A Glass of Blessings (12 page)

‘You don’t mean that you’re going to be a nun?’ I asked naively.

‘Well, of course I don’t know how things will work out, but I’m going to test my vocation. It may very well be that I can do more good out in the world—I mean,’ she smiled, ‘in so far as I can do any good anywhere.’

‘And you have to wear black clothes there?’ I said, rather at a loss.

‘Yes, to begin with. I have one black skirt and a cardigan, and of course the dress I bought when you helped me to choose it, but somehow I’m not sure whether that will be suitable.’

‘I don’t know—it’s quite plain, and as you obviously
won’t
be dressing it up with masses of pink pearls I should think it might do very well.’

Mary smiled. I’ve still got the pink pearl necklace,’ she said, ‘and I shan’t ever have worn it. I was wondering if I could have this blue dress dyed black—do you think it would take well?’

‘I hate wearing dyed clothes, and of course dyeing does show up the worn bits, if there are any,’ I began, before I realized that wearing clothes one hated with worn bits showing on them might not be so inappropriate for the life Mary was proposing to lead. ‘Has Father Ransome advised you at all?’ I asked quickly. ‘I don’t mean about clothes, of course.’

Mary laughed. ‘Poor Marius, he has found it all rather overwhelming, and then having to turn out and find somewhere else to live hasn’t made it any easier for him.’

I was indignant, for it sounded very much as if he had turned out to be a broken reed.

‘But it’s his job to be helpful in circumstances like these,’ I protested. ‘He shouldn’t find it overwhelming.’

Mary smiled in her rather irritating way. ‘Well, he’s only young, after all,’ she said, ‘and of course he has been very kind. But Father Bode has really been the best.’

‘Better than Father Thames?’

‘Yes. Father Thames is old himself and doesn’t quite realize the personal upheaval of it all. I mean, so many of his friends must have died and I suppose he is prepared to go himself quite soon. Father Bode is full of
practical
sympathy.’

I was interested in this classification of the clergy as comforters in bereavement, and we were still discussing it when I got up to go.

I had said good-bye to Mary and was outside on the pavement when her brother Gerald came running after me.

‘Oh, Mrs—er -!’ he called out. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t catch your name, but you seem to be a great friend of Mary’s.’

‘Is there anything I can do for her?’ I asked. ‘One does feel so useless at times like these.’

‘It’s about this nunnery business,’ he blurted out. ‘She seems so set on it. Can’t you do something to talk her out of it? I feel she might listen to you.’

‘But if it’s what she really wants to do, have we any right to try to talk her out of it?’

‘It isn’t as if she wouldn’t be comfortably off now—and she could make her home with us if she felt lonely. She knows that. What on earth will people
say?’
he groaned.

‘I don’t suppose people will say much. After all, it isn’t such a
very
unusual thing to do.’

‘We have never had anything like it in
our
family before,’ said Gerald, seeming to draw himself up to his full height.

‘Perhaps not. But is it as bad as having a murder in the family, or even a divorce?’

He seemed doubtful. ‘But what is the
reason?’
he persisted. ‘Some love affair gone wrong, do you think? Somehow I’ve never associated Mary with that kind of thing. You don’t think this curate fellow—?’ he said suddenly.

‘You mean Father Ransome?’ I asked in astonishment ‘But he is a celibate. I hardly think there could be anything in that, or that Mary would have considered it for a moment.’

‘He’s not bad looking,’ said Gerald dispassionately. That’s hardly the point,’ I said impatiently, for it was cold standing about ‘Anyway, people don’t go into convents these days because of love affairs gone wrong. They usually have more positive reasons.’

We parted in a mood of slight mutual antagonism, and in my anxiety to take Mary’s part against her stupid pompous brother I had quite forgotten the dismay I had felt on first hearing her news.

