A Glass of Blessings (17 page)

‘Such a silly play! Just the kind to go to with an old school friend, a real
woman’s
evening,’ she said, flinging her old moleskin cape down on the sofa. ‘But how the audience loved it! How they roared with laughter when the vicar entered through the french windows at the back of the stage.’

‘Was it funny, then?’ I asked.

‘The vicar’s entry? Not particularly. He just stood there, holding his hat in his hands and blinking through his spectacles. He reminded me a little of your Father Bode, but it brought the house down.’

‘And he’s such a good man. I think it’s all wrong, making the clergy appear comic.’

‘I wonder—would they have laughed so much had he been wearing a cassock and biretta? Perhaps not. Have you had an interesting evening, dear?’ Sybil peered at me rather closely. ‘You looked a little sad sitting there in the gloaming.’

‘I’ve had a rather strange evening. Mr Coleman called with an odd story about Mr Bason. He wanted to see Rodney really, so perhaps I’d better wait until he comes in, then I shan’t have to tell it twice.’

‘Noddy was out to dinner, wasn’t he?’ said Sybil. ‘Did you know where he was going?’

‘Just some friend from the Ministry—James Cash, perhaps,’ I said vaguely. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll be very late.’

‘Isn’t that his key in the lock now?’ said Sybil. ‘The sound a wife is said to love above all others?’ she added in a dry questioning tone.

I ran downstairs feeling a little confused. Rodney stood in the hall, hesitating, as if he could not decide whether to come up or not. I thought he had probably been drinking a little more than he should and did not feel quite equal to facing the steely glances of his wife and his mother.

‘Come on, darling,’ I said, running towards him. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

He put his arm around my shoulders and we went like that upstairs into the drawing-room.

‘Now,’ said Sybil, looking up from her knitting, ‘we can hear this odd story about Mr Bason. Wilmet has been waiting for you to come in.’

‘About Bason?’ asked Rodney. ‘Has he put arsenic in the soup, or what?’

‘No, it isn’t a joke,’ I said, and began to tell the story of the egg as Mr Coleman had told it to me. I felt it lost something in the telling but the effect on Rodney was none the less striking.

‘Oh my God!’ he exclaimed. ‘So he’s up to his tricks again. I was afraid he might do something of the kind.’

‘Why—has it happened before?’

‘Yes. That was why he left the Ministry, really—though of course he wasn’t suited to the work, as you know.’

‘He took something there, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘But what would there be to take at the Ministry?’ asked Sybil ‘A wire basket, a box file, somebody’s teacup—or was it money?’

‘No—it was actually a little jade Buddha.’

‘Good heavens!’ I laughed. ‘What an unlikely object. Where did he find it?’

‘It was on the desk of one of the principals—a woman,’ Rodney added.

‘You seem to imply that a man wouldn’t have such a thing on his desk,’ said Sybil, ‘and it does seem as if only a woman would realize that civil service decisions need the wisdom of the East.’

‘Perhaps she just thought it was a pleasing object,’ I suggested.

‘And yet,’ Sybil went on, ‘is the wisdom of the East quite what is wanted in government departments today? I’m reminded of that Chinese saying, “If you have two loaves, sell one and buy a lily”—it’s not
practical
, of course, but its ministerial interpretation might be interesting.’

‘I don’t think that was a saying of the Buddha,’ said Rodney. ‘But we’re getting off the point. If Bason has really stolen—taken—this Fabergé egg, it’s a serious matter. I wondered whether I ought to mention his weakness to Father Thames before he engaged him, but I thought it was perhaps hardly fair on Bason. And I must say,’ he added, indignation coming into his voice, ‘it didn’t occur to me that there would be much temptation of
that
kind in a clergy house.’

‘Would there be any other?’ asked Sybil thoughtfully. ‘Any other kind of temptation, I mean? You sound almost as if you thought there might be.’

‘Goodness, Mother, why must you always take one so literally,’ said Rodney irritably. ‘You know what I meant – I thought it unlikely that there would be any
objets d’art
of the kind Bason fancies lying around in a house full of celibate priests.’

‘I don’t see that celibacy has anything to do with it,’ persisted Sybil obstinately.

‘Anyway, when I saw all those things in Father Thames’s study at Christmas I did begin to wonder,’ Rodney went on, ‘but by then it was obviously too late to do anything. One could only hope for the best.’

