A Glass of Blessings (6 page)

I wondered what they would be storing.

‘Then upstairs there is my study and bedroom, the oratory, Father Bode’s two rooms, a bathroom, Mr Bason’s room, and a spare bedroom—very poky—for visiting clergy. We are really very cramped!
And
,’ he paused impressively, ‘this will surprise you—there is no basement! Now, would you have believed that?’

‘All these old houses do have basements,’ said Mrs Beamish, as if Father Thames were deliberately concealing that of the clergy house.

‘But the house is
not
so old—that is another surprise! It was built in 1911 and was never intended as a clergy house at all. Its first occupant had five children!’

None of us seemed able to comment suitably on this.

‘Things are very different today,’ said Father Bode at last, his rosy little face beaming. ‘No kiddies about the place now! I can see Mrs Greenhill at the urn. Now we can get on to the main object of this gathering, eh, Ransome?’ he added jokingly.

Not the most felicitous of remarks, I thought, wondering how Father Ransome would take his badinage.

‘I’m sure everyone will be glad of a cup of tea,’ he said, in a curious, almost ironical tone. It occurred to me that he must be very tired of being introduced to people; perhaps even his flow of clerical small talk was beginning to dry up.

‘Ah, Mrs Greenhill!’ Father Bode stood rubbing his hands as she approached, attended by a kind of acolyte bearing cups of tea on a tray. The cups that cheer! I hope you’ve made mine extra strong with plenty of sugar.’

‘I think it will be just as you like it, Father,’ said Mrs Greenhill comfortably. Her rather pinched-looking features relaxed into a smile. ‘I know you like these iced buns.’

I stood back listening to the cosy parish talk, wondering whether Mr Bason with his Earl Grey and sole véronique wouldn’t really be wasted on Father Bode. I tasted my own tea and put the cup down again quickly, for it was not at all to
my
liking, nor did I feel I could tackle one of the large brightly iced cakes which were offered. I noticed that Father Thames was not eating or drinking either.

‘Do you know,’ he said in a low tone, ‘I have been a priest for over forty years and I have never been able to take Indian tea. That will surprise you! It just doesn’t agree with me. Of course these evening gatherings take place at difficult times, gastronomically speaking, but tea has become the tradition and most people seem to enjoy it. I shall have something later.’

‘I hope Mr Bason is settling down well?’ I asked.

‘My
dear,
Mrs—er—so it was
you
who found him? Yes, of course, I remember that it was. Have I thanked you enough, I wonder? Do you know,’ he lowered his tone, ‘he has promised us a
coq au vin!’

‘I’m so glad,’ I said.

‘I’m just going over to have a word with Mother Beatrice and the sisters,’ whispered Mary Beamish, coming up to me. ‘Do you know Mrs Pollard and Miss Dove and Susan?’ She indicated the group of chinless aristocratic looking ladies I had noticed when I came in. I had a quick foretaste of the sort of conversation we should be making and said hastily that I must be going home now. And indeed I felt that I had had enough. I moved as unobtrusively as I could towards the door, glancing back as I did so to see whether anybody else was leaving so early.

As I did so I happened to catch Father Ransome’s eye. He gave a quick upward glance of mock suffering and half smiled. I was a little surprised that he should show his feelings in this intimate way, and wondered if anybody else had noticed. Poor young man, how tired he must be of the whole business! I supposed I could ask him in to have a drink one evening or even a meal. It was now even more galling to think of him living at the Beamishes. No doubt Mary would adopt a kind of proprietary attitude towards him.

Outside it was beginning to rain and it did not seem likely that there would be any taxis cruising about near the church. I stood hesitating, looking at the cars parked outside the hall, one of which was Mr Coleman’s Husky. As I waited he came out with some of the servers; they piled into the car without so much as glancing in my direction and drove off quickly. I supposed they might be going back to the home or lodgings of one of them, but I found it difficult to imagine their private lives. It was now nearly half past nine—an awkward time, too late for going to a film; and although I had not the least desire to do anything of the sort, I arrived home wet and tired, feeling rather ill-used.

But in the drawing-room everything was warm and comfortable. A friend of Sybil’s, Professor Arnold Root, an elderly archaeologist, was sitting by the fire and they were examining some fragments of pottery together. Rodney was reading some official-looking papers.

‘Why, darling, you’re wet!’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you ring up? I’d have come for you in the car. Take off your coat and shoes and come to the fire.’

He fussed round me devotedly and I was comforted at once. ‘It’s only just started to rain,’ I said, ‘and in any case it probably wouldn’t have been suitable to be fetched in a car.’

‘Do Christians go in for discomfort for its own sake?’ asked Sybil in her detached way. ‘It seems unnecessary to me and rather stupid.’

‘I suppose most of them don’t have cars,’ said Rodney.

