Excellent Women (9 page)

‘Well, what did you think of it? I’m afraid you must have been very bored?’

Everard Bone had broken away from a group of Americans and was standing by my side. I was grateful to him for rescuing me though I could think of no conversation beyond a polite murmur and was quite sure that he was wanting to get back to discussing his paper with people who were able to.

‘I think I must be going home now,’ I said. ‘Thank you very much for asking me.’

‘Oh, I expect we shall be going somewhere for dinner,’ he said vaguely. ‘You may as well come too.’

‘Well, I haven’t really anything to eat at home,’ I began, but then stopped as I realised that a dreary revelation of the state of one’s larder was hardly the way to respond to an invitation to dinner. ‘I should like to join you if I may.’

‘I wish they’d hurry up,’ said Everard, looking over to where Helena and Rocky were talking to a group of people.

They are just like everybody else, really,’ I said, half to myself. ‘That old woman knitting, she went to sleep.’

‘That was the President’s wife,’ said Everard, ‘she always does.’

‘Did she work with him in the field?’ I asked.

‘Good Heavens, no! She knows nothing at all about anthropology.’

‘Didn’t she even do the index or the proof-reading for one of his books? You know what it often says in a preface or dedication—“To my wife, who undertook the arduous duty of proofreading” or making the index.’

‘She may have done that. After all, it’s what wives are for.’ He suddenly smiled and I remembered my Lenten resolution to try to like him. It was getting a little easier but I felt that at any moment I might have a setback.

‘God, how I want a drink!’ said Helena in her characteristic way. She and Rocky had now joined us.

‘I hope God is listening,’ said Rocky, ‘because I do too. I was very much afraid that those people were going to join us for dinner.’

‘I think you were rude to them,’ said Helena crossly, ‘otherwise they might have done and we could have had some interesting conversation for a change.

‘Are there any of the conveniences of civilisation in this place?’ asked Rocky.

‘Yes, of course there are. Everard will show you. Perhaps you would like to come with me, Mildred?’ said Helena.

I followed her upstairs and into a room which had ‘Ladies’ printed on a card on the door. The first thing that caught my eye inside was a rolled-up Union Jack. This seemed a little out of place, as did the portraits of native chiefs which were stacked against the walls under the wash basins.

‘There isn’t nearly enough storage space here, as you may have gathered,’ explained Helena. ‘This room is the repository for any junk that can’t go anywhere else.’

‘It seems in character with the rest of the place,’ I remarked.

So does the fact that there is neither soap nor towel,’ said Helena. ‘We are at our most primitive here, but after all it is only the basic needs that have to be supplied.”

‘Well, that’s the main thing,’ I said feebly.

‘At least we don’t have a brooding old woman who expects you to drop sixpence into a saucer,’ said Helena. ‘I always think those women must see real drama, when you realise what scenes are enacted in ladies’ cloakrooms.’

‘Yes, I suppose things do go on there,’ I agreed. I remembered girlhood dances where one had stayed there too long, though never long enough to last out the dance for which one hadn’t a partner. I didn’t suppose Helena had ever known that, and yet it was in its way quite a deep experience.

‘It used to be worse, somehow, during the war,’ said Helena. I remember once—oh, it was so depressing—there was just a dim blue bulb that made everything look ghastly and I was never going to see him any more. When I came out he was going to tell me that it was all over—you know the kind of thing, tears and whisky and then going out into that awful darkness.’

As I did not know I could only go on tidying my hair in a sympathetic silence. Helena came to the mirror and began doing something to her eyelashes with a little brush. ‘Everard seems to like you,’ she remarked carelessly.

‘Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t. I can never think of anything to say to him.’

‘You think Rocky is much more attractive, don’t you?

