by Barbara Pym
‘It isn’t a dressing-gown,’ said Prudence rather impatiently; ‘it’s a housecoat. And in any case I don’t know what you mean by “all right”.’
‘No, it’s a very decent garment really, with long sleeves and a high neck.’ Jane picked up a fold of the full skirt and stroked the velvet. ‘I suppose what I meant was would people think anything of it if they knew.’
Prudence laughed. ‘Oh, really, Jane! It certainly isn’t like you to worry about what other people would think.’
‘No. I suppose it isn’t. I was just thinking of you, really. A married woman does feel in some way responsible for her unmarried friends, you know.’
‘Really? That hadn’t occurred to me. In any case, I’m perfectly well able to look after myself,’ said Prudence rather touchily.
‘Darling, of course! — only wondered …’ Jane paused, for really it was difficult to know how to ask what she wanted to know, assuming that she had any right to ask such a question. ‘I suppose everything is all right between you and Fabian?’ she began tentatively.
‘All right? Why, yes.’
‘I mean, there’s nothing wrong between you,’ Jane laboured, using an expression she had sometimes seen in the cheaper women’s papers where girls asked how they should behave when their boy-friends wanted them to ‘do wrong’.
‘But I don’t understand you, Jane. Did you think we’d quarrelled or something? Because we certainly haven’t, I can assure you.’
‘No, it wasn’t that. I don’t seem to be putting it very clearly, what I was trying to ask was, are you Fabian’s mistress?’ As soon as she had said it, Jane found herself wanting to laugh. It was such a ridiculous word; it reminded her of full-blown Restoration comedy women or Nell Gwynn or Edwardian ladies kept in pretty little houses with wrought-iron balconies in St. John’s Wood.
Prudence burst into laughter, in which Jane was able to join her with some relief.
‘Really, Jane, what an extraordinary question — you are a funny old thing! Am I Fabian’s mistress? Is there anything wrong between us? I couldn’t imagine what you meant!’
Jane looked up from her Ovaltine hopefully. ‘I don’t really know how people behave these days,’ she said.
‘Well, I mean to say — one just doesn’t ask,’ Prudence went on. ‘Surely either one is or one isn’t and there’s no need to ask coy questions about it. Now, Jane, what about a hot-water bottle? Did you bring one with you?’ Prudence stood up, slim and elegant in her red velvet housecoat.
Jane said, ‘No, but I don’t mind about a bottle, really I don’t, though if you have a spare one it might be a comfort.’ She felt a little peevish, as if she had been cheated, as indeed she had. She also felt a little foolish — naturally, she should have known that Prudence was (or wasn’t) Fabian’s mistress.
‘What about Arthur Grampian?’ she asked. ‘Is there still that negative relationship between you?’
‘Oh, poor Arthur,’ said Prudence lightly. ‘He’s a dreary old thing, in a way, but rather sweet.’
Jane clasped her hot-water bottle to her bosom and went to her room. She felt out of touch with Prudence’s generation this evening.
Chapter Thirteen
JANE RETURNED HOME feeling quite pleased with the result of her visit to London. The meeting of the literary society had been interesting, it had ‘made a change’, as people said, and she had enjoyed staying with Prudence. Though she was really no wiser than before about the exact relationship between Prudence and Fabian, it seemed that things were going well; the position was satisfactory, and no doubt their engagement would be announced quite soon, perhaps when the real spring weather came. Jane began to imagine Prudence settled in the village as Fabian’s wife. It would be such a comfort to have her near and she would certainly make an admirable mistress — in the right sense, Jane told herself smilingly — of his house. She could give cultured little dinner parties with candles on the table and the right wines and food. She might even wear that becoming red velvet housecoat, which Jane had mistakenly called a dressing-gown. It would be perfectly suitable to receive guests in.
On the afternoon following her return, Jane received a message from Miss Doggett asking her if she would very kindly help her and Miss Morrow to pack up poor Mrs. Driver’s things, which were to go to the distressed gentlewomen. Naturally, Jane accepted the invitation eagerly; they were to Chapter Thirteen start at half-past three, after Miss Doggett had had her rest, so it could be assumed, Jane decided, that there would be tea at some time during the proceedings.
