Author: Barbara Pym
Category: Humorous
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‘What was that about a man being expected to sleep with an unmarried sister-in-law who is visiting his house?’ he asked.
‘That’s called a joking relationship,’ said Everard precisely.
‘Not exactly what one would call a joke,’ said Rocky, ‘though it could be fun. It would depend on the sister-in-law, of course. Does he have to sleep with her?’
‘Oh, Rocky, you don’t understand,’ said Helena impatiently. It was obvious that she and Everard did not appreciate jokes about their subject.
‘I wonder if the study of societies where polygamy is a commonplace encourages immorality?’ asked Rocky seriously, turning to Everard. ‘Would you say that it did?’
‘There is no reason why it should,’ said Everard.
“Do anthropologists tend to have many wives at the same time?’ he went on. ‘Have you found that?’
‘They would naturally tend to conceal such things,’ said Everard with a half smile, ‘and one could hardly ask them.’
‘Oh, they are drearily monogamous,’ said Helena, ‘and very virtuous in other ways too. Much better than many of these so-called good people who go to church.’ She turned a half-amused, half-spiteful glance towards me.
‘Well, Mildred, what do you say to that?’ asked Rocky.
‘Church-goers are used to being accused of things,’ I said. ‘I have never found out what exactly it is that we do or are supposed to do.’
‘We are whited sepulchres,’ said Everard. ‘We don’t practice what we preach. Isn’t that it, Helena?’
‘One expects you to behave better than other people,’ said Helena, ‘and of course you don’t.’
‘Why should we? We are only humans, aren’t we, Miss Lathbury?’
It seemed now as if we had changed sides. Before, Helena and Everard had been ranged against Rocky and me—now Everard was my partner. I have never been very good at games; people never chose me at school when it came to picking sides. But Everard had no choice. This state of affairs continued through dinner and afterwards when we went out into the street. Everard and I walked together, almost as if he had arranged it that way, but it cannot have been for the pleasure of my company, as our conversation was very poor.
‘Do you live near here?’ I asked, knowing that he did not.
‘No, I live in Chelsea. I suppose one would hardly call it near.’
‘No, but it isn’t as far away as if you lived in Hendon or Putney.’
‘That would be further, certainly.’
We walked a few steps in silence. I could hear Rocky and Helena having an argument in low angry tones.
‘Do you live in a house or a flat?’ I asked in a loud desperate voice.
‘I did live in my mother’s house after I came out of the Army, but I’ve just moved into a flat of my own, quite near.’
‘You were lucky to find one.’
‘Yes, I know the person who owns the house and one of the tenants happened to be leaving.’ He stood by a bus-stop. ‘I think I can get a bus from here.’
Helena and Rocky had caught us up and we stood in a little group by the bus-stop. Good-nights and thanks were exchanged.
‘Will you ring me up?’ said Helena to Everard.
‘I shall probably be away for a few days,’ he said vaguely.
At a meeting of the Prehistoric Society? I wondered.
‘Aren’t you coming to the next meeting?’ Helena persisted. ‘Tyrell Todd is reading a paper on pygmies.’
‘Oh, pygmies—well, I don’t know.’
At that moment Everard’s bus came and he got on to it without looking back.
Rocky found a taxi and we drove most of the way in silence, or rather Helena was silent while Rocky and I discussed the evening or as much of it as could be discussed.
‘You and Everard seemed to be having an interesting conversation,’ said Helena at last. ‘Was he declaring himself or something?’ Her tone was rather light and cruel as if it were the most impossible thing in the world.
‘He was telling me about his new flat,’ I said lamely.
‘Actually he might do very well for Mildred,’ said Rocky. ‘Had we thought of that? Obviously, we must find her a good husband.’
‘The driver seems to be going past our house,’ I said. ‘Did you tell him the number?’
