“What about entertainment?” asked Timothy.
“Oh, you mean television and the radio. I’m afraid the local council won’t run to that, but most of the old ladies are in bed by nine o’clock. The electricity has to be turned off at the main at ten, so there’s no incentive to stay up.”
“What happens if one of them is taken ill in the night?” asked Alison.
“You mean because of having no lights? Thank goodness, since I’ve been warden, it hasn’t happened. They have regular medical examinations, you know, and a very thorough check-up before they are given a place here. Do sit down, and I’ll ring for some tea.”
When tea was over they were taken to see the hospital and the church. The hospital, which occupied the site of the monks’ dorter, was built over a kind of cloistral walk, so that none of it was on the ground floor. It consisted of two wards and a part which had been partitioned off to make quarters for the matron, who was a trained nurse, and from her sitting-room the original flight of stone steps used by the monks led down to the choir of the tiny Norman church.
She led the way down, but was called away by the porter who had admitted Timothy and Alison to the tower, and they were left alone to inspect the church.
“Absolutely unspoilt,” said Timothy, as they walked to the back of the small building in order to get the full effect of the Norman chancel arch and the three small Norman windows behind the altar. “Reminds me very much of Barfreston Saint Nicholas. Same arrangement of three very narrow lights at the east end—usually somebody has replaced them with Early English lancets, which I like, or with Decorated Gothic, which I don’t—and there’s the same blind arcading on either side of the chancel arch instead of the usual stone or painted screen. Absolutely perfect.”
The chancel arch was enriched with chevron and, on its outer arc, with billet moulding, and two grotesque heads, too much the prey of time to be recognisable as anything to which a name could be attached, acted as terminals to the arch and rested on the stone string-course. Below this were the chevron-moulded blind arches to which Timothy had referred.
Alison had walked to the altar rails to look at an early piscina and Timothy had walked back to examine the font, when one of the elderly inhabitants of the almshouses came in and began to dust the chairs which were there in lieu of pews. She straightened herself as Timothy approached the font and cackled, an unlikely sound in such a place.
“Fat lot of good a font be, eh, mister?” she said, not attempting to lower her cracked old voice. “I reckon as us what hev the bad luck to be mewed up in a place like this ’ave done with child-bearin’ and christenin’s and such.”
“I wonder why a font was ever put here,” said Timothy, looking at the heavy stone plaiting round the rim of the goblet-shaped basin and the heraldic beasts carved on the bowl. “One has to assume that the original congregation would have had no use for it, either.”
“And why do you say that, mister?”
“Because they were monks. This was their church and the chances are that, even in Norman times, they were celibates. The Cluniac reforms aimed at enforcing celibacy in canonical life, and at about the same time the so-called Lorraine movement was also concerned with reforming the canonical life itself and was trying to force community rules even on men they called clerks, who were not monks but secular canons serving the cathedrals.”
“My, mister, you be a scholar, I take it.”
“Oh, no, just interested in old churches and in church history, you know. What a lovely old building this is!”
“Well, I likes chapel myself. Loud ’ymns and a good sermon and none of this general confession and all the prayers writ down ’til you gets fair sick of ’em.”
“Do you people have to use this church, then?”
“No, us don’t ’ave to except now and then, but it makes somewhere a bit different to go, and chapel means a long walk on a wet Sunday.”
“You find it dull here?”
“Dull and dead. Glad I’ll be to get shut of it, and the sooner the better, I can tell ee.”
“I’m sorry to hear you say that.” At this point Alison, who was now wandering round the church and studying the carved capitals of the pillars, came up to join him and the old woman just as the warden re-entered the church and took them out of it. It had only one entrance and this was on the south side, a heavily ornamented Norman doorway carved with four recessed rows of mouldings, chevron, billet, and roll and, on its outermost semi-circle, with triangular-shaped wedges having holes in them to represent eyes, a primitive form of duckbill decoration, effective and somewhat startling. Equally startling was the behaviour of the old woman, who spat at one of the duckbills as she passed it.
