don’t seem to realise that one can learn to care,’ said Mr. Latimer pompously.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Miss Morrow firmly. ‘Learning to care always seems to me to be one of the most difficult lessons that can be imagined. How does one set about it? Perhaps we might do it together, like Russian, in the long winter evenings?’

  ‘Now, Jessica, you’re just being frivolous. I have asked you to marry me and you have refused. Is that it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Morrow in a low voice. ‘We don’t love each other, and I’m sure you could do better. There will be something else for you, I know there will.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘Me? Well, my life will go on just the same as usual,’ said Miss Morrow, giving point to her words by picking up her knitting again. ‘But I shall always be flattered to remember your proposal,’ she added more graciously.

  ‘Jessica … ‘ began Mr. Latimer.

  ‘I think it had better be Miss Morrow and Mr. Latimer,’ she said gently. ‘We don’t want Miss Doggett to notice anything, do we?’

  Mr. Latimer made no reply but a groaning sound. ‘I think I shall go for a walk,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, do,’ said Miss Morrow soothingly. ‘It’s quite a nice evening.’

  But Mr. Latimer was already in the hall putting on his Burberry.

  Well, thought Miss Morrow, looking down at her new green dress, so it had been an occasion after all. A man had asked her to marry him and she had refused. But did a trapped curate count as a man? It had been such a very half-hearted proposal… poor Mr. Latimer! She smiled as she remembered it. ‘I respect and esteem you very much … I think we might be very happy together… .’ Might. Oh, no, it wouldn’t do at all! Even Miss Morrow’s standards were higher than that, so high, indeed, that she feared she would never marry now. For she wanted love, or whatever it was that made Simon and Anthea walk along the street not noticing other people simply because they had each other’s eyes to look into. And of course she knew perfectly well that she would never get anything like that. It was only sometimes, when a spring day came in the middle of winter, that one had a sudden feeling that nothing was really impossible. And then, how much more sensible it was to satisfy one’s springlike impulses by buying a new dress in an unaccustomed and thoroughly unsuitable colour than by embarking on a marriage without love. For, after all, respect and esteem were cold, lifeless things—dry bones picked clean of flesh. There was nothing springlike about dry bones, nothing warm and romantic about respect and esteem.

  Miss Morrow got up to look at the Radio Times. In spite of her commonsense reasoning, she could not help feeling a little sad. She liked Mr. Latimer; they had little jokes together, and that was surely something.

  A concert of contemporary music, variety from Newcastle, a verse drama about some character in classical mythology she had never heard of—somehow she did not feel that any of these would fit her mood. Perhaps a continental station would have something better. She turned the knobs until music of a Viennese nature filled the air—all the romance of Vienna in the days of the Emperor Franz Josef was suddenly brought into a North Oxford drawing-room. Miss Morrow went on with her knitting and thought about the film Mayerling, which she had seen with Miss Doggett, who approved of anything historical and connected with royalty, however immoral the tone of it might be. But people said it hadn’t happened like that at all, really… .


  ‘I met Mr. Latimer out walking,’ said Miss Doggett, when she came in, ‘but he didn’t see me. He was striding along without a hat. I hope he won’t catch cold.’

  ‘He said he wanted exercise,’ lied Miss Morrow.

  ‘Well, of course, there isn’t much for him to do when I’m not here. I expect he was bored.’

  ‘Yes, I expect he was,’ said Miss Morrow, without raising her eyes from her knitting.

  ‘A young man needs stimulating and intelligent company,’ went on Miss Doggett. ‘Mr. Latimer is really very cultured.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Morrow.

  ‘Why, Florence hasn’t taken away the sherry glasses,’ said Miss Doggett, seeing them still on the table. ‘You mustn’t let her get careless, Miss Morrow. It seems that I can’t be out of the house for an hour without something going wrong.’

  Miss Morrow said nothing.

  It had started to rain outside. Mr. Latimer strode along without knowing or caring where he was going. He was thinking of nothing, certainly not of the woman who had just rejected him. The feeling that had possessed him earlier in the evening was something fierce and elemental. It could not live in the drawing-room at Leamington Lodge.

  On he went, taking no notice of anybody, until he bumped into a group of young men who were coming away from a political meeting. One of them was Simon Beddoes. He was feeling very pleased with himself, because he had asked a clever question that the speaker hadn’t been able to answer at all satisfactorily. He said ‘good evening’ to Mr. Latimer, whom he had met once before, hoping that he would stop, so that they could lead the conversation round to it.

  But Mr. Latimer looked straight through him and walked down in the direction of the river.

  And then suddenly he felt tired and rather silly. He no longer wanted to do wild things. He crossed the road and got on the first bus that came. And so there he was, he who had strode out into the night with the idea of escaping from it all, taking a twopenny bus ride home, letting himself in through the stained-glass front door, and creeping quietly up the ecclesiastical pitch-pine staircase so as not to wake anybody.