by Barbara Pym
'Seminars,' Ianthe echoed in a wondering tone and was then silent.
Strange and perhaps rather sad, Rupert thought, the way any mention of his work seemed to inhibit her.
They passed along a street of peeling stuccoed houses. Ianthe was reminded of the house where she had been to visit John, except that these were even more decayed. Oh, what was he doing now, she wondered unhappily.
'This is all part of St Basil's parish,' she said quickly, to take her mind off John. 'I suppose Mark has to come visiting along here — it must be a thankless task in many ways.'
'Yes — I expect he meets with as little response as the anthropologist in the field sometimes does,' said Rupert.
'Oh, but that's hardly the same,' said Ianthe, sounding shocked at the comparison.
'Why not?'
'Well, the anthropologist is asking prying, personal questions that people might not want to answer, whereas a parish priest is bringing them something,' she said.
'Something they don't always want.'
'Yes, in a way, but . . .'
'All right then — we won't go any further,' he said lightly. 'Perhaps it isn't a valid comparison after all. Look, we get off here, then it's just a short walk.'
'It's here, then?' said Ianthe, as they came up to a square of large houses.
'Yes, we go through the library and there's a garden at the back,' Rupert explained. 'Oh,' he exclaimed, as they passed through the hall into the library, 'it seems not to be quite as usual today.'
'No, I suppose today is different,' said Ianthe, for at a table, among the piles of learned journals that seemed appropriate to such a library, sat two elderly women hulling strawberries and arranging them in small dishes, counting aloud so that the portions were scrupulously equal. Cut loaves and pats of butter balanced on top of the journals, while African sculptures had been pushed aside to make room for plates of cakes. Bottles of milk stood on shelves half full of books and an urn appeared to be boiling furiously and spurting steam on some valuable-looking old bindings.
'Oh dear,' said Rupert, leading Ianthe quickly through.
'Have we come too early?' she asked.
'I think we shouldn't have come through the library — perhaps we weren't meant to see quite so much. It's a side of things one would rather not see, don't you think?'
'Well, one knows that tea must be got ready,' said Ianthe, 'and that people have to do it — like a parish function — only it does seem odd in a library. Perhaps it would have been easier to have left it to a catering firm?'
'Ah, but that would have added to the expense and the place has little money to spare at the moment. Besides, life isn't meant to be easy,' said Rupert. 'Not for ever in green pastures, as the hymn reminds us.'
'What a beautiful lawn,' said Ianthe, as they stepped out on to the grass.
'Yes, it is nourished by the bones of former presidents,' said Rupert.
'You mean they are buried here?' asked Ianthe, startled.
'Not exactly buried, but it has been fashionable — perhaps I should say customary — to have one's ashes scattered here. The old rationalist likes to feel that others of similar beliefs will be treading on his earthly remains . . . but let me get you a cup of tea, there does seem to be some now, and strawberries too.'
Ianthe accepted the tea gratefully. She did not feel quite at ease with Rupert's talk of rationalists and their ashes, and the sight of the elderly ladies preparing tea in the library had made her feel slightly uncomfortable, as if she ought to be there helping them. In some ways the garden party was like a parish function for there is a certain sameness about all these occasions. This realization comforted her and she was about to say so to Rupert when he was approached by a short bald man, who began talking about an article Rupert had evidently just written for a journal of which he was editor.
Rupert introduced him to Ianthe as Dr Apfelbaum, but as is often the way in the academic world he made no further effort to include her in the conversation. And indeed, how would it have been possible, she wondered, listening to the snatches of their talk that came over to her — something about a controversy on the introduction of maize into West Africa which had been going on in one of the learned journals for five years — 'Digby and Mrs What's-it going at each other hammer and tongs — oh, you mean Digby Fox? But I thought he was one of the ethnohistory boys?'
'What's ethnohistory?' she asked, feeling she should make an effort.
To her surprise they both smiled, as if she had said something funny.
'A word we're not supposed to use,' said Rupert kindly.