‘Well, yes, I do think he is nicer,’ I said confusedly, for I was not used to discussing people in such terms. And yet I supposed that if I was honest with myself I should have to admit that ‘attractive’ was a better word than ‘nice’, and expressed my feeling about Rocky more accurately. But it was wrong to talk like this, and I wished Helena would stop or that I had gone home and left the three of them to have dinner together. ‘I suppose we’d better not keep them waiting too long,’ I said, in an attempt to stop the conversation from going any further.

‘Oh, it won’t do them any harm, but I could certainly do with a drink,’ said Helena. ‘Come along.’

I followed her downstairs, feeling like a dog or some inferior class of person.

The men were standing waiting for us in the hall. Whatever conversation they may have been having appeared to be at an end now, and they hurried us out rather unceremoniously leaving us to walk a little way behind them. I suppose they were too hungry and tired of waiting to think anything of it, but it did not seem a very good beginning to the evening.

Eventually we reached a restaurant and were shown to a table. Some drinks were ordered and one was handed to me. It was something very strong, made with gin, I think. I sipped cautiously while Rocky and Everard argued over the wine list. They were nearly as fussy as William, though in a different way, and I began to think that it would really be much easier if we just had water, though I lacked the courage to suggest it.

When the first course came, it turned out to be spaghetti of a particularly long and rubbery kind. Rocky showed me how to twist it round my fork but I found it very difficult to manage and it made conversation quite impossible. Perhaps long spaghetti is the kind of thing that ought to be eaten quite alone with nobody to watch one’s struggles. Surely many a romance must have been nipped in the bud by sitting opposite somebody eating spaghetti?

After that ordeal some meat was brought and the wine with it, and conversation started again. Rocky began to ask frivolous questions about the paper.

‘What was that about a man being expected to sleep with an unmarried sister-in-law who is visiting his house?’ he asked.

‘That’s called a joking relationship,’ said Everard precisely.

‘Not exactly what one would call a joke,’ said Rocky, ‘though it could be fun. It would depend on the sister-in-law, of course. Does he
have
to sleep with her?’

‘Oh, Rocky, you don’t understand,’ said Helena impatiently. It was obvious that she and Everard did not appreciate jokes about their subject.

‘I wonder if the study of societies where polygamy is a commonplace encourages immorality?’ asked Rocky seriously, turning to Everard. ‘Would you say that it did?’

‘There is no reason why it should,’ said Everard.

‘Do anthropologists tend to have many wives at the same time?’ he went on. ‘Have you found that?’

‘They would naturally tend to conceal such things,’ said Everard with a half smile, ‘and one could hardly ask them.’

‘Oh, they are drearily monogamous,’ said Helena, ‘and very virtuous in other ways too. Much better than many of these so-called good people who go to church.’ She turned a half-amused, half-spiteful glance towards me.

‘Well, Mildred, what do you say to that?’ asked Rocky.

‘Church-goers are used to being accused of things,’ I said. ‘I have never found out what exactly it is that we do or are supposed to do.’

‘We are whited sepulchres,’ said Everard. ‘We don’t practise what we preach. Isn’t that it, Helena?’

‘One expects you to behave better than other people,’ said Helena, ‘and of course you don’t.’

‘Why should we? We are only human, aren’t we, Miss Lathbury?’

It seemed now as if we had changed sides. Before, Helena and Everard had been ranged against Rocky and me—now Everard was my partner. I have never been very good at games; people never chose me at school when it came to picking sides. But Everard had no choice. This state of affairs continued through dinner and afterwards when we went out into the street. Everard and I walked together, almost as if he had arranged it that way, but it cannot have been for the pleasure of my company, as our conversation was very poor.

‘Do you live near here?’ I asked, knowing that he did not.

‘No, I live in Chelsea. I suppose one would hardly call it near.

‘No, but it isn’t as far away as if you lived in Hendon or Putney.’

‘That would be further, certainly.’

We walked a few steps in silence. I could hear Rocky and Helena having an argument in low angry tones.

‘Do you live in a house or a flat?’ I asked in a loud desperate voice.

