Author: Barbara Pym
Category: Humorous
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‘Yes, Harriet, it’s Theo Grote,’ said Belinda. ‘I knew you would be interested to hear that.’
‘Oh ho,’ said Dr Parnell, seeing that Harriet had gone quite pink in the face. ‘I believe we are going to see some old broth being warmed up. I like to see that.’
‘Agatha talks of bringing him to stay here,’ said the Archdeacon distastefully. He disliked other members of his calling.
Clean sheets on the spare bed and a tin of biscuits on the little table in case he should feel hungry in the night, thought Belinda irrelevantly.
‘He must be about fifty-seven or fifty-eight,’ said Harriet, who seemed to have been doing a little calculation. ‘It will be nice to see dear Theo again.’
‘On the threshold of sixty,’ mused Dr Parnell. ‘That’s a good age for a man to marry. He needs a woman to help him into his grave.’
‘But that’s just the Prime of Life,’ said Harriet indignantly. ‘I’m sure we shan’t find Theo at all doddery.’
Belinda began to suspect that Harriet regarded the Bishop as a possible husband. She had certainly been very much in love with him when she was a schoolgirl and he a willowy curate in the early twenties. Belinda had often thought that the reason why Harriet made so much of Mr Donne was because he reminded her of dear Theo Grote. And then Belinda had often heard her say that a bishop needed a wife to help him with certain intimate problems in his diocese, things which a woman could deal with better than a man. It seemed a little hard, Belinda thought, that this new menace should appear, just when she was so relieved at having escaped Mr Mold, but she would just have to leave Harriet to her schemes. Belinda trembled for the unmarried Bishop of Mbawawa if he did not feel inclined to enter into that blessed state.
‘Shall I read aloud to you?’ suggested the Archdeacon hopefully. He went over to the bookshelves and invited requests for what anyone would like. But Dr Parnell suddenly got up from his chair and announced that he thought he had better do his packing. It was so tiresome to have a rush at the last minute. Harriet, too, had suddenly remembered that she was to deliver some parish magazines and was already halfway out of the door, thanking the Archdeacon for a delightful tea party, and inviting him to drop in at four o’clock any afternoon. She and Dr Parnell hurried out of the room together, the latter remarking that he wondered Henry could spare the time from his parochial duties to listen to the sound of his own voice.
‘We should all have time to improve our minds,’ said Belinda smiling happily.
The Archdeacon turned towards her with a volume of Spenser in his hand. ‘I think it would be pleasant to have something from the Faerie Queene,’ he declared.
The clock struck half past five. Belinda settled herself comfortably in her chair. She felt rather drowsy and the Faerie Queene was such a soothing poem. It just went on and on.
At six o’clock the Archdeacon suggested a little Wordsworth. Belinda agreed that this would be very nice. She had always been so fond of The Prelude.
At half past six Belinda began to murmur something about being sure that she was disturbing the Archdeacon, who must have a great deal to do.
Well, yes, he supposed that she was disturbing him really, but it was very pleasant to be disturbed occasionally, especially when there were so many tiresome things to do.
‘Do you know,’ he said suddenly, with the air of one who has made an important discovery, ‘this reminds me of the old days. I used to read aloud to you then. Does it remind you?’
Belinda was speechless, as she considered this proof of man’s oddness. Whatever did he imagine that it reminded her of? ‘Oh, yes, it’s quite like the old days,’ she said at last, and then tried to think of something more intelligent to continue the conversation.
Silences were awkward things, especially when one’s mind was only too apt to wander back into the past and remember it so vividly that it became more real than the present. Unless she fixed her attention on something definite, she might find herself saying the wrong thing. Her eyes lighted on a set of Bible commentaries. Well, nobody could expect her to talk about them. She must try again. The mantelpiece is dusty, she thought. Florrie needs keeping up to the mark, and I don’t believe she’s used the Hoover on this carpet since Agatha went away. Agatha. There was something definite. There was nothing vague or nebulous about an archdeacon’s wife, even when she wasn’t there. I loved you more than Agatha did, thought Belinda, but all I can do now is to keep silent. I can’t even speak to Florrie about the dusty mantelpiece, because it’s nothing to do with me. It never was and it never will be.
‘Florrie never bothers to dust my study when Agatha’s away,’ said the Archdeacon, seeing where Belinda was looking.
