Some Tame Gazelle (4 page)

‘Ah, yes. Do you remember when I used to read Milton to you?’ he said, his thoughts going back to the days when Belinda’s frank adoration had been so flattering. By this time he had forgotten how bored he had been by her constancy. Agatha never asked him to read aloud to her when they were alone together in the evenings. ‘Do you remember the magnificent opening lines of
Samson Agonistes
?’ he asked, warming to his subject and looking dangerously on the brink of reminding her of them. Indeed, the first words were already out of his mouth when Belinda interrupted him, and directed his attention to the matter in hand. There was of course nothing she would have liked better than to hear dear Henry reciting Milton, but somehow with Agatha outside and so much to be done it didn’t seem quite the thing. Also, it was the morning and it seemed a little odd to be thinking about poetry before luncheon.

‘Now,’ she said, ‘what about these recitations? I have a list of the ones they know, so I think perhaps you’d better let me choose the most suitable ones. I know you must be very busy with other things,’ she added soothingly, ‘and even though Mr Donne can help you, I know that you like to see to everything personally.’

‘I doubt whether our friend Donne will be much help,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘His sermons are very poor. He and Edward Plowman are about a match for each other.’

‘Oh, but one must be tolerant,’ said Belinda, ‘and many people prefer a simple sermon. I’ve heard people say that Edward Plowman is considered quite a saint in his parish.’

The Archdeacon laughed rather bitterly. ‘Do you wonder when his parish consists almost entirely of doting spinsters?’ he said. It was one of the Archdeacon’s grievances that people never made a fuss of him as they did of Father Plowman or of the younger curates, although he pretended to despise such adulation. And then too, Lady Clara Boulding, whose country seat lay midway between the two villages, had chosen to attend Plowman’s church rather than his. The Archdeacon could not help feeling bitter about this, for although Belinda might put a pound note into the collection bag on Easter Sunday, it was hardly the same as Lady Clara’s five or ten. In these days of poverty the spirit in which it was given counted for very little.

‘You need not make fun of doting spinsters,’ said Belinda, roused by his mockery. ‘After all, it isn’t always our fault …’ she stopped in confusion, fearing that he might make some sarcastic retort.

‘No, women like to have something to dote on,’ he said mildly enough, ‘I have noticed that. And we in the Church are usually the victims.’

‘We are
all
in the Church,’ said Belinda gently. ‘I think I should go out into the garden again and help Agatha. There must still be a great deal to do.’

Out in the garden, Agatha, surrounded now by several willing helpers, for she was popular among the church workers because of her distinguished ecclesiastical connections, had finished decorating and arranging the garden-produce stall.

The vicarage garden was beginning to look like a fairground. Stalls, coconut shies, bran-tubs and even a fortune-teller’s booth had taken root on the lawn. The Archdeacon always hated this annual garden party and tried to have as little to do with it as possible, although he had to put in an appearance to fawn on the more distinguished visitors. There was always a possibility that Lady Clara Boulding might decide to come to his church, which was really nearer if one walked across the fields, although it was difficult to imagine anyone as impressive as Lady Clara doing that.

‘It looks as if everything is finished,’ said Belinda. ‘I don’t feel as if I have done my share.’

‘You have put up with my ill-humour for ten minutes,’ said the Archdeacon, ‘which is more than anyone else could have done.’

Belinda flushed with embarrassment and secret pleasure. She felt herself to be somehow exalted above the groups of busy women, who had been arranging pyramids of apples, filling bran-tubs and decorating stalls with coloured paper. Once, she knew, she
had
been different, and perhaps after all the years had left her with a little of that difference. Perhaps she was still an original shining like a comet, mingling no water with her wine. But only very occasionally, mostly she was just like everyone else, rather less efficient, if anything. Even her paper decorations had been taken down and rearranged. There was nothing of her handiwork left on the garden-produce stall.