'You will be glad to know that Rupert doesn't dabble in such dangerous waters,' said Dr Apfelbaum unhelpfully. 'Now what is the length?'
'Sixteen thousand?'
'My dear boy . . .' Dr Apfelbaum flung out his hands in a gesture of despair.
'All right, then — two parts of eight thousand each.'
'We'll see — I'll tell you when I get back from — where is it we're going first? — Prague, Leipzig, Brazzaville . . .'
'Conferences,' Rupert explained. 'We have them every summer.'
'How nice,' said Ianthe.
'Sorry about all that,' said Rupert when they were alone again, 'but as you've probably gathered Apfelbaum is going to publish an article of mine in his journal.'
'Oh, that's good, isn't it,' she said. 'What's the title of your article?'
He hesitated, then thought, why not — no point in mincing matters, it would only be like teaching somebody to swim by throwing them in at the deep end. 'The implication of jural processes among the Ngumu: a structural dichotomy,' he declared.
'Oh . . .' she turned her head away as if she were in pain or distress.
At least she had not been facetious or made some cheaply witty rejoinder, he thought. 'It's quite simple really,' he began, but he knew that it was not. It was the kind of thing that could be, and so often was, the stumbling block between men and women, or, if a relationship had progressed through several stages, the last straw. 'Let's have some more tea,' he said.
'Oh, there's Mrs Fairfax, isn't it — she was at your dinner party!' Ianthe cried out. 'And Professor Fairfax too.' It was a relief to see them, odd though they looked.
'Wild animals in their natural setting,' said Robina Fairfax, approaching them, 'that's what I always say when I come here.'
'Oh, I think we're pretty mild and harmless, aren't we,' said Rupert.
'Tamed and shabby tigers, perhaps,' said Gervase Fairfax, on his usual sarcastic note.
Ianthe did not know what answer to make. People at church garden parties did not make such remarks and she could not imagine that she would ever feel at ease with Rupert's colleagues. Now a short rough-haired woman in a grey suit joined them and was introduced as Esther Clovis, the secretary of the research centre. She began asking Ianthe searching questions about herself, almost as if she were Rupert's fiancée and needed to be 'vetted'.
'Are you a statistician?' she asked gruffly.
'No I'm not,' said Ianthe, puzzled.
'A pity — it's useful when the woman is, but perhaps you're an economist or a social worker?'
This last seemed almost the kind of thing one might be, Ianthe felt, and she ventured to say that she was 'interested' in social work, feeling that she must do her best if only out of politeness to Rupert.
'A vague interest in social work won't get us very far,' said Esther sharply. 'Have you a degree in it?'
'Oh come now, Esther,' said Rupert, detaching himself from Gervase Fairfax with whom he had been discussing the Unesco project, Ianthe is a librarian.'
'Good heavens!' Esther exclaimed, it seems as if I've been barking up the wrong tree.' And with that she turned on her heel and left them.
Ianthe felt a little shaken by the encounter and was glad when Rupert suggested that they should leave.
'I'm sorry about that,' he said. 'Esther evidently thought you were going into the field — she's so keen you know.'
'Has she
been often herself?'
'Oh, never — but she likes to direct others, and to see that the right people get together.' He hurried over these last words, afraid that Ianthe might take fright and leave him, and suggested that as it was now the rush hour they should take a taxi home. Perhaps she would come and have a glass of sherry at his house?
Leaning back in the taxi Ianthe realized that she was tired and one of her shoes was hurting. Her unhappiness, pushed away for a couple of hours, also came back to her.
'Tired?' said Rupert, in a sympathetic tone, laying his hand on her arm.
'No, not really,' she said politely. 'I enjoyed it very much, though I suppose one's feet get a bit tired standing about in one's best shoes,' she added, trying to make a joke of it.
'Take them off then,' he said.
'Oh, I couldn't!' she said, sounding genuinely shocked.
'Well, you can when we get home.'
Rupert had a pleasant little terrace at the back of his house, something rather better than a yard, where he had put a seat under an old vine which grew against the south wall of the house.
