A Glass of Blessings (16 page)

‘He’s written me several letters, all so full of doubts and questionings. He seemed to think that I could help him to resolve them. It may sound an odd thing to say, but I feel he
needs
me in some way—my advice, of course—though that sounds very conceited I know, and obviously nothing
I
could say would make any difference.’ She hesitated and looked up at me appealingly.

‘I know just what you mean,’ I said, ‘and I think men
do
need women in that way, for our advice and strength which is sometimes greater than theirs.’ I was thinking that Mary was a little bit human after all, and what a strange coincidence it was that we should both at this moment be in rather similar positions. In some curious way Piers needed me, and Marius needed her. Perhaps it made a little bond of happiness between us, for everybody wants to be needed, women especially. For a moment a wild idea came into my mind that Marius and Mary—the names sounded odd and yet right together—might marry, but I dismissed it almost before it had time to show itself, for obviously if he went over to Rome he would want to go on being a priest and therefore couldn’t marry anybody. And even if he stayed where he was and decided to marry, he would choose somebody younger and more attractive than Mary. Besides, women did not come out of convents to marry people—it would be a complete reversal of the old procedure. All the same I wondered if it ever
had
been done.

‘This friend of his—Edwin Sainsbury—seems to have a great influence on him,’ Mary went on. ‘I don’t suppose I could counteract that. Anyway, it wouldn’t be because of Marius that I’d come back into the world, as people say,’ she smiled apologetically. ‘I wrote to Father Bode, and he’s been so kind and helpful. He knows somebody who runs a house for retreats and he thinks I might be able to get a job there as a kind of housekeeper.’

‘That sounds an excellent idea,’ I said. ‘Where is it?’

‘I’m not sure exactly, but somewhere near London—on the Green Line bus route, Father Bode said.’

I smiled as I imagined busloads of retreatants whirling through the countryside, and wondered if the retreat house would have a special stop which the conductor would distinguish by some witticism.

‘I suppose I ought to be going,’ I said.

‘Oh Wilmet, and we’ve talked about my affairs all the time,’ said Mary penitently.

‘But that’s what I came for,’ I said. ‘And in any case I really haven’t got much news. How long will it be before you’re back with us again?’

‘I hope it will be before Corpus Christi,’ said Mary. ‘I always love the service at St Luke’s, with all the candles and flowers and the procession. Shall we go to it together?’

‘That would be nice,’ I said. ‘But where will you stay when you come out? Not in the guest room of the clergy house, I imagine!’

Mary laughed. ‘No, not quite that. I think Mollie Holmes could give me a room at the Settlement.’

‘But that’s miles away. You must come and stay with us for a bit until you decide what you’re going to do,’ I said impulsively, wondering even as I spoke if I should regret my rash invitation, and what Sybil and Rodney would say.

‘That would be
lovely
, Wilmet—how very kind of you! And in the meantime, if you can do anything to help or advise poor Marius—‘

‘I’m afraid I shan’t be likely to have the opportunity,’ I said, ‘and even if I did I’m sure my opinion wouldn’t carry any weight. I don’t suppose Father Sainsbury will
really
take the plunge, anyway,’ I added reassuringly.

But later on in the train, when I had nearly finished reading my evening paper, my eye was caught by a small paragraph tucked away at the bottom of a column. It was headed
VICAR
QUITS
ANGLICANS
. I wanted to exclaim out loud but I restrained myself, for obviously it would interest few if any of my fellow passengers to learn that the Reverend Edwin Sainsbury, vicar of St Lawrence’s, Holland Park, had announced his intention of being received into the Church of Rome because he considered that the attitude of the Anglican Church towards the Church of South India no longer entitled it to be regarded as a part of the Catholic Church.

It was perhaps arrogant of me to feel that I was the only person in the carriage to whom the news meant anything; and looking around me I realized that I was probably mistaken, for the man sitting next to me, I now noticed, was reading the
Tablet
. I drew away from him with a kind of superstitious dread, and when I got out it seemed that his beady black eyes, suitably peering through a pair of pince-nez, were following me. I almost ran off the platform. The day had somehow been too full.

Chapter Fifteen

‘I shan’t be in to dinner this evening,’ Rodney announced rather self-consciously one morning a few days later.

‘Why, darling, are you working late at the Ministry?’ I said in a silly teasing way.