Chapter Eleven

Mary spent the first weeks of the New Year disposing of some of her mother’s effects and putting the furniture into store—into that splendid building by the river which Piers and I had observed on our autumnal walk. I imagined Mrs Beamish’s brocaded sofa and armchairs, and the heavy mahogany chests and wardrobes incarcerated in those great echoing rooms, and wondered if they would ever emerge again. It seemed that they, too, like their owner, were renouncing the world and might almost have protested when the remover’s men came to take them away. If we went that way again I could say to Piers, ‘I know some furniture in there’; but the chance of ever doing that seemed as remote as summer seems from the middle of winter.

Mary’s brother William and his wife Cynthia had invited her to go to Madeira with them in February, and uncongenial though the company might have been I thought it would be a good thing for her. But she decided that she did not want to go away, and so on a bleak January day she entered the convent, which was a branch house of the one in the parish and in another part of London.

Father Ransome had found lodgings with the vicar of a near-by parish—the old college contemporary, in fact—who lived alone in a large vicarage. It was certainly not so convenient as the Beamishes’ flat had been, and once, at an early weekday Mass, he was late and looked very much as if he hadn’t had time to shave. I remembered an article I had once read in the
Church Times
which declared that nothing but the failure of a priest’s alarm clock could excuse such a thing. It had come as a shock to me to realize that the alarm clocks of priests could be fallible, mortal almost. I was glad that
I
did not often have to be woken by such barbarous means.

There was no doubt that Father Ransome had his following in the parish. His good looks amply compensated for his shortcomings in the pulpit — for he was an uninspired preacher—and young girls could be seen struggling to suppress their giggles when we sang such lines as

And when earthly things are past

Bring our ransomed souls at last…

in the best known of the Epiphany hymns.

In the middle of January the Portuguese classes started again. I had been looking forward to them as an opportunity to see Piers, and almost wished that Sybil were not quite so indefatigable in her attendance so that I might have a chance of talking to him alone after the class.

The first evening we discovered that our classroom had been changed, and we were directed by mistake to one where teaching was already in progress.

‘You must not use the verb
desejar
if you are just wanting a glass of water or a piece of chocolate,’ said the teacher, who was a lively young Brazilian. ‘It is too
strong. Desejar
means to
desire
..He looked despairingly at his class as if wondering whether they were capable of experiencing such a strong emotion. Then his glance lighted on Sybil and me, standing in the doorway clutching our umbrellas and books.

‘We want Mr Longridge’s class,’ I said stupidly. ‘He doesn’t seem to be here.’

‘No, he isn’t,’ said the teacher. ‘But why don’t you come and join
this
class? We are always laughing but we learn a lot.’

We backed out of the doorway rather foolishly. I felt that he and his class had been laughing at us, and was also resentful because they seemed to be more advanced than we were’ Piers had never told us about
desejar.

‘That sounds a lively class,’ said Sybil. ‘I sometimes feel it’s a pity that Piers is so
moody.
Ah, there is Mrs Marble going into a door at the end of the corridor—that must be the right room.’

We found that it was and greeted our classmates with a rather marked lack of enthusiasm. Some of the commercial gentlemen were absent—perhaps they really had been sent to Pernambuco. There was no sign of Piers.

‘You’d think he could be punctual at the
first
class,’ grumbled Mrs Marble. ‘I was in two minds whether to come this term or not. I don’t feel I learnt very much last term, and then, well, not having a Christmas party—that wasn’t very nice, was it? When I did Spanish we had a party at the end of every term. We all contributed three and sixpence, and bought food and coffee and drinks—nothing alcoholic, of course—they wouldn’t allow wines and spirits to be drunk in the college. You can understand that, really -‘

‘It can’t have been much of a party, then,’ said Piers in his most languid tone. ‘Not really a party at all.’ He walked past us to his desk and began to open his books. Mrs Marble looked annoyed but said nothing. The lesson started. We were to learn the subjunctive, and I found myself wondering whether I could take so kindly to the Portuguese now that I realized how often they seemed to use it. It seemed as if there were going to be a great many things I couldn’t possibly say. Piers was in one of his provocative moods and hardly looked at me during the lesson. It seemed as if he were paying me out for not having spent that evening with him before Christmas. I kept thinking about the little box and its strange inscription, so much so that I did badly when I was asked to translate, and he made a sarcastic remark about people who didn’t listen to what he said.