'What would you like?' he asked. 'Sherry, gin and something — or Cinzano, perhaps, to remind you of Italy?'
'No, not that,' she said. 'Sherry would be nicer.'
'Did you enjoy Italy?' he asked. 'I haven't really heard much about it from you.'
He came and sat beside her, stretching his arm along the back of the seat so that it almost touched her shoulders.
'Yes, it was lovely.' Imperceptibly she drew herself a little away from him.
'You were lucky to see Ravello and Amalfi — I believe it's very lovely there and Sophia's company must have been delightful.'
'Yes, delightful,' Ianthe said mechanically. There was a silence and then she went on, 'Sophia's rather — well, I don't quite know how to put it.'
'Strange, were you going to say?'
'Yes — one thinks one knows her and then suddenly one seems not to at all.'
'But isn't everybody like that to some extent?'
'I suppose so, in a way,' said Ianthe uneasily, thinking of John. 'It's that cat, too.'
'Ah, yes, Faustina — isn't that her name? I was trying to remember it when I was at the vicarage the other day.'
'Sophia brings it into everything, the cat. She, I suppose I should say, not it.'
'I feel Sophia knows about life,' Rupert went on.
'You mean living in this poor parish and being married to a clergyman — yes, I suppose she would know about life.'
'Yes, that would be the conventional view of course — that a woman in those circumstances would know about life, but I meant something a little different.' Rupert frowned with the effort of trying to explain himself. 'Something that the pessimistic Victorians had, not the women, the men. Perhaps I was thinking of Matthew Arnold.'
'Oh?' Ianthe looked puzzled and uncomprehending, but he did not see her face and went on, 'I think she sometimes feels that there is neither joy nor love nor light …'
'But she is devoted to Mark,' said Ianthe almost sharply, 'anyone can see that.' And how did Rupert know all this about Sophia? Ianthe wondered. Was it because he was an anthropologist and used to studying people? Yet anthropologists did not seem to do exactly that; it would be difficult to imagine, say, Gervase Fairfax, talking in this way. Had Rupert talked to Sophia about such things, then? It seemed unlikely that he had ever had the opportunity.
'I think the feeling would go beyond a happy marriage,' said Rupert. 'I suppose we all experience it sometimes.'
'I don't think one should feel like that about life,' said Ianthe, a little shocked. 'A clergyman's wife certainly shouldn't anyway.'
Poor Sophia, Rupert thought, breaking the silence by refilling Ianthe's glass, to be classified in this way. Ianthe seemed to be very much the canon's daughter this afternoon.
'Well, don't let's talk any more about it,' he said, 'when it's so pleasant being here. I think Esther Clovis has decided to bring us together. I rather like the idea, don't you?'
'I couldn't be a statistician,' said Ianthe unhappily.
'I should hope not — I should hate you to be that. I like you too much as you are,' he said affectionately, moving his arm so that it tightened around her shoulders and drew her closer to him. There was now no doubt that he was about to kiss her.
'Oh, no! Please, no,' she cried out in agitation.
'I was only going to kiss you, Ianthe; surely . . .'
'But I'd rather you didn't, please.'
'Don't you like me at all, then?' he asked, feeling very foolish.
'Yes, of course I do. But I'm in love with somebody else,' she said simply. The effect of this flat statement was devastating, for it was the last thing Rupert had expected. Then he saw her eyes were full of tears which were beginning to course slowly down her cheeks. So for the second time within not much more than a month he — the meekest and kindest of men — had made a woman cry.
'But who can you be in love with,' he said stupidly, as if that could make any difference.
'Nobody you know.'
'Oh. And does he love you?'
'I don't know,' she said miserably.
'My dear. I'm sorry — of course I never guessed. I'll take you home.'
'It's only across the road,' she said, trying to smile. 'I've behaved so stupidly and you've been so kind — I did enjoy the afternoon. It's all hopeless anyway,' she sobbed.