‘And do you remember Mr Bason saying that he always must be surrounded by beautiful things?’ I added. ‘Poor man, I suppose it’s a sort of kink—showing the egg to Mr Coleman was surely a sign of that, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, a gesture of bravado. He couldn’t resist showing off, drawing attention to what he’d done. Well, we can’t do anything about it
now.’
Rodney yawned. ‘We’d better sleep on it.’

Sleeping on a Fabergé egg seemed a simple comic thing and I laughed. Soon, perhaps as a relief from tension, we were all laughing.

‘If Father Thames discovered it was missing, would he announce it from the pulpit?’ Rodney asked.

‘He might. Among the parish notices, I suppose, but after the banns of marriage.’

‘It would be like school,’ said Rodney. ‘No boy shall leave the room until the culprit has owned up.’

Chapter Sixteen

It was, to put it mildly, a little embarrassing to come face to face with Mr Bason the very next morning. I had gone out to do some shopping at the large store in our neighbourhood which had a self-service grocery department. I sometimes strayed into it, idly and extravagantly filling my basket with any expensive delicacy that happened to catch my eye. Sybil used to call these little expeditions ‘Wilmet’s wanderings’, for I never chose really sensible everyday things, which we always had sent, anyway.

I had stopped by a shelf of Eastern specialities—bamboo shoots, tinned mushrooms, lime pickle and exotic sauces, when I suddenly saw the head of Mr Bason popping up from the other side. His egg-shaped head, I thought, immediately conscious of the unfortunate relevance of the comparison. For a moment I toyed with the idea of moving quickly on, but before I could make up my mind I realized that it was too late, for he had seen me and was coming over to the side of the shelf where I was.

‘Isn’t it fascinating here,’ he said in his rather gushing way. ‘I never can resist all these lovely things.’

Did he mean that he could never resist
taking
them? I wondered, unhappy in my new knowledge of his character, for I was sure that the amount of clergy housekeeping money would hardly run to
buying
them.

‘Yes, they’re very tempting,’ I agreed, ‘but I suppose Father Thames and Father Bode wouldn’t like them really.’

‘Father Thames would,’ said Mr Bason eagerly. ‘He has the most exquisite taste.’

‘One can tell that from his collection of
objets d’art,’
I said boldly. There are some lovely things in his study.’

‘Exquisite!’ agreed Mr Bason enthusiastically. ‘And do you know which is my favourite?’

‘No?’ I waited fearfully.

‘Why, the Fabergé egg, of course. Surely there couldn’t be two opinions about that?’

During our conversation we had moved away from the Eastern delicacies, and were now for no apparent reason standing by the breakfast cereals. I found myself nervously reading the life story of an Indian chief called Pontiac on one of the packets. Would Mr Bason go on talking about the Fabergé egg? I wondered. And was it my duty to say something to him? Surely not
here
, among the All-Bran, the Grapenuts, the Puffed Wheat, the Rice Krispies and the Frosted Flakes?’

‘Father Bode
will
have his cornflakes,’ said Mr Bason, seizing a giant packet of Kellogg’s. ‘Of course Father Thames has a continental breakfast, coffee and croissants.’

‘My husband likes Grapenuts,’ I found myself saying feebly. Then, gathering strength, I asked, ‘And what do
you
have? An egg?’

He shuddered. ‘Oh no—just black coffee and orange juice. I hate eggs.’

‘Not Fabergé eggs, surely?’ I said boldly, wondering if his face would change colour in some dramatic way.

‘Oh Mrs Forsyth, how did you know about my little peccadillo?’ he asked in an agitated tone. ‘Did Father Thames speak to your husband? I hoped he hadn’t missed it. I was going to put it back—I swear it—I only
borrowed
it because I wanted to look at it. It’s so beautiful that I’m carrying it about with me all the time, because I know I must put it back eventually.
Look!’
He opened the canvas bag he was carrying and I peered into its cavernous depths. There, nestling incongruously among an assortment of groceries, I saw the Fabergé egg, its stones winking and glistening in the dim light.

‘Oh -!’
I drew back in a kind of fascinated horror.

‘Such
a lovely thing, isn’t it?’ he purred, more in his old manner.

I hoped he would not take the egg out and toss it in the air as he had done in the vestry before Mr Coleman.

‘Yes, but it’s not
yours,’
I said firmly.

He closed up the bag quickly and said rather petulantly, ‘I know—and I should appreciate it just as much as
he
does.’

‘When are you going to put it back?’ I asked, amazed at my boldness.

He turned away and hung his head like a sulky child.

‘Shall we go and put it back
now?’
I suggested.

‘All right,’ he said, suddenly meek. ‘But Father Thames may be in his study.’

