Jane and Prudence

by Barbara Pym

  ‘It seems sometimes that we must hurt people we love,’ said Fabian, stroking her hair. ‘Oscar Wilde said, didn’t he… ?’

  ‘Let’s not bother about him,’ said Jessie. ‘I always think he must have been such a bore, saying those witty things all the time. Just imagine seeing him open his mouth to speak and then waiting for it to come out. I couldn’t have endured it.’

  Fabian smiled. He hadn’t been quite sure what it was that Oscar Wilde had said, anyway.

  Was he thinking of Constance or of Prudence? Jessie wondered. He had hurt one and he might be going to hurt the other. How strange their names were, when one came to think of it, Constance and Prudence… . Jessie was somehow a more comfortable name, without any reproach in it. Did he love Prudence, anyway, and did she love him? Oh, well, thought Jessie as Fabian bent his head to kiss her, even if she did she would soon get over it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  JANE WAS making the beds, a humble task that she felt was within her powers. The window-cleaners had arrived shortly after breakfast and it was a kind of game trying to evade them. If I go down to the uttermost ends of the earth, Jane thought, seizing a flattened pillow and beating it into roundness, there they will find me. And sure enough here was the ladder propped up against the sill, the sound of footsteps mounting and then the face at the window, surprised, perhaps, to see the vicar’s wife making a bed. Mrs. Glaze should do the beds really, but then she couldn’t come very early, and by the time she arrived there was the breakfast washing-up, the vegetables to do for lunch and the drawing-room to be sketchily mopped and dusted in case anyone should call….

  The face at the window was impassive now, but that seemed more unnerving than the surprised look, and suddenly Jane fled, leaving the bed half made and her husband’s striped pyjamas lying on the floor. I suppose it may interest him to see the vicar’s pyjamas, she thought, but was the window-cleaner a church-man? Now that she came to think of it, she couldn’t remember ever having seen him in church. Perhaps he was a Roman or Chapel or went to the little tin-roofed Gospel Hall by the gasworks; or perhaps he was nothing — a frightening thought, like seeing into the dark chasm of his mind. Of course, it was just possible that he was merely High and carried a candle or swung a censer at Father Lomax’s church. Yes; that was it. Jane saw him now through a cloud of incense, his rugged features softened …

  ‘Nicholas!’ she called out, but there was no answer from the study, and then she remembered that he had gone out immediately after breakfast, she couldn’t remember where. Somebody was ill or dying; he had gone to play golf or perhaps to the church to see how the decorating was going; he had taken to looking in on a Saturday morning to encourage the’ ladies, and Jane felt that they really welcomed that more than her own uncertain help. Anyway, he was not here, so she could not confide her thoughts about the window-cleaner to him… .

  ‘Madam!’ Mrs. Glaze appeared at the foot of the stairs in her hat and flowered pinafore. ‘Mr. Mortlake is here.’

  ‘Mr. Mortlake? Good heavens!’ Jane called out in agitation, her thoughts going back to the meeting of the Parochial Church Council and her outspokenness about the magazine cover. Had he come to see her privately about it? To reproach her for her interference?

  ‘I have shown him into the drawing-room,’ went on Mrs. Glaze.

  ‘The drawing-room? Yes, certainly.’ Jane smoothed back her tousled curly hair with her hands. ‘I will come down.’

  ‘Well, madam, I don’t think you need disturb yourself.’

  ‘Why, is the vicar with him?’

  ‘Mr. Mortlake has come to tune the piano,’ said Mrs. Glaze in a surprised tone.

  ‘To tune the piano — of course!’Jane almost shouted.

  She ran downstairs into the hall. There was his hat, a bowler of rather an old-fashioned shape, lying on a chair. Oh, the relief of it! He had come not to scold her, but to tune the piano! She wanted to rush in to him, to greet him with some exaggerated mocking gesture, ‘Buon giorno, Rigoletto,’ posturing and bowing low. But he would not appreciate it or understand. So she seized his hat and placing it on her head, pirouetted round the hall singing,

  O Donna Clara,

  I saw you dancing last night …

  From inside the drawing-room came the sound of Mr. Mortlake striking out single notes, cautiously, then rather impatiently. It would be some time before he ventured on to the rich chords and harmonies peculiar to his profession. Jane replaced the hat on the chair and opened the front door.

