A Glass of Blessings (8 page)

‘Isn’t it sad, the winter coming,’ said Mary, after we had been silent for a moment, both looking out of the window at the darkened sky.

‘Yes, though I’ve almost got used to it now,’ I said, ‘and have begun to accept the more comfortable aspects like fires and warm clothes.’

‘The end of summer is really worse—late September, perhaps,’ Mary went on. ‘Do you know that poem :

There is a wind where the rose was;

Cold rain where sweet grass was ..

she quoted in a low clear voice, looking at me rather intently.

I felt horribly embarrassed. I remembered the poem and a later line about ‘tears, tears, where my heart was’ , and although I did not imagine it could have any personal significance for Mary, I felt I could not bear to be invited to a womanly sharing of confidences. I looked at her dispassionately and saw almost with dislike her shining eager face, her friendship offered to me. What was I doing sitting here with somebody who was so very much not my kind of person? It was my own fault for getting involved with St Luke’s, I told myself unreasonably.

‘Yes, it’s a good poem,’ I said abruptly.

‘I’m afraid I read rather a lot of poetry,’ Mary went on, ‘it’s a kind of indulgence of mine.’

The afternoon seemed to be ending in confusion and embarrassment. I could not bear to think that she might have read my own favourite poems, and my one idea now was to escape from her as quickly as I could.

‘I really prefer reading novels,’ I said, putting on my gloves, ‘and that’s much more of an indulgence.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. There are some very worthwhile novels after all,’ she said doubtfully.

I knew that she would mention some heavy foreign translations or historical works, and of course she did.

‘I like the frivolous witty kind one can skim through in an afternoon,’ I persisted.

Mary smiled in an irritating way. ‘Goodness, look at the time!’ she said. ‘I must be getting home. Thank you so much for helping me to choose the dress, Wilmet. I should never have got such a nice one by myself.’

When we got outside I made some excuse about wanting to go into a shop before it closed and she went on the bus without me. I turned into a sweet shop that made special truffles I liked and bought half a pound, thinking rather defiantly of Mary as I did so. I was unable to decide what it was that I found so irritating about her goodness; it could not be only that she was such a contrast to myself and made me feel guilty and useless. Then I began to examine the paradox of good and wicked people : why the wicked were often nicer. I was still pondering about the unpleasant character of the wise virgins in the parable when I found that I was nearly home without realizing it, and that a tall dark figure was coming rather hesitantly towards me. I saw that it was Father Ransome.

‘Good evening,’ I called out. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll remember me, but I’m one of your parishioners—Wilmet Forsyth.’

‘But of course I remember you—you were at the “social evening”,’—he picked out the words as if putting them into quotation marks—‘and I’ve seen you in church.’

‘Were you coming to call?’ I asked.

‘Well, I was thinking I might. Father Thames is anxious that people who don’t actually live in the parish shouldn’t feel neglected because he isn’t able to get round much himself, so he gave me a list of addresses to work through.’

‘That doesn’t sound much of a pleasure, but I suppose it must be a chore, really,’ I laughed.

‘I’ve really been quite lucky,’ Father Ransome said. ‘I’ve had three teas this afternoon, but it’s getting rather late for tea now.’

‘And you don’t quite like to assume that people will have gin or sherry to offer?’

‘Well, they might not have, or there might be just that half inch left in the decanter which can be more of an embarrassment than if there were nothing at all.’

I was a little surprised at his tone, which seemed not to reflect his experiences in the East End or North Kensington. Perhaps—though I had not heard this—he had private means, and was used to life’s little comforts.

‘I hope you will come and drink sherry with me, then,’ I said. ‘I think our decanter will not embarrass you.’

The prospect of a conversation with him was quite pleasing. Rodney would not yet be back from the Ministry, and Sybil had gone to a lecture on Roman Britain with Professor Root.

‘Do you always get refreshment of some kind when you go visiting?’ I asked, when we were settled in the drawing-room by the fire.

‘Usually, but not often as good as this.’ He held his sherry glass up to the light.