‘Don’t worry, I will divert him in some way,’ I said, wondering what I could possibly do to achieve such a thing.

We paid for our purchases and then walked slowly back to the clergy house. It was by this time nearly twelve o’clock.

‘I suppose you’ll be thinking of preparing lunch for Father Thames and Father Bode?’ I said chattily. ‘What are you giving them today?’

‘Well—really—I’ve been so upset lately, what with one thing and another, that my heart hasn’t been in it.’

I must have smiled, perhaps at the culinary associations of the word ‘heart’, for he said quickly, ‘And very delicious a stuffed sheep’s heart can be! You mustn’t think, Mrs Forsyth, that I’m one to despise offal, as it is called. On the contrary!’

‘Will they have heart today?’ I asked.

‘No, it will be the remains of last night’s joint made up. Almost a shepherd’s pie,’ he added contemptuously, ‘though I might put a little garlic into it. And just cheese and biscuits to follow. Twice cooked meat is something I
don’t
think much of.’

‘Still, one has to have it sometimes,’ I said. ‘Perhaps the clergy do, more than other people.’

We were now walking up the steps of the clergy house, and I was beginning to feel a little nervous at what lay before us. In the hall we met Father Bode and Mrs Greenhill, the latter holding an untidy brown paper parcel from which a bit of striped material of a pyjama-like nature protruded. They appeared to be deep in conversation.

‘I’ll do the best I can with these, Father,’ I heard Mrs Greenhill say in a low mumbling voice.

‘Thank you very much, Mrs G.,’ he answered in a louder, more open tone. ‘I think there’s a good deal of wear in them yet.’

I hung my head, as if I were unworthy of the privilege of seeing Father Bode’s pyjamas.

‘Why good morning, Mrs Forsyth. Did you want to see me?’ he asked, smiling his toothy friendly smile, his eyes gleaming behind his thick spectacles.

‘Well, I really wanted to see Father Thames,’ I said. ‘I believe he’s going to Italy soon, and I wanted to ask him something. Is he very busy?’

‘Well -‘ Father Bode hesitated, honesty perhaps struggling with loyalty to his vicar; then, hitting on a happy phrase, he said, ‘We clergy are always ready to see our parishioners. I think he’s in his study.’

‘Shall I go and see?’ asked Mr Bason.

I heard him go upstairs, and knock at Father Thames’s study door. I followed him up nervously.

When I reached the door Father Thames called out, ‘Do come in, Mrs Forsyth. Bason tells me you want to see me.’

‘It’s really quite a frivolous matter,’ I said, entering the room where Father Thames was sitting at his enormous desk, writing something—I could not see what—on a piece of foolscap. ‘I was wondering if you were going anywhere near Rome on your holiday, and could perhaps deliver a message to some friends of mine.’

‘Alas no—friends in Siena. They have a villa, but—this will surprise you—no motor car! Otherwise I should have been delighted to execute any commission for you. Perhaps we may contrive something, though.’

‘No, it’s quite all right, thank you very much,’ I said lamely. ‘I mustn’t disturb you, or Mr Bason at his dusting,’ I added, seeing that he was over by the window with his back to us.

‘Ah—Bason is very houseproud,’ said Father Thames. ‘He takes such care of my treasures.’

I waited till Mr Bason had left the room before making any comment. I saw that the Fabergé egg was back in its accustomed place.

‘They must be rather valuable,’ I said at last ‘Will you leave them locked up when you go away?’

‘No, they will be quite safe here. Bason would be so hurt if I removed them. It might seem like a reflection on his honesty.’

There was an embarrassed silence, at least on my part. But before I could decide what I ought to say, Father Thames had picked up the Fabergé egg and was saying in an indulgent tone, ‘So my egg is back again. I wondered how long it would be away this time.’

‘You mean … ?’ I faltered.

‘Oh yes, Bason borrows it every now and then. He doesn’t realize that I know, of course. He thinks I don’t notice.’ Father Thames smiled. ‘He is very fond of beautiful things, you know.’

‘Yes, I did know,’ was all I could think of to say.

‘It seems selfish to keep one’s possessions too much to oneself, doesn’t it, when they can give so much pleasure to others.’

I could hardly fail to agree with him, and after that there seemed to be nothing more to say. Any chatty remarks about Father Ransome’s friend, Edwin Sainsbury, having gone over to Rome, would I felt have been out of place. I left the study in some confusion and was waylaid by Father Bode in the halt.

‘I hear that Miss Beamish is coming to stay with you,’ he said in a confidential tone. ‘I’m so glad that she has friends she can be with at this rather difficult time.’

