Crampton Hodnet

by Barbara Pym

‘Perhaps he was sending flowers to an invalid or ordering a wreath for a funeral,’ suggested Miss Morrow timidly.

  ‘That’s what I thought at the time,’ said Edward.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Morrow,’ said Miss Doggett sharply. ‘He has no invalids among his acquaintance, and if a relative had died I should certainly have been among the first to know.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ agreed Miss Morrow reluctantly, for Miss Doggett delighted in deaths and funerals.

  ‘Well, we all come to it, you know,’ said Dr. Fremantle indulgently. ‘ “They are not long, the weeping and the laughter”,’ he quoted from a favourite poet of his youth. ‘Come, Olive,’ he called in a commanding voice, ‘it’s time we went.’

  ‘Yes, Charlotte, I’m afraid we must be going,’ said Mrs. Fremantle regretfully. ‘We have to go out to dinner tonight. It has been so delightful seeing you. You are looking splendid,’ she quavered, putting a thin, spidery hand into Mrs. Killigrew’s firm white one.

  ‘Yes, we have heard an interesting piece of news,’ said Dr. Fremantle, as if acknowledging the main purpose of the tea party. ‘Mind you, I don’t think it is quite as important as you seem to imagine, but one never knows,’ he added, throwing them a fragment of consolation. A few words of advice from a man of the world, that was what Cleveland needed. He ought to have been more discreet about this little affair. It was surprising that a good-looking man like that hadn’t had more practice. But of course Cleveland was lazy; he might drift into something without realising the consequences. Dr. Fremantle flattered himself that he had ordered his own life a little more skilfully. ‘They are not long, the days of wine and roses…’ but he had certainly enjoyed them where he could. He chuckled, remembering some past episode. ‘You mark my words, it will all blow over,’ was his parting shot.

  ‘I wish we could all take such an optimistic view of the matter as Dr. Fremantle appears to,’ said Miss Doggett in a gloomy tone, which yet seemed to be deeply satisfied. ‘I am afraid there is going to be a great deal more in this than he thinks.’

  ‘Yes, we felt we could not keep such a piece of news to ourselves,’ said Mrs. Killigrew. ‘It would have been wrong to conceal it.’

  And selfish too, thought Miss Morrow, as she walked home with Miss Doggett, on whom the news appeared to have acted like a tonic. Her step was more sprightly than when they had started out, and her voice had a new, firm quality about it.

  ‘I blame myself for this,’ she said. ‘I ought to have acted sooner. I only hope it may not be too late.’

  ‘Too late?’ said Miss Morrow. ‘Oh, I don’t see how it could be too late.’

  ‘Miss Morrow, you know nothing about such matters,’ said Miss Doggett sharply. ‘It may very well be too late. I would go into the house and tackle him with it now,’ she added, as they passed the Clevelands’ gate, ‘but I feel that I must have time to think it over. This matter requires very careful handling,’ she added obscurely.

  As they sat having their supper, Miss Morrow listened in silence to the fascinating story of intrigue which was being unfolded before her. It was as good as one of the sixpenny novels old Maggie read, she decided. The middle-aged, handsome don, tired of a wife who made no effort to keep his love; the clever, sympathetic young woman, who was at the same time pretty; the reading of sentimental poetry together—this appeared to be Miss Doggett’s idea of a tutorial—chance meetings followed by planned assignations, the Dawn of Love, an elopement, a divorce … in short, the breaking up of Francis Cleveland’s home and the ruination of his academic career.

  ‘But there must be so many middle-aged men who sometimes feel bored with their wives,’ protested Miss Morrow, ‘and just as many of them must sometimes meet attractive young women without anything very dreadful happening.’

  ‘Miss Morrow, you do not know the world as I do,’ said Miss Doggett in a warning tone. ‘You look around you here and see upright men keeping their marriage vows.’

  Miss Morrow agreed, but a little doubtfully, for at the moment she found it difficult to think of any married couples except the vicar and his wife, and she did not feel that she could make an observation which might only be frivolous.

  ‘But unfortunately Francis is not an upright man,’ went on Miss Doggett. ‘He is not a churchman and he spends all his time studying the literature of a period when morals were lax and society was decadent. As a young man he was not steady, and his father, who married my eldest sister, was an unfaithful husband. It is hardly to be wondered at that Francis is what he is. We know that he has been deceiving his wife. I only hope that he may not have been doing even worse than that.’

