Crampton Hodnet

by Barbara Pym

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs. Cleveland,’ said Miss Gurney, who was passing their table.

  ‘Oh, good afternoon, Miss Gurney.’

  ‘Now you tell your husband to keep away from my Miss Bird,’ said Miss Gurney in her harsh, penetrating voice. ‘I can’t have him gadding about with her now; he must wait until the end of term. Schools begin on Thursday, and if she doesn’t get a First I shall go into a nunnery!’

  Anthea smiled.

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t look any worse than Sister Angelina/ retorted Miss Gurney, referring to a very plain-looking nun who frecuently attended her lectures. ‘I believe I might even look a little better.’

  ‘I’ll tell Francis to leave her alone,’ said Mrs. Cleveland soothingly. ‘He’s always very conscientious about his pupils, and I know he’s very anxious for Miss Bird to get a First.’

  ‘Well, he mustn’t go tiring her out walking on Shotover then,’ said Miss Gurney, moving off. ‘And there’s poor Miss Kingley, looking like a lost soul in the cake department. I’m coming,’ she shrieked, causing a few people to look up from their tea in surprise.

  ‘She’s very blunt, isn’t she?’ Anthea giggled. ‘If one didn’t know her, one might imagine that Father was having a romance with Barbara Bird.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Mrs. Cleveland, speaking more sharply than she had meant to.

  Anthea raised her eyebrows and seemed about to make a remark, but what she had been thinking was hardly the sort of thing one could say to one’s mother, and so she said nothing.

  ‘Don’t mention what Miss Gurney said to Aunt Maude,’ said Mrs. Cleveland casually. ‘You know how she is.’

  ‘Yes, she’d probably think the worst,’ agreed Anthea lightly.

  They got up and went out of the cafe. How nice it must be when one is safely married, thought Anthea. Nothing to worry about except the lunch and easy domestic problems which needn’t matter at all unless one wanted them to. But would being married to Simon be like that? She had a sudden depressing vision of their married life together, he so young and gay and ambitious and she trying desperately to Keep His Love, as they said in magazines. She glanced hopefully up at his windows as they passed Randolph and wondered if the woman was still there.

  It was rather odd of Francis to go out with Barbara without saying anything about it, thought Mrs. Cleveland when they were on the bus. Although, as Anthea had said, Miss Gurney was very blunt, one didn’t like to think that people might be talking about them. Things like this could be so misunderstood and twisted round that they might seem to be something quite different. She would ask him about it casually sometime. It was much better to have things out rather than to brood on them.

  She found an opportunity after supper when she and Francis were by themselves in the drawing-room.

  ‘Miss Gurney says you’re to keep away from her star pupil and not tire her out walking on Shotover,’ she said lightly.

  Francis looked a little startled, she thought, as if he had been found out in something.

  ‘Oh, yes, I took her up on Shotover this afternoon,’ he said, seeing that he could not very well conceal it. ‘She looked as if she needed fresh air,’ he added naively.

  ‘You like her very much, don’t you?’ said Margaret placidly.

  ‘Of course I like her. She’s a very nice girl, very intelligent,’ he said impatiently. ‘I can’t think why everyone’s making such a fuss.’

  XV. Advice for Mrs. Cleveland

  ‘Old Mrs. Killigrew coming here?’ Mrs. Cleveland raised her head from her book in sudden agitation.

  It was a wet afternoon in July, and she and Anthea were sitting by the fire in the drawing-room.

  ‘Yes, old Mrs. Killigrew,’ Anthea, who was looking out the window, repeated. ‘By herself, too.’

  ‘But she never goes out,’ said Mrs. Cleveland in bewilderment, ‘and it’s such a wet day. Is there any cake in the house?’ she asked frantically. ‘I suppose we shall have to offer her tea.’

  ‘There may be something,’ said Anthea. ‘I’ll go and warn Ellen.’

  ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear, she’s so difficult to talk to,’ wailed Mrs. Cleveland.

  ‘Mrs. Killigrew,’ said Ellen, standing in the doorway.

  ‘How do you do?’ said Mrs. Cleveland, advancing towards her rather uncertainly.

