by Barbara Pym
'Why not give them fried octopus?' I suggested. 'Like Mr Bason does at the clergy house. By the way, these flowers came for you.'
'For me? How nice. Is there a card with them?'
'I think so,' I said casually, turning away while she read it.
'Why, they're from Arnold,' she laughed. 'Two dozen of these beautiful hothouse roses - so extravagant! It was a joke we had, and he has underlined it with a little classical quotation.'
She did not tell me what the quotation was and I felt slightly hurt, though I realized that there was no reason why I should.
Sybil arranged the flowers in a heavy cut glass vase, rather badly.
'I shall have to get on with his pullover at this rate,' she said, settling down with her knitting. 'I'm only half way up the back, but I've promised it shall be ready by the autumn.'
'You'll have plenty of time if he doesn't expect it till then,' I said.
It was really rather sweet that Professor Root should have sent Sybil the flowers, I decided, but when Rodney came in and had not brought me any unexpected little gift I began to feel restless and dissatisfied. During dinner I made up my mind that I would telephone Piers, and when the meal was over I told Sybil and Rodney what I intended to do.
'He wasn't at the press when Rowena and I called there this afternoon, and she was rather worried,' I explained, not quite truthfully.
'I hope he isn't ill,' said Sybil. 'There's been a good deal of spring flu about lately. Lady Nollard is down with it and wasn't at the Settlement this afternoon.'
I smiled at the idea of Lady Nollard and Piers having anything in common. It seemed so unlikely.
I went into the morning room and took from my bag the old envelope on which I had written Piers's number. I dialled it and heard the ringing tone, a harsh and rusty sound as if the whole house were empty. I imagined the room dismantled of all furniture, the telephone crouching on the floor alone, ringing unheeded.
I was quite startled when I heard a click and a guarded 'Hello?'
'I wanted to speak to Mr Longridge,' I said, rather flustered.
'I'm afraid he isn't here right now.'
It was a flat quiet voice, slightly common, though not American in spite of the phrase it had used.
'Oh, I see. Is he away then?'
There was a slight pause, then the voice said, 'Well, not exactly, but he isn't here now. Could I give him a message?'
I said lamely, 'Well, perhaps you'd just tell him that Mrs Forsyth rang up, would you?'
'Yes, Mrs Forsyth,' said the voice respectfully. 'I'll certainly tell him you called.'
I hung up the receiver with a feeling of bewilderment. I wished now that I had asked the name of the person who had answered me. As it was I could only speculate on who it might have been. Piers's colleague, with whom he shared the flat? That seemed unlikely. The voice did not sound right, though I could not have said exactly why. Then it occurred to me that the flat was not self-contained and that the telephone was a communal one which rang in the hall downstairs. In that case anyone might have answered it, some other person living in the house or the landlady's son. Having settled that point I began to ponder on the information I had been given. He wasn't here 'right now', but he wasn't away - 'not exactly' had been the phrase. What did that mean? I wondered. That he was there but did not wish to be disturbed? That he had a hangover - in the evening? It was all rather unsatisfactory and disturbing. I could only hope that Piers himself, if he ever received my message, would get in touch with me and set my mind at rest.
Chapter Fourteen
I never knew whether Piers had received my message, for nearly a fortnight went by before I heard anything of him; and when he did telephone it might just as easily have been a spontaneous impulse that had prompted him.
'We said we'd have lunch together in May,' he declared, 'and now is the time. Can it be soon — tomorrow, or the next day even?'
I did not remember any arrangement to have lunch together in May, but I was learning to take Piers as I found him so did not argue the point.
'Tomorrow would be lovely,' I said. 'Shall we meet in the same place as before?'
'No. I'm afraid it must be somewhere nearer my work this time. I'm being rather drearily conscientious at the moment. Also, I haven't any money.'
'Oh,' I said, wondering how I was expected to react. Perhaps I could offer to pay my share as girls were sometimes advised to do in magazines? 'Where shall we meet then?'
He named a restaurant in Fleet Street which was unfamiliar to me.