‘My husband and mother-in-law are agnostics,’ I said rather flatly. ‘So I suppose that might be a good reason for the clergy to visit this house.’

‘I don’t think much can be done about that by visiting,’ he said comfortably. The main purpose of visiting is to keep in touch with the faithful and regain the lapsed. Professed agnostics require rather different treatment.’

I wondered if he would be capable of giving it.

‘Ought you not to be at Evensong?’ I asked, seeing him leaning over towards the fire and warming his hands at it.

‘No, it’s Bode’s turn tonight.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I mustn’t stay too long, though. We are dining rather unfashion- ably early tonight.’

‘Have the study groups on South India started then? Father Thames suggested I might like to go to them.’

‘Oh, he is always talking about them but nothing ever seems to come of it. No, Bode and I are going out with Coleman and some of the servers to see the Crazy Gang.’

I expressed my astonishment ‘What an odd thing to be going to!’

‘Well, it’s the servers’ choice and it’s their outing, but it does seem to create a rather dangerous precedent, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes indeed, when you think of the things the Crazy Gang get up to. But Mr Coleman is so reliable, I’m sure you couldn’t have a better master of ceremonies.’

‘Yes, Bill Coleman is a good chap,’ said Father Ransome in more curately style.

‘Bill? I thought his name was Walter.’

‘It may be, but he’s always called Bill.’

‘He looks the kind of person who would be. Will Mr Bason be going with you?’

‘I think
not!
He and Coleman had words one Sunday and there is still some coolness between them.’

‘What happened?’

‘We were short of a server and Bason said he would help us out as he knew what to do, but unfortunately he was too zealous and put on Coleman’s cassock by mistake and was rather uncooperative when it was pointed out to him.’

‘Do they all have their own cassocks, then?’

‘Most of them do, and Coleman had his specially made for him at an ecclesiastical tailor’s, so you can imagine that he was rather annoyed.’

‘It all seems rather trivial,’ I said.

‘I know—but it’s the trivial things that matter, isn’t it? Anyway, Coleman now takes his cassock home with him and brings it every Sunday in a little suitcase, so there can be no mistake.’ Father Ransome laughed and stood up to go.

‘I hope Mr Bason gives you good meals,’ I said.

‘Indeed yes, he’s an excellent cook. I make my own breakfast, as you may have heard,’ he smiled, ‘so I particularly appreciate the meals I get at the clergy house.’

‘I went shopping with Mary Beamish this afternoon,’ I said, curious to see whether he would make any remark about her.

‘Ah yes, Mary is a fine person,’ he said thoughtfully.

I did not quite know what to make of this. I should not myself have felt particularly flattered at being so described, but then it was inconceivable that anyone should describe me in this way. And what other way was there to describe poor Mary. A fine person …

When he had gone I found myself picturing him and Father Bode and the servers all doubled up with laughter at the antics of the Crazy Gang. I hoped it would not come into my mind the next time I saw them in church.

Chapter Seven

Some time before Christmas, Rodney and I had arranged to have lunch with Rowena and Harry. It was to be a sort of get- together to talk over old times—perhaps a substitute for the meeting Harry had been going to arrange with me, which was probably a good thing. But in the end the children developed mumps and Rodney was cluttered up with conferences and meetings—in themselves a kind of mumps—so that Harry and I had our tête-à-tête luncheon after all.

We met at a rather masculine sort of restaurant, famed for its meat, where great joints were wheeled up to the table for one’s choice and approval. This ritual seemed to take the place of the ordeal by fire which the more foreign restaurants went in for, where every dish apparently had to submit itself to being heated up in the leaping flames while the patrons looked nervously on. When the joint came to us I found myself turning aside with a kind of womanly delicacy, hardly able to look it in the face, for there was something almost indecent about the sight of meat in such abundance. All the same it was very splendid beef and I found myself eating it with enjoyment, even relish.

‘Do you remember the Fleet Club in Napoli?’ asked Harry rather sentimentally.

‘All those fried eggs on top of steaks and everything, regardless, it seemed!’ I said. ‘Was there
anything
that couldn’t have a couple of fried eggs on top of it?’

