‘Oh, is that you, Parfitt?’ said Lettice, in great confusion. ‘It’s Mrs Watson. I wonder if Mr David is in?’
Parfitt’s voice asked her to wait a moment. She held the receiver, listening eagerly, breathing rather fast and wishing she had the courage to ring off.
‘Hullo, love,’ said David’s voice.
Her courage returned and she suddenly felt as light-hearted as she had been miserable a few moments earlier.
‘Hullo, David,’ she said. ‘I was frightfully bored tonight, so I thought I’d talk to you. How are Agnes and Cousin Emily?’
‘Agnes has gone to London,’ said David. ‘My adored mamma is writing her memoirs which I must say consist chiefly of a great many odd bits of paper with things written on them that she can’t read. She has got that nice Miss Merriman staying here that used to be Aunt Edith Pomfret’s secretary.’
‘How lovely,’ said Lettice. ‘And when does Agnes come back?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ said David, ‘as too well I know, because I am under oath to fetch her from Barchester at 7.5.’
‘And mother and Lucy and I are having tea at the Deanery,’ said Lettice. ‘What a pity Agnes will be so late or we could all have met.’
‘Would you like us to have met?’ said David.
Lettice was silent for an instant. Would David think her unmaidenly – ridiculous and inappropriate word – if she said yes? Could she bear to break her own heart, though preserving her dignity, by saying no?
‘Because in that case,’ said David, apparently going on with his side of the conversation though Lettice felt that several hours had elapsed, ‘I shall, by a curious coincidence, also go to tea at the Deanery. After all, he christened me.’
Lettice heard herself say that they were going on to see the Regional Commissioner’s Office, so David mustn’t be too late.
‘That suits me down to the ground,’ said David. ‘I want to see John, and I can pin him down at the office. Give those delightful children of yours Uncle David’s love and tell Bunny I never forget her. I must fly now. Goodbye, love. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, Bless the bed that you lay on, Four corners to your bed, but this is really an unnecessary wish, for no bed I have ever seen had either less or more than four. Bless you, love, goodnight.’
‘Tea time then, at the Deanery,’ said Lettice, but the telephone was irresponsive.
She hung up the receiver and smiled. But even as she settled herself with a book doubts began to assail her. Evidently she had bored David or he would not have rung off. David must be so used to people ringing him up that one only made oneself cheap by doing it. David would now think that she was one of those women that were always ringing him up. Perhaps he would be so revolted that he would not come to the Deanery. She longed to ring him up again and make sure that he really understood it was tomorrow. Nothing on earth would induce her to ring him up again. Oh, if only Roger would come and make it all right. The mounting passion of tears brimmed over. No use now to hit her eyes with her handkerchief, nothing for it but a half-blind search for more handkerchiefs, a loud and undignified sniffing. She could not even enjoy the luxury of crying in peace, for Nurse might be back at any moment and would see her bunged-up eyes and swollen nose. In despair she decided to go to bed and say she had a headache. Without more than an occasional choke she undressed, went through all the ritual of creaming and cleaning and was safely in bed when the telephone rang and at the same moment she heard Nurse come in.
‘Oh, please will you see what it is, Nurse,’ she called to Nurse. ‘I forgot to switch the telephone through to my room.’
Maddeningly, nurse shut the drawing-room door. Lettice strained her ears and could just hear Nurse’s voice saying, ‘Hold on a minute, sir.’ Her heart leapt. David had rung her up. She lifted the receiver of the telephone by her bed.
‘Is it you?’ she said, her whole being concentrated upon the voice that was to answer. ‘I hoped you would ring up somehow.’
‘How very nice of you,’ said a man’s voice, a very kind, pleasant voice, not David’s, though his was pleasant enough (but was it kind?). Her heart rose, turned and fell. David had not thought of her again.
‘I hope I am not disturbing you so late,’ the voice continued. ‘I only got back from the course tonight, rather unexpectedly, and I wanted to know how you were and your mother and Lucy.’
‘All very well, thank you,’ said Lettice. ‘Do come and see us soon. Any time this weekend.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said the voice. ‘I have so often thought of you and Diana and Clare. I mustn’t keep you up now. I’ll certainly come over on Saturday or Sunday. Take care of yourself. Goodnight.’
Lettice lay back on her pillows. To expect David and to find Captain Barclay was a blow. But her own candour with herself compelled her to admit that if David had rung up she would have been as disturbed and distracted – whatever he had said – as she had been when he rang off earlier. Her heart had sunk when she heard Captain Barclay’s voice indeed, but undeniably her heart was much comforted now, calmer, not making her cry.
Nurse looked in and said goodnight.
‘I’ll tell you what, my girl,’ said Lettice vindictively to herself as soon as Nurse had gone, ‘David isn’t good for you, so just get that into your head.’
Grateful to Captain Barclay for having broken David’s spell she went to sleep quite happily.