'I suppose I shall find it,' I said doubtfully.
'You will see hordes of workers pouring into it, so you'll hardly be able to miss it.'
It did not sound at all my kind of place and I pictured myself waiting there, for Piers was sure to be late, while the city workers streamed past me. It happened that I was to go and see Mary Beamish that afternoon and it was rather difficult to know how to dress for two such different occasions. I naturally wanted to look my best to meet Piers, but I felt that some restraint was desirable for the convent parlour. Then it occurred to me that being in the world I should be expected to look worldly, perhaps even flashy, so there need not be any difficulty of choice after all. Of course in the end I wore a black suit with a pretty little spring hat and pale gloves.
To my surprise Piers was already waiting when I reached the restaurant. He looked very handsome, I thought. His fair hair was windswept and there was an air of sparkle and boyishness about him which was unusual. When he saw me he came forward eagerly. The restaurant did not seem to be the kind where people were coming forward eagerly; most of its occupants were business men reading newspapers or talking shop together, or lone women reading novels or just eating and looking blankly in front of them. It was not the kind of place I was used to being taken to, but my pleasure at seeing Piers looking so well made me forget my surroundings and I was very ready to forgive him for not having chosen somewhere a little more worthy of the occasion.
'There is a table in the corner,' he said. 'I know this waitress, and she's kept it for us.'
Perhaps this is his life as it really is, I thought, threading my way among the crowded tables; he comes to places like this every day. My first feeling of disappointment now gave way to one of pleasure that he should consider me the kind of person who could fit into his ordinary routine in this way. It seemed to mark an advance in our relationship.
'We could have some beer, if you like,' he said, 'though you look much too elegant for anything so low.'
'I'll have just what you have,' I said happily.
'How sweet you are! Would you even have sausage toad if I ordered it?'
'I daresay,' I said doubtfully. 'I know what it is.'
'She knows what it is!' he laughed. 'But the roast veal will probably be better.'
'You're in a good mood today,' I said.
'I hope I always am with you,' he said smiling at me.
'Well, you do vary,' I said boldly. 'I'd say you were a moody person.'
'I'm a Gemini, a mercurial temperament, and I collect car numbers. It was sweet of you to come today.'
'I was quite surprised when you telephoned. I was beginning to think you hadn't got my message.'
'What message?'
'Didn't you know Rowena and I called to see you at the press?'
'Yes, Miss Limpsett told me.'
'We were a bit worried especially when she said you might have left.'
'Yes, I did actually give in my notice, but they begged me to reconsider it - think how gratifying that was!'
'I'm glad they did that,' I said. 'But I rang up your flat that same evening. Rowena had given me the number. I don't know who answered the telephone, but he said he would tell you. I thought at first it was your colleague, but then I decided it couldn't be - the voice didn't sound right.'
'Why - what kind of a voice was it?'
'It's hard to say, really -' I hesitated. 'It was, well...'
'Not quite our kind
of voice - is that what you don't quite like to say?' Piers smiled.
'Yes, not a colleague's voice.'
'You and your ideas of what a colleague would sound like!' said Piers indulgently.
'Isn't your flat self-contained then?'
'No, there are other people in the house.'
'I was afraid you might have been ill - I do hope you weren't.' I had decided not to probe further by asking what was meant by 'not exactly', when I had asked if Piers was away. I felt that I might learn more by a tactful silence.
'As a matter of fact I was recovering from a hangover,' he said, 'so I was ill, in a way.'
'I see,' I said. 'That explains everything.'
'I didn't feel like talking to anyone at that moment, not even you, Wilmet.'
'Well, you're all right now, that's the main thing.'
'Yes, life isn't quite as grim as it was. Do you think you would like to eat Devonshire tart, whatever that may be? I suspect it may be the same as Leicester tart which we have on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.'
'I'll eat whatever you suggest,' I said, 'as long as it isn't a pink blancmange.'
'And now, why weren't you at Portuguese these last two weeks?' said Piers accusingly. 'Were you ill or something?'