‘That’s the idea,’ he said, not looking up from
The Times.

‘Then poor Wilmet will be all by herself,’ said Sybil, ‘because I shall be out too. My annual dinner and theatre with Violet,’ she explained.

Violet was an old school friend of Sybil’s and they had this kind of ritual meeting every year. It always seemed slightly incongruous to me and I think to Sybil, too, but she kept it up religiously.

“But I
like
being by myself,’ I protested. ‘I shan’t mind at all.’

All sorts of wild ideas began to rush through my head, the foremost of which was that I could ask Piers to come and dine with me; failing that, I might have a talk with Marius Ransome, who had not yet, as far as I could see, shown any signs of following his friend over to Rome. His demeanour at Mass on Sunday morning had been very much as usual; he had even preached the sermon, but that gave no clue, for he was a poor preacher and the limping platitudes which poured from his lips had been on something so entirely untopical that I could not even remember the subject of the sermon now. Then it came to me—something about visiting the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and trying to be kind to coloured people in various unspecified ways. There was certainly no indication here as to what his spiritual doubts might be. And of course, thinking it over, I could hardly ask him to spend an evening with me alone. Perhaps I could not ask Piers either. It was for him to make the next move. Having been married young and not having experienced any unsuccessful love affairs before that time, I had never had to take the initiative myself. All the same, I wanted to see Piers so much that I wondered whether I might not telephone him some time during the evening to suggest that we had a drink together, or that he dropped in for coffee.

Then a brilliant idea came to me. I would do a little detective work, and go and see where he lived. I would walk casually past the house and have a good look at it. I could pretend I was on my way to somewhere else—I should have to work out the details—so that if by any chance he should see me I should not be at a loss. The idea of a summer evening walk with an objective seemed most attractive, like the trolley bus rides which I never took.

Rhoda brought me my dinner on a tray in the drawing-room—cold consommé, a fricassee of chicken and some fruit. I drank a glass of Chablis and looked at maps, planning which way I should go. Some of the country would be familiar to me, but Piers seemed to live in a dark wasteland beyond Shepherd’s Bush and I could only guess at what that might be like. There was something a little frightening about setting out alone in the evening on such an expedition. It was very warm and the sky had clouded over, as if thunder might be coming. The leaves on the trees in the square, still newly green, seemed to have darkened and looked heavy and menacing. I stood at the window, my coffee cup in my hand, wondering what I should do.

As I looked out I saw a grey car, which I recognized as Mr Coleman’s Husky, coming slowly towards the house and stopping opposite the door. After a moment Mr Coleman himself got out, slammed the door and locked it, examined what seemed to be a scratch above the back wheel, tapped out his pipe on the heel of his shoe and walked slowly across the road, looking up at the house with a worried expression on his face.

What on earth can
he
want, calling at this odd time? I wondered. It must be some church business, something connected with the servers, but
what?
I was unable to think of any likely explanation and waited for the front door bell to ring, patting my hair nervously and dabbing powder on my nose. I half expected that the bell would not ring, but it did, and I hurried down to answer it myself before Rhoda could come grumbling up from the basement. I felt almost excited as I opened the door.

‘Good evening, Mrs Forsyth,’ said Mr Coleman, looking at me with his serious blue eyes. ‘Is Mr Forsyth in? I wonder if I could see him for a minute?’

‘I’m afraid he’s out,’ I said. ‘Would you like to leave a message?’

‘Well, it’s a bit awkward really. I wanted to consult him about something.’

‘To consult him?’ I was very puzzled and inquisitive by now. ‘Won’t you come in? I don’t know whether I could help, could
I?’

‘Thank you, Mrs Forsyth. I feel I ought to tell somebody, and perhaps you would tell Mr Forsyth when he comes in.’

Whatever could he have to tell Rodney? I wondered, as we went upstairs. I tried to remember where Mr Coleman worked. I had heard that he was a chartered accountant, but I could not see what possible connection he could hâve with Rodney’s Ministry. And if it were a business matter he would hardly feel inclined to tell me about it.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ I asked, seeing that the tray was still on the little table by the window.

‘No thanks.’ He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room until I invited him to sit down.

‘Do smoke your pipe if you’d like to,’ I said, though I cannot bear the smell of pipe smoke myself.