“Well,” said the warden, as they left the church and the old woman, and strolled around what had been the cloister garth of the monastery, “can you hold out any hope, Mr. Herring? My nephew was certain you would do what you could to preserve us.”
“All I can do is to get our architect to come down and take a look at your buildings, but I ought to tell you that I’m not inclined to advise you to raise any high hopes. You see, all that is worth preserving, from my society’s point of view, the local council are already proposing to maintain,” said Timothy. “Your Tudor additions can be matched and, indeed, excelled, in lots of old almshouses. We may be able to insist that the council retain the hospital block, because it is built on the site of the monks’ dorter and still has the night stair to the church, but, frankly, your cottages are hardly worth bothering about, architecturally speaking.”
“Oh, dear! But what about my poor old ladies? I’m glad to have your opinion, but all the same, I think if you could see the horrid little almshouses in the town to which some of my pensioners are to be sent, you might reconsider your findings.”
“The trouble is,” said Alison, “that your old ladies are nothing to do with Phisbe’s work, you see. I expect Mr. Coningsby has told you the sort of things Tim’s committee can do, and that includes, of necessity, things they can’t do. We’re both terribly sorry about it, but it would be very wrong of us to raise your hopes. We simply don’t see your almshouses as a Phisbe job.”
“No, quite,” said Miss Coningsby-Layton, dispiritedly. “I see what you mean.”
“Everything now depends on the surveyor and Tom Parsons. All the same, I agree with my wife, as you know. I don’t really think yours a Phisbe job,” said Timothy. “I wish, for everybody’s sake, that it were, and, of course, I shan’t say anything to prejudice our architect. He’ll be free to make his own decision before anything is said to the committee.”
“Who prefer buildings to people, of course. But, Mr. Herring, what about these poor old women being uprooted, and perhaps separated, at their time of life? They’ll never settle down happily anywhere else,” protested the warden.
“It still isn’t our pigeon,” said Timothy gently. “I agree with you that it seems hateful to upset old people and destroy their peace and security, but the cobbler must stick to his last, and my job, and Phisbe’s, is only to make sure that nothing of historical and architectural value is destroyed. As you say, we deal with brick, wood, and stone, not with flesh and blood, unfortunately. I imagine the council have had this museum, park, and bathing-place on the agenda for some time, and that’s why no repairs have been carried out. They just seem to be waiting until your almshouses collapse. It’s a rotten way of doing things, but there it is.”
They took their leave on this pessimistic note, and Alison was silent for the first thirty miles of the journey; then she said,
“What did you make of the warden? Is she thinking only of the effect on her old ladies—or am I being cynical in asking that?”
“I don’t know. You’re thinking of our Coningsby, I suppose, and that his interest may not be wholly Phisbean.”
“Well, it’s a bit more than coincidence, wouldn’t you say, that he was the person who put the committee on to saving Lady Matilda’s Rest? You see, from what Miss Con
ingsby-Layton indicated, I’m left wondering whether, if they move those old ladies into other almshouses, Miss Coningsby-Layton won’t be out of a job.”
“Yes, I know. What very unpleasant minds we must both have!”
“Oh, had you thought the same thing?”
“I’m afraid I had. I think it sticks out a mile. I mean, she’s not exactly young, is she? Of course, she may have private means. I hope she has. Anyway, so far as Phisbe is concerned, I suppose the future welfare of Miss Coningsby-Layton is quite beside the point, and the fact that she’s Coningsby’s aunt wouldn’t weigh with me either way if I thought those almshouses ought to be preserved. Incidentally, I wouldn’t have minded a word with some of the other inmates. We’ve indulged in a bit of sob-stuff about the iniquity of splitting up these old ladies and wrecking their peace of mind by transferring them to other almshouses, but, so far as Mrs. Baines is concerned, she’ll be very sorry and disappointed if it doesn’t come off. She doesn’t have much to say in favour of Lady Matilda’s Rest, and neither had the one I spoke to in the church.”