‘No, things always go wrong in a house when there’s no woman at the head of things,’ agreed Belinda. ‘I mean, it’s different when Agatha’s away.’
The Archdeacon sighed. ‘Yes, it is different,’ he agreed. ‘But there it is. We can’t alter things, can we?’
Belinda did not know what to say to this, as she was not quite sure what he meant. She was just wondering what would happen if she led the conversation round to more personal things than dusty mantelpieces, when the door opened and in came Dr Parnell, complaining that he was hungry and asking if they were never going to have anything to eat.
‘Why, yes, it must be nearly supper-time,’ said Belinda, starting to put on her gloves. ‘I must go.’
‘Oh, but I insist that you stay,’ protested the Archdeacon.
‘I really couldn’t,’ said Belinda mechanically. ‘Harriet will be expecting me.’
‘Please, dear Belinda,’ he said coaxingly. ‘You know I asked you to tea the other day and you wouldn’t come. The least you can do is to stay now. For the sake of old times,’ he added, with uncharacteristic heartiness.
‘Really, Henry, I think you might have put it better,’ said Dr Parnell. ‘I should hardly imagine that poor Belinda can really wish to be reminded of old times.’
But Belinda only smiled. ‘All right, I will stay,’ she said. ‘I shall never understand women,’ said Dr Parnell complacently.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Belinda arrived home that evening feeling very happy. It had been so nice having supper at the vicarage without the restraining presence of Agatha, the efficient wife and good philologist. During those few hours Belinda had almost imagined herself back in her youth. As she had listened to the Archdeacon giving a short dissertation on the Beast Fable in the Middle Ages, she had found herself looking at her watch and thinking that she would have to be back at her college by half past ten if she did not want the Principal to ask any awkward questions. When the Archdeacon had gone on to discuss the sources of his Judgment Day sermon, she had realized regretfully that the Principal of whom she had stood in awe had been in her grave at least ten years.
It was not until she reached her own front door that Belinda began to feel a little uneasy, and wonder if it had been quite the thing for her to spend a whole evening at the vicarage without Agatha or Harriet to chaperone her. For although Dr Parnell had been there, he wasn’t quite the same as some respectable middle-aged woman. And yet why should not she be allowed her occasional joys, such very mild ones, which were mostly remembrance of things past?
Sound of hearty laughter came from the drawing-room. The curate was there. Perhaps he had dropped in after Evensong, as Harriet had so often told him to, and had stayed to supper. Belinda was glad that he was there, as. his presence would save her a little from Harriet’s ruthless cross-examination, which was bound to come sooner or later.
Belinda went upstairs to take off her hat and coat and then into the middle of the cheerful noise.
Harriet and the curate were sitting on the sofa, deeply engrossed in a book. The curate leaped up and expressed himself delighted to see her. Belinda thought it a little unnecessary of him to welcome her to her own house, but she said nothing.
‘I suppose you’ve had supper?’ asked Harriet.
‘Yes,’ sai
d Belinda, ‘I stayed at the vicarage. I hope you didn’t wait for me?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Harriet, ‘in fact I didn’t expect you back even as soon as this.’
Belinda laughed rather uncomfortably. ‘What are you reading?’ she asked, hoping to change the subject.
‘We were reading Catullus. I really don’t know how we got on to it,’ said Harriet merrily. ‘Mr Donne’s so good at Latin but of course it’s quite thirty years since I read a word of it.’
‘Oh, come,’ said the curate playfully. ‘I can’t believe that.’
Belinda took up her knitting. She remembered Dr Parnell saying that he thought Catullus rather too indelicate for a young girl to read. If this were so, for Belinda’s scanty knowledge of Latin would not enable her to find out for herself, how much more indelicate must the great Roman poet be for a young curate! ‘There is a pretty translation of one of his poems by Thomas Campion,’ she said vaguely, ‘but I suppose it’s not like reading the original.’
‘No, my friend Olivia Berridge always says that. You remember perhaps, she’s Mrs Hoccleve’s niece,’ explained the curate.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Harriet, ‘she knows Anglo-Saxon and things like that, doesn’t she? And of course she made you those socks. I thought the toes were not very well grafted, in that grey pair you showed me. It’s quite easy to do, really. You just say knit and slip off, purl and keep on – or it may be the other way round.’