  Miss Morrow, feeling herself to be very much the unmarried lady who knew nothing of life, was silent.

  ‘I have hinted to Margaret that there is something between him and Miss Bird,’ continued Miss Doggett, ‘but she was quite rude about it and as good as told me to mind my own business. I think it is time somebody spoke to Francis himself. I had thought of asking the vicar to do it, but I think Mr. Latimer would be better. He is more of a gentleman and has stricter principles. And of course he believes in the celibacy of the clergy,’ she added with a note of warning in her tone.

  Miss Morrow could not help letting out an exclamation of surprise. Perhaps this accounted for the lukewarmness of his proposal, she thought, though she really could not see that it had much to do with the matter in hand.

  ‘Mr. Latimer is a very high-principled young man,’ said Miss Doggett impressively. ‘He has a fine character.’

  Miss Morrow said nothing. Somehow, she felt that she did not admire Mr. Latimer quite as much as other people did. Perhaps it was because she knew him too well. After all, he had nearly been her husband, and that surely presumed a degree of acquaintance which did not allow of excessive and unquestioning admiration. For, although she was in many ways a romantic, Miss Morrow could not help thinking that one usually married people in spite of faults rather than because of virtues.

  Poor Mrs. Cleveland, she thought, pondering over what they had heard that afternoon, what will she think when she hears about it? Will she mind? Perhaps one’s feelings were mercifully blunted after twenty years or so of marriage. Twenty years was such a long time, long enough for a husband to change into many different kinds of people. Here Miss Morrow began to get rather involved with husbands, vipers in bosoms and wolves in sheep’s clothing. But Mr. Cleveland was always so mild; it was impossible to imagine him as either a viper or a wolf. Edward Killigrew had probably made the whole thing up. It must be dull working in the library in this lovely weather, and Miss Morrow had often noticed that clever people were inclined to be fond of spiteful gossip and intrigue.

  XIX. Thoughts at a Lecture

  ‘It’s Mr. Cleveland’s last lecture,’ said Sarah Penrose at breakfast one morning. ‘I think we shall have to go, don’t you, Birdy?’

  ‘I don’t think I can spare the time,’ said Barbara evasively. ‘I ought to be getting on with my revision.’

  ‘But it would do you good to have a little relaxation,’ said Sarah in a motherly tone.

  ‘It will give us back our youth,’ sighed an intense, untidy-looking woman who answered to the name of Fraser. ‘We shall remember the first time we went to one of his lectures and how wonderful we thought he was and how we took down every word he said. We didn’t have much to worry us in those days, did we?’

  ‘“Alas! regardless of their doom, the little victims play”,’ quoted Sarah heavily. ‘You must come, Birdy. You can’t go on doing revision all the time.’

  Barbara had woken up the morning after the visit to the British Museum feeling that she had been making a great fuss about nothing. After all, it was not so very unusual for intelligent people to be in love with each other, even if one of them was married. History and Literature were full of examples; indeed, it seemed almost essential that in a Great Love one of the parties should be married. There was no need to be melodramatic and never see Francis any more. There
was no need even for their beautiful friendship to be turned into a sordid intrigue, for Barbara’s ideas of love were very noble, and she had had no experience of any but completely abstract passions. Her ideas of how she and Francis were going to go on, now that they were two intelligent people admittedly in love with each other, were conveniently vague. She only knew that she was ready for whatever might be in store for her, and that she would welcome what came as an enrichment to a life which had so far been lacking in those experiences without which, if one was to believe all that one heard and read, no life could be really complete.

  She had gone about in this state of mind for several days, waiting for an opportunity to see Francis and tell him, only in less prosaic words, of course, that everything was going to be all right. But her first meeting with him was under such different circumstances from what she had planned that it did not at all come up to her expectations. To begin with, the place had been unsuitable. They had come across each other in the Bodleian. She had been standing at the top of a ladder, searching for a pamphlet, feeling tired and dishevelled after a morning’s work, and with an uncomfortable suspicion that her petticoat was showing, when he had come to the shelf below her to get a book.

  ‘Come down,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  She climbed down and followed him into the Tower Room. They leaned on the bookcase, which contained dictionaries and encyclopaedias, and he took out a volume which they pretended to be studying. Opposite them sat a blind man and his companion, who was reading aloud extracts from the Cambridge History of English Literature in a flat, monotonous voice.