‘Oh, this will do.’ Rocky tapped on the glass and we got out. We were rather far from our own door, and just as we were walking past the parish hall, Teddy Lemon and a group of lads came out, laughing and talking in their rough voices. My heart warmed towards them, so good and simple with their uncomplicated lives. If only I had come straight home after the paper. This was Julian’s boys’ club night and I could have been there serving in the canteen—much more in my line than the sort of evening I had just spent.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Love was rather a terrible thing, I decided next morning, remembering the undercurrents of the evening before. Not perhaps my cup of tea. It would be best not to see too much of the Napiers and their disturbing kind of life, but to meet only people like Julian and Winifred Malory and Dora Caldicote, from whom I had had a letter that morning. She hinted vaguely at ‘unpleasantness’ at school, perhaps the affair William had told me about, and asked if she might come and stay with me for a part of her Easter holiday. So I busied myself getting the little spare-room ready, arranging daffodils in a bowl on the mantelpiece and putting out the rather useless little embroidered guest towels. The room looked pretty and comfortable, like an illustration in one of the women’s magazines. I knew it would not look like that for long after Dora’s arrival and was a little sad when I went to talk to her over her unpacking and saw the familiar bulging canvas bag and her hair-net lying on the mantelpiece.
‘Why, Mildred,’ she exclaimed, ‘what have you done to yourself? You look different.’
No compliments, of course; Dora was too old and honest a friend ever to flatter me, but she had the power of making me feel rather foolish, especially as I had not realised that she might find any difference in my appearance since the last time we met. I suppose I had taken to using a little more make-up, my hair was more carefully arranged, my clothes a little less drab. I was hardly honest enough to admit even to myself that meeting the Napiers had made this difference and I certainly did not admit it to Dora.
‘You must be trying to bring William up to scratch,’ she said, ‘is that it?’
I laughed gratefully.
‘There’s not much you can do when you’re over thirty,’ she went on complacently. ‘You get too set in your ways, really. Besides, marriage isn’t everything.’
‘No, it certainly isn’t,’ I agreed, ‘and there’s nobody I want to marry that I can think of. Not even William.’
‘I don’t know anyone either, at the moment,’ said Dora.
We lapsed into a comfortable silence. It was a kind of fiction that we had always kept up, this not knowing anyone at the moment that we wanted to marry, as if there had been in the past and would be in the future.
‘How’s school?’ I asked.
‘Oh, Protheroe and I aren’t on speaking terms,’ said Dora vigorously. She was a small, stocky person with red hair, not at all like her brother, and could look very fierce at times.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘But I should imagine Miss Protheroe is rather difficult to get on with.’
‘Difficult! It’s a wonder that woman keeps any of her staff.’
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, well, I let my form go into chapel without hats one morning, and you know how she is about that sort of thing. Of course I’ve no use for any of this nonsense. . . .’ I let Dora go on but did not really listen, for I knew her views on Miss Protheroe and on organised religion of any kind. We had often argued about it in the past. I wondered that she should waste so much energy fighting over a little matter like wearing hats in chapel, but then I told myself that, after all, life was like that for most of us—the small unpleasantnesses rather than
the great tragedies; the little useless longings rather than the great renunciations and dramatic love affairs of history or fiction.
‘What would you like to do this afternoon?’ I asked. ‘Shall we go shopping?’
Dora’s face brightened. ‘Oh, yes, that would be nice.’
Later, as we were trying on dresses in the inexpensive department of a large store, I forgot all about the Napiers and the complications of knowing them. I was back in those happier days when the company of women friends had seemed enough.
‘Oh, dear, this is too tight on the hips,’ said Dora, her ruffled head and flushed face emerging through the neck of a brown woollen dress.
‘I’m not sure that it’s your colour,’ I said doubtfully. ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that we should avoid brown. It does the wrong kind of things to people over thirty, unless they’re very smart. When my brown coat is worn out I shall get a black or a navy one.’
‘Now you’re talking like a fashion magazine,’ said Dora, struggling with the zip-fastener. ‘I’ve always had a brown wool dress for every day.’
Yes, and look at you, I thought, with one of those sudden flashes of unkindness that attack us all sometimes. ‘Why not try this green?’ I suggested. ‘It would suit you.’