‘Why, look,’ she exclaimed, unable to deal with the Archdeacon’s curious compliment, ‘there’s Edith Liversidge. Whatever is she doing?’ For Miss Liversidge, looking even more dishevelled than usual, was pushing her way through a thick clump of rhododendrons on the opposite side of the lawn.

‘Oh, Archdeacon,’ she called in her rough, mannish voice, ‘there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

‘Well, Miss Liversidge, I hardly see why you should have expected to find me in the rhododendrons,’ he said.

‘Oh, that’s the treasure hunt,’ she explained. ‘I’ve just been arranging some of the clues. We shall have everybody tied up in knots this afternoon.’

‘That will certainly be diverting,’ said the Archdeacon politely, ‘but I had imagined it was only for the younger people.’

‘Oh, nonsense, everyone will be encouraged to join in. Now, what I really wanted to see you about was the cloakroom arrangements. Lavatories, you know. What has been done?’ Edith rapped out the question with brusque efficiency.

Belinda turned away in embarrassment. Surely Edith could have asked Agatha and need not have troubled the Archdeacon with such an unsuitable thing? But he appeared to be enjoying the conversation and entered into the discussion with grave courtesy.

‘I cannot really say. I had imagined that people would use their own discretion,’ he ventured.

‘Children are not noted for their discretion,’ said Edith bluntly, ‘and even grown-ups aren’t angels.’

The Archdeacon smiled. ‘No, not even the higher orders of the clergy would claim to be quite that. Perhaps you can help us, Miss Liversidge, we all know your experience in these matters.’

‘Yes, but of course it wasn’t at all the same thing in the Balkans after the war,’ said Edith, perhaps unnecessarily. ‘Still, I have been thinking things over. We must have clear notices put up. I’ve got Mr Matthews from the Art School at work on them now.’

‘Poor Matthews, a prostitution of his talents, I feel,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘I think Gothic lettering would be most suitable. What is your opinion, Miss Bede?’

Poor Belinda, confused at being drawn into the conversation, could only murmur that in her opinion the largest and clearest kind of lettering would obviously be the best.

Miss Liversidge looked from one to the other impatiently. ‘I thought the ladies should use the ground-floor cloakroom and the gentlemen the place behind the toolshed.’

‘The Place Behind the Toolshed, what a sinister sound that has,’ mused the Archdeacon. ‘I’m sure your arrangements will be admirable, Miss Liversidge, though perhaps hardly necessary.’

‘We shall see about that,’ she said in a dark tone, and then stumped off in search of her relative, Miss Aspinall, calling her as if she were a dog, ‘Connie! Connie! Come along! Time to go home to lunch.’

Miss Aspinall, who had been enjoying a snobbish little talk with Agatha, hurried after her. She could never keep pace with Edith and was always a few steps behind her.

‘I think Edith Liversidge is really disgusting,’ said Harriet indignantly. ‘Mr Donne and I could overhear what she was saying from the tea garden. He seemed most embarrassed.’

‘Ah, what it is to be young,’ sighed the Archdeacon. ‘Or perhaps he is what the higher orders of the clergy would not claim to be. One never knows.’

‘He is an excellent preacher,’ said Harriet stoutly, if irrelevantly, ‘and he seems to have the coconuts
very
well organized. Now Mr Donne,’ she called, bringing him into the group, ‘don’t forget that you promised to let me win a coconut.’

‘Ah, Miss Bede, I’m sure your skill will win the biggest one of all,’ said Mr Donne gallantly.

At this point Belinda thought it would be as well if they went home to luncheon. They would need to reserve all their strength for the afternoon, she explained.

CHAPTER THREE

‘Don’t you think you would be more comfortable in low-heeled shoes, dear?’ suggested Belinda tentatively. ‘One’s feet always get so tired standing about.’ She glanced down at her own – long, English gentlewoman’s feet she always thought them, sensibly clad in shoes that were rather too heavy for the printed crêpe de Chine dress and coatee she was wearing.

Harriet glanced down too. ‘I always think low heels are so dowdy,’ she said. ‘Besides, high heels are definitely the fashion now.’