She found Miss Doggett and Miss Morrow already sorting out the clothes in the drawing-room when she arrived.
‘I am going to send most of these things to the Society for the Care of Aged Gentlewomen,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘Not that poor Constance was aged herself, but one does feel that they need good clothes, the elderly ones.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Jane agreed; ‘when we become distressed we shall be glad of an old dress from Marks and Spencer’s as we’ve never been used to anything better.’
Miss Doggett did not answer, and Jane remembered that of course she went to her dressmaker for fittings and ordered hats from Marshall’s and Debenham’s.
‘Miss Morrow and I, that is,’ she added, hardly improving on the first sentence.
‘I don’t intend to be a distressed gentlewoman,’ said Miss Morrow airily, ‘though I have been one for the first part of my life, certainly.’
‘Well, Jessie, I don’t know that there is much that you can do about it,’ said Miss Doggett comfortably. ‘Of course, there may be something for you when I have passed on.’
‘She may make a good marriage,’ said Jane quickly, folding up a black wool dress rather badly. ‘People can do that at any age, it seems.’
Miss Morrow looked almost smug, but said nothing.
‘Oh, that reminds me,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘I had a letter from Mrs. Bonner who works at the Aged Gentlewomen headquarters and she told me a piece of interesting news. That nice Miss Lathbury has got married — what do you think of that?’
‘Well, I never knew her,’ said Jane. ‘Did she work for the gentlewomen? And ought one to feel surprised at her marrying?’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘I was surprised. She seemed to have so much else in her life. Her work there and in the parish — it seems that she was the vicar’s right hand.’
‘Who has she married?’ asked Miss Morrow.
‘An anthropophagist,’ declared Miss Doggett in an authorita-tive tone. ‘He does some kind of scientific work, I believe.’
‘I thought it meant a cannibal — one who ate human flesh,’ said Jane in wonder.
‘Well, science has made such strides,’ said Miss Doggett doubtfully. ‘His name is Mr. Bone.’
‘That certainly does seem to be a connection,’ said Jane, laughing, ‘but perhaps he is an anthropologist; that would be more likely. They don’t eat human flesh, as far as I know, though they may study those who do, in Africa and other places.’
‘Perhaps that is it,’ said Miss Doggett in a relieved tone. ‘I read Mrs. Bonner’s letter rather quickly. But the main thing is that he seems to be most suitable, good-looking and tall, Mrs. Bonner said. Over six feet tall, I think.’
‘I never quite see why tallness in itself is so much sought after,’ said Jane, ‘though I dare say he has other qualities. I hope so for her sake.’
‘He is a brilliant man,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘She helped him a good deal in his work, I think. Mrs. Bonner says that she even learned to type so that she could type his manuscripts for him.’
‘Oh, then he had to marry her,’ said Miss Morrow sharply. ‘That kind of devotion is worse than blackmail — a man has no escape from that.’
‘No, one does feel that,’ Jane agreed. ‘Besides, he would be quite sure that she would be a useful wife,’ she added a little sadly, thinking of her own failures.
‘I will go and get tea,’ said Miss Morrow, slipping quietly from the room.
‘Talking of marriages,’ Miss Doggett began, ‘I often wonder whether Mr. Driver will ever marry again.’ She seemed to toss her sentence into the air hopefully for Jane to catch and throw back.
‘Well, I suppose it is to be expected,’ said Jane warily.
‘That friend of yours, Mrs. Cleveland.’ Miss Doggett hesitated. ‘I was wondering …’
‘Now, what were you wondering, Miss Doggett?’ Jane asked.
‘Whether they might marry,’ said Miss Doggett firmly, winding up a ball of string.
‘I really don’t know,’ said Jane. ‘Of course, they have met and I think they like each other — it is difficult to see further than that.’
‘I believe it would be an excellent thing,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘Mr. Driver is a lonely man.’
‘He always seems to be telling people that he is,’ said Jane.
‘And your friend, Miss Bates — isn’t that her name? — seems to be a very charming young woman.’
‘Yes, she is certainly,’ Jane agreed.