  ‘Thank you, I am quite well.’ Mrs. Killigrew remained standing in the middle of the room, her sharp eyes taking in the faded loose-covers, the flowers that ought to have been changed and the general untidiness, Mrs. Cleveland felt.

  ‘Do sit down,’ she said. ‘It’s so nice of you to come.’

  ‘I do not know if it is nice,’ said Mrs. Killigrew, with a sudden sardonic grin. ‘That is a matter of opinion, perhaps.’

  Mrs. Cleveland felt snubbed. ‘Isn’t it cold?’ she said brightly. ‘We have had a fire today,’ she added, feeling that she ought to give some explanation of the fact that the grate was not filled by a vase of leaves or an embroidered fire-screen.

  ‘I never feel the cold,’ said Mrs. Killigrew uncompromisingly. ‘I have never given in to self-indulgence; that is why I am so healthy. You would never think that I was older than Olive Fremantle, would you?’

  ‘No, you certainly wouldn’t,’ said Mrs. Cleveland. She felt that she ought to make some remark about ‘Mr,s. Killigrew’s being wonderful for her age, but as she could not think of any more tactful way of putting it, she said nothing. ‘Tea will be coming in soon,’ she went on quickly. ‘I hope you will stay and have a cup?’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ said Mrs. Killigrew. ‘I came only for a certain purpose. I have something to tell you, and as it can be said quite quickly I had better get it over. Mrs. Cleveland, I have come to warn you.’ She paused impressively.

  Mrs. Cleveland stared at her. There was something sinister, even alarming, about the old woman, sitting so straight in her dark foreign-looking ulster and stiff straw hat, which had a whole stuffed bird perched on the front of it.

  ‘To warn me?’ she said, when she had recovered from the first shock of surprise. ‘What about?’

  ‘About your husband,’ said Mrs. Killigrew simply.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Mrs. Cleveland, rather stiffly, for it had now occurred to her that Mrs. Killigrew might have heard some of this ridiculous gossip about Francis and Barbara Bird.

  ‘He is going about with a young woman,’ said Mrs. Killigrew baldly. ‘That is what I mean.’

  ‘But there’s nothing—‘

  Mrs. Killigrew held up a black-gloved hand. ‘Yes, there is something between them,’ she said, i am afraid you do not know everything.’ And then, before Mrs. Cleveland could protest, she began to tell the story of what her son had seen and heard in the British Museum.

  There was silence when she had finished. Mrs. Cleveland’s first impulse was to laugh. The British Museum! How like an Oxford don to choose such an unsuitable place to declare his love! But then it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t even known that Francis was taking Barbara Bird up to London that day. He hadn’t mentioned it; indeed, he had rather implied that he was going alone.

  ‘What does the poet Shakespeare say?’ asked Mrs. Killigrew, breaking the silence with this rather surprising remark.

  ‘Shakespeare?’ echoed Mrs. Cleveland.

  ‘Yes. The poet Shakespeare says that men were deceivers ever,’ said Mrs. Killigrew. i can see that you have had cause to know the truth of that,’ she said in a satisfied tone.

  ‘What makes you think so?’ said Mrs. Cleveland, suddenly hot with anger. She was angry, not because Francis had deceived her, but because he had put her in such a humiliating and ridiculous position. She shot a glance at Mrs. Killigrew, sitting there so smug and splendid for her age, and there came over her a desire to squash down her stiff straw hat, to tear the bird off it and fling it into the unseasonable fire.

  ‘You knew about it?’ said Mrs. Killigrew indulgently. ‘Well, well, that may be. If I have told you someth
ing you already knew, then I have been an interfering old woman.’ Again a sudden sardonic grin came over her face. ‘I do not flatter myself that everything I do is right,’ she went on. ‘I thought I was doing my duty in coming here this afternoon, but it may be that I was mistaken.’

  ‘Won’t you stay and have a cup of tea?’ said Mrs. Cleveland, who had now recovered from her jungle impulse and was a polite North Oxford hostess once more.

  ‘No, I do not think I deserve your hospitality,’ said Mrs. Killigrew, getting up. i have not done good this afternoon. I believe I may even have done harm. I must face that. It will be a burden for me to bear, the knowledge that I may have done harm,’ she added, in a surprisingly light tone.

  Mrs. Cleveland stared at her, not knowing how to respond to her curious conversation.

