by Barbara Pym
'I suppose I was surprised, and perhaps even a little shocked, that Sybil should think of marrying again,' I admitted.
'I think I should have felt that too. Yet it's nice for older people to marry, to be able to comfort each other in their old age. I think people do need help and comfort from others, you know.'
I remembered with a pang Piers saying that we were all, in a sense, colleagues in the grim business of getting through life. It seemed as if Mary was leading up to something - Marius Ransome, I supposed.
'Drinking coffee is supposed to keep one awake,' she said. 'Do you mind, Wilmet?'
'No, I'm not tired,' I said. 'I've done nothing all day.'
'I always used to wish I could have gone to college where people sat up half the night talking about life,' she said eagerly, 'but I suppose it's too late now.'
'What - to go to college?'
'I didn't mean that - I meant that people don't talk when they're older in the way they do when they're young.'
'I suppose not,' I said, feeling rather uncomfortable.
'Wilmet, I want to ask you something. Will you give me an honest answer?'
'Yes, of course, if I can,' I said, wondering as one does when challenged in this way whether it would be at all possible.
She clasped her hands round her coffee cup and looked down at the tiles in the fireplace. I noticed that they had a curious pattern of bulrushes alternating with brownish-coloured irises.
'Do you think it wrong for a priest to marry?' she asked in a low voice.
'Do you mean as a general principle?' I asked, in order to gain time.
'Yes, I suppose I do.'
'Well, I don't see how it can be wrong,' I said. 'After all, there are a great many married priests.'
'Yes, there are, aren't there!' she said quickly. Though most of the ones I've known haven't been married. I mean, it would be unthinkable to have a married priest at St Luke's.'
'Father Thames probably wouldn't approve of it,' I laughed, 'but he's retiring in the autumn and I daresay Father Bode thinks on other lines.'
'But you couldn't have a married priest living at the clergy house,' Mary persisted. 'Surely the idea of a clergy house is that the priests should be celibate?'
'Yes, but don't you remember Father Thames saying that it was originally built as a vicarage, and that the first incumbent had lots of children?'
Mary smiled. 'You see, Wilmet, Marius has asked me to marry him - that's what I've really been wanting to tell you. Do you think it so very dreadful of him?'
I could hardly confess my first reaction to her news, which was the perhaps typically feminine one of astonishment that such a good looking man as Marius Ransome should want to marry anyone so dim and mousy as Mary Beamish. But as soon as I had pushed aside this unworthy thought I realized what a good wife she would make for a clergyman, especially one as unstable as Marius appeared to be. Mary was obviously just the person he needed to steady him, and the novelty and responsibility of marriage would surely take his mind off Rome.
'I think it would be a very good thing,' I said. 'Have you given him your answer, as they say?'
'Not in so many words,' Mary smiled, 'but I think he knows what it will be.'
'When did he propose to you?' I asked. There seems to have been so little opportunity - first of all you were with us, and then you came here –'
'Just before you arrived,' said Mary. 'He came down for the afternoon on his scooter.'
'On his scooter?' I echoed in amazement 'But I didn't know he had one.'
'He suddenly bought it about a week ago. As a matter of fact, Mother left him a little legacy and I think he used some of that - to buy it. It will be awfully useful for visiting and that kind of thing,' Mary added eagerly.
It seemed to me highly frivolous and unsuitable, but I could not help being amused after all his talk about being able to do good with money. Then I remembered that we had decided that five hundred pounds was perhaps only enough to do good to oneself. What with the scooter and Mary, I felt that he now had enough to keep his mind firmly on the good Anglican path.
'Did you fall in love with him that evening at the parish hall?' I asked. 'It would be wonderful to think that love could blossom in such surroundings.' I thought of the chipped Della Robbia plaques, the hissing of gas fires and tea urns and the curious smell of damp mackintoshes that seemed to pervade it, and perhaps all parish halls everywhere. Why, indeed, shouldn't love blossom here rather more than in conventional romantic surroundings?