‘I did live in my mother’s house after I came out of the Army, but I’ve just moved into a flat of my own, quite near.’

‘You were lucky to find one.’

‘Yes, I know the person who owns the house and one of the tenants happened to be leaving.’ He stood by a bus-stop. ‘I think I can get a bus from here.’

Helena and Rocky had caught us up and we stood in a little group by the bus-stop. Good-nights and thanks were exchanged.

‘Will you ring me up?’ said Helena to Everard.

‘I shall probably be away for a few days,’ he said vaguely.

At a meeting of the Prehistoric Society? I wondered.

‘Aren’t you coming to the next meeting?’ Helena persisted. ‘Tyrell Todd is reading a paper on pygmies.’

‘Oh, pygmies—well, I don’t know.’

At that moment Everard’s bus came and he got on to it without looking back.

Rocky found a taxi and we drove most of the way in silence, or rather Helena was silent while Rocky and I discussed the evening or as much of it as could be discussed.

‘You and Everard seemed to be having an interesting conversation,’ said Helena at last. ‘Was he declaring himself or something?’ Her tone was rather light and cruel as if it were the most impossible thing in the world.

‘He was telling me about his new flat,’ I said lamely.

‘Actually he might do very well for Mildred,’ said Rocky. ‘Had we thought of that? Obviously, we must find her a good husband.’

‘The driver seems to be going past our house,’ I said. ‘Did you tell him the number?’

‘Oh, this will do.’ Rocky tapped on the glass and we got out. We were rather far from our own door, and just as we were walking past the parish hall, Teddy Lemon and a group of lads came out, laughing and talking in their rough voices. My heart warmed towards them, so good and simple with their uncomplicated lives. If only I had come straight home after the paper. This was Julian’s boys’ club night and I could have been there serving in the canteen—much more in my line than the sort of evening I had just spent.

L
OVE
was rather a terrible thing, I decided next morning, remembering the undercurrents of the evening before. Not perhaps my cup of tea. It would be best not to see too much of the Napiers and their disturbing kind of life, but to meet only people like Julian and Winifred Malory and Dora Caldicote, from whom I had had a letter that morning. She hinted vaguely at ‘unpleasantness’ at school, perhaps the affair William had told me about, and asked if she might come and stay with me for a part of her Easter holiday. So I busied myself getting the little spare-room ready, arranging daffodils in a bowl on the mantelpiece and putting out the rather useless little embroidered guest towels. The room looked pretty and comfortable, like an illustration in one of the women’s magazines I knew it would not look like that for long after Dora’s arrival and was a little sad when I went to talk to her over her unpacking and saw the familiar bulging canvas bag and her hair-net lying on the mantelpiece.

‘Why, Mildred,’ she exclaimed, ‘what have you done to yourself? You look different.”

No compliments, of course; Dora was too old and honest a friend ever to flatter me, but she had the power of making me feel rather foolish, especially as I had not realised that she might find any difference in my appearance since the last time we met. I suppose I had taken to using a little more make-up, my hair was more carefully arranged, my clothes a little less drab. I was hardly honest enough to admit even to myself that meeting the Napiers had made this difference and I certainly did not admit it to Dora.

‘You must be trying to bring William up to scratch,’ she said, ‘is that it?’

I laughed gratefully.

‘There’s not much you can do when you’re over thirty,’ she went on complacently. ‘You get too set in your ways, really. Besides, marriage isn’t everything.’

‘No, it certainly isn’t,’ I agreed, ‘and there’s nobody I want to marry that I can think of. Not even William.’

‘I don’t know anyone either, at the moment,’ said Dora.

We lapsed into a comfortable silence. It was a kind of fiction that we had always kept up, this not knowing anyone at the moment that we wanted to marry, as if there had been in the past and would be in the future.

‘How’s school?’ I asked.