'No,' I said. 'I felt a kind of despair as one always does at some stage of trying to learn something. And I got so tired of hearing Mrs Marble talking to you in her ninety per cent Spanish.'
'I'm with you there. But why do you want to learn, anyway?'
'It was Sybil's idea - you know how she is. And I thought it might be good for me to have some occupation.'
'Haven't you enough occupation? That's what I like about you - your air of leisure and elegance. Don't be any different or think that you must be. You can always do church work if you want a worthy occupation.'
'I do feel I'm making a little progress there,' I said. 'The last time I saw Father Thames, he was even confiding his fears about Father Ransome to me.'
'What fears?'
'He's afraid that Father Ransome may go over to Rome because the clergyman with whom he lodges is leaning in that direction.'
'He needn't worry,' said Piers. 'From what you've told me of Father Ransome he doesn't sound the kind of young man to do anything as definite as that.'
'No, but how can one be sure what goes on in a person's head?' I said, before I realized that I was thinking not only of Father Ransome but of Piers as well.
'It's better not to speculate,' said Piers lightly. 'I'm afraid we shan't have time for any extraordinary expeditions as we did the last time we lunched together. I must be back by half past two.'
'Ah, the furniture depository,' I sighed. 'Did I tell you that poor Mary Beamish's furniture is stored there now? I'm going to see her at the convent this afternoon.'
'How will you get there? In a taxi?'
'No. I shall take a train from Temple Station.'
'I thought you never travelled in such an ordinary and sordid way, but it's all the better because we shall be able to walk through the Temple together.'
'Are you turning over a new leaf?' I asked, as we walked down Middle Temple Lane. 'All this having to be back punctually?'
'Not exactly. But I'm finding it easier to work at the moment, so I may as well take advantage of being in a good mood. Later, when the bad weather comes or I'm otherwise depressed, I shall slip back again, I've no doubt.'
'Piers,' I said impulsively, 'I hate to think of you being depressed. If only I could help you in some way!'
He smiled at me and was silent for a moment, then he said, 'Oh, but you do.'
I could think of nothing to say, and perhaps nothing was needed. I was in the kind of exalted mood when all one's sensibilities seem to be sharpened, and I thought I had never seen anything so beautiful as the black persian cat crouching in a bed of double pink and white tulips on the side of the path where we were walking. Then we went down some steps and I noticed a fig tree, now putting forth its new leaves among the old dark green fruits which had never properly ripened.
'I suppose figs never do ripen properly in England,' I said, feeling that I was making conversation but not minding.
'No, Wilmet, I don't believe they ever do,' said Piers in the same formal tone that I had used. 'The sun isn't hot enough.'
'They would ripen in a conservatory, no doubt,' I went on.
'No doubt,' he echoed, mocking me.
We were nearly at Temple Station now, and a desperate feeling came over me that we mustn't end up just by talking about figs.
'Piers,' I said, 'if there was ever anything I could do -'
'You're very sweet,' he said. 'I'll buy you a ticket.' I got into the train in a kind of daze. As it lurched on from station to station I gave myself up to a happy dream in which I went to look after Piers when he was ill or depressed or just had a hangover. And yet, had that been what I meant when I had made my offer to him? Not an offer, exactly. But if not an offer, then what? I felt that Piers really needed me as few people did. Certainly not Rodney, I told myself, justifying my foolish indulgence. Piers needed love and understanding, perhaps already he was happier because of knowing me. When I had reached this conclusion I felt contented and peaceful, and leaned back in my seat, smiling to myself. What should I do next? I wondered; but even as I wondered I realized that I couldn't do anything. I must just wait and see what happened.
The directions Mary had given me were easy to follow and I soon found myself approaching a large ugly red house which stood well back from the road. The bell was of the kind that may easily come away in your hand when you pull it, and I was relieved that it did not.
A nun with steel-rimmed spectacles, and the pale lips and eyes that I always find so sinister, opened the door and smiled at me in a guarded remote sort of way. I felt that she could see right into my mind and knew all that I had been thinking about Piers. I could imagine her turning the whole thing over, coldly and dispassionately. But when she spoke her smile seemed warmer, and she said in a pleasant friendly voice, 'Would you wait in here, please? What a lovely day it's been, hasn't it?'