The curate looked mystified. ‘She’s very clever,’ he said. ‘I expect she knows that.’
Harriet looked a little annoyed and the conversation flagged. Mr Donne got up to go.
‘Perhaps you would like to borrow some books?’ suggested Belinda, seeing that he was looking at the shelves. It was a little difficult to guide his choice, but eventually he went away with some thrillers and the selected poems of the Earl of Rochester, a volume of which Belinda was particularly fond. It had been given to her by Dr Parnell on her twenty-first birthday. Belinda felt that it would not be likely to harm Mr Donne’s morals, as it professed to be a collection of such pieces only, as may be received in a vertuous court, and may not unbecome the Cabinet of the Severest Matron.
He had hardly gone out of the front door, when Harriet turned eagerly to Belinda and said, ‘Now tell me all, about it.’
Belinda looked up from her knitting rather startled. ‘But, Harriet,’ she protested, ‘there’s really nothing to tell. Henry read aloud to me and then we talked a bit and then he persuaded me to stay to supper, which I did. But I don’t know whether I ought to have done that,’ she added rather unhappily. ‘I mean, I shouldn’t like Agatha to think…’
‘No, no, of course not,’ said Harriet soothingly. ‘Now wouldn’t you like a nice cup of Ovaltine?’ she said, fussing round Belinda like a motherly hen.
‘Well, I don’t know, I think I would,’ said Belinda. Perhaps a nourishing milky drink was needed to bring her down to earth but it seemed an unromantic end to the evening.
Harriet had already gone into the kitchen and soon returned with the Ovaltine and a selection of biscuits and cakes.
‘Now,’ she said, as if speaking to an invalid, ‘drink it up while it’s hot and don’t try to talk till you’ve finished. There’ll be plenty of time for you to tell me all about it.’
‘But what is there to tell?’ protested Belinda, rousing herself. ‘I’ve told you what we did.’
Harriet chose a chocolate biscuit. ‘I do believe the Archdeacon has been asking you to elope with him!’ she declared triumphantly.
‘Oh, Harriet, how dreadful you are!’ said Belinda, unable to help laughing at this monstrous suggestion. ‘As if a clergyman, let alone an archdeacon, would do a thing like that.’
‘Then he’s been telling you that he’s very fond of you, and hinting that he wishes he’d married you instead of Agatha,’ went on Harriet, gallantly persevering.
‘Well, hardly that,’ ventured Belinda, growing a little more confidential, for the Ovaltine had loosened her tongue. ‘I mean, it’s a bit late for anything like that, isn’t it? Henry is always loyal to Agatha and feels quite differently about her,’ she added hastily, in case her sister should take her up wrongly.
Harriet agreed with this ambiguous statement. ‘Yes, I’m sure he does,’ she said, ‘but there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be fond of you as well. Clergymen are always saying that we should love one another.’
‘Oh, Harriet,’ protested Belinda, rather shocked, ‘you know quite well that isn’t at all the same kind of thing. But of course Henry and I have always been friends and I hope we always will be.’
Harriet sighed. Poor Belinda was so unworldly, so sentimental.
‘Of course he is fond of you,’ she declared boldly. ‘Anybody can tell that by the way he keeps smiling at you, when he thinks nobody’s looking.’
Belinda had always thought that they were smiles of pity rather than of love. But hadn’t one of our greater English poets said something about Pity being akin to Love? Or had she made it up herself? A vague recollection of Aristotle’s Poetics came into her mind. But that was Pity and Fear, rather like her feeling for Miss Prior, not at all the same thing…
‘I’m sure everyone knows,’ persisted Harriet, nothing daunted by her sister’s unwillingness to confide in her and determined to make something interesting out of Belinda’s evening at the vicarage.
‘Knows what?’ asked Belinda, rather startled.
‘Why, that you love each other,’ beamed Harriet, as if she were giving her blessing to a young couple, instead of making rather a scandalous suggestion about a married archdeacon and a respectable spinster.
Belinda was now rather agitated and could not think of anything to say.
‘Don’t deny that he’s making the most of Agatha’s absence,’ Harriet went on, ‘and anyway everybody knows that you knew him long before Agatha did.’