‘Oh, Protheroe and I aren’t on speaking terms,’ said Dora vigorously. She was a small, stocky person with red hair, not at all like her brother, and could look very fierce at times.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘But I should imagine Miss Protheroe is rather difficult to get on with.’

‘Difficult! It’s a wonder that woman keeps any of her staff.’

‘What happened?’

‘Oh, well, I let my form go into chapel without hats one morning, and you know how she is about that sort of thing. Of course I’ve no use for any of this nonsense….’ I let Dora go on but did not really listen, for I knew her views on Miss Protheroe and on organised religion of any kind. We had often argued about it in the past. I wondered that she should waste so much energy fighting over a little matter like wearing hats in chapel, but then I told myself that, after all, life was like that for most of us—the small unpleasantnesses rather than the great tragedies; the little useless longings rather than the great renunciations and dramatic love affairs of history or fiction.

‘What would you like to do this afternoon?’ I asked. ‘Shall we go shopping?’

Dora’s face brightened. ‘Oh, yes, that would be nice.’

Later, as we were trying on dresses in the inexpensive department of a large store, I forgot all about the Napiers and the complications of knowing them. I was back in those happier days when the company of women friends had seemed enough.

‘Oh, dear, this is too tight on the hips,’ said Dora, her ruffled head and flushed face emerging through the neck of a brown woollen dress.

‘I’m not sure that it’s your colour,’ I said doubtfully. ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that we should avoid brown. It does the wrong kind of things to people over thirty, unless they’re
very
smart. When my brown coat is worn out I shall get a black or a navy one.’

‘Now you’re talking like a fashion magazine,’ said Dora, struggling with the zip-fastener. ‘I’ve always had a brown wool dress for every day.

Yes, and look at you, I thought, with one of those sudden flashes of unkindness that attack us all sometimes. ‘Why not try this green?’ I suggested. ‘It would suit you.’

‘Good Heavens, whatever would people at school say if I appeared in a dress that colour?’ Dora exclaimed. ‘I shouldn’t know myself. No, I’ll just ask for the brown in a larger size. It’s just what I want.’

They had the dress in a larger size which was now a little too large, but Dora seemed perfectly satisfied and bought it. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Mildred,’ she complained. ‘You never used to bother much about clothes.’

‘Where shall we have tea?’ I asked, changing the subject because I felt myself unable to give a satisfactory explanation.

‘Oh, the Corner House!’ said Dora enthusiastically. ‘You know how I enjoy that.’

We made our way to one of these great institutions and found ourselves in an almost noble room with marble pillars and white and gold decorations. The orchestra was playing
Si mes vers avaient les ailes
and I was back in imagination in some Edwardian drawing-room. How had they been able to bear those songs? I wondered. Sometimes we could hardly bear them now, although we might laugh at them, the nostalgia was too much. I felt suddenly desolate in Dora’s company.

She was studying the menu with a satisfied expression on her face. ‘Scrambled eggs,’ she read, ‘but of course they wouldn’t be real. Curried whale, goodness, you wouldn’t feel like having that for tea, would you? I had an argument about it the other day with Protheroe—you know how strictly she keeps Lent and all that sort of nonsense—well, there she was eating whale meat thinking it was fish!’

‘Well, isn’t it?’

‘No, of course it isn’t. The whale is a
mammal,’
said Dora in a loud truculent tone. ‘So you see it can hardly count as fish.’

The waitress was standing over us to take our order. ‘Just tea and a cake for me,’ I murmured quickly, but Dora took her time and ordered various sandwiches.

‘Was there unpleasantness about the whale?’ I asked unkindly.

‘Oh, no. I think Protheroe was rather upset though. I couldn’t help feeling it was one up to me—paid her back for all that fuss about wearing hats in chapel.’

The orchestra started to play a rumba and I to pour out the tea. Dora opened a sandwich and looked inside. ‘Paste,’ she declared. ‘I tell you what, Mildred, how would it be if we went down to the Old Girls’ Reunion on Saturday? You know they’re dedicating the window in memory of Miss Ridout? Had you thought of going?’