“But do you think those two are necessarily typical of the inmates?”
“I couldn’t say. You’ve lived in a community of women . . .”
“Yes, but I had plenty of money, apart from my salary, and P.-B. is very liberal-minded about time off for the staff, and, of course, for a third of every year we weren’t in school at all. I don’t think my life was comparable with that of a Mrs. Baines. All the same, I’ll admit that tempers sometimes got a bit short and small personal differences of opinion sometimes got magnified out of all proportion to their real significance, especially towards the end of term. Why? What did Mrs. Baines have to say?”
“She hates Miss Melsom, with whom she’s paired off to take her turn at cooking; she is convinced that compulsory baths have shortened her life; she declares that the hospital matron is a martinet (which doesn’t surprise me; I think I’d be the same in matron’s place, with a dozen obstinate, unreasonable old ladies to deal with); and she complains that the warden doles them out inferior tea and not enough of it. She knows where the grass is greener, and that’s in a much bigger place in Danbury, where they run a self-service canteen presided over by paid staff and where the inmates have access to television and the radio and get a weekly session of Bingo run by some local women’s club with shopping vouchers for prizes.”
“Oh, dear! Yes, it does sound rather a far cry from Lady Matilda’s Rest. It seems as though some of Miss Coningsby-Layton’s old ladies might well be happier elsewhere. That dining-hall, for instance . . .”
“Yes, I know. Well, enough of all this, don’t you think? How about a complete change of subject? You were talking the other day about Madeira and the Dalmatian coast. Make your choice. From what Miss Coningsby-Layton was telling us, the council won’t be making a move this year, and Phisbe won’t do anything until the October committee meeting, so let’s talk about holidays. I’m sorry I put you off them. There wasn’t any need, after all. Speak your mind.”
“Before that, I want to go to Herrings again. I’ve thought of all kinds of things we can do to it. Besides, there’s the boat. When are we going to buy it? I think I’d rather spend the next month or two making plans than go abroad for a holiday.”
“You can make plans while we’re away. I’m not going to be done out of a place in the sun because of that wretched and ill-starred house I’ve been unfortunate enough to inherit. Anyway, I’ve bought a boat, but I don’t want the house or any part of it until I’ve sent in an army of gardeners to clear up the courtyard and the grounds, and even then I’m not sure you’ll really want to live there, although it might be only for part of the summer. Another thing: I also want to get a plumber in and an expert on drainage to supervise him, and perhaps by the time we get home from our holiday the place will strike me a bit more favourably. Won’t that do?”
“Yes, of course, darling, but I don’t want to wait all that time before you take me to look at it again. What’s the matter with next week-end? We need not stay the night in the house if you don’t want to. It would be rather nice to stay Friday night in Cambridge, visit Herrings on Saturday, go back to the same hotel, and come home on Sunday. What do you think about that?”
“Well, all right,” said Timothy, “so long as we don’t stay the night in the beastly place.”
“I suppose you’ve been there again this week?”
“Oh, yes, I thought I’d better find out all the things which need attention, but the more I see of that house the less I like it. Sometimes I think the best thing would be to pull it down and build a country cottage on the site.”
“Could we do that? It would solve a host of problems if we could.”
“Well, first I’ll get the surroundings cleared up, and then we’ll see.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
An End to Matilda’s Rest
“Sunk is my sight; set is my Sun;
And all the loome of life undone:
The staffe, the Elme, the prop, the shelt’ring wall
Whereon my Vine did crawle,
Now, now, blown downe; needs must the old stock fall.”
An Ode to Master Endymion Porter, Upon His Brother’s Death.
“Which I should wish to give in my notice, sir,” said Mrs. Gee, “as from today.”
“I’m sorry about that,” said Timothy insincerely, “but you must admit that the house isn’t really habitable at present and the courtyard and grounds are in a particularly sorry state. I must have something done about them, you know, however inconvenient it may be.”