He refused, but took out a packet of cigarettes and offered me one which I accepted, thinking that it might make the situation easier. This is the lighter that kindled the New Fire in the dark church at Easter, I thought irrelevantly, as he gave me a light. Yet perhaps it was not so irrelevant, for I could not believe that Mr Coleman would be here unless on some matter connected with the church. Perhaps he had come to ask Rodney if he would like to be a server? I smiled at the idea of it.

‘You must think it funny, me coming here like this to see Mr Forsyth when I don’t really know him,’ Mr Coleman began, ‘but I thought it was the best thing under the circumstances. I believe he got Bason the job at the clergy house, so he probably knows something about him.’

‘Yes, he does know him of course. Mr Bason used to work in the same department at the Ministry,’ I said, wondering what was coming next, ‘and when he was looking for a job and it happened that Father Thames wanted a housekeeper I mentioned it to my husband. At least, I can’t remember exactly how it came about—I think he told me about Mr Bason first.’

‘So he got the sack then, did he?’ asked Mr Coleman bluntly.

‘Well, I don’t think it was exactly that Mr Bason wasn’t suitable for the Ministry job and didn’t really like it. In fact, I think he’d been looking for a domestic post. But has something happened to Mr Bason?’ I asked, unable to restrain my curiosity any longer.

‘Not happened, exactly. It’s only that he’s pinched the vicar’s egg, and I don’t quite know what I ought to do.’

‘What
did you say he’s done?’ I asked, hardly able to believe that I could have heard aright.

‘Pinched the vicar’s egg,’ repeated Mr Coleman doggedly.

‘But
what
egg?’

‘That egg he has on the mantelpiece in his study.’

‘Oh,
that
egg!’ At last I understood. ‘The
Fabergé
egg.’

‘I don’t know what you call it. It’s a kind of coloured Easter egg—a fancy thing with jewels in it, quite valuable, so they tell me.’

‘Yes, it was made by the Russian court goldsmith.’

‘Russian?’ He looked at me with the suspicion that many a good Englishman shows when the words Russian or Russia are spoken.

‘Yes, in the days of the Czars.’

‘Oh, I see.’ He seemed relieved. ‘Then it’s an antique thing?’

‘Well, almost—and rather valuable, as you say.’

‘Amazing what some people will spend their money on, isn’t it?’ said Mr Coleman.

‘It’s all according to one’s tastes,’ I said, wondering whether I myself would prefer a Fabergé egg or a Husky, and not being absolutely sure. ‘But how do
you
know that Mr Bason has taken it?’ I felt I could hardly say pinched.

‘He showed it to me.’

‘But when?’

‘After Mass yesterday morning. He had it in the pocket of his cassock.’

‘Good heavens!’ I wanted to laugh but knew that I must not. Tell me what happened.’

‘Well, it was like this. I had rather a lot on my mind yesterday. To begin with I was worried about the Husky.’

‘The Husky? Oh, of course—your car.’

‘A friend of mine had scraped it against a wall when he was reversing and I was wondering if I’d have to have the whole side resprayed—you know, Mrs Forsyth, your thoughts can wander even in the Sanctuary, and we’re all human, after all.’

‘Oh,
yes!
‘ I agreed.

‘I don’t know if you noticed’—he smiled for a moment—‘but Bob nearly forgot to remove the Paschal Candle and I didn’t spot it for some time. Just imagine, me not noticing a thing like that!’

‘I’m afraid I never remember exactly when it should be removed,’ I said. ‘I always think it looks so pretty there with the flowers round it that I wish it could stay.’

‘But that would be liturgically incorrect, Mrs Forsyth,’ he said seriously. ‘It should be removed after the Gospel on Ascension Day. Luckily I don’t think many people
did
notice. But Bason did, you bet!’

‘Did he say something to you then?’

‘Yes, he was a bit sarcastic afterwards in the vestry. He passed some remark—I can’t remember exactly what he said, but I was just taking off my cassock and then he said something about that.’

‘About your cassock?’

‘Yes. He once put it on by mistake, and ever since then he can’t seem to leave the subject alone. He’s really childish about it.’

‘But what did he say?’

‘Oh, something about mine being a good material but look what he had in
his
pocket—just like a kid. Then he took the egg out of his pocket and tossed it up in the air and caught it, and then put it back again.’

‘What an extraordinary thing!’ I exclaimed, turning my head away and fumbling in my bag for a handkerchief, for again I was overcome by a most unfortunate desire to laugh, feeling that the scene described by Mr Coleman had something comic about it. ‘But how did he get hold of the egg?’ I went on. ‘Are you sure he—er—stole it?’

