At the door he paused. ‘By the way, I should thank you.’
‘It’s nice to have an excuse for a break.’
‘I don’t just mean now. I mean at home. I don’t know how Janet would have managed without you. Especially with her father around.’
I felt myself blush. I couldn’t stand much more of this new David, considerate, enthusiastic and worst of all grateful.
‘Of course, I’m not sure how long he’ll be with us,’ he said, and the old David emerged once again. ‘In the nature of things it can’t be for ever.’ Then he smiled and the gears of his personality shifted again. ‘Bless you,’ he said, as priests do, and slipped out of the library.
I think coincidence is often a label we attach to events to confer a fake significance on them. But it makes me feel uncomfortable that on the same afternoon, a few minutes after David left, I had my first encounter with Francis Youlgreave.
I was cataloguing Keble’s three-volume Works of Richard Hooker. On the flyleaf of the first volume, opposite the bookplate of the dean and chapter, was the name F. St J. Youlgreave. Presumably Youlgreave had owned the book and later presented it to the library.
There was a strip of paper protruding from the second volume. I took it out. The top was brown and flaky where it had been exposed to the air but most of the strip had been trapped between the pages. It looked like a makeshift bookmark torn from a larger sheet. Both of the longer edges were ragged. One side was blank. On the other were several lines of writing in ink that had faded to a dark brown.
… a well-set-up boy perhaps twelve years old. He said he was going to visit his sister and their widowed mother who lodge in Swan Alley off Bridge Street. His name is Simon Martlesham and he works at the Palace where he cleans the boots and runs errands for the butler. It is curious how people of his class, even the younger ones, smell so unpleasantly of rancid fat. But when I gave him sixpence for helping me back to the house, he thanked me very prettily. He may be useful for …
Useful for what?
I made a note of where I had found the scrap of paper and put it to one side to show Canon Hudson. I didn’t like the comment about the smell of rancid fat. I wondered what the boy had told his mother and sister when he finally reached home in Swan Alley. I made a note of Youlgreave’s name on the index card for the Works of Richard Hooker.
I went back to the pile of books on my table and worked for another half an hour. I was on the verge of going out for a cigarette and a cup of tea when the door opened and Janet came in. She was rather pale and breathing hard.
‘Help!’ she said. ‘You’ll never guess what David’s done. He’s asked Canon Osbaston to dinner.’
17
Canon Osbaston, the principal of the Theological College, was the man whose job David wanted.
He had a taste for Burgundy and on Saturday morning David spent a good deal of money at Chase and Cromwell’s, the wine merchants in the High Street. He also showed an uncharacteristic interest in the food Janet was intending to serve. David was trying to butter up the old man but I don’t think he realized it. He could be astonishingly obtuse, especially where something he really cared about was concerned.
In honour of Canon Osbaston’s visit we were going to use the dining room. I spent part of the morning polishing the table and cleaning the silver. What we needed, I thought, was a well-set-up boot boy to take care of these little jobs about the house.
Janet was unusually quiet at lunch. She wasn’t irritable but her attention was elsewhere and there were vertical worry lines carved in her forehead. I assumed it was because of this evening. After lunch David went to play tennis at the Theological College. It was a fine day so I volunteered to take Rosie for a walk to give Janet a dear run in the kitchen. Rosie agreed to come on condition we went down to the river and fed the ducks. She was always a child who negotiated, who made conditions.
We walked down River Hill to Bishopsbridge. From there we went along the towpath until we found a cluster of mallards, two couples and their attendant families. We crumbled stale white bread and fed them.
‘Would those ducklings taste nicer than ducks?’ Rosie asked.
‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’ The idea of eating one of those fluffy little objects, halfway to being cuddly toys, seemed absurd. ‘Not as much meat on them as the older ones.’
‘We like lamb instead of sheep, and veal instead of cow,’ Rosie said. ‘So I wondered.’
What she said made perfectly good sense. I was pretty sure that if a cannibal had a choice of me and Rosie on the menu he’d go for Rosie. I turned away from the ducks, looking for a change of subject. That’s when I saw the Swan.