“With Jabez away, sir, I should not have a minute’s peace of mind with workmen and gardeners and such all over the place.”
“Oh, is Jabez away?”
“Which he is likely to be for some weeks, sir, and I should not wish to be left to cope on my own. Not with so many strange men about the place, sir.”
“Oh, well, you must please yourself, of course, Mrs. Gee. Have you somewhere to go?”
“Which my married niece in Wapping will have me and welcome, she keeping a newspaper and tobacco shop and glad of some help in the place now her eldest have gone up north.”
“Oh, that’s all right, then. Well, look, no need to work out your notice, Mrs. Gee. Suppose I give you your month’s money? Would you like to go at once?”
“Which it is very kind of you, sir, and I’ll be glad to, there being a train from Horsebridge at four o’clock and my boxes packed and ready.”
“Oh, good. I’ll run you to the station.”
“Which I should have liked to stay and oblige, sir, but could not bring myself, my horror being of strange men, sir, right from a young girl once took advantage of.”
“Yes, I quite understand. Are your boxes downstairs? Oh, they are? All right, then, I’ll stick them in the boot of the car and collect Mrs. Herring and we’ll be off. Wouldn’t Ipswich station be more convenient for you than Horsebridge, though? You could get a fast train direct to London from Ipswich.”
“Which, in the ordinary way, I would be glad to do, sir, but I have an appointment in Horsebridge as I would be obliged to keep, it being with a friend of mine and today being Saturday, as is the end of the week, not to intrude upon giving you my notice, sir.”
Timothy translated this involved statement.
“Oh, very well, then. It’s all the same to me,” he said. He loaded her two suitcases and a small trunk into the boot and on the back seat of the car and they drove the few miles to Horsebridge. The tower of Lady Matilda’s Rest came into view.
“I did ’ear as they was thinkin’ of pullin’ that old place down,” said Mrs. Gee, from her seat at the back where she was flanked by one of her suitcases and a shopping basket.
“Yes, I heard that, too,” said Timothy. “I went to have a look at it the other day, but I was told that only the cottages were to go. The tower and the rest of it will stay.”
“Them poor old dears! Whatever will become of ’em
? That’s the only ’ome they knows.”
“Perhaps they’ll be the better for a change. We’ll hope so, anyway. Do you want to go straight to the station?”
“No, if you please, sir, which I wants to do a bit of shoppin’ first. It don’t do to go empty-’anded to relations. It ain’t like friends, as is glad of your company and ’as invited you to share their bread and board. Relations—mine, at any road—is always graspin’.”
“Right you are. You just tell me where to drop you, and I’ll pull up as near the spot as I can. I’m not allowed to stop just anywhere, as you know.” He wondered why the story about having to meet a friend had been changed, but he followed her directions and pulled up near the covered market. There were parking spaces, but no meters. The spaces had been designed for the convenience of shoppers and there was a waiting-time of half an hour only. Timothy was unable to pull away at once because a car in one of the parking spaces to his left backed out and took a few moments to turn. When they were on the road again and free of town traffic, Alison remarked,
“That woman whom Mrs. Gee met at the entrance to the market was the woman you were talking to in Lady Matilda’s church while you were looking at the font.”
“Oh, really?” said Timothy. “I suppose the inmates must get to know people outside. Almshouses aren’t prisons. I believe the old ladies often wander into the town.”
“It’s quite a long way from Lady Matilda’s Rest.”
“I suppose there’s a bus, and they get pocket-money from the council.”
“Yes, but their O.A.P. is mortgaged to pay for their keep, I suppose. How do you know about the pocket-money?”
“The disgruntled old soul whose knitting I coped with while I sat on her cottage seat gave me a résumé of the way the place is run.”
“Funny Mrs. Gee should know one of them. I shouldn’t have thought she was the type to make friends with the poor and needy.”
Bismarck Herrings (Timothy Herring) Page 9