  A young man, who had evidently been about to ring the bell, stood on the doorstep. He was rather flashily dressed and carried a large suitcase.

  ‘Good morning, madam,’ he said. ‘Are there any old clothes for sale here?’

  ‘This is the vicarage,’ said Jane in a rather vague tone.

  ‘Oh, I see …’ His confidence seemed to leave him for a moment.

  ‘So you wouldn’t really expect any, would you?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Unless the ones I’m wearing would do?’

  ‘The ladies like to keep old things to wear in the mornings,’ he said, recovering his poise. ‘I know that.’

  ‘I expect I shall go on wearing these all day,’ said Jane. ‘My days don’t really have mornings as such, not in that way, I mean.’

  The young man edged away from her.

  He thinks he has come to a private mental home, thought Jane, the patients are not dangerous, but are allowed to take walks in the grounds. ‘I’m sorry I can’t oblige you,’ she said pleasantly. ‘What a lovely morning it is,’ she added as he wished her a hasty good morning and hurried out through the gate.

  And it certainly did seem to have improved, after that shock about Mr. Mortlake.

  She would wander in the garden, thinking about what she should write. It was good to be alive, in the spring. Daffodils were out in the grass under the chestnut tree, which was showing sticky buds, and in the lane at the back of the church a plant with bright leaves and greenish flowers was flourishing. Dog’s mercury — Jane remembered the name from childhood, a strange, rather sinister name … what was its derivation? she wondered. Was it perhaps a corruption of some other name? She went up to the chestnut tree and leaned her head against its trunk. Perhaps she could hear the sap rising and the flowers preparing to burst out of the buds. Not one of all those ravenous hours, but thee devours? Well, yes, that was true still, but it mattered less on a spring morning. She would cut some buds and bring them back into the house. They should stand in a great jar on the hall table, to show callers that there was hope at the vicarage. But she would need something to cut them with, some implement from the potting-shed, where the tools were kept. She ran over the lawn and round to the back of the house, but then she stopped.

  A woman in a tailored costume and a fur was looking over the back gate, as if about to enter it. Behind her stood a stout, rosy-faced clergyman with white hair.

  ‘Ah, Mrs. Cleveland. Good morning!’ The man’s voice rang out. ‘Do forgive us for calling so unceremoniously, but one usually finds the womenfolk round at the back of the house these days, especially in the mornings.’

  Womenfolk, thought Jane irrelevantly, how silly that sounded. And all this emphasis on the mornings.

  ‘In the kitchen, doing the cooking,’ went on the clergyman as if in explanation.

  ‘Mrs. Glaze is doing that,’ said Jane. It now occurred to her to wonder who her callers were and how they could know about the back gate, which was not immediately apparent. The clergyman, surely, was Canon Pritchard; therefore the woman must be his wife. They had thought to creep round the back and peer in at windows to surprise her in the kitchen, perhaps catch her in the very act of stubbing out a cigarette in the tea-leaves in the sink basket. She felt almost triumphant that they should have failed.

  ‘Do come in,’ she said, trying to sound gracious. ‘My husband isn’t in at the moment, but he should be coming back soon.’

  They walked round to the front of the house and into the h
all. From the drawing-room came the sound of somebody playing the piano in a rather florid Edwardian style. Mr. Mortlake was on his last lap. The arpeggios flowed; the chords rippled and modulated from major to minor and back again.

  ‘This is like old times,’ cried Mrs. Pritchard, ‘to” hear Mr. Mortlake playing again. His style is so very much his own.’

  The door opened and Mr. Mortlake came out, emerged almost, a tall, dignified figure.

  ‘Well, Daniel,’ said Canon Pritchard, ‘this is a pleasant surprise.’

  Jane noticed that Mr. Mortlake’s face really did light up. ‘Why, it’s the Canon,’ he said. ‘And Mrs. Pritchard. This is indeed a pleasant surprise. And how are you both keeping?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Daniel; and you’re looking very fit too.’

  Jane waited for Mr. Mortlake to say something about it not being like the old days with Canon Pritchard gone, but the Canon, perhaps realising that something of the kind might come and wishing to spare Jane’s feelings, had contrived to dismiss him in a very gracious kind of way that could not possibly give offence.