‘Yes, I suppose they are,’ agreed Belinda, for Harriet always knew things like that. And yet, she thought, at our age, surely all that was necessary was to dress suitably and if possible in good taste, without really thinking of fashion? With the years one ought to have grown beyond such thoughts but somehow one never did, and Belinda set out for the afternoon conscious that she was wearing dowdy shoes.

As they walked to the vicarage, Belinda regulating her normally brisk step in consideration for Harriet’s high heels, they were overtaken by Count Bianco, who was escorting Miss Liversidge and Miss Aspinall, both of whom were dressed exactly as Belinda had anticipated. Count Bianco wore a light grey suit and a panama hat. He carried a stick and grey gloves and there was a fine rose in his buttonhole. As they came together he gave them a courtly bow, which from anybody else might have seemed exaggerated.

‘How charming you are looking, Miss Harriet,’ he said, ‘and you also, Miss Belinda,’ he added, as a courteous afterthought. ‘Poor old John Akenside,’ he went on meditatively, ‘how he loved the hot weather.’

‘Nonsense, Ricardo,’ said Edith Liversidge, ‘he always went as red as a lobster in the sun.’ She had known the Count’s friend in what she called her Balkans Days and it was rumoured that he had been very fond of her, but had been too shy to declare himself. It seemed odd to think that anyone could have loved Edith, who seemed a person to inspire fear and respect rather than any more tender emotion, but, as Belinda had once suggested, perhaps the unpleasant nature of her work in the Balkans had hardened her and she had once been more lovable.

They walked on to the lawn where a group of people had assembled. Belinda could see the Archdeacon standing at the top of the front-door steps, against a background of Victorian stained glass, the vicarage being built in the Gothic style. She thought he looked splendid, and somehow the glass set off his good looks.

Lady Clara Boulding was to open the garden party officially at half-past two and as she had now arrived, there seemed no reason why she should not get on with it at once. But the crowd was obviously waiting for something. Agatha Hoccleve, who was standing by her husband, nudged him and said in an agitated and audible whisper, ‘Henry, a
prayer
.’

The Archdeacon started. He had been wondering whether Lady Clara would give some definite contribution to the church-roof fund as well as buying things at the stalls. He cleared his throat.

‘Let us ask for God’s blessing on our endeavours,’ he said, in a loud voice which quite startled some people.

Belinda looked down at the grass and then at Agatha’s neat suède shoes, so much more suited to the occasion than her own.

The Archdeacon began to recite a prayer. O
Lord God, who seest that we put not our trust in anything that we do, mercifully grant that by Thy Power we may be defended against all adversity
…

Harriet looked at Belinda and frowned. The Archdeacon always chose such unsuitable prayers.
Prevent us O Lord in all our doings
, was the obviously correct one for such an occasion. These little departures from convention always annoyed her.

Belinda, on the other hand, was thinking loyally, what an excellent choice! It strikes just the right note of humility. When Henry prays for defence from adversity, he must mean too much confidence in our own powers. One knew that pride often came before a fall. Or perhaps he was not referring to the garden party specifically, but taking in the larger sphere of life outside it … here Belinda’s thoughts became confused and a doubt crept into her mind, which was quickly and loyally pushed back. For it could not be that dear Henry had just said the first prayer that came into his head…

There was a short pause. Count Bianco replaced his panama hat and everyone began to move, relieved to be normal once more.

But they were not to be released yet. Lady Clara enjoyed opening garden parties and bazaars. Indeed, apart from attending memorial services in fashionable London churches, it was her chief recreation. She stood on a grassy bank, slightly raised above the rest of the crowd. She was still a handsome woman, and if her speech contained rather too much of her late husband’s meaningless parliamentary phraseology, her voice was nevertheless pleasant and soothing. Miss Aspinall, who had detached herself from Miss Liversidge in order to be among the foremost of the little group who would go round the stalls with Lady Clara, was listening with a pathetically eager expression on her thin face. Nobody knew how much Edith got on her nerves and how different it all was from the days when she had been companion to Lady Grudge in Belgrave Square. Treated like one of the family,
such
kindness … Connie’s eyes filled with tears and she had to turn away.