‘No. they thought it was what the English and Americans wanted, and I think they were right Even
your
eyes lit up at the sight of all those eggs. You were so gay and sweet.’

‘I’m not now,’ I said quickly, confident of being contradicted and yet in a way not wanting to be.

‘A little less gay, perhaps, but even more appealing. Now there’s a kind of sadness about you that wasn’t there before. As if life hadn’t turned out quite as you’d hoped it would?’ he added tentatively.

‘Well, does it ever—
quite!’

‘Heavens, no!’ said Harry heartily. ‘But there can be—there often are—things one can do about it.’

I said nothing but went on admiring my meat, occasionally eating a mouthful.

‘You know, I did want to have lunch alone with you, Wilmet,’ he said earnestly. ‘I should like us to have fun together—I believe we could.’

‘Do you think so?’ I said rather coldly. Then I suddenly thought—why, it’s only old Harry Grinners, whom you’ve known for ten years, no need to treat him with such chilly detachment! ‘Endless good lunches with lots of lovely meat?’ I said more gaily. ‘Is that the idea?’

‘Darling, you will have your joke—that’s the surprising and tantalizing thing about you.’

From then on he became more obviously flirtatious in a heavy Edwardian style and we enjoyed ourselves very much. I wondered if all the men in the restaurant who happened to be lunching with women were also flirting with them. Then I wondered about Rodney, presumably lunching in the canteen at the Ministry. Did he flirt with the typists, or was such behaviour only possible with women of the same grade as himself—those rather formidable women whom Sybil and I had once discussed, who got out of the train at St James’s Park with briefcases? But they would rate a better meal than the Ministry canteen could offer. There are, of course, restaurants, I said to myself, and the idea seemed highly entertaining. Did I mind—did Rowena mind—did any of us mind? After all, it made no difference to our fundamental relationships—or did it? What would Father Thames have said, or Father Bode, or Father Ransome? Could unmarried clergymen really understand these things except in an academic way?

‘How is your new vicar getting on?’ I asked suddenly.

‘The new vicar!’ Harry seemed a little startled. ‘Oh, not too badly. He’s going to have Midnight Mass this Christmas, which is a new thing for us. Rather a good idea, I think.’

‘But I thought you were all against these Romish practices?’

‘Well so I am, but this seems rather nice, going to church at night, you know. There’s something—well—rather
nice
about it,’ he mumbled, looking down at his plate. ‘You feel more in the mood, somehow. I think I shall give it a trial.’

I reflected on the difficulties which must beset a priest going to a country parish and trying to establish a coherent system of worship.

‘I suppose he hears confessions?’ I asked rather naughtily.

‘Heavens, don’t talk about
that!‘
Harry was almost purple in the face. ‘He preached a sermon about it. Disgraceful! Some people walked out.’

‘Poor Father Lester,’ I said.

‘We might go to the theatre some time,’ said Harry. ‘Or how about dinner and dancing somewhere? You used to like dancing.’

The meal ended on this note, but he went meekly enough back to Mincing Lane and I to Regent Street to do some Christmas shopping. It was pleasant to think that we might go dancing, for Rodney had never liked it, but somehow I didn’t think we ever would.

That same evening we were sitting in the drawing-room before dinner when the telephone rang. We were expecting guests—Rodney’s colleague James Cash and his wife Hilary—and I imagined the call would be from them, perhaps warning us that they might be late, for it was a foggy evening. But when Rodney came back into the room he said, ‘It’s for you, dear.’

‘Really? Who is it?’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t ask. Cultured male voice.’

‘Oh.’ I turned over the possibilities in my mind, but they did not range farther than the clergy, and I could not imagine why any of them should want to telephone me.

‘Wilmet, is that you?’

‘Yes,’ I said, not recognizing the voice.

‘I want you to come and spend the evening with me.’

I had certainly not expected Piers. Though, when one came to think of it, he was the most likely person to ring up at a time when one would either be having dinner or be just about to.

‘Piers!’ I exclaimed. ‘But what a surprise! How are you?’