  The party moved into the drawing-room. Jane wondered what time it was and what, if any, refreshment she could offer to her visitors. There was no sherry; she knew that. Presumably there could always be a cup of tea or even coffee, but were there any biscuits?

  ‘Ah, you have your summer curtains up,’ said Mrs. Pritchard, looking round the room. ‘We always found this room so draughty even in summer that I often waited until May before I took down the velvet ones.’

  ‘Yes, these are quite light ones. It has been a mild spring,’ Jane observed. ‘My husband likes air, of course.’ In the daytime when the curtains were drawn back they looked better. Had the Pritchards called in the evening they would have noticed the shortness and skimpiness of the curtains, which did not even cover the windows in places.

  ‘I find the curtains we had here a little too large for my new drawing-room,’ went on Mrs. Pritchard.

  ‘Really?’ said Jane. This was not much of a conversation for the Canon, she thought, wishing that Nicholas would appear.

  ‘Do you find your new position congenial?’ she asked, trying to draw him into the conversation.

  ‘Well,’ he smiled, ‘it could hardly be otherwise. The Bishop and I were at Rugby together, you know.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know. How nice. Arnold of Rugby,’ Jane murmured.

  ‘He was a little before my time, of course,’ said the Canon.

  ‘But the tradition still remains?’ asked Jane. ‘The lines on Rugby Chapel… I wish I could remember some of them now, but English Literature stopped at Wordsworth when I was up at Oxford, and somehow one doesn’t remember things so well that one read since.’

  Mrs. Pritchard stirred a little restlessly in her chair.

  There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Glaze came in bearing a silver tray with a coffee-pot and cups upon it.

  Jane turned to her gratefully. She would never have believed that Mrs. Glaze could show this treasure-like quality. No doubt it was for the Canon and his wife rather than for herself, but it had saved the situation. She had been feeling that things were pretty desperate if one found oneself talking about and almost quoting Matthew Arnold to comparative strangers, though anything was better than having to pretend you had winter and summer curtains when you had just curtains.

  ‘Would you like me to pour out, madam?’ Mrs. Glaze asked.

  ‘Yes, please do, Mrs. Glaze,’ said Jane, relaxing, and noticing with surprise that there was a plate of bourbon biscuits on the tray. Now wherever had Mrs. Glaze found those? she wondered.

  ‘Black for you, madam?’ asked Mrs. Glaze, turning to Mrs. Pritchard, ‘and white for the Canon?’

  It appeared that she had remembered correctly.

  Conversation flowed more smoothly now. Various people in the village were asked after and discussed, though in not quite such an interesting way as Jane could have wished. Also she was very careful with her own comments, remembering how her tongue and curiosity were apt to run away with her.

  ‘Has Fabian Driver married again?’ Mrs. Pritchard asked.

  ‘No, not yet,’ said Jane.

  ‘Not yet? Do you think he has anyone in mind?’ Mrs. Pritchard leaned forward a little in her chair.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, but I suppose he will some time. After all, he is still a young man; barely forty, I believe.’

  ‘Of course, there is nobody here for him,’ went on Mrs. Pritchard. ‘He would have to look further afield.’

  ‘Yes, one does feel that he must be rather lonely here… .’

  There was a pause and the Canon stood up. ‘Well, my dear,’ he turned to his wife. ‘I think we shall have to be on our way.’

  Mrs. Pritchard stirred a little restlessly in her chair.

  There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Glaze came in bearing a silver tray with a coffee-pot and cups upon it.

  Jane turned to her gratefully. She would never have believed that Mrs. Glaze could show this treasure-like quality. No doubt it was for the Canon and his wife rather than for herself, but it had saved the situation. She had been feeling that things were pretty desperate if one found oneself talking about and almost quoting Matthew Arnold to comparative strangers, though anything was better than having to pretend you had winter and summer curtains when you had just curtains.

  ‘Would you like me to pour out, madam?’ Mrs. Glaze asked.

  ‘Yes, please do, Mrs. Glaze,’ said Jane, relaxing, and noticing with surprise that there was a plate of bourbon biscuits on the tray. Now wherever had Mrs. Glaze found those? she wondered.