It was an L-shaped pub built of crumbling stone with an undulating tiled roof in urgent need of repair. A weather-beaten sign hung from one of the gable ends. I towed Rosie away from the river. There was a yard dotted with weeds in front of the pub, partly enclosed by the L. On one of the benches beside the front door an old man was sitting in the sunshine with his pipe and an enamel mug of tea.
‘Hello,’ I called out. ‘It’s a lovely afternoon.’
After a pause he nodded.
‘I was wondering, is there somewhere called Swan Alley near here?’
‘There is,’ he said in a broad Fen accent, ‘and then again there isn’t.’
Oh God, I thought, not another old fool who thinks he has a sense of humour. ‘Where is it?’
He took a sip of tea. ‘Just behind you.’
I saw a piece of wasteland used as a car park, separated from the towpath by a mechanics workshop built largely of rusting corrugated iron.
I turned back. ‘So it’s not there now.’
‘Just as well. Terrible place. Whole families in one room, and just a cold tap in the middle of a yard for all of them to share.’ He shook his head, enjoying the horror of it. ‘My old mother wouldn’t let me go there because of the typhoid. They had rats as big as cats.’ He studied me carefully to see how I took this last remark.
‘How wonderful. That must have been a record, surely?’
‘What was?’
‘Having rats that size. I hope someone had the sense to catch a few and stuff them. Is there a museum where you can see them?’
‘No.’
‘What a pity.’
He started to light his pipe, a laborious procedure which told me the conversation was over. I felt a little guilty for spoiling his fun but not much. Rosie and I walked up the lane towards Bridge Street.
‘Would baby rats be nicer to eat than full-grown ones?’ Rosie asked, though unfortunately not loud enough for the old man to hear.
We crossed Bridge Street and went through the wrought-iron gates that led into the lower end of Canons’ Meadow. The ground rose steadily upwards towards the Cathedral and, to the left of it, a mound of earth covered with trees, once the site of Rosington Castle. We walked up the gravel path to a gate into the south end of the Close. Canon Hudson was standing underneath the chestnuts on the other side talking to the bishop.
I tried to slip past them, but the bishop saw Rosie and beckoned us over. He was a tall, sleek man with a pink unlined face and fair hair turning grey. He was wearing a purple cassock that reminded me of a wonderful dress I’d once seen in a Bond Street window.
‘Hello, Rosie-Posie. And how are you today?’
She beamed up at him. ‘Very well, thank you, sir.’
Hudson introduced me to his lordship, who congratulated me briefly on my work in the library and then turned back to Rosie.
‘And how old are you, my dear?’
‘Four, sir. I’ll soon be five. Not next week, the week after.’
‘Five! Gosh! That’s very grown up. What presents are you hoping to get?’
‘Please, sir, I’d like an angel.’
‘A what?’
‘An angel.’
The bishop patted her shining head. ‘My dear child.’ His eyes swept from Hudson to me and he murmured, smiling, ‘Trailing clouds of glory, eh?’ Then he b
ent down to Rosie again. ‘You must ask your daddy and mummy to bring you over to my house one day. You can play in the garden. It’s lovely and big, and there’s a swing and a pond with some very large goldfish. When you come I’ll introduce you to them. And Auntie Wendy can come too. I’m sure she’d like to meet my fishies as well.’
And so on. The bishop seemed to have at his command an effortless flow of whimsicality. In an open contest he’d have knocked spots off J. M. Barrie. If anyone had told me at Rosie’s age that I looked like the Queen of the Fairies I’d have curled up with embarrassment. But she accepted it as her due.
‘I’m glad we bumped into each other,’ Hudson said to me while the episcopal gush flowed on. ‘I meant to drop in yesterday. Everything all right?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘I gather David found a model of the Octagon in the wall cupboard. Something for the dean’s exhibition.’
‘It was quite exciting, actually. It made a change from cataloguing books. Mind you, I’m not sure I’d have known what it was if he hadn’t been there.’ One memory jogged another. ‘By the way, I came across a scrap of paper with some writing on. It was in a book that once belonged to someone called Youlgreave.’
‘Ah yes. That would probably be Francis Youlgreave. He was the canon librarian about fifty years ago. What exactly did you find?’
