A Glass of Blessings (5 page)

‘All the same I should like to go,’ I persisted. ‘It will be the kind of service I prefer, anyway.’

‘All right then. I’ll take you in the car and call for you when it’s over,’ said Harry rather grudgingly.

But at that moment Piers came into the room; and in the end it was be who took me in the little car, Harry not trusting him with the Jaguar.

‘I may as well come to the service with you,’ he said, ‘though country churches always depress me.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean. There is something sad about them, as if their life were all in the past—all those tablets and monuments of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, leaving no room for modern ones.’

‘And the hidebound villagers with their gnarled hands grasping
Hymns Ancient and Modern
and rigidly opposing any change, and the gentry putting in an appearance at Matins occasionally or reading the lessons.’

‘But we mustn’t generalize,’ I said. ‘After all, there
is
young life in the country too.’

‘And a new vicar trying to spike things up a bit.’

‘Perhaps it’s because country churches are always surrounded by graves and yew trees and they do have a kind of damp smell.’

‘And almost never a smell of incense.’

We were a little too early for the service, so we walked round the churchyard together, reading the inscriptions on the gravestones. Some graves were very old, their headstones broken and overgrown with ivy, reminding me of tumbled unmade beds. Others, because of their new raw look and the flowers arranged in jam jars or ugly vases, had a different kind of sadness.

At last we heard a distant droning of music and decided that it was time to go in. A few people, mostly women and young children, were scattered about in the pews, and I saw that the music came from the vicar’s wife, pedalling away at a harmonium. The choir of girls with two men did not make much of Merbecke—as Piers said afterwards, ‘One would hardly go there for the music, as people are said to in London churches.’ Nevertheless, I felt that we had both been in some way moved by the service, although we neither of us remarked on it. When it was over we had a word with the vicar who seemed very glad that we had come.

‘Do you suppose those people who received Communion had been fasting for four hours or whatever it is?’ Piers asked as we drove back. ‘I feel they hardly could have been.’

‘Perhaps they wouldn’t know about it and so could be excused. It must be difficult for Father Lester—I suppose we should call him that—to know where to start in his instruction.’

‘Yes, in the spiking up, poor man. How much better for him to have been given a cosy London church with hideous brass and stained glass and pitchpine, but a good Catholic tradition.’

‘Do you go to any special church in London?’ I asked.

‘I go where it suits me, and when.’

I was a little chilled by the unfriendliness of his answer. ‘I don’t even know where you live,’ I said at last.

‘Holland Park, vaguely, though perhaps a little nearer to the Goldhawk Road than the address might suggest.’

‘That seems rather vague, but you must be somewhere near where I live.’

‘Not really, Wilmet. The dividing line between elegance and squalor may be a narrow one in London, but the distinction is very rigid.’

‘I hope you don’t live in squalor. Have you a flat or rooms, or what?’ I asked, driven on by curiosity and intrigued by the hint of squalor.

‘Well, a kind of flat.’

‘And you live by yourself?’

He seemed to hesitate, so I said quickly, ‘I imagine you sharing with a colleague, perhaps.’

‘Yes, that’s about it.’

I supposed I could hardly probe further, though I couldn’t help wondering if he lived with a woman and what he would have answered if I had asked him outright.

‘Are you going back this evening?’ I went on.

‘Yes, I must be at the press at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’

He seemed tired and dispirited, and we drove the rest of the way in silence. As we got out of the car he said, ‘At least there’ll be the Sunday morning gins.’

After lunch we dozed over the Sunday papers. When it was teatime Rowena went to the window to pull the long yellow curtains.

‘The evenings are drawing in,’ she said. ‘I hate November, and after tea on Sunday, too. I suppose it’s because people begin to feel the oppression of Monday morning and another week upon them, and it’s infectious, even if one doesn’t work in an office oneself. Piers, what exactly do you
do
at the press?’

‘Oh, just correct proofs. Menial work, really.’