  ‘Barbara,’ said Francis, hesitating a little, ‘I want to speak to you. I’ve been thinking things over and I don’t see—‘

  Here he had stopped abruptly and Barbara had heard the sound of footsteps and the peevish voice of Mr. Killigrew and the booming tones of Dr. Adder, the Librarian, coming towards them from the Upper Reading Room.

  ‘I can’t stay now,’ said Francis abruptly, and he hurried, almost ran, out of the library, leaving Barbara hunched over the encyclopaedia, wondering what he had been going to say. She looked down and saw that it was open at an article on Poland, a vast, desolate country, which had forests and peasants and Chopin and Paderewski. Sad nocturnes came into her head and her eyes filled with tears. She felt hopeless and frustrated and there was a sick feeling at the pit of her stomach, which she did not recognise as a craving for her lunch.

  But when she got back to College and helped herself to a great fish with its tail in its mouth, she found that she could hardly eat any of it.

  That had been yesterday. Now, sitting listening to Francis talking about the political significance of Dryden’s Absalom and Achitophel, she felt more hopeful and confident. Her dear Francis. He loved her and she loved him. She looked round at the lecture audience. Those who had stayed the course consisted mostly of women, with a sprinkling of Indians and one or two plain-looking men.

  The desire to shout out her secret came over her. She looked up at the ceiling and gazed at the figures of animals and birds which decorated it. There were two peacocks with their necks entwined and Barbara concentrated on them until the end of the lecture, while all around her conscientious women and Indians tried to take down all that Mr. Cleveland said, which was not always easy. He seemed to be hurrying today, not bothering to make any jokes, and sometimes even turning his back on his audience, so that it was almost impossible to hear what he said.

  At ten minutes to one he stopped rather abruptly and came striding down the room to where Barbara and her friends were sitting in the back row.

  ‘Oh, Miss Bird,’ he said in his lecture voice, i just wanted to ask you about those Mac Flecknoe notes… .’

  ‘I felt I had to talk to you after leaving you so suddenly yesterday,’ said Francis, as they left the lecture room. ‘May I walk back with you?’

  ‘Yes, do,’ said Barbara doubtfully. ‘But I don’t very well see how we can talk here.’

  ‘Oh, well, we needn’t talk about anything special,’ he said evasively. ‘What does it matter what we talk about as long as we’re together?’ he added.

  ‘Oh, Francis,’ said Barbara fervently. ‘I feel that too. Nothing matters as long as we’re together. Do you remember the first time we ever walked over Magdalen Bridge?’ she asked, smiling at him.

  They continued to enlarge on this theme. Francis Cleveland was considered by many to be quite an authority on the seventeenth century and Barbara Bird was the Senior Scholar of her year, yet there was nothing in their conversation which would have led one to suspect this. It was not even enriched with suitable quotations from the great treasury of seventeenth-century love lyrics. It was quite remarkable how like Simon and Anthea they sounded as they walked into the college garden, arranging to meet later in the afternoon on Shotover Hill.

  ‘There’s Mr. Cleveland again,’ said Miss Borage, the Bursar, looking out of the Senior Common Room window. ‘Smiling fondly at Miss Bird.’

  ‘Oh, that man!’ complained Miss Gurney, the English tutor, a tall, gaunt woman with grey bobbed hair. She turned and faced Miss Borage and the other occupants of the room, Miss Rideout, the Principal, and Miss Kingley, the Classics tutor. ‘Men are the ruination of women,’ she declared. ‘The only girl who seems likely to get a First, and now look what’s happening.’

  ‘I can’t say that I see anything very much happening,’ observed Miss Rideout in a dry, good-humoured tone. ‘We allow men to walk in the garden.’

  ‘I often used to walk in the garden with my tutor,’ said Miss Kingley sadly. ‘Arnold Penge, you know… .’

  ‘Oh, we’ve all heard about him,’ said Miss Gurney roughly. ‘Miss Kingley walked in the garden with her tutor, but nothing came of it.’

  ‘No, nothing came of it,’ agreed Miss Kingley in a tone of melancholy resignation.

  ‘I wonder if anything will come of this,’ said Miss Borage, looking out at Francis and Barbara, who were still talking.