‘Deverel Rimbury?’ said Professor Root, holding up a fragment of pottery. ‘I think
not
. Mortification of the flesh has of course been a feature of many religious systems,’ he added.

He was a gaunt, rather handsome old man, who shared Sybil’s lack of religious faith as well as her interest in archaeology.

‘What is this new curate like?’ Rodney asked.

‘Tall, dark and handsome,’ I said. ‘His name is Marius.’

‘Just what you wanted then,’ said Sybil tolerantly, as if I were a child who had just been given a new toy. ‘And he is lodging with the Beamishes? Ella will like that and I daresay Mary will find it agreeable too.’

‘I don’t imagine they’ll see much of him,’ I said quickly. ‘He is having his main meals at the clergy house and just making his breakfast on a gas ring at the Beamishes.’

Rodney laughed. ‘Poor Marius—perhaps not
quite
the epicurean.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ I said. ‘Apparently Mr Bason has promised them a
coq au vin
at the clergy house.’

‘Funny thing that, about Pater,’ said Professor Root, continuing in his own line of thought ‘Was it not after the publication of
Marius
that he left Oxford to live in Kensington, to see life as it were? I wonder what life one would have seen in Kensington in those days?’

‘Father Ransome was a curate in North Kensington,’ I said. ‘I suppose he must have seen life of a kind there.’

‘Afterwards,’ Professor Root continued, ‘Pater returned to Oxford, having one presumes seen as much as he wanted.’ He chuckled and began filling his pipe. ‘We are not all fortunate enough to be able to do that!’

‘What did you think of Bason?’ Rodney asked.

‘Rather an odd young man, but I should think he will be an admirable housekeeper. He talks a great deal, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, he was always holding forth about something or other when he was with us, but it does seem as if he has found his niche now.’

Chapter Five

‘All these young people pouring forth,’ Sybil observed, as some undergraduates wearing duffle coats and striped scarves narrowly avoided knocking us over. ‘How splendid it is to be young and to have the wonder of it all before you! To be handed the key to the treasury of all knowledge!’ She thumped her umbrella vigorously on the ground. ‘Let us hope that Piers Longridge is going to give
us
that key.’

‘Yes, I hope so too,’ I said rather doubtfully. The sight of so many young people in a mass had dismayed rather than encouraged me. I did not think I should be able to learn anything. Even the pleasure of seeing Piers again seemed a doubtful one, weighed against the unknown difficulties of the Portuguese language.

‘I suppose the lessons will be in
this
building,’ said Sybil. The porter told us to inquire when we got inside, didn’t he?’

It seemed a noble building, glimpsed in the November twilight—perhaps too noble for evening classes. We pushed open a swing door and found ourselves in a kind of entrance hall with noticeboards on which challenging posters, summoning the students to religious and political gatherings or to help various kinds of refugees, were pinned. On either side of the central space were two large white marble statues, male and female, perhaps representing knowledge and wisdom, courage and hope, or other suitable concepts. I looked down at the female’s great broad white feet and imagined that were she not barefooted she might have trouble with her shoes. I could almost see the incipient bunion and feel the pain of the fallen arch.

‘I suppose the ancient Greeks went barefoot,’ I remarked, as Sybil inquired the whereabouts of the beginners’ class in Portuguese.

‘It is in room 18B, which has a sinister sound about it,’ said Sybil. ‘It is striking six now—we had better hurry.’

‘Yes, we don’t want to be late,’ I agreed.

I was eager to see Piers, how he looked facing the class, but although the room was full of a confused mass of people of apparently all ages, there was as yet no sign of him, and the voices we had heard through the door were those of his prospective pupils. As time went on I was to know them quite well: Miss Wetherby and Miss Cane, two elderly spinsters who planned to hitchhike round Portugal and write a book about it; Miss James and Miss Honey, young and pretty girls, who seemed to be learning the language for personal and romantic reasons, and always giggled a good deal when it came to explaining the different ways of saying ‘like’ and ‘love’; Miss Childe, whose reasons for learning were never clear to me; and Mrs Marble, who seemed to have a passion for evening classes in themselves, and had done Spanish last year and Italian the year before that. The men—Messrs Potts, Bridewell, Stanniforth and Jones—were all engaged in commerce and were struggling to read letters from Pernambuco, Säo Paulo and Rio de Janeiro, but Dr McEntee wanted to be able to decipher contemporary documents about the Lisbon earthquake. Sybil and I, with our unashamed admission that all we wanted was to learn enough to get about on a holiday, seemed to have a less noble aim than the others, for even the two young girls hoped eventually to acquire husbands.

At about five past six Piers came in carrying an evening paper and a few books. I thought how distinguished he looked standing up before us, even the blackboard making a frame for his fair good looks. Sybil and I had chosen desks in the front row, and I was gratified when he gave us a special smile.