‘It looked like part of a letter or diary. Something about giving a boy sixpence for helping him.’
‘He was a bit of an oddity, Canon Youlgreave. He had to retire after a nervous breakdown. If you come across anything else of his I’d like to see it. Would you make sure you do that?’
It wasn’t what he said so much as the way that he said it. Hudson looked so mild and inoffensive that those rare times when I saw his other side always came as a shock. His voice was sharp, almost peremptory. He had just given me what amounted to an order.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But now we mustn’t keep you any longer. Come along, Rosie, we mustn’t be late for tea.’
I dragged Rosie away from her mutual admiration society, said goodbye and walked towards the Cathedral and the Dark Hostelry. When we reached home, I opened the gate in the wall and Rosie ran ahead of me into the house. I found her and David waiting for me in the hall.
David was still in his tennis whites and his racket was on a polished chest near the door. I noticed that he’d knocked the vase of flowers on the chest, and a few drops of water glittered on the dark oak. Stupid man, I thought. If we didn’t wipe off the water soon, it would leave a mark.
‘Wendy, there you are.’ His voice was casual to the point of absurdity, a tangle of elongated vowels and muted consonants. ‘I thought I’d take Rosie downstairs and give her some tea.’
My face must have shown my surprise. But I managed a smile. ‘OK. How nice.’
He moved towards the stairs to the kitchen, towing Rosie. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said, interrupting Rosie who was telling him about the bishop and his fishies. ‘Janet asked if you could pop up and see her if you had a moment. She’s in our bedroom, I think.’
David give Rosie her tea? It was unheard of. Without taking off my hat, I went quickly upstairs and tapped on Janet’s door. I heard her say something. I twisted the handle and went in. She was sitting on the window seat looking at the Cathedral.
‘Are you all right?’ I said, walking towards her.
She turned to look at me. The tears welled out of her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
‘Wendy,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
I watched the tears running down her cheeks. ‘What’s wrong?’
She shook her head.
I went to her, put my hands on her arms and drew her towards me. She laid her head on my shoulder and began to sob. Between the sobs she muttered something.
‘I can’t hear you. What did you say?’
She lifted her tear-stained face. ‘I can’t bear it.’ She hiccuped. ‘Another one.’
‘Another what?’
Janet pulled away from me and blew her nose. ‘Another baby. I think I’m pregnant.’
18
Wine had a curious effect on Canon Osbaston, like water on a wilting plant. After two glasses of sherry and the first glass of Burgundy he moved on to a higher and more active plane of existence. As something of a connoisseur of the effects of alcohol, I watched with interest.
Osbaston had a big, unwieldy body, a long scraggy neck and a small bald head. My first impression was that he was like a tortoise, and this was not just because of his appearance. It was also because of the way he moved. You felt he should be encouraged to spend the winter in a cardboard box in the garage.
By the time we reached the veal cutlets, we were all rather merry. There were only the four of us round the table. John Treevor was capable of casting a blight on any social occasion, but fortunately he had been persuaded that he would be more comfortable having a tray upstairs. David was charming – he wasn’t in competition with Osbaston, quite the reverse. I had fortified myself with a slug of gin beforehand so I was ready to relax and enjoy myself. So was Janet once the main course was on the table. With the second glass of Burgundy, Osbaston told an elderly joke involving chorus girls which was actually quite funny.
‘Delightful to see such charming young ladies in the Close,’ he boomed across the table to David. ‘That’s what the Theological College lacks, you know – a woman’s touch. Mrs Elstree does her best, I’m sure, I don’t want to imply she doesn’t. But it’s not the same. Mark you, there’s bags of room for a family in the principal’s quarters.’ He nodded and if nods were words this one would have said, A nod’s as good as a wink. The little head swivelled to face Janet. ‘Which reminds me – how’s young Rosie?’
‘Asleep, I hope. She’s very well.’
‘A lovely name for a lovely child.’ He swallowed more wine. ‘It always reminds me of that story about dear old Winnington-Ingram when he was Bishop of London. Do you know it?’
‘I’m not sure I do,’ David said.
