A Glass of Blessings

by Barbara Pym

  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 k
now 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.

  'What is it?' I asked in wonder. 'I never expected to see such a building here.'

  'It's a furniture depository,' said Piers.

  'But those minarets and Grinling Gibbons decorations - it's all too noble to be just that!'

  'The birds have not respected it,' said Piers, and I saw then that the rosy façade was white with their droppings.

  'I wonder what it's like inside,' I said. 'Vast high-ceilinged rooms filled with huge shrouded bulky objects - great trunks of clothes, surely rather musty now, and books too.'

  'Or a kind of sprawling decay - the furniture rotting and riddled with woodworm, legs of tables breaking off in your hand, chair backs collapsing at a touch ...'

  'I'm sure that couldn't be so when it belongs to such a very reputable firm,' I protested. 'And I suppose things couldn't be left there indefinitely.'

  'You would have to pay, of course,' said Piers. 'It would be like keeping an aged relative in an institution.'


  'Yes, that grand piano for which you've never found room in your new flat. It's rather sad, really, isn't it?'

  'But Wilmet, life is like that, you know. Like your name - so sad, and you so gay and poised.'

  I liked this description of myself and longed for him to say more.

  'Did you know that my name came out of one of Charlotte M. Yonge's novels?' I asked him. 'My mother was very fond of them. But why do you think it sad?'

  'Because it seems to be neither one thing nor the other,' he said, rather mysteriously, and then fell silent.

  'Why, there's a kind of chapel,' I exclaimed, as we walked on a little. 'At least that's what it looks like, though I suppose it hardly could be, really.'

  'Why not?' said Piers. 'It might be fitting to hold a kind of religious service over furniture as it enters the depository. Undenominational, do you think, like the chapel of a crematorium?'

  'Oh no,' I protested, 'surely there would be incense. Think how hygienic it would be - the very strongest kind of incense to smoke out the woodworm!'

  We enlarged on our fantasies for some time, until the sun began to sink and the air to grow cold. I nestled down into my fur and drew it up round my face.

  'Now we will go back and have tea in Kensington,' said Piers, 'if you would like that.'

  'Yes, I should,' I said, 'though I suppose I really ought to be getting home.'

  'Why, can't you do as you like?' he asked. 'Your husband is at his work and your mother-in-law is no doubt learning the present indicative of falar, aprender and partir, as I told my class to do. Nobody will miss you.'

  'No,' I said comfortably. 'I'm useless.'

  He did not contradict me.

  'We haven't spoken any Portuguese,' I said as we sat at tea.

  'My dear Wilmet, I'm afraid that after one lesson you would hardly be up to the kind of conversation I should like to have with you,' he smiled.

  'I hope I may be one day,' I said. 'I have enjoyed this afternoon so much - seeing the furniture depository and walking by the river. All those rooms of furniture - just think!'