Rupert took her arm in a brotherly way and they walked in silence the few yards to her front door. Some married man, he thought, probably a clergyman with a wife in a mental home, or was that being too melodramatic and old-fashioned?
Such a nice couple they made, Sister Dew thought, seeing him return alone to his house. She wondered if she should take him one of the steak and kidney pies she had baked that morning, but then — with unusual delicacy — judged it to be not quite the moment. And of course there was no question of taking one to Miss Broome — one did not take cooked food to lone women in the same way as to lone men.
Yet, had she but known it, Rupert would have welcomed a gesture of such solid kindness at that moment, for he felt depressed and at a loose end with the whole of the evening before him. He went to his study automatically and settled himself down with a new journal of linguistic articles, thinking that it would 'take him out of himself, which in a sense it did. The examples cited in one article — 'I eat meat, I beat the child, I do not eat toad' — conjured up a drab picture of life in a primitive tribe in all its brutal simplicity. Only in a word-list from a more sophisticated area did a more civilized, and therefore more depressing, picture emerge — 'pyorrhea, beard, maternal aunt' he read gloomily. Perhaps it would be best if he let Esther Clovis find him a suitable wife after all.
***
In her house Ianthe made a determined effort to pull herself together, as her upbringing and training told her that she should. She bathed her eyes and face in cold water, changed into a cotton dress and comfortable sandals, and went into the garden. She did not fling herself down on the grass as Penelope might have done, but lay in a deckchair with her eyes closed. If only she could have loved Rupert Stonebird! Could she not even now, by some effort of the will, turn her thoughts towards him and make herself care for him? It would be much easier to love Rupert than to love Mervyn, she thought.
Being in the garden she did not hear the front-door bell ring the first time and had John not been persistent enough to ring several times she might have lain in her deckchair wondering if she could love Rupert while John crept unnoticed away from the house. But he had come all this way to see her and to pay back the money which — to his horror — he had suddenly remembered she had lent him when he was ill. All that time ago — whatever must she think! And when the money had been handed over and refused and handed over again, there were other things to be talked about, misunderstandings to be cleared up, and — at last — mutual love to be declared and brought out into the open.
'But when I came back af
ter my holiday,' Ianthe said at last, 'I thought . . .'
'Oh, that was all Mervyn's fault,' John interrupted her quickly, 'something he said — almost as if he wanted to marry you himself and as if you'd given him to understand that you wouldn't be unwilling. And then he went on about our different backgrounds — you know how catty he can be.'
What did it matter now! thought Ianthe in her happiness.
20
'Take an apostle spoon,' Edwin Pettigrew had said, in that calm way that inspired so much confidence, making it all sound so easy. And certainly one would have thought that a vicarage was the one place where one could be sure of finding plenty of apostle spoons. Trying to hold Faustina firmly under one arm, Sophia rummaged in the silver drawer but could not find one. Then she remembered the coffee spoons that had been a wedding present and were kept in a satin-lined case. Surely those were apostle spoons? They looked something like them, but then she realized that they were miniature replicas of the coronation anointing spoon — not so unsuitable, really, for with a jerk of her head Faustina sent the spoonful of liquid paraffin running down her face and brindled front so that she had, in a sense, anointed herself with oil.
Sophia let out a cry of exasperation as the cat jumped to the ground and stalked away. Who would ever have thought that a miniature anointing spoon could have contained so much, she asked herself, for her hands and the front of her skirt seemed to be covered with liquid paraffin. It was not the best moment for the front-door bell to ring, but those who live in vicarages are used to people calling at awkward times. Sophia rubbed her skirt and hands with a towel and composed her face into the patient sympathetic mask she wore when confronted with one of her husband's black parishioners wanting to know about getting married or having a child baptized.
But her expression changed when she saw an elderly clergyman and a woman — both total strangers to her — standing on the doorstep. Ah, people to see Mark, she thought with relief; they did not look as if they would be troublesome in any way.
'I'm afraid my husband's out at the moment,' she said, 'but I'm expecting him back any time now. Perhaps you'd like to wait for him?'