‘Good Heavens, whatever would people at school say if I appeared in a dress that colour?’ Dora exclaimed. ‘I shouldn’t know myself. No, I’ll just ask for the brown in a larger size. It’s just what I want.’
They had the dress in a larger size which was now a little too large, but Dora seemed perfectly satisfied and bought it. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Mildred,’ she complained. ‘You never used to bother much about clothes.’
‘Where shall we have tea?’ I asked, changing the subject because I felt myself unable to give a satisfactory explanation.
‘Oh, the Corner House!’ said Dora enthusiastically. ‘You know how I enjoy that.’
We made our way to one of these great institutions and found ourselves in an almost noble room with marble pillars and white and gold decorations. The orchestra was playing Si mes vers avaient des ailes and I was back in imagination in some Edwardian drawing-room. How had they been able to bear those songs? I wondered. Sometimes we could hardly bear them now, although we might laugh at them, the nostalgia was too much. I felt suddenly desolate in Dora’s company.
She was studying the menu with a satisfied expression on her face. ‘Scrambled eggs,’ she read, ‘but of course they wouldn’t be real. Curried whale, goodness, you wouldn’t feel like having that for tea, would you? I had an argument about it the other day with Protheroe—you know how strictly she keeps Lent and all that sort of nonsense—well, there she was eating whale meat thinking it was fish!’
‘Well, isn’t it?’
‘No, of course it isn’t. The whale is a mammal,’ said Dora in a loud truculent tone. ‘So you see it can hardly count as fish.’
The waitress was standing over us to take our order. ‘Just tea and a cake for me,’ I murmured quickly, but Dora took her time and ordered various sandwiches.
‘Was there unpleasantness about the whale?’ I asked unkindly.
‘Oh, no. I think Protheroe was rather upset though. I couldn’t help feeling it was one up to me—paid her back for all that fuss about wearing hats in chapel.’
The orchestra started to play a rumba and I to pour out the tea. Dora opened a sandwich and looked inside. ‘Paste,’ she declared. ‘I tell you what, Mildred, how would it be if we went down to the Old Girls’ Reunion on Saturday? You know they’re dedicating the window in memory of Miss Ridout? Had you thought of going?’
‘Oh, is it this Saturday? I had a notice about it, of course, but hadn’t realised it was so soon. It would be a nice expedition,’ I ventured. ‘The spring flowers would be out.’
We discussed the expedition further as we rode along Piccadilly on the top of a bus. The sun was out and there were still people sitting on chairs in the park.
‘It looks odd to see a clergyman holding somebody’s hand in public,’ said Dora chattily. ‘I don’t know why, but it does.’
‘Where?’ I asked.
‘Look—there,’ she said, pointing out a couple lolling in deckchairs.
‘Oh, but it can’t be!’ I exclaimed, but there was no doubt that the clergyman was Julian Malory and that the hand he was holding was Allegra Gray’s.
‘How do you mean it can’t be?’ said Dora looking again. ‘He certainly was holding her hand. Why, isn’t it Julian Malory? What a joke! Who’s he with?’
‘She’s a widow, a Mrs. Gray, who’s come to live in the flat at the vicarage.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, I suppose there’s nothing wrong in that?’
‘No, of course there isn’t,’ I said rather sharply. It was just thoroughly unsuitable, sitting there for everyone to see, not even on the hard iron chairs but lolling in deckchairs. ‘Fancy going into the park to hold hands, though, it seems rather an odd thing to do.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose they went there expressly for that purpose,’ said Dora stubbornly. ‘They probably went for a walk and decided to sit down and then somehow it came about. After all, holding hands is quite a natural affectionate gesture.’
‘How do you know?’ I heard myself say.
‘Mildred! What is the matter with you? Are you in love with the vicar or what?’ she said, so loudly that the people in front of us nudged each other and sniggered.
‘No, of course not,’ I said in a low angry tone, ‘but it seems so unsuitable, the whole thing. Winifred and everything, oh, I can’t explain now.’