‘Oh, is it this Saturday? I had a notice about it, of course, but hadn’t realised it was so soon. It would be a nice expedition,’ I ventured. ‘The spring flowers would be out.’

We discussed the expedition further as we rode along Piccadilly on the top of a bus. The sun was out and there were still people sitting on chairs in the park.

‘It looks odd to see a clergyman holding somebody’s hand in public,’ said Dora chattily. ‘I don’t know why, but it does.’

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘Look—there,’ she said, pointing out a couple lolling in deckchairs.

‘Oh, but it
can’t
be!’ I exclaimed, but there was no doubt that the clergyman was Julian Malory and that the hand he was holding was Allegra Gray’s.

‘How do you mean it can’t be?’ said Dora looking again. ‘He certainly was holding her hand. Why, isn’t it Julian Malory? What a joke! Who’s he with?’

‘She’s a widow, a Mrs. Gray, who’s come to live in the flat at the vicarage.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, I suppose there’s nothing wrong in that?’

‘No, of course there isn’t,’ I said rather sharply. It was just thoroughly unsuitable, sitting there for everyone to see, not even on the hard iron chairs but lolling in deckchairs. ‘Fancy going into the park to hold hands, though, it seems rather an odd thing to do.’

‘Well, I don’t suppose they went there expressly for that purpose,’ said Dora stubbornly. ‘They probably went for a walk and decided to sit down and then somehow it came about. After all, holding hands is quite a natural affectionate gesture.’

‘How do
you
know?’ I heard myself say.

‘Mildred! What
is
the matter with you? Are
you
in love with the vicar or what?’ she said, so loudly that the people in front of us nudged each other and sniggered.

‘No, of course not,’ I said in a low angry tone, ‘but it seems so unsuitable, the whole thing. Winifred and everything, oh, I can’t explain now.’

‘Well, I don’t see what you’re making such a fuss about,’ said Dora, maddeningly calm. ‘It’s a lovely day and she’s very attractive and a widow and he’s not married, so it’s all right. I see quite a little, romance blowing up.’

By the time we had got
off
the bus we were arguing quite openly. It was foolish and pointless but somehow we could not stop. I saw us in twenty or thirty years’ time, perhaps living together, bickering about silly trifles. It was a depressing picture.

After all a clergyman is a man and entitled to human feelings,’ Dora went on.

It was obvious to me now that she was in the kind of mood to disagree automatically with everything I said, for usually she maintained that clergymen didn’t count as men and therefore couldn’t be expected to have human feelings.

‘Julian isn’t the marrying sort,’ I persisted. ‘Anyway, Mrs. Gray wouldn’t be at all suitable for him.’

‘Oh, I think you’ve had your eye on him for yourself all this time,’ said Dora in an irritating jocular tone.’
That’s
why you’ve been smartening yourself up.’

It was useless to deny it, once she had got the idea into her head. I was grateful to see the grey bulk of Sister Blatt looming before us as we reached the church.

‘Hullo,’ she said as we came up to her. ‘What on earth’s happened to Father Malory?’ she asked. ‘Evensong’s in five minutes and there’s no sign of him. Miss Malory said he was going to a meeting at S.P.G. House this afternoon. It must have been a very long one,’ She laughed. ‘You don’t think he’s  had a sudden call to the Mission Field, do you?’

‘Surely he would have come back here first and let us know?’ I said.

‘Oh, well, I dare say Father Greatorex will turn up,’ said Sister Blatt cheerfully and went into church.

Dora giggled.
‘We
could tell her where Father Malory is, couldn’t we, Mildred? I think we should blackmail him.’

We went into the house. Dora decided to do some washing before supper and within half an hour the kitchen was festooned with lines of depressing-looking underwear—fawn locknit knickers and petticoats of the same material. It was even drearier than mine.