I was very annoyed and reluctant to follow Sybil over to him when the class was at an end. To my surprise she asked him to dine with us one evening in the following week when Harry and Rowena were coming. I think I was even more surprised when he accepted with every appearance of delight.

‘I should tell you that your sister and brother-in-law are coming,’ Sybil added. ‘I feel it is hardly fair to bring families together without warning.’ That was thoughtful of you,’ said Piers. ‘We aren’t always on the best of terms, but Christmas usually improves family relationships—at least temporarily, don’t you think?’

‘You went there for Christmas?’ I couldn’t resist asking.

‘No, Wilmet,’ he looked at me for the first time, ‘I was in London.’

‘Not alone, I hope?’ said Sybil rather drily.

‘No, I wasn’t alone.’

‘Were there festivities at the press on Christmas Eve? Great drinkings and all that?’ I asked.

‘There
was
drinking, but not there.’

‘Which church did you go to?’

‘Unfortunately I didn’t manage to get to any church.’

‘But surely at
Christmas –’
I protested. ‘There were so many services.’

‘Not between three and five in the afternoon, which was the only time I really felt capable of attending one,’ said Piers defiantly.

‘Were you drunk
all
the time?’ asked Sybil in an interested tone. ‘I do hope we shall be able to supply your wants when you dine with us next week. There will be gin and sherry, wine with the meal of course, and possibly liqueurs. Later, I suppose, there will be whisky for the men. My son will see to all that.’

‘I’m sure it will be delightful,’ said Piers. ‘I was really only trying to shock Wilmet, you know.’

We began to laugh and all parted in a good humour.

‘Poor Piers, he is frustrated and unloved,’ I said, feeling strangely cosy as the words came out ‘That’s why he does these silly things. He needs taking care of.’

‘I thought he was only joking,’ said Sybil. ‘And of course young men do like to show off.’

‘He isn’t as young as all that,’ I protested. ‘I do hope he will arrive sober on Wednesday.’

‘It isn’t really a thing to joke about,’ said Sybil seriously. ‘I have seen so much of the other side of it in my work. It can bring about great unhappiness.’

‘It seems to be the other way round in the people we know,’ I said. ‘I mean drinking is the result of unhappiness rather than the cause.’

‘Then Piers is unhappy?’ said Sybil thoughtfully. ‘No more than many people of his age, I imagine. And it will pass, you know.’

Her pronouncement seemed to emphasize what I usually forgot—that there were nearly forty years between us. I suppose by the time one is seventy one can say confidently and from personal experience that things will pass. At thirty one is still living experimentally, guessing that they will yet almost hoping that they will not.

Nevertheless Piers did come to the dinner party sober and in a neat dark suit. What was more, he was the first to arrive and we were able to have some conversation before the others came. But it was disappointingly general and I could not bring myself to mention his Christmas present to me, although I was conscious of it lying between us, drawing us together or separating us—I could not decide which.

Rowena came into the hall, looking radiant in a red coat with a high fur collar framing her face. She kissed me and Piers, and then flung her arms around Rodney who looked delighted. Harry retaliated by kissing me on the cheek.

‘All this show of affection,’ said Piers rather fretfully. ‘Is this what’s expected at a dinner party? I’m so unused to going into society these days. If only I’d known, I could have kissed Wilmet. Did you expect it? Were you disappointed when I didn’t?’ he asked, smiling at me.

To my chagrin I felt myself blushing and saying in a silly awkward way, ‘Of course not, I didn’t think of it—I mean, one doesn’t …’ failing entirely to carry off the occasion with the lightness appropriate to it.

‘Wilmet is rather cool and unapproachable,’ said Harry, ‘or she gives that impression. Very fetching it is, too.’

I felt still more embarrassed and annoyed, and drank up the remains of my sherry quickly.

Rodney and Harry went into a corner and began talking about old army acquaintances whom they had seen lately. Piers and Rowena and I were left together.

‘Well dear, had a good day at the press?’ asked Rowena.