‘Now Portuguese is not so much like Spanish as you might suppose,’ he began, ‘so those of you who know Spanish had better try and forget about it for the time being.’

Mrs Marble looked crestfallen and the commercial gentlemen began to murmur among themselves.

‘Nor is this expensive grammar book which you have been advised to buy the one I should recommend myself. Still, it will do to learn verbs and all those tedious things that must be learnt.’

We felt a little discouraged, but soon forgot about it as our interest was aroused, for Piers was a surprisingly good teacher and I wondered whether he was making a special effort to be successful in this field. It was odd to be learning something again, but there was a certain lightheadedness in the process, as if we had shed some of the intervening years since schooldays. We laughed inordinately at the smallest jokes, finding something amusing in the most ridiculous trifles, and when we were actually given homework it seemed the funniest thing of all.

After the lesson was over the pupils began putting on their coats, the young girls hurrying off to evening engagements perhaps, the others going in search of food or to the bus or train which would take them home. I was thinking that it would be nice to have a word with Piers; but a little group had collected round him, presumably having been lying in wait at the door of the classroom. I wondered if I should join the group but decided to remain aloof, for I could hear questions being asked about the use of the subjunctive and I did not feel equal to that kind of conversation. I amused myself by observing these students, who seemed to be of all ages, until I came to the conclusion that people who went to evening classes were all more or less odd. It was unnatural to want to acquire knowledge after working hours. A tall bearded young man, whose string bag revealed a loaf of bread (the wrapped, sliced kind), a tin of Nescafé and two books from a public library, filled me with a kind of sadness, as if his whole life had been revealed to me by these telling details.

‘Do your pupils bother you much out of class?’ asked Sybil in her clear open tone. ‘I suppose they must want to ask you to explain things quite often?’

‘Oh yes,’ Piers laughed. There’s always trouble about something, but I usually have to tell them that I can’t go into it all now, so they go away discouraged.’

‘Teaching must be very tiring,’ I said. ‘We must try not to be too much of a nuisance with our questions. I’m sure there will be lots of things I don’t understand but I shall probably be too proud to admit it.’

It had been arranged that after the lesson Sybil and I should go to dinner at her club, where Rodney and Professor Root were to join us. I thought what a pity it was that Piers could not come too, but I hardly liked to suggest it to Sybil. He, too, seemed to want to hurry away, but before he did so he drew me aside and said in a low voice, ‘If you aren’t doing anything tomorrow, would you have lunch with me?’

I said that I should like to, and he named a restaurant and time.

‘Did you hear that?’ I said to Sybil, for I was sure she must have done, ‘Piers has asked me to have lunch with him tomorrow.’

‘That should be good for your Portuguese conversation,’ she said briskly.

‘It will be very limited conversation after only one lesson,’ I said, my thoughts going back to the somewhat dry and barren sentences which we had been reciting.

‘Well, it will keep him out of the wine lodge, having lunch with you,’ said Sybil, ‘and that should be a satisfaction to you both. Now will Noddy and Arnold be waiting for us in the hall? Do men feel awkward in a women’s club, I wonder? I suppose they well might.’

‘Here we are,’ said Rodney, coming forward. ‘We didn’t quite know when to expect you, but it’s really been quite an experience waiting here.’

‘We have been doing our best to get off, as the vulgar saying is, with those two ladies over there,’ said Professor Root, ‘but evidently they did not recognize the technique or have never had it practised upon them. I suppose our methods were at fault.’

‘I can’t imagine what you must have been doing,’ said Sybil. ‘One is the headmistress of a well known girls’ school and the other a professor of botany. I should imagine they would have more important things to do than look around for unattached men.’

‘Or they might realize that we were waiting for somebody and be afraid of an embarrassing situation,’ said Rodney.

‘You mean when we were claimed by our rightful ladies?’ chortled Professor Root.

‘It would be a piquant situation,’ said Rodney, ‘an archaeologist and a civil servant having women fight over them—rather unusual, perhaps.’

‘You flatter yourselves if you think we should have fought over you,’ said Sybil. ‘Wilmet and I could have had a very enjoyable dinner by ourselves.’

I smiled rather weakly. For some reason or other I found myself out of tune with the artificiality of the conversation, and during dinner I seemed to detach myself from my surroundings, admiring Sybil’s competent ordering of the dishes and calmly efficient way with the waitress, but imagining myself lunching with Piers the next day. In my mind I went over all my clothes, allowing for every possible kind of weather—though if it were wet I should of course take a taxi, so that rain did not really matter. In the end I decided on a new dark grey suit with my marten stole and a little turquoise velvet hat.