‘I had it from his chaplain. The bishop was a great believer in cold baths, you see, and their moral value. One day he was talking in the East End and telling his audience how splendid it was to have a daily tub. Most of them didn’t even have running water in their own homes, but I doubt if that occurred to the old boy. “And when I get out of my bath,” he told them, “I feel rosy all over.” At which a voice at the back of the hall pipes up, “’oo’s Rosie, then?”’
We laughed enthusiastically. David turned the conversation to the previous occupant of the Principal’s Lodging, a married man with a family.
‘Yes, one of the daughters kept the library in order. What was her name? Sibyl, I think.’ Osbaston inclined his head to me. ‘Just as you are doing here in the Cathedral Library, Mrs Appleyard. Do you think librarianship is a job that women are particularly suited to? One could define it as a specialized form of housekeeping applied to books. It requires efficiency, a tidy mind. Splendid womanly virtues. Don’t you agree?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I said. ‘In my experience, men tend to be both inefficient and untidy.’
His little brown eyes gleamed in the candlelight. ‘Too true, Mrs Appleyard, too true.’
David got up to fetch the second bottle of Burgundy from the sideboard. Janet looked anxiously at me. I raised my glass to her and drained the rest of the wine.
Osbaston leant towards me. ‘Once you’ve finished with the Cathedral Library, Mrs Appleyard, perhaps we should ask you to put our library in order for us.’
‘So you’ve suffered from male librarians as well?’
‘I think you’d find we’re a little better organized than the Cathedral Library.’ He turned back to David. ‘The last time I was in the Cathedral Library I happened to open Lowther Clarke’s Liturgy and Worship to check a reference and I found half of it had been eaten.’ There was a rumbling from deep in his interior. ‘Mice, I suppose. I expect they found it pretty hard going. But undoubtedl
y edifying. No, Mrs Appleyard, you’d find our library much less daunting.’
‘If the libraries are merged,’ David said, ‘Wendy’s help could be particularly useful.’
‘Doesn’t that depend on Canon Hudson?’ Janet said.
Osbaston nodded. ‘And on others. We mustn’t count our chickens, eh?’
‘No news on that front, I suppose?’ David asked, gesturing with the bottle towards Osbaston’s glass.
‘Not as far as I know. I gather Peter Hudson’s rather taken up at present with the exhibition. Another of the dean’s bright ideas.’ While Osbaston’s glass was being refilled he switched his attention to Janet and me. ‘Trollope was perfectly right, I’m afraid. Cathedral closes are breeding grounds for eccentricity. Present company excepted. Let’s hope the dean doesn’t make an exhibition of himself. Ha, ha.’
Janet smiled politely.
I said, ‘I gather some of the canon librarians have been a little eccentric. Francis Youlgreave, for example.’
‘Oh, him.’ Osbaston waved David and the bottle towards me. ‘Mad as a March hare. Of course, he wrote poetry, which may explain it. Have you read any of his stuff?’
‘I don’t think I have.’
‘There’s quite a well-known one, “The Judgement of Strangers”. Let’s see, how does it go?’ His voice dropped in pitch. ‘Then darkness descended; and whispers defiled The judgement of stranger, and widow, and child. Something along those lines.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘No one’s quite sure. My predecessor claimed it was based on a story Youlgreave found in the Cathedral archives. Something to do with a woman heretic being burnt at the stake. Can’t say I’ve ever come across it.’ Osbaston sipped his wine. ‘Pity he didn’t stick to poetry. He would have been all right then.’
‘What do you mean?’ Janet asked. ‘What happened to him?’
‘Went round the bend, my dear, had to resign. Unfortunately it wasn’t something that could be hushed up. But they must have seen it coming. If only they’d managed to persuade him to take leave of absence. The trouble was, they say the dean was a bit of a weakling, afraid of his own shadow. And I think there might have been a family connection between them. Anyway, Youlgreave was allowed to stay in residence far longer than he should have been. There were complaints, of course, but it’s actually quite hard to get rid of a canon. We’re protected by statute, you see. Finally the poor fellow lost all touch with reality and he simply had to go. Caused quite a scandal at the time, I believe.’
The Office of the Dead Page 9