‘But you have your evening classes.’

‘Yes, I have those.’

‘Teaching is creative work in a way, I always think. You must feel that you are moulding people.’

‘You should see what I have to mould,’ said Piers gloomily.

‘And teaching takes it out of you, of course,’ Rowena laughed. ‘You are giving of yourself, or should be.’

‘I doubt if people would want
my
kind of self,’ said Piers in a dry tone, ‘so I’m not all that generous.’

In the morning, when we were waiting for the Green Line bus, Rowena took my hand and said earnestly, ‘Wilmet, darling, do try and see something of Piers if you can. I’m sure it would be so good for him to have a nice female friend—if you could bear it, that is.’

‘I expect he has lots,’ I said. ‘After all he’s very attractive.’

‘I don’t know, really. He tends not to speak of his friends here, and I do sometimes wonder if they’re the right kind.’ Rowena frowned and then burst into laughter. ‘Oh dear, that makes you sound dreary, being so very much the right kind yourself, but you know what I mean. Do give my love to Rodney, won’t you?’

When Rodney came home in the evening he asked, ‘How was old Harry Grinners?’ which had been our joking nickname for Harry before we really knew him. We spent some time reminiscing about our time in Italy—long evening drives in curious army vehicles with now forgotten names, the headlights picking out an urn or a coat of arms on the gateway to some villa, or illuminating a crowd of people in the square of a little town—the rococo dining-room of a particular officers’ club where the Asti Spumante was wann and flat, and there were too many drunken majors … remembered now after ten years this life had a fantastic dreamlike quality about it.

‘By the way,’ said Rodney suddenly, ‘I meant to tell you, Bason has apparently got that job as housekeeper at the clergy house. I gather he’s moving in immediately. I hope he’ll turn out all right. In a way I feel responsible for his good behaviour.’

At that moment the telephone rang. It was Mary Beamish. I wondered rather apprehensively what she could be wanting me for, but she was only ringing up to tell me that all the congregation of St Luke’s were invited to a social evening in the parish hall at eight o’clock next Saturday to meet Father Ransome, the new assistant priest. It had been announced after Mass on Sunday and she thought I would like to know.

‘But where is he going to live?’ I asked. ‘Is that settled?’

‘Oh yes—with
us’
said Mary. ‘We have two spare rooms which he is to have temporarily, and he can cook his own breakfast on a gas ring. He will have his other meals at the clergy house.’

I was both annoyed and amused at her news, annoyed because for some reason I did not want him to live at the Beamishes, and amused at the picture of him cooking his own breakfast on a gas ring. The whole thing seemed most unsuitable. But I certainly intended to go to the social evening in the parish hall. I had the feeling that it might be quite an interesting occasion.

Chapter Four

When Saturday came Sybil began to be worried about how I should manage my evening meal.

‘Eight o’clock is such an impractical time,’ she said. ‘It does seem that the Church is out of touch with life—one sees what people mean when they say that. Though I suppose,’ she added, fair as usual, ‘that eight o’clock is probably a convenient time for people who have been working till five or six and had a meal immediately afterwards. And of course people who have to go to work wouldn’t want to stay up too late.’

‘But tomorrow is Sunday,’ I pointed out, ‘so I suppose it is chosen for all of us, so that we may get up early to go to church.’

‘Father Thames, from what you’ve told me, doesn’t seem the kind of man who would naturally enjoy a cup of tea and a bun at eight o’clock in the evening. I wonder how
he
will be managing?’

‘I suppose he is conditioned to it after so many years,’ I said, ‘so there won’t be any problem. I daresay Mr Bason will be giving them a high tea, or something like that.’ Then I remembered that Father Thames always heard confessions at half past six on Saturday evenings, so that was something else to be fitted in.

‘Won’t you at least have a drink before you go?’ Sybil asked. ‘I’m sure you’ll need it.’

