Less Than Angels

by Barbara Pym

  ‘Why? Had you left something behind?’

  He could hear the unconscious reproach in her voice and feel it in her eyes, intently fixed on him, so he said rather irritably, ‘No, but I wanted to know how she was. I can’t never hear or see anything of her again, you know.’

  ‘Of course not-I didn’t mean to be unreasonable. She’s such a sweet person, I want to see her again myself, if she wants to see me.’

  There was silence. Deirdre had been walking about the room, for there seemed to be nowhere to sit down except the bed which, after a quick nervous glance, she had rejected for some reason not quite clear to her.

  ‘I haven’t arranged my books properly yet, as you can see,’ said Tom, indicating the confusion of the shelves and the two chairs littered with papers.

  Deirdre knelt down by the shelves, holding her glass in both hands. Women so often find themselves examining a man’s books, trying to find something intelligent to say about them, and even at nineteen Deirdre was beginning to get her share of it.

  ‘I see you’ve got that book on Social Structure,’ she said. ‘It’s supposed to be very new and exciting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, perhaps, but I don’t think we want to discuss it now, do we?’ he said gently, taking the book out of her hands.

  After a few pleasurable moments Tom remembered that he had resolved to have no more complications in his life until after he had finished writing his thesis, and perhaps not even then. He had not left Catherine because he intended to embark on the same kind of relationship with Deirdre, whatever Catherine might have thought. He wondered whether it was a good thing or not to have accepted Deirdre’s invitation to supper at her home this evening. Parents did not nowadays question young men about their intentions, but it was better when women were without kinship ties, like Catherine, he thought dispassionately, and then they could be rejected at will and without the likelihood of any awkward repercussions. But then, seeing that Deirdre’s eyes had opened and were gazing at him with love, he was horrified at discovering such cynical cruelty in himself, he the tender-hearted, kind to animals, as Catherine always said, and sometimes even weeping at the cinema. He was very fond of Deirdre, but he pushed her away from him rather abruptly and said, ‘Time we were going, isn’t it?’

  She was a little hurt at this sudden breaking-off, but he soon reassured her and managed to leave her with the impression that he needed understanding in some particularly subtle way, a thing she had never thought of with Bernard, who always appeared to be so dull and equable as to have nothing in him to understand.

  ‘Do you mind the suburbs?’ she asked, as they rode on the top of a bus towards her home. ‘I think it’s horrid here, and the people are so dreary.’

  ‘People can be that anywhere,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘especially when you’re young. I always found that when I lived at home.’

  ‘But your home is a real country house,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but falling into decay and not even old and beautiful enough to be historically interesting. My mother in the garden all day, my uncle crouching over his television set—not so very different from a suburban home, you see.’

  ‘I suppose you always want what you haven’t got,’ said Deirdre, hurrying Tom past the Dulkes’ house, for a quick furtive glance had revealed Mr. Dulke in his front garden apparently tying up some herbaceous plants.

  ‘You shouldn’t feel that,’ he said. ‘You’ve all the time in the world to get what you want and I hope you will get it.’

  His words, with their air of chilly detachment, as if he could have no part in giving her what she wanted, saddened her, and it was almost a relief when they were swallowed up in the family circle and Malcolm was offering drinks.

  ‘I’m so pleased,’ said Rhoda, taking Deirdre aside. ‘I’ve managed to persuade Mr. Lydgate to join us this evening.’

  ‘How ever did you do it?’ Deirdre asked.

  ‘He came out into his garden this morning and I happened to be working in the herbaceous border—he was quite near the hedge, so I called out “Good morning I Isn’t it a lovely day?”, and then I said that the hot sun must remind him of Africa and he agreed that it did.’

  ‘Well, I suppose he could hardly have said that it didn’t.’

  ‘No, though he did say that the African sun was even hotter and not so pleasant as this. Then I made a remark about it being nice to be able to have meals out of doors and then—well, I can’t remember exactly how the conversation went on, but I seemed to find myself inviting him to supper this evening, and he seemed quite pleased to come. He even smiled through the leaves, I mean, I could see through a sort of gap that he was smiling, and then he came and looked over the top of the hedge, he’s so tall, you see. And he’s really quite good-looking when he smiles. And of course Father Tulliver is coming too, so it will be quite a party.’ Rhoda paused, not so much to draw breath as to admire the arrangement of the room, the drinks set out on a little table and the big vases of mixed garden flowers at strategic points.

  Deirdre’s heart sank at the prospect of the evening in such an ill-assorted company, but she consoled herself by thinking that Tom might find the occasion interesting, though he did not seem to have Jean-Pierre’s passion for observing the ritual of English suburban life. All the same he seemed to have fitted himself very well into his surroundings and Deirdre could not help noticing, with a little stab of jealousy, how well he was getting on with Phyllis, her brother’s fiancée.

  ‘Doesn’t Phyllis look sweet?’ said Rhoda eagerly. ‘That red and white dress is the one she made to go out with Malcolm on her birthday, you know. It was a Butterick pattern.’

  ‘Yes, it’s pretty,’ Deirdre agreed without much enthusiasm, for Phyllis, being small and blonde with a vivacious manner, was all that Deirdre was not. What was more, she was wearing red shoes which Deirdre believed to be one of those things that men were said to like.

  ‘Mr. Lydgate’s got some terrifying African masks,’ Phyllis was saying. ‘I saw him wearing one in his garden one night. I nearly died, I was so frightened.’