  ‘Mr. Cleveland is a married man,’ said Miss Rideout, with an air of putting an end to the conversation.

  ‘So was Arnold Penge.’ Miss Gurney cackled. ‘Where there’s life there’s hope, isn’t that so, Miss Kingley?’

  ‘Nothing came of it,’ repeated Miss Kingley patiently.

  ‘There’s the bell for lunch,’ said Miss Borage.

  ‘Mr. Cleveland will be late for lunch,’ said Miss Gurney triumphantly. ‘He’ll have to make an excuse to his wife. I wonder if he will tell her the truth.’

  But there was no need for Francis to say anything. When he got home he found Margaret already carving the cold lamb, and he took his place at the table almost unnoticed while she speculated as to whether it would last another day.

  ‘I shall want the car after lunch,’ he said, but nobody seemed to care whether he took it or not. As he drove to meet Barbara he felt somehow cheated. He had been full of defiance, ready to tell his family to go to the devil, and all they had spoken of was cold lamb. And so it was really a direct result of their indifference that, as soon as he and Barbara had stumbled over the rough grass on the hill and found a secluded spot under a tree, he should take her in his arms and kiss her.

  ‘I’ve got Schools next week,’ said Barbara. ‘I shan’t be able to see you at all then.’

  ‘No, I suppose you won’t,’ he said. ‘But you must stay up for a bit after the end of term, and then we can be together all the time.’

  ‘All the time?’ said Barbara in a surprised voice.

  ‘Well, quite a lot of the time,’ said Francis rather lamely. ‘Oh, Barbara, I love you so much,’ he said with sudden fervour, as he thought of the indifference of his family. ‘I’m going to kiss you again,’ he said, ‘and then a thousand times more to make up for all the time I’ve wasted.’

  While Francis was making up for his wasted time, Mrs. Cleveland and Anthea were dragging round the shops on a hot afternoon, trying to choose materials for summer dresses.

 
‘The whole afternoon wasted,’ said Anthea peevishly, ‘and all because I forgot to bring a bit of the stuff with me. I can’t buy the check unless I’m sure it’s going to match my blue coat.’

  ‘What blue coat, dear?’ said her mother.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ said Anthea crossly.

  ‘What’s the matter with you this afternoon?’ asked Mrs. Cleveland wearily. ‘You’re so impatient with me all the time.’

  ‘Oh, it’s so hot, and we’re tired,’ said Anthea hastily. ‘Let’s go and have a cup of tea in Elliston’s.’

  They went up to the cafe and found it already quite full of dons’ wives, North Oxford spinsters and clergymen, with a sprinkling of undergraduates. The atmosphere, which was thick with smoke in the mornings, was quite clear now, and the place had an air of provincial respectability.

  Anthea sat and brooded, while her mother ordered the tea. She did not want her to guess the reason for her bad temper. It was so silly to think that she should be feeling like this just because Simon had asked a young woman from Somerville to lunch. It was unintelligent, so boring, to be jealous, even if one knew that the woman was attractive, red-haired and clever. Anthea craned her neck out of the cafe window, but although she could just see the front of Randolph, Simon’s rooms were farther along, and she could only wonder if the lunch party had taken its usual course and ended up on the sofa among the coral-coloured cushions and, as likely as not, a few bits of one of the essays that Simon always seemed to be in the middle of writing. But it was a quarter past four now. Surely she wouldn’t still be there?

  ‘What are we going to have?’ asked Mrs. Cleveland, pushing her hat back to an almost rakish angle because the band was a little tight and her head was aching from an afternoon’s unsuccessful shopping.

  ‘Oh, just tea,’ said Anthea wearily. Her thoughts went on following the same desolate course. Simon was the sort of person who was sweet to everyone. It came naturally to him. The compliments flowed so easily from his lips. He had a way of suddenly taking hold of your hand when you were eating, and kissing your fingers or saying something so sweet that you went on chasing the food aimlessly round your plate because you couldn’t do anything or even think when his eyes were on you. Oh, the lovely food that had been wasted in Randolph when two people in love had lunch together! A detached on-looker would have seen the funny side of those intimate meals—the abandoned fish, with the spiky bones peeping forlornly through the uneaten flesh, the wings of chicken lying desolate and untouched in their cold gravy, the chocolate mousse, the peaches, the expensive cigarettes thrown into the fire before they were half smoked.