‘Yes, I suppose she may feel a little awkward,’ I said, ‘but I can’t help thinking it’s all for the best, her coming away from
that place.’
I felt I had given the last words a sinister emphasis which I had not really intended, so I added quickly, ‘I thought the convent seemed very nice—it certainly has a lovely garden. I believe they grow all their own vegetables,’ I added, for all the world as if it were a hotel advertising ‘own garden produce’.

‘Yes, but it wasn’t the place for
her.
She can do so much good out in the world, you know, and I hope she will realize that now. I have a little plan for her—there’s a retreat house in the diocese in need of a housekeeper and I thought she might like the work. I think it would be rather jolly if we could organize a parish’ retreat, don’t you? We might hire a coach.’ Father Bode’s toothy smile and gleaming eyes now seemed rather alarming.

I must have looked a little dismayed, for he went on quickly, ‘Retreats can be rather fun, you know. Had you heard that Father Thames is retiring in the autumn?’

‘I had heard rumours.’

‘It will be announced in the June magazine,’ said Father Bode, ‘and of course we shall have a presentation when he gets back from Italy.’

‘I wonder who we shall get as vicar. It would be splendid if you were to be offered the living,’ I said impulsively.

‘It would be a great joy to
me
,’ said Father Bode simply, ‘but of course the Bishop could so easily find a better man.’

He said this so sincerely that it sounded as if he really meant it.

As I left I could hear Mr Bason singing ‘All things bright and beautiful’ in the kitchen, and I wondered whether Father Bode, if he became vicar, would keep on Mr Bason as housekeeper at the clergy house. Then my thoughts returned to the strange business of the Fabergé egg. I supposed that Father Thames’s attitude towards the ‘borrowing’ had been the really Christian one, and I could not resist asking Rodney that evening whether the high up female civil servant had adopted a similar attitude when her jade Buddha had been taken.

‘I think
not
,’ said Rodney emphatically.

‘But surely there
is
Christian behaviour among civil servants? Among the higher ranks of women civil servants?’ asked Sybil. ‘I hope you don’t mean to imply that there never could be?’

Rodney sighed. ‘Oh, Mother, these searching questions of yours! They’re really a bit much at the end of a heavy day. How can I possibly know the answer to that one?’

‘Now, Noddy, you know how I like to tease you,’ Sybil laughed. ‘Anyway, it’s reassuring to find Father Thames behaving as he should. People are too apt to make jokes about the unChristian behaviour of Christians—I’m afraid I do myself sometimes.’

‘I also had a talk with Father Bode this morning,’ I said, ‘and he’s very glad that Mary is coming to us when she leaves the convent.’

Rodney looked rather startled, and Sybil smiled indulgently at him.

‘We shall be able to see to her material comforts,’ she said. ‘That’s the least we can do.’

‘I should have thought it was also the most,’ said Rodney. ‘Which room is she to have?’

‘We thought the front spare room was the obvious one,’ I said. ‘It has the washbasin and a nice view over the square, and the bed is really more comfortable than the bed in the back room.’

‘Will she expect a comfortable bed?’ Rodney asked. ‘Oughtn’t we to break her into the world gradually?’

‘I don’t see what difference it makes,’ I said.

‘Wilmet, have you thought what books to put by her bed?’ asked Sybil. ‘You must make a careful choice.’

‘I suppose some anthologies of poetry and good novels by female authors,’ I said. ‘Not devotional books, obviously.’

‘We have just completed an interesting report on the Linoleum Industry,’ said Rodney. ‘I could let her have a cyclostyled copy—the pages are bound together.’

‘Foolscap is awkward to read in bed,’ said Sybil. ‘Arnold has just published a paper in one of the archaeological journals—that’s a handy size for night reading, and there are some excellent drawings of pottery fragments done by an invalid lady who lives in Dawlish.’ She paused and then, with an uncharacteristic air of self-consciousness, said, ‘By the way, Arnold thinks he would like to come to Portugal with us in September. What do
you
think?’

‘Why, that would be delightful,’ I said. ‘It would make’ a better-balanced party. But what about his family ties?’

‘Well yes, there is his sister of course. They have always stayed at a small private hotel in Minehead and gone for long walks over Exmoor. They’ve been going there for the past ten years or so, and Arnold feels he would like a change. Apparently a friend of Dorothy’s—that’s his sister’s name—always joins them and they take a packed lunch out every day, wet or fine. Arnold says he is rather tired of it.’

‘I should think ten years of packed lunches would become rather a bore after a while,’ said Rodney.