‘He took it off the mantelpiece. He told me so.’

‘And Father Thames didn’t know about it? No, obviously not. What did you say?’

‘I was a bit taken aback, naturally. I think I said, ‘Father Thames’s egg! Where did you get it from?” or something like that. And he just laughed.’

‘You didn’t say anything about it to anyone?’

‘Well, not really. At least, I mentioned it to a friend—he’s a school teacher, you see, and has had experience of juvenile delinquency—but I didn’t tell any of the clergy. I was a bit flustered really, what with the Paschal Candle and everything, and by the time I’d finished putting things away Bason had gone.’

‘Perhaps he’s put the egg back by now. He may just have borrowed it because he liked the look of it. And of course Whitsuntide is nearly here—I should think he’ll be sure to put it back by then.’ I was thinking that if he made his Whitsuntide confession he would have to mention it, and I was reminded of those old-fashioned manuals of self-examination with their lists of questions which often included ‘Have I stolen anything?’ Many an Anglo-Catholic gentlewoman has no doubt been surprised or even shocked at having to ask herself this. I had always imagined that such questions were intended for working lads in the great East End and dockside parishes which had seen the beginning of the Catholic revival in the nineteenth century. I now realized that my imaginings had been too narrow.

‘He may have done it for a lark,’ said Mr Coleman doubtfully. ‘He’s an odd sort of chap. Do you think Mr Forsyth could have a talk to him?’

‘But first we should have to know if the egg was still missing, shouldn’t we?’ I suggested. ‘I suppose somebody could sneak into the clergy house and see?’ I liked to imagine myself doing this, but did not quite see how it was to be managed.

‘Yes, but with all that junk the vicar has in his study it wouldn’t be all that easy to see if the egg was there or not.’ Mr Coleman gave a short laugh. ‘I often think when he asks people to bring stuff for a jumble sale that he could do worse than clear out some of his own junk in that study.’

‘Good heavens—a Fabergé egg at a jumble sale!’ I exclaimed. ‘That
would
be something.’

‘And he’s going to Italy again for his holidays this year,’ said Mr Coleman in a meaningful tone.

‘To stay with friends near Siena, I believe.’

‘No doubt he’ll pick up a few more broken statues and old pictures there,’ said Mr Coleman sarcastically.

It struck me as odd that one who played such an important part in the elaborate services we had should appear to be so totally unappreciative of beauty.

‘Don’t you like the statues we have in church?’ I asked in curiosity.

‘Oh yes, Mrs Forsyth, but they’re bright and new. The ladies keep them dusted and cleaned. Poor Mrs Greenhill used to have a job keeping Father Thames’s study clean though—she often said so. Well, Mrs Forsyth, I don’t know what’s best to be done, but I’ve got it off my chest, anyway. This business of the egg’s been worrying me, I don’t mind telling you—that and the Husky. I’ll be taking it to the garage tomorrow.’

‘I do hope it will be all right,’ I said vaguely. ‘And thank you for coming to see me—we shall just have to see how things go. I think it quite possible that Mr Bason may return the egg before it is missed.’

From the window I saw Mr Coleman cross the square, light up his pipe and get into his car. Its clean-cut lines were probably his ideal of beauty, which made me wonder why he had not chosen the simple austerity of a Nonconformist service as his form of worship. No doubt upbringing had something to do with it, and there was no accounting for tastes, as he himself might well have said.

It was now much too late to set out on the little excursion I had planned. The visit to Piers’s territory would have to wait for another time; perhaps a fine afternoon when he was unlikely to be at home would be best. Now I could only wait rather impatiently for Sybil or Rodney to come home. They, with their greater experience of what is known as the seamy side of life, would no doubt be able to decide what was the best course of action to follow. Sybil’s work at the Settlement, and Rodney’s at the Ministry and with his men in the Army, had equipped them better than my sheltered years at home and my brief spell of gaiety, serving my country in the Wrens. I began to be ashamed of my lack of experience—I had not had a lover before I married, I had no children, I wasn’t even asked to clean the brasses or arrange the flowers in church. But I had done something to make Piers happy and that compensated for everything. I sat in the dusk thinking about him, and was surprised thus by Sybil returning from the theatre.