'Not really,' said Mary. 'I never thought of myself as marrying. You see, I've never had any boy friends' - she brought out the words self-consciously. And what does one say, what word can one use, to describe what she meant? Lovers, admirers, suitors, followers - none seems to be quite right.
'I thought I might have a vocation for the religious life,' she went on, 'but I suppose I should have discovered that I hadn't even if I'd never met Marius.'
'I think it will be an excellent thing, and I hope you'll be very happy,' I said. 'I suppose Marius will get a living somewhere?'
'Yes, that would be best. Better than staying on at St Luke's, really. Of course he'll have to break the news to Father Thames when he gets back from Italy.'
That interview should be an interesting one, I thought. Perhaps Mr Bason would listen at the door and let out what he should not have heard. It was wrong of me, I know, but I hoped that he might do this.
'Goodness, Wilmet, do you know what time it is? Nearly two O'clock! And a clergy retreat coming tomorrow. I shall never be up in time to get things ready.'
We then went to bed, but I lay awake for rather a long time, either because of the coffee or my confused thoughts. It seemed as if life had been going on around me without my knowing it, in the disconcerting way that it sometimes does, like the traffic swirling past when one is standing on an island in the middle of the road. Sybil and Professor Root, Piers and Keith, Marius and Mary - the names did sound odd together - all doing things without, as it were, consulting me. And now Rodney and I would have to set up house on our own, a curious and rather disconcerting thought. I tried to remember our time in Italy, but all that came into my mind were curious irrelevant little pictures - a dish of tangerines with the leaves still on them; the immovable shape of Rodney's driver as we held hands in the back of some strange army vehicle on our way home from a dance; the dark secret face of a Neapolitan boy who used to come to stoke the fire in winter; then Keith's face peering through leaves, one hand resting lightly on the low bough of an orange tree; and a comfortable looking woman, using number 11 needles and commencing by casting on 64 stitches ...
I was woken by bright sunshine and Mary standing by my bed with a cup of tea.
'There's quite a lot to do,' she said, 'though they won't actually be arriving till the late afternoon.'
'Arriving?' Why, the priests for the retreat, of course. I was fully awake now and anxious to help, though it wasn't at all like preparing for ordinary guests. The small cell-like rooms needed no last minute feminine touches, the single rose in a glass on the dressing table or the glossy magazine by the bed. They didn't even, I imagined, need to be particularly clean. The coarse sheets and rough greyish blankets like the skins of donkeys were doubtless clean, but presumably the priests would not have noticed or complained had they not been.
When we had done all we could there seemed to be a little time to sit on the lawn in deckchairs, but Mary did not feel that she ought to be discovered thus and was ready to spring up as soon as the first sign of a clergyman should appear in the drive.
'Most of them will be here for tea, I imagine, won't they?' I asked. My own train back to London left just after five o'clock and I was to have my tea alone and secretly before going.
'Yes, I think that will be a good start for them, a cup of tea,' said Mary.
I began idly to plan a sort of retreat tea, with everything in dark colours; but the darkest, greyest food I could think of was caviare, which seemed uns
uitable, so I got no further.
'One train should be in now,' said Mary, looking at her watch. 'I daresay most of them will come on this one.' She stood up and folded up her deckchair. 'I think I'll just go into the drive and see if they're coming.'
She left me, but I could no longer lie back and enjoy my laziness, so I put away my chair and began to stroll round the garden. I was walking among the vegetables when I suddenly saw an agitated figure gesticulating and running towards me. It was one of the village women who came in to help with the cleaning.
'Miss - Madam - come quickly!' she cried. The bees are swarming!'
'But what can I do?' I called out, looking around me helplessly. 'I don't know anything about bees. Isn't the gardener here?'
'Oh Madam, he's digging a grave!' came the agitated answer.
'Perhaps Miss Beamish will know what to do,' I suggested hopefully. 'She's gone down the drive to meet the priests.'
A sound like a snort - though perhaps it can hardly have been that - came from the woman, and we ran together down the drive. We had not gone very far before we saw Mary rounding a bend by some rhododendron bushes, accompanied by the priests. There seemed to be a great many of them carrying small suitcases and canvas holdalls.