‘I don’t see what that has to do with it,’ said Belinda. ‘One can hardly claim people on that basis.’
‘But didn’t he say anything? Surely you weren’t just reading poetry all the time?’
‘No, not all the time.’ Belinda smiled as she remembered their conversation. ‘We talked about the dust on the mantelpiece.’
‘Oh, Belinda, surely …’ Harriet searched vainly in the tin for another chocolate biscuit.
‘And I said that of course things did go wrong when there was no woman at the head of things,’ Belinda went on. ‘I mean, servants neglect their duty and that sort of thing. I think I said, “It’s different when Agatha’s away”, or something like that.’
‘Oh, Belinda, wasn’t that rather obvious?’
Belinda looked startled. ‘Oh, I meant things in the house, naturally. He surely couldn’t have taken it any other way?’
‘Well, what did he say to that?’ went on Harriet relentlessly. ‘Do you remember?’
‘Oh, yes. I always remember everything Henry says.’ She smiled. ‘Thirty years of it. It’s a pity I don’t remember other things so well. He said, “Yes, it is different, but there it is. We can’t alter things, can we?”’
Harriet let out a cry of joy. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘What happened next?’
‘Oh, then Nicholas came in and we had supper.’ Belinda paused. ‘Well, dinner really, because there was soup, though I think it was tinned. Still, it was very nice, mushroom or something. It had little bits of things in it.’
‘Oh, Belinda, I don’t want to hear about the soup,’ said Harriet. ‘How sickening that Nicholas should have come in just at that moment. Just like him,’ she grumbled. ‘To think of it, the moment you’ve been waiting for for thirty years!’ She paused dramatically.
‘But you know I’ve never expected anything,’ protested Belinda. ‘I’ve no right to.’
‘But don’t you see what he meant when he said that about not being able to alter things?’ said Harriet. ‘He meant he’d rather have you than Agatha, only of course he couldn’t put it quite as crudely as that.’
‘Now if only he were a widower,’ mused Harriet.
‘But he isn’t,’ said Belinda stoutly.
‘No, and Agatha’s very tough in spite of her rheumatism,’ lamented Harriet. ‘And soon he won’t even be a grass widower because she’s coming back.’
‘Yes, she’s coming back,’ said Belinda, even more stoutly. How odd if Henry were a widower, she thought suddenly. How embarrassing, really. It would be like going back thirty years. Or wouldn’t it? Belinda soon saw that it wouldn’t. For she was now a contented spinster and her love was like a warm, comfortable garment, bedsocks, perhaps, or even woollen combinations; certainly something without glamour or romance. All the same, it was rather nice to think that Henry might prefer her to Agatha, although she knew perfectly well that he didn’t. It was one of the advantages of being the one he hadn’t married that one could be in a position to imagine such things.
Belinda gave a contented sigh. It had been such a lovely evening. Just one evening like that every thirty years or so. It might not seem much to other people, but it was really all one needed to be happy. But Harriet was saying something, so she could not indulge in such thoughts for long.
‘I don’t like the way Mr Donne keeps mentioning that Olivia Berridge,’ she said. ‘Although he did say that he was definitely not engaged to her, one never knows.’
‘He doesn’t sound as if he were in love with her,’ said Belinda doubtfully. ‘But of course Miss Berridge may have made up her mind to marry him. She sounds a bit like Agatha,’ she added.
‘But Mr Donne is nothing like the Archdeacon,’ said Harriet indignantly.
‘No, I don’t think anybody is quite like the Archdeacon,’ said Belinda quietly.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
During the next week or so the village began to look forward to the homecoming of the Archdeacon’s right hand, as many of the church workers called Mrs Hoccleve. They were conventional enough to use this expression, which they had often heard, without troubling to ask themselves whether it could really be applied here. It was a known thing that the wives of clergy often were their right hands, and even if the Hoccleves were sometimes rather snappy with each other there was no doubt that she was the power behind him. The news that she was to be accompanied by the Bishop of Mbawawa had spread rapidly, and little groups of eager Sunday School teachers could be seen talking about it. Some had heard that he was black, a real African bishop, but Harriet soon put them right on this point and achieved a new importance through having known him as a curate. Belinda did not share in this glory, for after so many years she found it difficult to remember which of the many curates her sister had cherished was Theodore Grote.