At last Lady Clara stepped down from her grassy platform and made her way towards the stalls, accompanied by Agatha and the Archdeacon, who had a particularly ingratiating smile on his face. At a respectful distance behind them came Miss Aspinall with a group of lady helpers, who were hurrying to get to their places at the stalls. Lady Clara’s progress was slow and stately but profitable. She bought some jam, two marrows, half a dozen lavender sachets, a tea cosy, a pair of bed socks, some paper spills in a fancy case and an embroidered
Radio Times
cover.

Belinda, now busy at the garden-produce stall, was wondering whether she ought to wrap Lady Clara’s marrows up, and if so what was the best way of doing it. They had only newspapers for wrapping, so she chose
The Times
as being the most suitable and made them up into a rather clumsy parcel. Lady Clara’s chauffeur was to collect them later.

Not long after this Agatha came back to the stall and began to fluster the helpers by rearranging them and collecting all the money together into one tin, so that they were all tumbling over each other to get change instead of each one having her own little pile.

‘What’s this?’ asked Agatha sharply, pointing to the
Times-
shrouded parcel which Belinda had put into a corner.

‘Oh, that’s Lady Clara’s marrows,’ Belinda explained.

‘Wrapped in newspaper?’ Agatha’s tone was expressive. ‘I’m afraid that won’t do at all.’ She produced some blue tissue paper from a secret hiding-place and began to undo Belinda’s parcel.

‘Oh, dear, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know there was any other paper,’ said Belinda in confusion. ‘I saw them lying there and I thought perhaps they ought to be wrapped up and put aside in case anybody sold them by mistake.’

‘I don’t think anybody would be so stupid as to do that,’ said Agatha evenly. ‘They were the two finest marrows on the stall, I chose them myself.’

‘Oh, well …’ Belinda gave a weak little laugh. All this fuss about two marrows. But it might go deeper than that, although it did not do to think so.

‘Perhaps you would like to go and have tea,’ said Agatha, who was having difficulty with the bulk of the marrows and the fragility of the tissue paper and did not want Belinda to see. ‘We may as well go in turns.’

‘Well, yes, if it isn’t too early,’ said Belinda.

‘Oh, no, Lady Clara is already having hers. She has gone with Count Bianco.’ Agatha stood up and reached for a ball of string.

Belinda felt herself hurrying away, routed was perhaps the word, Agatha triumphant. It was a pity they sometimes had these little skirmishes, especially when Agatha was so often triumphant. All over two marrows, even if they were the finest on the stall.

Belinda looked around to see if she could find Harriet. She felt that she wanted to tell somebody about the marrows and perhaps laugh over them. Harriet’s healthy indignation would do her as much good as a cup of tea, she thought. But Harriet was nowhere to be seen. And where was the Archdeacon? It would be just like him to retire to the house and have a bath. But he had already had one today, as Belinda knew, so she guessed that he was probably attending on some of the more distinguished visitors.

As she entered the tea garden she saw Harriet sitting at a table with the curate. Harriet was handing him a plate of cakes and urging him in her penetrating voice to try one of the pink ones which she had made specially for him. Perhaps it will be better if I don’t disturb them, thought Belinda, turning round to look for a vacant place at one of the other tables. And then she came face to face with the Archdeacon. He also wanted his tea, and as they had so often had tea together in the past what could be more natural than that they should have it together this afternoon?

They sat down at a table for two. Belinda began to be assailed by various doubts. What would people think to see her having tea with the Archdeacon while his wife was still working tirelessly at the garden-produce stall? It was a pity really to worry about what people thought, but, Belinda flattered herself, she wasn’t entirely old and unattractive, even in her sensible shoes, and she still had the marrows on her conscience, although she did not feel that she could tell the Archdeacon about them.