I refused, thinking that it might not mix very well with the refreshments I should get at the parish hall, and it occurred to me that one could perhaps classify different groups or circles of people according to drink. I myself seemed to belong to two very clearly defined circles—the Martini drinkers and the tea drinkers though I was only just beginning to be initiated into the latter. I imagined that both might offer different kinds of comfort, though there would surely be times when one might prefer the one that wasn’t available. Indeed, as I approached the parish hall, which was next door to the clergy house, I began to wish that I had paid more heed to Sybil’s suggestion of a drink. I never think of myself as being nervous socially—I am always perfectly confident when entering the room at a party—but this occasion seemed unlike any I had experienced before. I suppose that church gatherings inevitably attract the strangest mixture of people, and I felt a little apprehensive as I pushed open the door, my eyes fixing themselves on the green walls, hung with rather chipped ‘Della Robbia’ plaques indicating Father Thames’s interest in all things Italian. Would there be anyone to whom I could easily talk? I took courage from the assumption that practically everyone in the congregation would have come to meet or have a look at Father Ransome; it wouldn’t be like a whist drive which attracted a very limited circle, so there was a chance that I might find somebody congenial.

It seemed that I was right, for the hall was very crowded. I noticed that the lay people had arranged themselves in little groups, each clearly distinguishable from the others. As a kind of centrepiece there was old Mrs Beamish, large and black, at the same time brooding and quietly triumphant, presumably because Father Ransome was to live under her roof. She was surrounded by various elderly ladies in yellowish-brown fur coats, one of whom I recognized as Miss Prideaux. Mary Beamish, wearing a woollen dress of a rather unbecomingly harsh shade of blue, was hovering near her mother. I was glad that I had decided to wear black in which I always feel right. Near this group I saw Mrs Greenhill, the clergy’s late housekeeper, in close conversation with her friend and crony Mrs Spooner the little verger in her familiar peacock blue hat which had a large paste replica of the bird pinned to the front of it. It seemed almost as if they might be murmuring together against the clergy, for I saw them glance in Father Thames’s direction once or twice. I also noticed two well-dressed middle- aged women with a young girl, whom I remembered having seen in church sometimes. All three were chinless, with large aristocratic noses. Near them stood a thin woman with purple hair and a surprised expression, as if she had not expected that it would turn out to be quite that colour. She wore a good deal of chunky jewellery, and I felt she had gone a little too far in showing that churchgoers need not necessarily be dowdy. She was rather surprisingly in conversation with a group of nuns from the convent in the parish. The nuns were of two kinds, short and motherly looking, or tall and thin with steel- rimmed spectacles, pale waxy complexions and sweet remote smiles that had something a little sinister about them.

It must not be supposed that there were no men present, but my first overwhelming impression was that, as at so many church gatherings, the women outnumbered the men. There seemed to be a kind of segregation of the sexes, though various young girls and boys moved about freely between all the groups. The largest male group was that dominated by Mr Coleman, the good looking fair-haired master of ceremonies, with his cronies, some of whom I recognized as fellow servers, but one of whom—a tall youngish man with a high dome- shaped forehead—I guessed to be Mr Bason, the new housekeeper at the clergy house. The two churchwardens and the secretary and treasurer of the parochial church council were together in a corner, looking rather important. In the middle of the room stood the three clergy. Father Thames and Father Bode were evidently leading Father Ransome round and introducing him to the various groups of people. When I entered the hall Father Ransome had his back to me, and it was not until later that I was able to form any definite impression of him. This first sight told me only that he was tall and dark.

Being alone I felt that I had to attach myself to some group, and as nobody noticed my entry nobody came forward to greet me. The obvious and dreary course would have been to join Mary Beamish and the old ladies, but something in me rebelled against this and I found myself walking over to where Mr Coleman and the presumed Mr Bason were talking together. As so often happens, I caught the tail end of a rather esoteric conversation.