‘You see, poor Constance was older than he is,’ said Miss Doggett thoughtfully. ‘One feels that if he were married to a young, attractive woman there wouldn’t be any of those little— er—lapses. You see what I mean, of course.’
‘Yes, I do see.’
‘We know that men are not like women,’ went on Miss Doggett firmly. ‘Men are very passionate,’ she said in a low tone.
‘I shouldn’t like Jessie to hear this conversation,’ she added, looking over her shoulder. ‘But you and I, Mrs. Cleveland — well, I am an old woman and you are married, so we can admit honestly what men are.’
‘You mean that they only want one thing?’ said Jane.
‘Well, yes, that is it. We know what it is.’
‘Typing a man’s thesis, correcting proofs, putting sheets sides-to-middle, bringing up children, balancing the house-keeping budget — all these things are nothing, really,’ said Jane in a sad, thoughtful tone. ‘Or they would be nothing to a man like Fabian Driver. Therefore it is just as well that Prudence is an attractive young woman.’
There was a rattle of tea-things outside and Miss Morrow pushed open the door with a tray.
Conversation became more general during tea and ranged over parochial subjects, including the forthcoming meeting of the Parochial Church Council, of which Miss Doggett was a member. After tea the parcels were finished off and addressed and it was felt that a useful task had been accomplished.
As she walked out into the dusk of the March evening, Jane suddenly realised that spring was coming. Its arrival was less thrilling in the country than in London, and she wondered if Prudence was sensing it as she walked out of her office, noticing that the sky was a strange electric blue, that the starlings were twittering more loudly on the buildings; perhaps she was meeting Fabian that evening and he would have a bunch of mimosa for her.
But the next moment she knew that her fancy could not be reality, for she saw Fabian coming towards her through the blue dusk. Perhaps a sight of his beautiful, worn-looking face was wrhat she needed on the first evening of spring. Her heart lifted for a moment in quite an absurd way as she prepared to greet him.
‘A lovely evening,’ she said; ‘the first evening of spring. Have you been for a walk?’ She raised her eyes to his.
‘Yes, a short stroll. The rain seems to have kept off.’ He tapped his umbrella on the ground.
‘You take an umbrella for a country walk?’ said Jane in astonishment.
‘Yes, of course, if it looks like rain.’
‘And you’re wearing a hat and an overcoat and gloves,’ Jane went on, and probably woollen underwear too, she added to herself.
‘Yes, one is apt to catch cold at this time of year, I find,’ said Fabian, slightly on the defensive, for he sensed her hostility.
‘Oh, I never think of things like that,’ said Jane, tossing her head. ‘You’d, better hurry in or the night air will harm you.’ And with that she left him.
He looked after her as she went through the vicarage gate. No hat and that wild hair and that awful old coat and skirt. And lisle stockings too, he noted maliciously. He regarded it as an insult to himself that she should appear so carelessly dressed; he might perhaps have forgiven her if she had appeared at all confused or conscious of her shortcomings. Even Jessie Morrow, sharp though she was, did not take it amiss if he suggested some improvement in her appearance. He went in to his own house, smiling to himself, glad that he had not invited Jane Cleveland in for a glass of sherry.
When Jane got into the house she found Nicholas standing in the hall with a parcel in his hand. The absurd first-evening-of-spring feeling came back to her suddenly and she wondered if he had perhaps felt it too and brought her a present.
‘Look,’ he said undoing the wrapping. I thought I’d put them in my little cloakroom downstairs.’
On the table stood four soap animals in various colours, a bear, a rabbit, an elephant and a tortoise.
‘Kiddisoaps, for children, really,’ he explained. ‘I shall arrange them on the glass shelf.’ He went happily away, humming to himself.
If it is true that men only want one thing, Jane asked herself, is it perhaps just to be left to themselves with their soap animals or some other harmless little trifle?
‘Darling,’ she called out, ‘what do you think… ?’
‘I shall use the tortoise first,’ her husband was saying in his little cloakroom.
‘Fabian Driver takes an umbrella with him on a country walk and wears a hat and gloves.’
‘Does he?’ Nicholas emerged, beaming over his spectacles.