Next morning she woke with the rather holy feeling that a good fit of crying often brings, a feeling as of one who had shed the trammels of the flesh and now floated, a beautiful disembodied spirit, above all earthly emotions, which did not prevent her feeling more and more nervous as the hour for tea at the Deanery approached. Of two things she was quite certain: either David would not come, or if he did come he would eschew her company. In consequence of this she made but a poor figure in the interesting political discussion which had been going on. Then David had come in, the sun had shone, the birds (which were two very tiresome seed-spitting budgerigars in the Deanery back drawing-room) had sung, quite deafeningly, and now David had come to sit beside her with his cup of tea. She realised that she was like Finished Coquettes in books who keep a seat next to them for their admirers and break all hearts. Not that she thought the dean’s heart was broken, for everyone knew that his only human passion was hatred of his bishop, and there were no other gentlemen present. But David was there and to her own great relief she suddenly felt quite normal again.
‘I adored your ringing me up last night,’ said David.
Lettice could not at the moment remember what the Finished Coquette would say, so she smiled, which David seemed to find quite satisfactory.
‘I adore being rung up more than anything,’ he said. ‘It is so exciting not to know who it is.’
‘Is it never exciting when you do know?’ said Lettice, manfully striving to play her role, but before David could answer, Mrs Marling, swivelling herself round, chair and all, made a third in the conversation, asking after Lady Emily’s health. Finished Coquettes, Lettice thought rather bitterly, had boudoirs where they could see people alone, and far from having mothers who interrupted them in and out of season they had confidantes who rose and silently left the room murmuring an excuse, or soubrettes to whom they said, ‘You may go, child; and if the Marquis should call, I have the vapours.’
‘I ought to have gone to see Cousin Emily long ago,’ said Mrs Marling, ‘but one is so busy; and the petrol. Will you give her my love, David, and ask if she would like some of us to come over. It will depend on my petrol, but I can manage somehow.’
David said he knew his mother would love a visit, and promised to ask Agnes to ring up about it. He then began to lose interest in the tea-party. Lettice saw that his thoughts were straying and mistakenly blamed her mother in her mind. Luckily Lucy, who had been holding her breath while the dean said what he had to say about the Future of Europe, seized an instant’s pause to say in a loud voice that it was time to go to the Regional Commissioner’
s Office. Her mother, with more tact, said to Mrs Crawley that she knew her Choristers’ Parents’ Meeting would be waiting for her and took her flock away, saying goodbye to David.
‘Oh, David,’ said Lettice, ‘didn’t you want to see John?’
But David did not hear.
Lettice’s heart was not in the least broken, but she got into the car with her mother and Lucy feeling that all occasions did conspire against her. She was far too apt to imagine the scenes of her life as she would like them to be and to feel disproportionate disappointment when they turned out to be as they were. Her lively fancy had pictured David taking her to the office in his car and a great deal of laughter and a spice of tenderness. It was now obvious that he had never seriously considered visiting the office and everything felt very flat. But she valiantly pulled herself together and by the time they arrived was ready to show interest in anything and everything.
The Regional Commissioner’s Office, a very hideous building on the outskirts of Barchester, had been a Commercial College (if the expression means anything) which failed at the beginning of the war. It had then been taken over by the Government and now housed the organisation that was to run that part of England in case of a serious crisis. John Leslie had been appointed Regional Commissioner almost as soon as the scheme came into being. Under him a number of officials picked from various walks in life worked in shifts so that the office was fully staffed for the whole twenty-four hours. The shifts were arranged with dog watches as it were, so that no one had the same hours for more than a few days together, which was very practical as far as work was concerned but was apt to drive their various wives, housekeepers, parents and landladies almost demented. So far Mr Harvey and his sister had mostly managed to get the same times on and off duty, which economised petrol. Oliver more often walked to Melicent Halt and went by train to Barchester while the weather was good.
The entrance was presided over by a policeman who knew the Marlings quite well, his parents being the estate cowman and his wife, so the party went in without any difficulty and sat on a very hard bench in a corridor while the policeman sent a boy scout to tell Oliver. After a short wait during which Lucy showed the scout with the aid of his scarf how to wring a hen’s neck, for faithful to her practice of seeing how things were done, she had studied the technique of this useful art with Hilda, Oliver appeared and said Geoffrey would be busy for a few moments and would then join them. Meanwhile he suggested that they should come and see his room.
It is a curious fact that the mental impression one has formed of an unknown place is so immediately and completely overlaid by the sight of the actual place that it is practically impossible to remember what one had imagined. Mrs Marling, Lettice and Lucy had each her own conception of what Oliver’s room would be like, but as the door was opened each of these visions was wiped out, never to be recovered. What they did see was a very uninteresting-looking room, rather too tall for its size, with two ugly plate-glass sash windows, a table, a desk and some chairs. Miss Harvey was seated at the table doing something that looked very professional with some papers.
‘Don’t let us disturb you, Frances,’ said Mrs Marling. ‘What a nice room you have to work in.’
‘No, Mamma dear,’ said Oliver. ‘Only a mother could call it that, and even a mother’s partial eye must admit that it is quite hideous, besides looking out on to the gasworks and the soap factory and getting the benefit of the doubtless very healthy smells from them both. Geoffrey has a much more amusing room. Do sit down and he will be here in a moment.’