‘…wouldn’t
believe
the trouble we had over them,’ Mr Bason was saying.

‘It’s really simpler when you haven’t got any,’ said Mr Coleman in his low voice with its slightly north country accent ‘There were only four Sundays in Advent last year, I remember, so it can be a bit of a problem to know when to use them.’

‘Good evening,’ I said, feeling more at ease interrupting a men’s conversation than a women’s.

But they did not react in quite the way I was accustomed to. Mr Coleman gave me a slightly hostile stare from his intensely blue eyes. Mr Bason looked a little surprised.

‘I’m Mrs Forsyth,’ I explained, ‘and I think you must be Mr Bason. My husband was so glad to hear that you had settled in at the clergy house.’

‘Oh, then I really owe the job to you?’ said Mr Bason. He had a rather fluty enthusiastic voice, and I felt that had he been older he might have called me ‘dear lady’.

‘Well it did seem the obvious thing, when my husband told me about you and I knew Father Thames’s need.’

‘It’s just the kind of thing I wanted,’ said Mr Bason, ‘and such jobs aren’t at all easy to get. But those poor things—I really feel like a deus ex machina!’

Mr Coleman looked a little puzzled.

‘I don’t think we have ever met socially,’ I said, not wishing to leave him out of the conversation, ‘but of course I have often admired you from afar.’

He smiled and flushed slightly, and I felt that I liked him better. I made some remark about how difficult it must be to carry out the complicated ceremonial as well as he did.

‘There’s nothing to it once you know how, Mrs Forsyth,’ he said. ‘It’s just a job like any other. Father Thames is a bit exacting at times, but that keeps me on my mettle.’

‘Of course they do say, don’t they, that he’s a disappointed man,’ said Mr Bason rather eagerly.

‘Really?’ I tried to keep the note of interest out of my voice, though I did not really wish to discourage Mr Bason from going further.

‘Well, it is common knowledge in the diocese, surely?’

Mr Coleman looked away and said something to one of his fellow servers. I had the impression that he disapproved of the turn the conversation had taken.

‘He had hoped to be made archdeacon,’ declared Mr Bason in a loud clear tone.

‘Archdeacon?’ I echoed, but did not ask of what, for I was unwilling to reveal my ignorance of what was apparently common knowledge in the diocese.

‘Certainly! And of course he is getting on now—must be over seventy.’

‘Yes, I suppose he is older than Sir Denbigh Grote,’ I said.

‘Well, Sir Denbigh is no chicken, and he too has made rather a mess of things judging by all accounts.’

‘Really? What did he do?’ I tried to remember what I had heard about him. He had been at some Middle European embassy at the beginning of the war but had been obliged to leave hurriedly when the country had been overrun by Hitler’s armies. ‘Surely he had to leave his post because of the war?’ I said. I had often pictured the scene at the embassy on that day—the hasty packing, the burning of secret documents, and even the used blotting paper in foreign-looking tiled stoves …

‘Yes, he did, but I gather that he was a little over-enthusiastic in his destruction of secret papers,’ said Mr Bason gloatingly. ‘He went and destroyed the whole lot when he should have brought some of them away.’

‘It must be very difficult to make up one’s mind on such an occasion,’ I said, wanting to defend Sir Denbigh.

‘Yes—fortunately we are not likely to find ourselves in that sort of position,’ said Mr Bason with some complacency.

‘Do you like living in the clergy house?’ I asked.

‘Yes, it’s really quite cosy. I have a bed-sitter—
not
the room Mrs Greenhill had. That was a poky little room on the ground floor—very damp, I should think.’

‘No wonder she got fibrositis and found the work too much for her.’

‘Was that why she left, then? Well, a change had to be made. The state of that kitchen, you wouldn’t believe it! I should think baked beans and chips was about all
she
knew how to cook!’

It occurred to me that Mr Bason was not being very charitable, but I seemed unable to stop his flow of talk.