‘Rather depressed. I should like you to come and spend the evening with me—didn’t you hear what I said?’

‘Yes, but it’s quite impossible, I’m afraid.’

‘Why?’

‘We’re expecting people to dinner.’

‘Oh, you
would
be! Can’t you leave them? Pretend you’ve got to go and visit a sick relative or something?’

‘You know I can’t. But I’m sorry you’re depressed. What can I do to cheer you up?’

‘I’ve told you.’

‘Yes, but what else? Why don’t you come and have dinner with us one evening before Christmas—that would be nice?’

‘Would it?’

‘Well, you’d get a good dinner—I could promise you that. Do say you’ll come.’

‘I’m afraid my plans are rather uncertain over Christmas, thank you. Perhaps we could meet in the New Year.’ His voice sounded bored.

‘What will you do now, then?’ I couldn’t resist asking.

‘What do you suppose? I wanted to see you and you won’t come.’

‘It isn’t that I
won’t,’
I began. But then, feeling that the unsatisfactory conversation should be brought to an end, I added, ‘But I’m very sorry —I should have liked to come.’

‘Never mind,’ his voice sounded a little warmer. ‘It will just have to be one of those nice things that didn’t happen.’

I wished him a happy Christmas and put back the receiver. I felt a kind of glow as I went back into the drawing-room to meet the raised questioning faces of Sybil and Rodney. Naturally they did not ask who I had been talking to.

‘I’ve refilled your glass,’ Rodney said.

‘Is that a car stopping outside?’ Sybil asked.

‘They will come in a taxi, I imagine,’ said Rodney.

‘It was Piers Longridge,’ I said. ‘Such an odd time to telephone.’

‘Did you speak in Portuguese?’ asked Sybil in her dry tone.

The front doorbell rang and Rodney got up quickly. ‘That will be James and Hilary,’ he said. ‘I’ll go to the door.’

A minute later James and Hilary Cash entered the room—he apologizing for their lateness, she rather desperately trying to do something to her hair. Rodney would not have realized that women need a little more than just having their coats taken off them in the hall.

‘Why, Rodney!’ I said, in the most irritatingly wifely way. ‘Didn’t you take Hilary upstairs?’

‘Well, we were so late that I really thought I shouldn’t waste any time titivating,’ said Hilary in a hearty tone, and it occurred to me that she did not really much mind what she looked like. The gesture of tidying her hair was just something she thought she ought to do. She was blonde and healthy-looking, a Scandinavian type, in contrast to James’s greying Celtic appearance.

Dinner ran its course in the way that such meals often do, the men tending to talk shop while the women had a rather uneasy conversation among themselves about domestic matters and Hilary’s new baby. Sometimes there was a little cross-talk on matters considered to be of universal interest. Towards the end of the meal Sybil and Hilary discovered a common interest in social work and I found myself left to my own thoughts which naturally enough turned to Piers Longridge. I began trying to picture his evening. I supposed he would be alone in his flat, his colleague or girl friend or whoever he lived with being out for the evening or perhaps already away for the Christmas holidays. I tried to visualize the flat itself—in the Holland Park area but rather too near the Goldhawk Road, he had said. It might be in a large shabby house, perhaps not even properly self-contained. There would be a row of bells with old cards and bits of paper indicating the occupants; some of the bells would probably be out of order. Inside there would be a narrow hall with a Victorian hatstand, prams and bicycles perhaps, and a smell of cooking. Going up the stairs one might meet one of the other occupants of the house, a young man coming out of the bathroom, an old woman peering out of a door. One would be filled with apprehension as one climbed farther. I took a mouthful of cheese soufflé, a dish at which Rhoda excelled. Perhaps I was overdoing the squalor of Piers’s environment. He could live in a block of new flats and the stairs one climbed might be of concrete and smell only of dust. Or there might even be a lift. I made a kind of New Year resolution to find out some time. Anyway, he had probably gone round to the pub by now, where he might sit morosely in a corner or join in conversation with the regulars; he would be known there and perhaps liked—he might even make jokes …

‘Thank goodness another Christmas at the Ministry is over!’ said Rodney. That is always something to be got through.’