‘What exactly is a Regional Commissioner?’ said Lucy. ‘I mean I know John is our one, but what exactly do you do?’
‘I’m afraid I mustn’t say exactly,’ said Oliver, ‘but broadly speaking if we were cut off from London by the railway being blown up and all the telephones being down and the wireless jammed, John would at once become king of Barsetshire and the surrounding counties and give us all our orders.’
Mrs Marling said it was very nice to feel that John was at the head of things because his father had always done so much for the county.
‘And that reminds me, Oliver,’ she said, ‘that David says Cousin Emily would like us to go over. If I go next week would you be free any day?’
Miss Harvey opened a drawer, took out a paper and handed it to Oliver.
‘I’m sorry, Mamma dear,’ he said after looking at it, ‘but my times are hopeless next week. You and Lettice or Lucy will have to go; I simply can’t. Where did you see David?’
His sister Lucy said at the Deanery and she would tell them what, the dean talked an awful lot of rot and Mrs Morland was there and what exactly did Oliver and Frances do.
‘Well, most of it is fairly secret,’ said Oliver, ‘and fairly important. Here,’ he said, opening a door and showing them a small room, empty except for some telephones, ‘are my special telephones that would be very important if anything happened. I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more. This room used to be the speed-test room for the shorthand pupils when it was a Commercial College.’
‘I thought you would be much busier,’ said Lucy reproachfully. ‘More like a real office. I say, they’re going to have some Free French at the Barchester General. Octavia told me at tea time. I wonder what colour they’ll be.’
It was so obvious to Oliver that his family’s visit to his room was an anti-climax and that the smallest event of Marling life was of more interest than his files and telephones that he had not the heart to ask his sister Lucy what she meant. To his great relief Mr Harvey then came in and invited the whole party to come and see his room.
Mr Harvey’s room gave far more satisfaction than Oliver’s. Not only was it much larger and not so high, but it was in a semi-basement, its windows were boarded up and it was entirely lit by electric light. Several girls were knitting, some maps hung on the wall, a kind of tape machine was ticking away by itself in a corner. Mrs Marling, recognising in one of the knitters the girl who used to be at the pigeon-hole marked G to M in the cashier’s office at Pilchard’s Stores, entered into a most interesting conversation with her about the probability of soap being rationed.
‘How quiet you are here, Geoffrey,’ said Lettice. ‘It doesn’t feel like a war at all.’
Mr Harvey said this was usually a slack time.
‘You might show them how the teleprinter works,’ said Oliver.
‘If you think it would amuse them,’ said Mr Harvey doubtingly. ‘You see, Lettice, there is a kind of central organisation and we are only an arm or a leg of it, as it were, but if a crisis happens we bud off on our own and become a centre ourselves. By the way, Oliver, what a marvellous find that was of yours. Too perfectly Bun, my dear. Frances told me.’
‘Bun?’ said Oliver, who admitted to himself that he was not up to Mr Harvey’s Bloomsburyisms.
‘Your Canon of Barchester,’ said Mr Harvey, turning his back on the teleprinter.
‘Oh, Bohun,’ said Oliver.
‘I think you’ll find that his contemporaries called him Bun,’ said Mr Harvey.
‘To rhyme with Donne,’ said Miss Harvey.
‘But I don’t admit Dun,’ said Oliver.
Lucy, who took an interest in intellectual conversation, said Mr Miller at Pomfret Madrigal said Don, because she had heard him because he had written a book about him and, what did Geoffrey do in his room?
‘I mean, I don’t want to ask questions about secrets,’ she said, ‘but I mean do you really do anything or just sit here in case?’
Lettice looked anxiously at Lucy who was, she thought, showing an embarrassing amount of interest. For her own part she thought it was very interesting to see the office and the maps and telephones and machines, but she had a strong feeling that it was better for her not to know what they were about in case she suddenly met a German and told him all about it. And if one was to be perfectly truthful with oneself the machines and telephones and maps were really not very interesting. If something dreadful was happening lik
e Buckingham Palace being blown up and all the secret telephones were being used and the machines pouring out yards of bad news on reels of paper and tidings of dismay being fixed with coloured flags all over the map, she felt her interest would rise. But to see Miss Cowshay from the cashier’s office at Pilchard’s and, as she suddenly realised, the exquisite creature called Amanda who used to be the receptionist, dreadful word, at Maidenhair, the best Barchester hairdresser’s, sitting at a desk with things clamped over her ears, made her feel that it was all a kind of self-important game that Oliver and Geoffrey and Frances were playing.
There was rather a noise as Oliver was still arguing with Miss Harvey and her brother about Bun, and Lucy was asking questions, so that John and David Leslie came in without being noticed, except by Lettice, whose heart battered her so violently that she had to tell it quite contemptuously how confident she had been all along that David would come. John, who was as kind as could be, took charge of Lucy and explained everything to her while David approached Lettice.
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