It was a fine day and I was five minutes late at the restaurant, which was of the kind which has no foyer for waiting. I supposed Piers would be sitting at a table inside with some kind of drink in front of him, glancing up each time somebody came in. But after looking round me vainly and meeting the expectant or hopeful glances of various waiting men, I was forced to the conclusion that Piers was not among them.

‘Mr Longridge?’ I asked the manager, who was hovering round me. ‘Has he reserved a table?’

He consulted a list. ‘No, Madame, I have not the name here. Madame will wait?’

He showed me to a table rather too near the door and I sat down. When a waiter came up to me I ordered a glass of Tio Pepe. As I sat drinking it occurred to me that I ought to have realized that Piers would be late. Unpunctuality would not, after all, be unexpected in one who had followed so many different callings; perhaps this, too, was one of the reasons for his failures.

It did not take me long to finish my drink, and although it had done something to dispel my first feeling of disappointment and irritation, I now began to feel irritated in another way. Was I to sit here alone drinking sherry until he chose to show up? He was already twenty minutes late, there seemed no reason now why he should ever come. Obviously he or I had mistaken the day or the restaurant or both. I supposed I should have to order lunch by myself, and I wondered if there was perhaps some special kind of meal provided (at a reduced price) for women whose escorts had failed to turn up. I amused myself by composing the menu, which might start with the very thinnest of soups and go on to plain boiled fish without sauce—unless, of course, it was thought that a rejected woman needed to be cosseted and all the specialities of the house would be produced, everything flambé in liqueurs … I must have been smiling to myself at the idea, for I looked up and there was Piers smiling down at me. My relief and pleasure on seeing him quite overcame the possible irritation I might have felt when I saw that he was wearing a duffle coat, a garment I do not approve of for grown men’s London wear.

‘I hardly deserve to be greeted with a smile,’ he said as he sat down, ‘when I’m so unforgivably late. But you
do
forgive me, Wilmet?’ He looked at me in such a way that I did not need to answer. More sherry was ordered, then wine and food, and all was happy between us. He did not excuse or explain his lateness and I did not refer to it myself, supposing that it had been caused by work or a traffic jam, both of which seemed reasonable explanations.

He was in excellent spirits and we talked of many things. I told him about the arrival of Father Ransome and the social evening to welcome him.

‘I wish I’d come to that,’ he said. ‘That sort of occasion always amuses me, and if you had been there I should have felt quite at home.’

‘Or you could have joined up with Mr Bason or Mr Coleman and the servers,’ I said. There were some male groups.’

‘Well next time perhaps you’ll take me.’

‘I suppose you’re rather busy in the evenings, with all these French and Portuguese classes. By the way, Sybil thought it would be so good for my Portuguese to have lunch with you,’ I laughed.

Piers poured more wine into my glass. This is Colares,’ he said, ‘a cheap Portuguese wine, but not unpalatable. Was this what she meant I wonder?’

‘She may have. Nothing is really beyond her powers of imagination.’

‘Would she approve of our lunching together if it weren’t for the Portuguese?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said enthusiastically.

‘Can she really approve all that much? I mean, as much as you make it sound?’

‘Of course,’ I said with modified enthusiasm, for I had just realized that I could hardly tell Piers of our plans for his reform. ‘Rowena would be pleased, too,’ I added.

‘And Harry, no doubt,’ he said sarcastically. ‘And what about Rodney?’

‘He wouldn’t mind at all.’

‘He wouldn’t mind. You notice the way you put it—others would approve or be delighted, Rodney wouldn’t mind.’

‘Well, he isn’t the sort of person to mind things. He’s not a jealous type.’

‘Isn’t he? I should be if you were mine.’

I was touched by his phrase, but thought that the compliment implicit in it was best met with silence. I finished my coffee and looked round the room which was now almost empty. I remembered the good I had been going to do to Piers; keeping him from his work was not a very suitable beginning.

‘It’s rather late,’ I said. ‘Oughtn’t you to be getting back?’

‘Now don’t be dreary,’ he said. ‘I’m taking the afternoon off. I thought we might go somewhere on a bus, or something simple like that—perhaps walk by the river if your shoes are suitable.’

They were not particularly, and I found the rough path difficult going. But I was so touched by his thoughtfulness that I soon forgot my discomfort. It seemed such an unusual thing to be doing, walking by the river on a misty autumn afternoon. The sun was out but would soon be setting, and its light made the water look wonderfully mysterious—a great sheet of pink and silver fading away into the distance—so that one felt the open sea must lie beyond it. The warehouses on the opposite bank looked like palaces, and the boats glided like gondolas.

We had not gone very far when a great and splendid looking building loomed up round a bend in the path. It was of rose brown brick, with minarets almost in the Turkish style. The façade was decorated with carved swags of fruit and flowers, and there were many windows, blank and blind looking, some a little open.