A Glass of Blessings (9 page)

In the afternoon we were listening to the carols and lessons from King’s College Chapel, which always make me cry, so that I was glad to slip out of the room when I heard the post come. There were some more cards and two little parcels—one from Sybil’s optician and the other addressed to me in block capitals. It was small and square and looked almost as if it might contain jewellery. Could it be a surprise from Rodney? I wondered. But no, he would give his present to me personally on Christmas Day, as he always did. I turned the box over in my hands and examined the writing, but it told me nothing. Impulsively I slipped the string over the comer and tore open the paper. I saw a small cardboard box, and now I did not hesitate to open this too. It was filled with shavings; but when I had pushed these aside I found nestling among them another little box, heart shaped and made of enamel, Regency or early Victorian, prettily decorated. Something was written on the lid. I moved underneath the light and read the inscription.

If you will not when you may

When you will you shall have nay.

For a moment I was struck with bewilderment, trying to puzzle out what the words meant. Then I remembered my telephone conversation with Piers and was filled with an agitation that was half painful and half pleasurable. When I went back into the drawing-room I felt like the heroine of a Victorian novel, for I had thrust the little box into the pocket of my dress so as to hide it, and my fingers were nervously feeling it, tracing out the inscription on the lid. Who but Piers could have thought of such a thing, and what did he mean by it? I kept asking myself.

Chapter Eight

Dinner on Christmas Eve was enlivened not only by my agitated speculations about the little box but by a note which arrived by hand for Rodney.

‘Read this, darling,’ he said, pushing it across the table to me. ‘It came this evening. What should we do?’

‘Do?’ I murmured, my eyes on the letter. ‘Let me see what it says.’

It read :

Dear Forsyth,

It would give me much pleasure if you and your wife would take tea with me one day at the clergy house. Boxing Day would suit me very well, if convenient for you, and I suppose four o’clock or thereabouts is the most civilized hour to suggest. I do hope you will be able to come.

Yours very sincerely,

WILFRED J. BASON

‘Fancy his name being Wilfred!’ I exclaimed when I had finished reading. ‘And does he always call you Forsyth, like that?’

‘He seems to now, though I can’t remember that he ever did at the Ministry. Still, things were rather different there. Should we go?’

‘I should love to,’ I said, full of curiosity. ‘And Boxing Day is always so dreary anyway. Do you think the poor man is lonely? He evidently isn’t going away for Christmas, but I suppose he could hardly leave the clergy at a time like this.’

‘Perhaps he has no relatives or friends to go to,’ said Sybil, making her statement sound like a sociological observation rather than the kind of remark to bring tears to the eyes.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask him here,’ said Rodney guiltily, ‘but somehow I’ve never got round to it yet I suppose we should go to tea with him, then. I’ll telephone him. I suppose the clergy house
has
a telephone? In touch with the infinite, no doubt, but an ordinary worldly one too?’

‘Goodness, yes! There’s even one in the vestry. People are always ringing up to ask Father Thames to luncheon or Father Bode to high tea.’

‘All right, then. I’ll say we’ll be delighted.’

‘I wonder if he’s
really
without relatives?’ I said. ‘He strikes one as the kind of person who would have a mother.’

‘Well, everybody has or had a mother,’ said Sybil. ‘But I see just what you mean. No doubt you will find out when you go to tea with him.’

The hours between dinner and Midnight Mass seemed very long and I began to feel sleepy. I wondered whether Harry and Rowena had decided to give it a trial at their village church and hoped that poor Father Lester would have a good congregation. Then of course I wondered, though I tried not to, what Piers would be doing, whether he would be going to church—and, if so, where. He might even come to our church, it was not so very far away and he had told me that he did not frequent any particular one.
Could
it have been Piers who had sent the little box? I could think of nobody else who would have been likely to. The circumstances fitted so well and it was just-the kind of unusual and imaginative thing he might do. It was tantalizing not to be able to see him and find out and even to follow up its implications, whatever they might be, for I could not know his mood when he had sent it. I could only think that he must have been walking in some street where there were antique shops—not, somehow, the Goldhawk Road—and had seen the box in a window and thought it would be just right for me, being the kind of thing I liked and the words so appropriate to my refusal or inability to spend an evening with him. Of course it was all a joke, really, but it gave me a pleasant feeling of being remembered in a rather special way.

Rodney took me to church in the car and deposited me in the porch. After he had driven away I suddenly wished I had tried to persuade him to stay for the service, but it was too late then. People were crowding in and the church already looked full. The crib had been put up at the west end; the brightly coloured plaster figures, put away from last year, had been taken out and washed or dusted; the straw, the flowers and the lights arranged by some devoted hand. Other devoted hands had decorated the church with lilies, white chrysanthemums and holly, and I wished that I might have had a share in it. Father Thames in his cassock was standing at the back of the church as if to encourage the many strangers who would be coming to the service. He nodded and smiled vaguely as I passed him.