‘You have a kind of party, don’t you?’ said Hilary.

‘Yes, there’s tea and Christmas cake and everyone stands round in a circle, pressing back against the filing cabinets and seeming to be struck dumb.’

‘The women exchange presents,’ said James. Thank goodness
we
don’t have that embarrassment. The woman who works in my room had a supply of small emergency gifts in case anyone should give her a present unexpectedly.’

‘I suppose men don’t exchange handkerchiefs or sticks of shaving soap wrapped in gay Christmas paper?’ asked Sybil.

‘Not among themselves,’ said Rodney, ‘but the women aren’t above giving us presents.’

‘Aren’t above!’ said Sybil indignantly. ‘What a way of putting it! You don’t deserve to get any presents at all.’

Christmas always makes me feel rather sad. ‘The children’s time,’ people say in cosy sentimental tones, and I suppose we all remember the childish excitements, the waking up in the dark on Christmas morning, the mysterious bulging stocking or the shrouded shapes at the foot of the bed. But now one can foresee only too clearly the pattern of grown up Christmases for the rest of one’s life. Sybil had invited Professor Root to stay with us this year, so I supposed we should be treated to the kind of dry conversation he and Sybil enjoyed together—the dispassionate discussion of the significance of the festival, the Christian taking-over of pagan symbols and all the rest of it. Rodney would listen politely and when the time came for me to go to Midnight Mass he would take me in the car and come to fetch me afterwards.

But in the meantime there was the excitement, which I still felt, of the Christmas post arriving two or three times a day in the week before Christmas Day. The usual cards from Rodney’s colleagues and from families we all of us knew flopped through the letterbox. Every available flat surface was soon cluttered up with arty agnostic angels and cherubs, stylized cats, dogs and birds in brilliant colours, old prints and homemade lino cuts, and the personal snapshot cards—husband and wife on the beach at St Tropez, or the children and the dog in the garden at home. We received very few of the ironically named ‘religious’ cards, and those that we did were not of a high artistic standard, and the verses though sincere were often embarrassingly bad. I imagined people buying them in the religious bookshops, not liking to push because of the holy forbearing atmosphere of the place. Indeed, I had been in one myself and had allowed a little woman in a religious habit to take my turn, my first feeling of annoyance giving way to admiration and envy of her lack of worldly knowledge in this respect.

Father Thames’s card was a safe choice in good taste, a reproduction of an Italian primitive, the sad lopsided faces giving it a modern look as if it had been painted by Modigliani or somebody of that school. I could not expect to receive cards from Father Bode and Father Ransome, but I amused myself by imagining what theirs would be like. Father Bode might send a small highly coloured holy card of an eastern scene with a flowery verse, I thought, but Father Ransome’s choice was more difficult to guess. It might almost be the arty agnostic angel type of card, I felt, remembering our conversation when we had drunk sherry together. It annoyed me to think that Mary Beamish would probably know just what it was.

Parcels were usually kept to be opened on Christmas Day, the little ceremony seeming to give a point to the day which it might not otherwise have had. I recognized the usual presents from relatives and women friends which arrived by post, and put them away in the cupboard in the morning room. Rowena and I always sent each other some extravagantly feminine thing, which we might probably have bought for ourselves anyway, only in a rather exaggerated form. I noticed that this year her parcel was even larger than usual I had to include the children’s presents with hers, but I did not usually do anything about Harry. This year, however, I had an obscure feeling that I ought to put in something for him, so I bought some white handkerchiefs of a goodness and dullness that could neither please too much nor offend in any way. When I had done all the necessary shopping I began to think about the unnecessary. Should I get some little thing for Piers? I wondered. But what? A book or some gloves or a bottle of whisky? Certainly he would not send me anything, probably not even a card Nevertheless, I watched the post eagerly for a sign of something in an unfamiliar hand. But nothing came, nor did I send him anything, and by the time it was Christmas Eve I had almost given up looking.