‘Much as usual,’ said Piers. ‘One doesn’t have
good
days. I amused myself by raising a number of irritating Portuguese orthographical queries which are practically insoluble. My colleague was doing some articles about Africa and seemed to be enjoying himself. I expect several people will be cursing the printers’ readers and their queries before the week is out.’

‘Darling, it seems such a
nasty
job,’ said Rowena in a distressed tone. ‘It seems to bring out the worst in you.’

‘Do forgive my lateness,’ said Sybil, hurrying into the room. ‘But I’ve been having trouble with the table.’

There were murmurs of interest, curiosity and concern.

‘You know how a hostess is supposed to have a last minute look at the table to see that all is well? I went into the dining- room and found that Rhoda had thrown away my table decoration—she thought it was dead!’

‘Oh dear, what did you do?’ asked Rowena.

‘I had to get it back out of the dustbin. You see, strictly speaking, it
was
dead. I’d been making an arrangement of dried leaves and branches that I’d seen in Wilmet’s
Daily Telegraph.
I was rather proud of it. Come in and see—I think I’ve put it together again quite successfully.’

We took our places in the dining-room and examined the table decoration with interest. I saw at once that it was not quite what the woman in the
Telegraph
had meant. The components were a little
too
dead, and the arrangement carelessly haphazard rather than artistically casual. Dear Sybil, with her lack of any natural artistic sense, had somehow missed the point.

‘Really, Mother, I don’t blame Rhoda,’ said Rodney. ‘People will think we can’t even afford a few late chrysanthemums.’

‘We’ve been having lectures on flower arrangement at the Women’s Institute,’ said Rowena. ‘I discovered that I’ve been doing mine wrong for years. My arrangements, which I always thought so pretty, had no interesting focal point! Now I’m so humiliated and discouraged that I feel I’d rather have nothing at all or just plants in pots that arrange themselves.’

‘It’s a pity when everything becomes so scientific,’ said Rod- ney. ‘I like to think of young girls at home arranging flowers according to the light of nature.’

‘Waiting desperately for husbands,’ said Piers.

‘And instead they’re all in the civil service and have learnt to arrange flowers according to the latest methods,’ said Rowena.

‘Do you have some pretty young things in your office, old boy?’ Harry asked Rodney.

‘It’s not the same as Mincing Lane,’ Rowena broke in. ‘Women in the civil service are beautiful rather than pretty, I always imagine—isn’t that so, Rodney?’

Rodney seemed to have no ready answer.

‘What about that splendid Miss Hitchens?’ Sybil prompted.

‘Yes, she’s certainly very capable and a good sort, but she’s not much to look at. Besides, she wears -‘ he hesitated and we waited in almost breathless anticipation.

‘Go
on,
Rodney,’ said Rowena eagerly. ‘What
can
you be going to say?’

‘Well, sort of thick stockings—cotton or something, would they be? She goes to play golf sometimes straight from work—I suppose that’s why,’ Rodney added, as if feeling that he had been unchivalrous.

‘Intellectual women are seldom attractive,’ said Piers. ‘The combination of beauty with brains is to me unnatural and therefore rather repellent.’

‘That’s an old-fashioned idea,’ said Rowena. ‘Nowadays women seem to have everything—I suppose men find that frightening.’

‘Not always,’ said Rodney. ‘Miss Hitchens has a friend who’s most attractive and intelligent too—she brought her to lunch in the canteen one day. A Miss Bates,’ he added solemnly.

‘Miss Bates?’ I laughed. ‘Hasn’t she a christian name?’

‘Yes, it’s Prudence, I believe. She works for Grampian, the economist. Eleanor Hitchens tells me that she was engaged to a Member of Parliament but broke it off.’

‘Now what does that tell us?’ asked Sybil. That she was too beautiful to be an M.P.’s wife or that he was too stupid to be the husband of an intelligent woman? Was he Tory or Labour?—perhaps it would be invidious to speculate. And now,’ she went on, ‘I have a surprise for you. Does anybody remember what day this is?’

‘Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday,’ said Piers rather surprisingly, ‘so today must be Shrove Tuesday. I hope the surprise is pancakes.’