'Mary,' I called, 'the bees are swarming! What does one do?'
'Goodness, I don't know! Isn't the gardener anywhere about?'
'Somebody will have to take the swarm, madam,' said the woman who had first told me about the bees. She glanced around her in a challenging manner.
At her words an elderly bent shabby priest, carrying a very old Gladstone bag, stepped forward out of the little throng surrounding Mary.
'I can do it,' he said quietly. 'Have you a veil and smoke gun? I am afraid I did not bring mine with me' - he indicated the Gladstone bag apologetically. 'I did not really expect - of course one does not, does one?' He smiled a sweet absent sort of smile, as if he really ought to have expected bees to swarm at a retreat 'Perhaps you will show me where they are?'
So we all trooped down into the bottom of the garden to the part where the beehives stood. They had swarmed in the gnarled trunk of an old apple tree.
The elderly priest put on the hat and veil, and a pair of thick gloves, and started to manipulate the smoke gun.
'He is the conductor of the retreat,' Mary whispered to me, 'a very saintly old man.'
'Fancy his knowing about bees,' I said. 'I can imagine it might be a test of saintliness - certainly of patience.'
Standing there watching the old man, I amused myself by wondering how the St Luke's priests would have dealt with the situation. I could not see Father Thames or Father Ransome as being very efficient, but I felt that Father Bode might manage it.
'They must find the queen, that is the thing,' said one of the priests, 'then they will follow her to the hive.'
I saw him take out a little note book and jot something down. It pleased me to think that here in this pagan part of the garden he might have found an idea for a sermon.
Chapter Twenty-one
It was, one might say, a far cry from the garden of the retreat house and the saintly old priest taking the swarm of bees to the Cenerentola coffee bar, where Piers's friend Keith worked in the evenings. And yet, in a way, it was not such a very far cry. For the Cenerentola, with its dim lighting and luxuriant greenery, reminded me of that part of the garden where the compost heap stood in the mysterious green twilight under the apple trees, and where the bees had swarmed. I was not prepared to go further with the analogy, or even quite as far as this comparison might suggest. The people sitting or standing around us were all in the fresh bloom of youth; they were the young people one saw and read about but seldom met. They made a person who was only ten or so years older feel very old indeed.
'Good heavens,' said Rodney in a low voice, 'this is life, isn't it! I always felt we should perhaps get out and about more, but I hadn't realized quite how out of touch we were.'
Sybil and Professor Root had been married that morning at Caxton Hall, a simple pagan ceremony not without its own dignity and beauty. After the quiet family luncheon, which had consisted of ourselves and Professor Root's sister Dorothy, the newly married couple had taken a plane to Lisbon - Sybil armed with her Portuguese grammar and Arnold with a sheaf of introductions to professors in Lisbon and Coimbra. Piers had given them letters to some of his friends, who would be able to take them to places that the learned professors might not care to visit, as he put it.
After they had gone, and the effects of the champagne had worn off, Rodney and I had hung about aimlessly until it was time to go to the theatre to see a fashionable gloomy play; after which I, feeling in need of amusement and cheering up, had suggested a visit to Keith's coffee bar.
'I suppose all this keeps young people from doing worse things,' said Rodney, brushing aside a trail of greenery as we squeezed ourselves into two vacant places.
I looked eagerly for Keith and soon caught sight of him, his dark eyes peering, as in my imagination, through a screen of leaves. He was wearing a tangerine-coloured shirt and looked very animated. On seeing us he let out a little squeak of pleasure.
'Ooh, Wilmet, how lovely!'
I introduced Rodney, and Keith hurried away to get us some coffee.
Rodney began to laugh. 'So that is Piers's "colleague"! Now I can see what Mother meant. Is Piers himself here this evening? Perhaps he's helping behind the scenes with the washing up.'
'Is Piers here?' I asked, when Keith brought the coffee.
'He's just come in now,' said Keith. 'Look - in the doorway by that lady in the lemon jumper. Shall I make room for him at your table? I expect he'd like to sit with you,' he said cosily. 'I'll fetch another chair.'