‘She and that verger woman are doing the refreshments tonight. I suppose that will be within her capabilities—she will make a good cup, as they say, and of course Father Bode does enjoy that; but Father Thames likes his Lapsang, which he takes correctly without milk or sugar. I prefer Earl Grey myself—find the Lapsang too smoky.’

‘Do you?’ I said in a rather cool tone, feeling that Mr Bason needed to be put in his place. ‘I suppose Lapsang is really an acquired taste. I am very fond of it myself.’

‘That rather surprises me. I feel that women don’t really understand the finer points of cooking or appreciate rare things,’ he went on, quite unabashed. ‘All the greatest chefs have been men.’

‘What do you think about this knotty problem?’ I asked, turning to Mr Coleman, feeling like the chairman of a discussion. ‘Mr Bason maintains that women don’t really understand the finer points of cooking.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, rather confused. ‘I think some ladies cook very well. In some ways it’s funny to see a man cooking.’

Mr Bason turned away, perhaps offended, and as my conversation with Mr Coleman seemed to have come to an end I found myself temporarily with nobody to talk to. I glanced round the room to see what was happening, and began to wonder when the refreshments would be served. At this moment I caught Mary Beamish’s eye and she came over to me.

‘Why, Wilmet, standing there all alone,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see you’d arrived. I’m so sorry.’

‘I’ve been having a most interesting conversation with Mr Coleman and Mr Bason,’ I said, irritated at the way she was making it appear that I had been waiting for somebody to notice me. ‘It was really through Rodney that Mr Bason came to the clergy house so I felt I ought to have a word with him,’ I added.

‘Father Thames is delighted with him, I know,’ said Mary warmly. ‘Now do come over and talk to us. Miss Prideaux has been telling us about her experiences in Vienna when she was a governess to the royal family.’

I allowed myself to be led over to the little group. Miss Prideaux was certainly talking in her dry precise voice, but not now of Vienna.

‘And he gets his own breakfast?’ I heard her ask.

‘Yes, there is a gas ring up there. He could cook sausages or eggs and bacon, or even kippers if he wanted to,’ said Mrs Beamish, dwelling on the various dishes appreciatively. She spoke with a kind of pride, and I knew that they must be talking of Father Ransome. ‘It will be quite like old times to have a priest in the house again,’ she added.

Miss Prideaux took a small handkerchief from her bag and pressed it to her lips. I saw that it had a dove and the word ASSISI embroidered on it in cross stitch.

‘So handy for you,’ she said.

I wanted to laugh, for it sounded so odd the way Miss Prideaux put it, as if Father Ransome might be useful for chasing burglars, mending fuses or other manly jobs.

‘But will he be about the house much?’ I asked. ‘I mean in the usual sense?’

‘Well no, he will be having his main meals at the clergy house,’ said Mary. ‘But I suppose we may give him a meal occasionally.’

I was about to ask further questions when I saw that the moment had come. The group of priests was approaching us, and Father Thames was soon introducing Father Ransome.

His christian names—Marius Lovejoy—and the first glimpse of him earlier in the evening had led me to expect somebody handsome, but even so the impact of his good looks was quite startling. He was certainly very handsome indeed, with his dark wavy hair and large brown eyes. The bones in his face were well defined and his expression serious. I remembered that he had been in the East End and in the worst part of Kensington, and I wondered whether the suffering and poverty he had seen there had left their mark on him, until I realized that it probably wouldn’t be like that in these days of the welfare state. I had been thinking of Father Lowder and a hundred years ago.

‘How do you do,’ I murmured as he was introduced to me.

Father Thames was holding forth about the accommodation problem at the clergy house. ‘I wonder how many people realize that we haven’t as many rooms as you might think,’ he said. ‘On the ground floor is the dining-room, a room we use for meetings, and a small cloakroom with a washbasin—cold water tap
only
; also the kitchen, of course, and the little room Mrs Greenhill had which we are now using as a storeroom.’