She led me along a corridor and into a kind of waiting-room. I was reminded a little of the clergy house, for there was the same bareness and lack of comfort, though everything was more highly polished. There was a vase of lilac on the table, and a copy of the Church Times which I began to read, turning first to the advertisements. I was just pondering over an offer of hospitality from an elderly widow to a curate ('must be of gentle birth and education') and wondering how many would dare to measure themselves up to that standard, when Mary came quickly into the room and almost ran up to me, her face beaming.
'Oh dear,' she smiled, 'I'm so excited at seeing you that I quite forgot about moving quietly. Wilmet, it's lovely to see you, and how pretty you look! It's so nice to see some smart clothes after these.' She indicated the old black dress and stockings she was wearing.
'I expected you to be wearing a habit,' I said.
'Not yet, and I don't suppose I ever shall now.'
I looked around anxiously, for her tone had been rather loud and eager, and I was afraid that somebody might have heard.
'We could walk in the garden if you'd like to,' Mary went on, 'it would be easier to talk there.'
She took me through a side door and along a narrow path shaded with lilac bushes. I continued to look around anxiously, though I told myself that it was absurd to have this suspicious Protestant attitude towards convents. Nevertheless I was careful to keep my voice low when I saw a group of nuns walking across the lawn.
'Haven't you been happy here?' I asked, when we had got some way into a little shrubbery. 'You sound as if you weren't going to stay much longer.'
'It isn't that I haven't been happy, Wilmet, it's been a wonderful experience, but I've been feeling more and more that it isn't the right kind of life for me -or I should say that I'm not the right kind of person for it - that's what I mean really.'
'Well, it's a good thing to find
that out now,' I said rather feebly, at a loss for suitable words. It was the kind of thing people said when one broke off an engagement, perhaps the only thing that could be said. I felt that in this case I ought to have produced something better.
'Of course in a way it's humiliating to have to admit it,' Mary went on.
I did not say that humiliation was supposed to be good for people, feeling somehow that she would say it; and of course she did, though in the humblest way.
'I suppose it was arrogant of me to think that I should ever be good enough to live this kind of life, but after Mother died it did seem .. .' she broke off in distress.
'Poor Mary, nobody could say that you were arrogant,' I said, 'and I'm sure there are lots of things you could do just as well out in the world. I always have thought so. And now,' I went on, taking as it were a real headlong plunge into the world, 'what's all this about Marius Ransome and the odd letter you mentioned?'
'Yes, poor Marius. I'm rather worried about him.'
'Father Thames seems to be too. Is it about the friend he's lodging with, and his leanings towards Rome?'
'Yes, that's what it is.'
I was silent in respectful tribute to a woman who could really worry about such things. All the same, bringing Mary down to my own level for a moment, I wondered if this was really all.
'He's written me several letters, all so full of doubts and questionings. He seemed to think that I could help him to resolve them. It may sound an odd thing to say, but I feel he needs me in some way - my advice, of course - though that sounds very conceited I know, and obviously nothing I could say would make any difference.' She hesitated and looked up at me appealingly.
'I know just what you mean,' I said, 'and I think men do need women in that way, for our advice and strength which is sometimes greater than theirs.' I was thinking that Mary was a little bit human after all, and what a strange coincidence it was that we should both at this moment be in rather similar positions. In some curious way Piers needed me, and Marius needed her. Perhaps it made a little bond of happiness between us, for everybody wants to be needed, women especially. For a moment a wild idea came into my mind that Marius and Mary - the names sounded odd and yet right together - might marry, but I dismissed it almost before it had time to show itself, for obviously if he went over to Rome he would want to go on being a priest and therefore couldn't marry anybody. And even if he stayed where he was and decided to marry, he would choose somebody younger and more attractive than Mary. Besides, women did not come out of convents to marry people - it would be a complete reversal of the old procedure. All the same I wondered if it ever had been done.