  ‘Husbands need to be watched,’ continued Mrs. Killigrew. ‘I am an old woman and I have had some experience of husbands. I have seen two of them go to their graves. I have attended both their funerals.’

  Mrs. Cleveland looked a little startled. She had not realised that Mrs. Killigrew had been twice married.

  ‘One must be watching them always when they are alive,’ went on the old woman reminiscently. ‘When I was first married I lived in Dresden. We were walking in the Grossergarten one afternoon, Leopold and I—it must be nearly fifty years ago since then—‘

  She broke off and looked out of the window.

  ‘Here is Agnes Wardell; she is carrying a basket of greens.’

  ‘A basket of greens?’ said Mrs. Cleveland absently. ‘But we have plenty in the garden.’ She felt an unreasonable desire to hear the rest of the story about Mrs. Killigrew and Leopold walking in the Grossergarten fifty years ago. Now she would probably never know what had happened, or even whether anything had happened at all.

  ‘Well, Margaret, I’ve brought you some plants,’ said Mrs. Wardell, appearing in the doorway unannounced.

  ‘Oh, I see, plants,’ said Mrs. Cleveland, who had imagined cabbages and purple sprouting broccoli. ‘How nice of you!’

  ‘I am just going,’ said Mrs. Killigrew, ‘but I have not done any good.’ She walked away with a firm step. Evidently she did not find the burden of having done harm a very heavy one.

  ‘What on earth was she talking about?’ asked Mrs. Wardell.

  ‘I hardly know,’ Mrs. Cleveland said evasively. ‘Some involved library scandal. You know what Edward is.’

  ‘Yes I certainly do. It’s really the fault of the Bodley’s Librarian,’ declared Mrs. Wardell surprisingly. ‘There he is in the library, with a lot of idle assistants who have nothing to do but gossip.’ And then to Mrs. Cleveland’s relief, she went on to talk about the plants and when they should be put in.

  She had evidently heard nothing. Well, that was something. Indeed, when one remembered how fond of gossip dear Agnes was, it was really a great deal.

  ‘We’re just going to have tea,’ said Mrs. Cleveland. ‘Do stay and have some.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Mrs. Wardell. ‘I’ll take off my hat if you don’t mind. I expect my hair’s like a bush.’

  Mrs. Cleveland stood in the middle of the drawing-room in a state of unhappy bewilderment and indecision while Mrs. Wardell made some attempt to tidy herself. What was she going to do about it? she wondered. Hope for the best and let things slide? Tell Francis that she knew? But that she knew what? It wasn’t, after all, very much that she knew, only one ‘I love you’ that Edward Killigrew might or might not have heard him say in the British Museum. Tax him with his deception? Tell him that people were starting to gossip? But she hated nagging and jealousy; she had never been like that.

  ‘Is it safe to come in again?’ said Anthea, butting her head round the door. ‘Has Mrs. Killigrew gone?’

  ‘Yes, she couldn’t stay to tea,’ said Mrs. Cleveland absently. Anthea mustn’t hear anything of this gossip, she thought; it must be kept from her at all costs. It was quite a relief to be able to put her problem aside for the moment and make ordinary conversation with Anthea and Mrs. Wardell while they had tea.

  ‘Did you know that old Mrs. Killigrew has had two husbands?’ she said, making a rather unfortunate beginning.

  ‘How do you know?’ said Mrs. Wardell.

  ‘Oh, it just cropped up in the course of conversation.’

  ‘You must have had a funny sort of conversation,’ remarked Anthea. ‘Why were you talking about husbands with her?’

  ‘Oh, my dear child. They’re the sort of things that do crop up in conversations between married women,’ said Mrs. Wardell cheerfully. ‘We have so little else to talk about.’

  Anthea laughed. ‘Don’t I know it!’ she said. ‘And not only between married women. Simon’s mother and I had the most intriguing conversation about husbands. Do you know,’ she said impressively, ‘she told me that she was in love with someone else when she married Lyall Beddoes!’

  ‘How awkward,’ said Mrs. Wardell. ‘Though by what I’ve seen of her I shouldn’t think she’d ever be certain about anybody.’

  ‘Oh, but one’s always certain about a thing like that,’ said Anthea confidently.