I usually sat in the same pew as Mary Beamish and her mother; but as I made my way towards it I noticed that there was something not quite right about it, for at the end nearest the chancel, instead of the bulky shape of old Mrs Beamish and the drab self-effacing Mary, I saw only Miss Prideaux and another elderly lady and beyond them some distance away the ex-housekeeper at the clergy house, Mrs Greenhill. A kind of rustling sound, like dry autumn leaves in the wind, seemed to be coming from the elderly ladies, sitting in their yellowish- brown fur coats, a little upright as if they were slightly uneasy at being there. I could not at first decide whether the rustling sound came from their natural age and brittleness or whether they were whispering together about something. As I passed them to get to my seat Miss Prideaux whispered, ‘Mrs Beamish and Mary aren’t coming tonight. I’m afraid Mrs Beamish isn’t very well.’

‘Oh dear, I’m sorry,’ I whispered back inadequately.

‘I expect it will be the end,’ said Miss Prideaux in a confident tone.

‘Not really?’ I said, hardly knowing whether to believe her or not I knelt down to say a prayer, and when I had sat up again I found Mrs Greenhill, on my other side, lying in wait as it were.

‘Mrs Beamish had a nasty turn this afternoon,’ she said.

‘Oh dear,’ I said again. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Heart,’ said Mrs Greenhill, pursing her thin lips together. ‘And you know what
that
means.’

I did not really know for I had always been vague about Mrs Beamish’s health, supposing that she was not really ill at all but just old and difficult. I sat thinking of Mary, wondering how she was feeling, until my thoughts wandered and I began speculating on the nature of Miss Prideaux’s fur coat. It seemed to be of such a very strange kind of fur, not cat or rabbit or any of the more expensive varieties, but something one couldn’t put a name to. Wolf, perhaps, or some strange bushy animal shot long ago in those Imperial Balkan forests.

The service began and was both beautiful and exhausting because there were so many people, and it was after half past one before we had finished. Getting out of church was slow, and there was a crowd in the porch exchanging greetings with the clergy and with each other. I noticed Mr Coleman, rather ostentatiously still wearing his cassock over which he had flung a duffle coat; and then I remembered that of course he had to take it home with him now after the unfortunate incident Father Ransome had told me about. He was with two of the servers—the thurifer, who worked in a garage, and another who taught in a secondary modern school.

‘Ooh, Bill, look how you’ve parked the car!’ I heard the latter say in a shrill mean voice—made so, I supposed, by his years of teaching and constantly having to say, ‘Now, boys!’ in just that sort of tone.

‘Ah, Mrs Forsyth, I’m delighted that you and your husband are able to take tea writh me on Boxing Day,’ said Mr Bason coming up to me. That’s really tomorrow, isn’t it—today being Christmas Day now? Let me wish you both the compliments of the season—and to your husband’s mother, too,’ he added with what seemed a comic effect.

I thanked him and returned the greeting.

‘And now I must rush away,’ he said. ‘They’ll be wanting some kind of a snack after this, and who can say they haven’t earned it!’ He flung out this last remark in a challenging way.

‘Father Thames was hearing confessions up to eight o’clock,’ he added in a lower voice. ‘I had to put dinner back half an hour, but luckily it was only a fish pie.’

A crowd, mostly of women, had collected round the three priests, and I heard one say to Father Ransome almost gloatingly, ‘Father, you must be
so tired
. And then there is the seven o’clock Low Mass and the eight o’clock, and then the High Mass at eleven… I simply don’t know
how
you’re going to manage.’

Father Ransome gave her his charming weary smile. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll get my feet up this afternoon.’

The lady turned away, perhaps disconcerted by his flippancy.

I had been wanting to talk to him about Mrs Beamish and Mary, and took this opportunity to ask him about them.

‘Poor Mary,’ I said. This must be a time of great anxiety for her.’

He looked at me for a moment, still with the charming weary smile as if I were another of his sympathizers, then appeared to realize what I had said.

‘Yes, I’m afraid Mrs Beamish is gravely ill. She took a turn for the worse this evening.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I wonder if there’s anything I can do for Mary?’

‘She will be glad of your sympathy at a time like this,’ he said in a formal clergyman’s way.

I felt rather chilled, for I had not meant anything so indefinite as that I suppose I had imagined myself busy in a practical way—cooking meals or running errands, even being what people call a tower of strength.