Beamy and beaky, mild, kindly looks and spectacles, Jane thought, whether in the Church or in the Senior Common Room of some Oxford College — it’s all one really.
‘There was a letter from Flora,’ he went on. ‘I haven’t opened it yet.’ He handed it to Jane.
Ah, Oxford in the spring, she thought, tearing open the letter to read Flora’s news. Her letters were more interesting now than they had been. Work seemed to be going well, Miss Birkinshaw was ‘rather remote’, but next term she and her friend Penelope were to go to Lord Edgar Ravenswood for tutorials, which would be ‘most stimulating’ — ‘imagine doing Paradise Lost with Lord Edgar!’ Jane felt herself unequal to the effort of imagining it and passed on to the end of the letter, which was concerned with Flora’s social life. She had been meeting a great many young men, as one still apparently did at Oxford; her favourite appeared to be somebody called Paul, of whom the letter was rather full. ‘He is reading Geography and is rather amusing…
‘Just imagine,’ Jane called out to her husband. ‘Flora has a young man called Paul who is reading Geography. And yet he is rather amusing!’
Nicholas appeared to find nothing strange in this, and Jane was left to ponder alone on the strangeness of anyone choosing to read Geography, which seemed to her, in her ignorance, a barren, dry subject, lacking the excitement of English or Classical Literature or Philosophy. Things are not what they were, she thought sadly, and at supper she felt very low, her spirits well damped down after the lift which the spring evening had given to them.
‘Oh, I can understand people renouncing the world!’ said Jane rather wildly as they sat down to a particularly wretched meal.
‘Well, I should not mind renouncing cold mutton and beetroot,’ said Nicholas evenly. ‘That would be no great hardship.’
‘We should not mind what we eat,’ said Jane, ‘and yet we do. That shows how very far we are from that state where we might renounce the world.’
Nicholas helped himself to more beetroot and they finished the meal in silence.
After supper Jane began rummaging in the drawer of her desk where her Oxford notebooks were kept, in which she had recorded many of her thoughts about the poet Cleveland. Creative work, that was the thing, if you could do that nothing else mattered. She sharpened pencils and filled her fountain-pen, then opened the books, looking forward with pleasurable anticipa
tion to reading her notes. But when she began to read she saw that the ink had faded to a dull brownish colour. How long was it since she had added anything to them? she wondered despondently. It would be better if she started quite fresh and began reading the poems all over again. Then she remembered that her copy of the Poems on Several Occasions was upstairs and it seemed too much of an effort to go up and get it. How much could she remember without the book? A line came into her head. Not one of all those ravenous hours, but thee devours … If only she were one of these busy, useful women, who were always knitting or sewing. Then perhaps it wouldn’t matter about the ravenous hours. She sat for a long time among the faded ink of her notebooks, brooding, until Nicholas came in with their Ovaltine on a tray and it was time to go to bed.
Chapter Fourteen
THE NEXT MEETING of the Parochial Church Council was to be held in the vicarage drawing-room as an experiment, for Nicholas, encouraged by his wife, imagined that an informal setting with comfortable chairs, the opportunity to smoke and possibly a cup of tea at some suitable point in the evening might create a more friendly atmosphere in which there was less likelihood of any unpleasantness.
It was arranged that Jane should slip out at a propitious moment and give the signal to Mrs. Glaze, who had consented to be in the kitchen that evening to make the tea and assist with the sandwiches and cakes. She had also agreed to answer the door-bell and admit the members as they arrived, while Jane and Nicholas waited, or perhaps cowered, in the dining-room until the time should come for them to emerge.
Mr. Mortlake, the Secretary, was the first to arrive, followed closely by the Treasurer, Mr. Whiting. They took their seats at the table facing the row of chairs and looked round the room critically, appraising the furnishings, which were less costly than those of their own homes, though in better taste, which they were unable to appreciate, since they noticed only the worm-eaten leg of a table or the broken back of a Chippendale chair.
‘Chairs from the bedrooms,’ said Mr. Mortlake laconically, pointing to a couple of white-painted, cane-seated chairs in the back row. ‘Dining-room chairs would be more in keeping.’