  ‘Black for you, madam?’ asked Mrs. Glaze, turning to Mrs. Pritchard, ‘and white for the Canon?’

  It appeared that she had remembered correctly.

  Conversation flowed more smoothly now. Various people in the village were asked after and discussed, though in not quite such an interesting way as Jane could have wished. Also she was very careful with her own comments, remembering how her tongue and curiosity were apt to run away with her.

  ‘Has Fabian Driver married again?’ Mrs. Pritchard asked.

  ‘No, not yet,’ said Jane.

  ‘Not yet? Do you think he has anyone in mind?’ Mrs. Pritchard leaned forward a little in her chair.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, but I suppose he will some time. After all, he is still a young man; barely forty, I believe.’

  ‘Of course, there is nobody here for him,’ went on Mrs. Pritchard. ‘He would have to look further afield.’

  ‘Yes, one does feel that he must be rather lonely here…

  There was a pause and the Canon stood up. ‘Well, my dear,’ he turned to his wife. ‘I think we shall have to be on our way.’

  ‘We are to have luncheon with the Bishop,’ Mrs. Pritchard explained. ‘We left the motor outside.’

  Going out to luncheon and in a motor, thought Jane, seeing a high Edwardian electric brougham and Mrs. Pritchard in a dust-coat and veiled motoring cap. But well-bred people talked like this even to-day, Jane believed. She hoped they would get a good meal at the Palace, but was prudent enough not to make any enquiries.

  In the hall Canon Pritchard paused and held out his hands with a vague gesture. Jane thought for one wild moment that he was attempting to give her some kind of a blessing, but it appeared that he wanted to wash.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Jane, showing him into the little cloakroom. ‘I wonder if there is a clean towel?’ she added, knowing that there could not possibly be one.

  ‘Yes, thank you, there is,’ Canon Pritchard called out. Jane supposed that Mrs. Glaze must have put one there when she heard them arrive, and she now realised that had they been able to stay to lunch an adequate meal would have been provided.

  Mrs. Pritchard would have been able to say, ‘We drove over to the Clevelands in the motor and stayed to luncheon.’

  Mrs. Pritchard did not appear to want to wash. — No doubt the Palace offered better ameniti
es, Jane decided, as they stood rather uncertainly in the hall.

  ‘You must come over to luncheon one day,’ Mrs. Pritchard observed, ‘and bring your husband.’

  ‘Thank you. We should like to very much,’Jane said.

  Canon Pritchard came out of the cloakroom and the three of them went out to the motor, which was not of an Edwardian type, rather to Jane’s disappointment.

  ‘Have the Clevelands a young child?’ the Canon asked his wife as they drove away.

  ‘I believe their daughter is about eighteen. She is at Oxford, I think.’

  ‘A strange thing that,’ said the Canon, changing gear. ‘One would have thought there was a child about the place. The soap in the wash-basin was modelled in the form of a rabbit, and there were other animals, too, a bear and an elephant.’

  ‘And you washed your hands with a soap rabbit?’ asked his wife seriously.

  ‘Certainly. There was no other soap. I wonder if Mrs. Cleveland put them there; she seems rather an unusual woman.’

  ‘Yes, there is something strange about her.’

  ‘I think Cleveland is quite sound,’ went on the Canon. ‘None of this Modern Churchman’s Union or any of that dangerous stuff…’ He hesitated, perhaps meditating on the soap animals and what they could signify.

  Jane and Mrs. Glaze were also talking about them. Jane had thanked her for bringing in the coffee and biscuits at such an opportune time and for providing the clean towel.

  ‘Oh, madam,’ said Mrs. Glaze, ‘but I couldn’t find a new tablet of soap.’

  ‘Wasn’t there any in the cloakroom?’

  ‘Only the animals, madam.’

  ‘Well, I believe it’s quite good soap. I expect the Canon would enjoy using them. Men are such children in many ways.’ Though perhaps not all in the same way, Jane thought. He may have regarded them as some dangerous form of idolatry.

  ‘I was hoping he might think they belonged to Miss Flora,’ said Mrs. Glaze.

  ‘Yes, he might have thought that. After all she is still a child, really.’ And yet even she was old enough to enjoy doing Milton with Lord Edgar Ravenswood and to fall in love with a young man called Paul who was reading Geography. Could children do these things?