‘Do you think I should call or telephone?’ I asked. ‘You will have later news of the situation than anybody else.’

‘They have two nurses there,’ said Father Ransome, ‘but I’m sure Mary would be glad of
your
company.’ He smiled, a charming almost intimate smile.

I turned away from him. His charm seemed out of place, even shocking, at such a time. I wished I had been talking to Father Bode, with his eager toothy smile and weak kindly eyes magnified behind his thick glasses, or even to Father Thames, querulous and complaining, but with a presence fitting to serious occasions.

I saw that Rodney had arrived in the car and was looking for me among the crowd of people, so I said something indefinite to Father Ransome and moved away. It was obviously no use ringing Mary up at half past one in the morning, however anxious I was to be helpful.

‘Supposing Ella Beamish dies,’ said Sybil as we were eating our breakfast later on Christmas morning, ‘and she very well may. I wonder what Mary will do then?’

‘She will be quite free,’ I said, ‘and she’ll have money, too. It will be wonderful for her, really.’

‘Darling, should you say things like that?’ Rodney asked. ‘Won’t she be quite lost without her mother, a good religious young woman like that?’

‘She’ll miss her of course, but she’ll be able to lead her own life—travel and all that sort of thing.’

‘Travel?’ echoed Rodney. ‘I find that hard to visualize, somehow. Will she go and stay with friends in the south of France, or join a jolly party going to the Italian lakes, or what? What
do
lone women suddenly presented with money and freedom do?’

‘She might come with us to Portugal,’ said Sybil practically. ‘But of course that wouldn’t be immediately. And what
are
we talking about!’ she exclaimed suddenly. ‘Poor Ella Beamish is still with us, as far as we know.’

‘I suppose there is a good deal of money there,’ Rodney continued. ‘Old Beamish was in the City, wasn’t he? And there are two sons doing pretty well, I believe.’

‘Yes—Gerald and William,’ I said. They’re both a good deal older than Mary. I expect she’ll get most of her mother’s money. Oh dear, here we are
still
talking as if she were going to die. I really think I might telephone Mary now and ask if there’s anything I can do. Ten o’clock in the morning seems quite a suitable time.’

Mary herself answered the telephone and was obviously glad to hear from me, but she assured me that there was really nothing I could do at the moment. Her mother was very ill, but they had two excellent nurses. ‘And Marius has been such a comfort,’ she added.

Marius? I thought, and then realized that she must mean Father Ransome. I wondered in what way he was being a comfort—in practical ways, or simply by the exercise of his charm? Then it occurred to me that he probably would not use his charm on Mary, whom he regarded as a fine person—that, presumably, was reserved for people like me who were less fine, the kind of women who would expect it. The idea depressed me, as did my own sophistication and inability to accept even a pleasant smile from a clergyman at its face value.

‘Well, she seems to be about the same,’ I said to Sybil. ‘I suppose Father Thames will be praying for her at Mass this morning.’

‘I never know what it is that Christians expect or want when they pray for the sick,’ said Sybil. ‘Obviously death is greatly to be desired for believers, and yet they never quite like to pray for that—at least not publicly.’

‘Mother, you can hardly know what is done, when you never go to church,’ Rodney reminded her.

‘But one hears what goes on,’ said Sybil. ‘And Arnold has told me a good deal, you know. He frequently has to attend funeral and memorial services in an official capacity.’

I remembered then that Professor Root was to take Christmas dinner with us, and the thought depressed me rather. Nevertheless when the time came and I saw the interesting- looking little parcel he had brought for me I felt more warmly towards him, and began to look forward to the time when we should open our presents.

The little parcel turned out to be a charming early Victorian mourning brooch, a lock of auburn hair delicately framed in gold. I was delighted with it.

‘I hope you are not superstitious — and perhaps some relic connected with death is not the happiest of thoughts for this time. But I believed it was the kind of thing you might like, and certainly it seems to be appropriate to your own style of beauty, which, if I may say so, is happily not quite of this age,’ said Professor Root, flushing a little as he hurried over these last words.

We had all been drinking champagne, otherwise I suppose he would not have had the courage to say what he did. I was touched by his compliment and the tears came into my eyes.

‘I think it’s charming,’ I said, ‘and just the kind of thing I like best.’

I was curious to see what his present for Sybil would be, for she was in some ways so very unfeminine that I always found it difficult to know what to get for her. But Professor Root’s choice of a warm mohair stole seemed brilliant, and Sybil was obviously very pleased with it. I tried to imagine Professor Root going into a shop and buying it, but this was difficult and I concluded that his sister or housekeeper must have chosen it for him.