I looked over to where Piers was standing, a little older and more careworn than most of the young people around him but so much more distinguished and interesting. The sight of him gave me a pang, the very slightest twinge of pain around the heart.
'Hullo, Piers,' I said. 'Do come and sit with us.'
'Gloomy, isn't it,' he said, 'sitting drinking non-alcoholic beverages with people of a younger generation. There's really nothing for people of our age but the pubs, and they're closed now.'
'Yes,' said Rodney, looking at his watch in an academic sort of way, 'I suppose they must be.'
'Keith seems to be very busy,' I remarked. 'It must be rather tiring work.'
'He loves fussing round after people. His energy is too exhausting - for other people, I mean. When I got home this evening, I found that he'd scrubbed the kitchen floor and washed all the drying-up cloths, and everything else he could lay hands on.'
'Yes, I boiled them in Tide,' said Keith in a satisfied tone. 'Now, Wilmet, would you like something to eat? We have some very nice sandwiches, or would you prefer a pastry? Danish pastries, we call them.'
I was just hesitating before making up my mind when Rodney clutched me by the arm.
'Oh my God, do you see who's standing in the doorway now?' he muttered.
I looked and saw Mr Bason, his egg-face beaming, casting around for a vacant seat or a person on whom he could fasten himself for a chat. It was inevitable that he should see us, and I waited for the raising of the eyebrows and the surprised look of recognition as he made his way over to where we were sitting.
Rodney groaned.
'Ooh,' said Keith, bringing up another chair, 'everybody seems to be here tonight. Hullo, Wilf! I wondered what had happened to you - you're later than usual.'
Mr Bason hit Keith playfully on the side of the head with his rolled-up evening paper.
'So you two know each other,' I said, rather taken aback at hearing Mr Bason addressed as 'Wilf.
'Oh yes, Wilf's a regular,' said Keith. 'He keeps house for a lot of clergymen.'
'Yes, I know,' I said, thinking how odd it was that all the time I had been wondering about Piers's domestic life such an unlikely person as Mr Bason could probably have told me all about it.
'One gets a re
ally good cup of coffee here,' said Mr Bason confidentially, 'almost as good as I make myself.'
'I should think so indeed,' said Keith cheekily. 'Isn't it nice, you all knowing each other. Now you'll be able to have a nice chat.'
'Yes, I think we shall,' I said, for I could see that Mr Bason had a kind of secret bursting look about him, as if he had something to tell and could hardly wait to get it out. Here in the Cenerentola, its hissing coffee machine tended by two handsome young men who seemed as devout as any acolytes, it would not be inappropriate to speak of church and clergy house matters.
'I suppose Father Thames will be back any day now,' I began.
'Oh, he came this afternoon - quite bronzed, he was, and things going very well at the villa. He's having an extra bathroom put in, with a bath of Carrara marble - quite an elaborate thing, I gather. He was full of it! It seemed a shame that Ransome had to spring his bit of news on him the first evening he was back.' Mr Bason paused and took a sip of coffee.
If he had expected any response from Rodney or Piers he must have been disappointed, and he could not have been very pleased when I said, 'You mean the news of his engagement to Miss Beamish?'
'So you knew then?' The egg-face fell.
'Yes, I've been staying with Miss Beamish and she told me about it.'
'Well, you can imagine what a shock it was to us at the clergy house.'
'I suppose it was.'
'We had hardly envisaged such a thing,' said Mr Bason grandly. 'Celibacy of the clergy has always been our motto.'
I heard Piers utter a stifled sound, and his eyes met mine for a moment in agonized amusement.
'But why shouldn't Father Ransome marry Mary Beamish?' asked Rodney in a casual layman's tone. 'I should think it will be a very good thing for both of them.'
'Ah, my dear Forsyth,' said Mr Bason. 'You don't quite get the point, if I may say so.' And then, having dismissed Rodney, he went on, The way Ransome broke it to him - casually, before dinner, and with the door wide open!'
This sounded promising.
'I suppose Father Ransome took the first opportunity he could find,' said Piers. 'No doubt he wanted to get it over - one knows the feeling so well.'