At supper we talked about our old school, William, and matters of general interest. Julian Malory was not mentioned again. I was in the kitchen making some tea when there was a knock at the door and Rocky’s head peeped round.

‘Helena has gone to hear a paper about pygmies,’ he said, ‘and I’m all alone. May I come in?’

‘Yes, do,’ I said, in a confused way, embarrassed by the washing hanging up.

‘My friend Dora Caldicote is here,’ I said, as he threaded his way through the lines of dripping garments.

‘Oh, what fun!’ he said lightly. ‘Are you going to give me some coffee?’

‘Well, we were having tea,’ I said, feeling a little ashamed, both of the tea and of myself for feeling ashamed of it, ‘but I can easily make you some coffee.’

‘No, indeed you won’t. I love tea.’

‘You are Mildred’s old school chum,’ he said to Dora in a teasing way. ‘I’ve heard all about you.’

Dora flushed and smiled. Oh, the awkward Wren officers, I thought, seeing them standing on the balcony at the Admiral’s villa. How they must have blossomed under that charm!

Rocky was standing by the window. ‘There’s your vicar,’ he said. ‘Would there be a service now?’

‘Is he alone?’ asked Dora.

‘Yes, very much so, and wearing rather a becoming cloak. I always think I should look rather well in one of those.’

‘We saw him holding somebody’s hand in the park this afternoon and Mildred was rather upset,’ said Dora gaily. ‘Poor man, I didn’t see why he shouldn’t.’

‘Oh, but we can’t have that,’ said Rocky. ‘I always look on him as Mildred’s property. But never mind,’ he turned towards me, ‘I don’t suppose his hand would be very pleasant to hold. We’ll find somebody better for you.’

‘He was supposed to be in church taking Evensong,’ said Dora, who would not leave the subject.

‘Oh, the poor man, I can imagine nothing more depressing on a fine weekday evening. Wondering if anybody will come or getting tired of seeing just the same faithful few. Why don’t we go out and have a drink?’ he asked in a bored way.

‘Not after drinking tea, thank you. I don’t think I should feel like it,’ I said.

‘Dear Mildred, you must learn to feel like drinking at
any
time. I shall make myself responsible for your education.’

So of course we did go. Dora had cider and got rather giggly with Rocky, telling him stories about our schooldays which I found embarrassing. I, in my wish to be different and not to be thought a school-marm, had said I would have beer, which turned out to be flat and bitter, with a taste such as I imagine washing-up water might have.

‘Mildred is sad about her vicar,’ said Rocky. ‘We’ll find her an anthropologist.’

‘I don’t want anyone,’ I said, afraid that I was sounding childish and sulky but quite unable to do anything about it.

‘If Everard Bone were here we might persuade him to hold your hand,’ he went on teasingly. ‘How would you like that?’

For a moment I almost did wish that Everard Bone could be with us. He was quiet and sensible and a church-goer. We should make dull stilted conversation with no hidden meanings to it. He would accept the story of Julian and Mrs. Gray in the park without teasing me about it; he might even understand that it was a worrying business altogether. For it was. If Julian were to marry Mrs. Gray what was to happen to Winifred? I was quite sure now that he did intend to marry her and could not imagine why I had not seen it all along. Clergymen did not go holding people’s hands in public places unless their intentions were honourable, I told myself hoping that I might perhaps be wrong, for clergymen were, as Dora had pointed out, human beings, and might be supposed to share the weaknesses of normal men. I worried over the problem in bed that night and wondered if I ought to do anything. I suddenly remembered some of the ‘Answers to Correspondents’ in the
Church Times,
which were so obscure that they might very well have dealt with a problem like this. ‘I saw our vicar holding the hand of a widow in the park—what should I do?’ The question sounded almost frivolous put like that; what kind of an answer could I expect? ‘Consult your Bishop immediately’? Or, ‘We feel this is none of your business’?