  ‘It must have been awkward for her poor husband,’ said Mrs. Cleveland rather feebly.

  ‘Oh, he didn’t know about it,’ said Anthea. ‘He seems to have been rather frightful, as far as I can gather. Much older than she was and caring far more about Anglo-Polish diplomatic intrigues than about her happiness.’

  ‘Well, poor man, I don’t see what you could have expected him to have done,’ said Mrs. Wardell.

  ‘He ought to have given her a divorce or something so that she could have married this other man,’ said Anthea firmly. ‘Only of course I probably shouldn’t have met Simon then,’ she added irrelevantly.

  ‘But she was quite happy with her husband, wasn’t she?’ said Mrs. Cleveland hopefully.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Anthea impatiently, ‘she was fond of him, but she loved somebody else. That’s the point. Just think how frightful one’s married life must be if it’s like that. I couldn’t bear it.’

  Of course people of Anthea’s age couldn’t be expected to know much about marriage, Mrs. Cleveland thought. How could they when they had no experience? They talked so glibly about divorce and remarriage, as if it were nothing more complicated than mincing up the cold beef and making it into a shepherd’s pie. But of course, she told herself stoutly, there was nothing really wrong between her and Francis, just some silly gossip. Still, she found herself thinking about it when he camc in to supper. If he was in love with somebody else, she though as she watched him eating plum tart with great enjoyment, she would have to give him his freedom, according to Anthea’s philosophy. That was what it amounted to. But the whole idea was so fantastic. Francis simply hadn’t got it in him to fall in love with somebody else and break up a comfortable home. If people wanted to gossip they would just have to. She wasn’t going to interfere. She had always been broad-minded and tolerant; she hated to think that she might make a perfectly harmless friendship seem something else by adopting the attitude of a jealous wife.

  ‘You must bring Barbara Bird to supper sometime,’ she said, trying to sound casual, ‘if she’s still in Oxford. It’s quite a long time since we saw her.’

  That would show people, she thought. She must try and let it be known that Barbara was coming to supper with them. She must make a point of bringing it into any conversation she had with anybody. ‘Oh, by the way, Barbara Bird is coming to supper tonight.’ Of course that was much too blunt. She tried another way. ‘How empty Oxford seems in the vacation, doesn’t it? There are a few undergraduates still here, though: one of my husband’s pupils, Barbara Bird… .’

  She walked up the Banbury Road next morning practising this conversation, so much so that her first instinct on going into Sainsbury’s to order some bacon was to say, ‘Oh, Barbara Bird is coming to supper tonight.’ She was sure that the assistant would have been quite equal to the occasion. ‘Oh, yes, madam?’ he w
ould say. ‘Perhaps you would care for a chicken? We have some nice young ones for roasting. Or perhaps you would prefer a boiler… .’

  But Mrs. Cleveland had nearly finished her shopping before she met anyone that she knew well enough to stop and speak to. She was just coming out of Elliston’s when she saw a little, bent figure in a shantung costume hurrying towards her. It was Olive Fremantle. She was almost running in her eagerness to prevent Mrs. Cleveland’s getting away.

  ‘Oh, you must come in and see my new colour scheme,’ she said breathlessly. ‘It won’t take a minute.’

  Mrs. Cleveland was caught off her guard, and as she walked across the road to the Master’s Lodgings she began to realise how odd it was that she should be asked to see Mrs. Fremantle’s drawing-room in the middle of the morning, especially when, as she stood in it, she saw that it was really no different from what it had always been. It was still greenish, gloomily magnificent and dominated by the frowning portrait of Dr. Fremantle, which hung by itself on one wall.

  ‘The room is charming,’ said Mrs. Cleveland, doing her best.

  Mrs. Fremantle did not seem to have heard and went on fussing nervously round the room, with one eye always on her husband’s portrait, obviously as frightened of it as of the reality. At last she stood still by a tall jar of dried bullrushes and fingered them absently, as if ready to use them as weapons if necessary.

  The room isn’t really any different,’ she blurted out at last. ‘I wanted to say something to you privately. Herbert won’t be in till lunchtime,’ she added, glancing furtively towards the door. ‘I don’t suppose he would approve of me speaking to you like this.’