He on the other hand had no such scruples. Belinda began to wish that he wouldn’t talk so loudly, for although she knew that it was only one of his little oddnesses to complain about his wife, other people might not realize this. So she put two lumps of sugar into his tea, and tried as tactfully as she could to change the subject of the conversation.

‘But Agatha has been so busy arranging things for the garden party and the concert tonight,’ said Belinda in a low voice. ‘She can’t see to everything at once.’ Raising her voice, she went on, ‘Speaking of the concert reminds me that Harriet is still undecided as to what she is going to play. Of course she has a large repertoire, but one must choose something suitable and not too long …’ Belinda babbled on. ‘… she’s very anxious to play a Brahms intermezzo, but it may be a little heavy for a village concert. I thought perhaps some Mendelssohn, some of the
Songs
without Words
are so charming …’ She looked at the Archdeacon anxiously, to see if he had yet forgotten Agatha’s negligence in letting the moths get into his grey suit.

His face betrayed that he had not. In fact all the bright conversation about the concert seemed to have been wasted on him. ‘I don’t think you’d have done that,’ he said thoughtfully, gazing at a piece of bread and butter on his plate.

Belinda saw that it was no good trying to change the subject yet. He must be humoured out of it. She seemed to be having a difficult afternoon altogether, what with the episode of the marrows and now having to humour the Archdeacon. Archdeacons ought not to need humouring, she told herself angrily. Supposing Henry were a bishop, could one still expect no improvement?

‘What are you smiling at?’ asked the Archdeacon crossly. ‘People look very foolish smiling at nothing.’

‘I wasn’t smiling at nothing,’ retorted Belinda. ‘I was wondering if you’d still make such a fuss about unimportant trifles if you were a bishop.’

‘Unimportant trifles! The only good suit I have ruined, and you call it an unimportant trifle.’

‘We are supposed not to take heed of what we shall wear,’ said Belinda unconvincingly.

‘My dear Belinda, we are not in the Garden of Eden. That is no solution to the problem. We may as well face the facts. Agatha ought not to have let the moth get into that suit. It was her duty to see that they didn’t. I am sure that you would have seen that it was put away with moth balls …’ the Archdeacon’s voice had now grown so loud that people at the other tables were beginning to look at them with interest and amusement. Belinda felt most embarrassed.

‘It would have smelt of camphor then and you would probably have disliked that,’ she said, almost in a whisper.

The Archdeacon gave a shout of laughter at this. Suddenly he was in a good temper again, fell on a plate of cakes and began to eat ravenously. ‘I was too busy to have any luncheon,’ he explained. ‘So many tiresome things to do.’

‘It will be nice for you to go away for a holiday,’ ventured Belinda.

The Archdeacon sighed heavily. ‘Ah, if only I could.’

‘But now that Mr Donne is here, surely it can be managed?’

‘One cannot leave the flock without a shepherd,’ said the Archdeacon in a mocking tone.

‘But he said – I mean we heard – that Agatha was going to Karlsbad in October,’ said Belinda, urged on by curiosity. ‘Surely you will be going too?’

‘Alas, no.’ The Archdeacon finished the last cake. ‘And even if I were, it would hardly be a holiday for me.’

Belinda could think of no reply to make to this and none seemed to be expected. She could neither agree nor protest, she felt, but did what seemed to her the best she could by getting up. from the table and saying that she really must get back to the stall. ‘I must go and relieve Agatha,’ she said. ‘I see she hasn’t been for her tea yet.’

‘It will please her not to have any,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘I wonder that you have had any. I thought women enjoyed missing their meals and making martyrs of themselves.’

‘We may do it, but I think we can leave the enjoyment of it to the men,’ said Belinda, pleased at having thought of an answer. But Henry was really too bad, there was no knowing what he might say next. And he was not going to Karlsbad … She hoped nobody had overheard their conversation. It had really been most unsuitable, but somehow she felt better for it and had almost forgotten the episode of the marrows.

Back at the garden-produce stall, Belinda saw Agatha, looking rather tired and flustered, bundling what remained of the flowers, fruit and vegetables on to the front of the stall.