‘Well, I don’t see what you’re making such a fuss about,’ said Dora, maddeningly calm. ‘It’s a lovely day and she’s very attractive and a widow and he’s not married, so it’s all right. I see quite a little romance blowing up.’
By the time we had got off the bus we were arguing quite openly. It was foolish and pointless but somehow we could not stop. I saw us in twenty or thirty years’ time, perhaps living together, bickering about silly trifles. It was a depressing picture.
‘After all a clergyman is a man and entitled to human feelings,’ Dora went on.
It was obvious to me now that she was in a kind of mood to disagree automatically with everything I said, for usually she maintained that clergymen didn’t count as men and therefore couldn’t be expected to have human feelings.
‘Julian isn’t the marrying sort,’ I persisted. ‘Anyway, Mrs. Gray wouldn’t be at all suitable for him.’
‘Oh, I think you’ve had your eye on him for yourself all this time,’ said Dora in an irritating jocular tone. ‘That’s why you’ve been smartening yourself up.’
It was useless to deny it, once she had got the idea into her head. I was grateful to see the grey bulk of Sister Blatt looming before us as we reached the church.
‘Hullo,’ she said as we came up to her. ‘What on earth’s happened to Father Malory?’ she asked. ‘Evensong’s in five minutes and there’s no sign of him. Miss Malory said he was going to a meeting at S.P.G. House this afternoon. It must have been a very long one.’ She laughed. ‘You don’t think he’s had a sudden call to the Mission Field, do you?’
‘Surely he would have come back here first and let us know?’ I said.
‘Oh, well, I dare say Father Greatorex will turn up,’ said Sister Blatt cheerfully and went into church.
Dora giggled. ‘We could tell her where Father Malory is, couldn’t we, Mildred? I think we should blackmail him.’
We went into the house. Dora decided to do some washing before supper and within half an hour the kitchen was festooned with lines of depressing-looking underwear—fawn locknit knickers and petticoats of the same material. It was even drearier than mine.
At supper we talked about our old school, William, and matters of general interest. Julian Malory was not mentioned again. I was in the kitchen making some tea when there was a knock at the door and Rocky’s head peeped round.
‘Helena has gone to hear a paper about pygmies,’ he said, ‘and I’m all alone. May I come in?’
‘Yes, do,’ I said, in a confused way, embarrassed by the washing hanging up.
‘My friend Dora Caldicote is here,’ I said, as he threaded his way through the lines of dripping garments.
‘Oh, what fun!’ he said lightly. ‘Are you going to give me some coffee?’
‘Well, we were having tea,’ I said, feeling a little ashamed, both of the tea and of myself for feeling ashamed of it, ‘but I can easily make you some coffee.’
‘No, indeed you won’t. I love tea.’
‘You are Mildred’s old school chum,’ he said to Dora in a teasing way. ‘I’ve heard all about you.’
Dora flushed and smiled. Oh, the awkward Wren officers, I thought, seeing them standing on the balcony at the Admiral’s villa. How they must have blossomed under that charm!
Rocky was standing by the window. ‘There’s your vicar,’ he said. ‘Would there be a service now?’
‘Is he alone?’ asked Dora.
‘Yes, very much so, and wearing rather a becoming cloak. I always think I should look rather well in one of those.’
‘We saw him holding somebody’s hand in the park this afternoon and Mildred was rather upset,’ said Dora gaily. ‘Poor man, I didn’t see why he shouldn’t.’
‘Oh, but we can’t have that,’ said Rocky. ‘I always look on him as Mildred’s property. But never mind,’ he turned towards me, ‘I don’t suppose his hand would be very pleasant to hold. We’ll find somebody better for you.’
‘He was supposed to be in church taking Evensong,’ said Dora, who would not leave the subject.
‘Oh, the poor man, I can imagine nothing more depressing on a fine weekday evening. Wondering if anybody will come or getting tired of seeing just the same faithful few. Why don’t we go out and have a drink?’ he asked in a bored way.
‘Not after drinking tea, thank you. I don’t think I should feel like it,’ I said.
‘Dear Mildred, you must learn to feel like drinking at any time. I shall make myself responsible for your education.’