  ‘Ah, but they’re worn to intimidate women,’ said Tom in a teasing voice, ‘that’s the whole point.’

  ‘Jolly good idea,’ said Malcolm heartily. ‘They need to be kept in their places.’

  ‘Wherever that may be,’ said Phyllis pertly.

  ‘I’ll soon show you that, my girl,’ said Malcolm. He made as if to box her ears but she evaded him with a pretty gesture.

  ‘Let me get you another drink,’ said Tom gallantly. ‘Now what was it that put this sparkle in your eye?’

  ‘One of Malcolm’s cocktails—in the green jug over there,’ said Phyllis, preening herself like a little bird. She smiled at Deirdre in a surprised way, as if meaning to show her that Tom was really much better than she’d expected.

  Deirdre found herself resenting this slightly patronizing air. Phyllis seemed to be able to bring out a side of Tom that she herself had never seen, gay and flirtatious, the last person one would imagine brooding over a thesis. Oh, blessed ignorance of anthropology, she thought rather bitterly, yet feeling that this might not be the whole answer. Bernard never looked at another woman, she told herself defiantly, like an outraged Edwardian dowrager. In spite of everything she smiled.

  ‘Sweetie, what’s your private joke?’ said Tom in a low voice.

  ‘I was watching you being flirtatious,’ she said happily.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it odd, I find I can still do it,’ said Tom. ‘I hear Alaric Lydgate is expected. Isn’t that his voice in the hall?’

  Alaric came into the room, looking sombre and a little uncertain of himself.

  Rhoda fussed round him and then said in a loud bright voice, ‘You will have to be careful what you write, Tom. Mr. Lydgate was in Africa for eleven years? She gave the last words a curious and slightly drunken emphasis. It had been naughty of Malcolm to refill her glass when she wasn’t looking. Especially now that Father Tulliver had come into the room, wear
ing a black suit of the finest and smoothest clerical material which seemed to give point to the expression ‘the cloth’.

  He accepted a glass of Malcolm’s cocktail and then drew Rhoda aside into a place by the window, where he began talking to her in a low intimate tone. Like so many clergymen he had of necessity acquired that easy confidence in dealing with unmarried middle-aged women which is not often granted to the layman.

  ‘It was so good of you to respond to my appeal,’ he said. ‘I knew it would not fall on deaf ears. I said to myself, ” Either Miss Wellcome or Mrs. Swan will help me out “.’

  ‘I felt it was the least I could do,’ said Rhoda. ‘I do hope Mrs. Tulliver is making good progress.’

  ‘Excellent, thank you. She is gaining strength every day. It was really her idea that I should put that little note in the magazine. Perhaps it would not have come well from the pulpit,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘ but something had to be done. I hadn’t a clean alb left and I’m not much of a hand at laundering,’ he laughed, with the confidence of one who has never tried and does not intend to. ‘You have a good drying ground at the back of the house, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, I shall hang the albs in the yard,’ Rhoda pronounced solemnly. ‘Of course we don’t hang washing in the garden itself. It wouldn’t do here. People wouldn’t like it; although our neighbour Mrs. Lovell isn’t always guiltless in that respect.’

  ‘Oh, certainly, I understand that some garments might not look well in a garden, but something of an ecclesiastical nature, surely that might be condoned?’

  ‘The Lovells are not churchpeople,’ Rhoda declared. ‘I doubt if they would realize that the washing was of an—er—ecclesiastical nature.’ She had found the last two words rather difficult to pronounce and hoped that Father Tulliver hadn’t noticed. It was a good thing, she felt, that her sister Mabel should appear at this moment and summon the party to the dining-room.

  The problem of food had been difficult, for both Mabel and Rhoda had the rather old-fashioned idea that the presence of a clergyman at their table called for a bird of some kind. Cold chickens had seemed the obvious choice, but Deirdre had upset their plans by declaring one morning that you couldn’t possibly give chicken to people who had lived in Africa because they ate practically nothing else there and would think it so dull. Therefore a selection of more exotic cold meats had been provided to go with Father Tulliver’s chickens and the artistic salads which Rhoda had made.

  ‘Now I suppose you Africanists won’t want chicken,’ said Malcolm breezily, the carving implements poised in his hands.

  ‘What do people eat in Africa?’ asked Mabel earnestly.

  ‘The Hadzapi tribe will eat anything that is edible except for the hyena,’ declared Alaric precisely.

  ‘Oh, well…’ Mabel spread out her hands in a hopeless little gesture.

  ‘The butcher wouldn’t offer you hyena, anyway,’ giggled Phyllis.

  ‘Most African tribes are very fond of meat when they can get it,’ said Tom.

  ‘Yes, and many of them relish even putrescent meat,’ said Alaric solemnly.

  ‘Do they understand the principles of cooking as we know it?’ asked Rhoda.

  ‘Oh, yes, a good many of them do,’ said Alaric. ‘In some very primitive societies, though, they would just fling the unskinned carcase on the fire and hope for the best,’

  ‘Yes, like that film of the Australian aborigines we saw at the Anthropology Club,’ said Deirdre. ‘They flung a kangaroo on the fire and cooked it like that,’

  ‘Now who would like some potato salad?’ said Rhoda, feeling that there was something a little unappetizing about the conversation. She had imagined that the presence of what she thought of as clever people would bring about some subtle change in the usual small talk. The sentences would be like bright jugglers’ balls, spinning through the air and being deftly caught and thrown up again. But she saw now that conversation could also be compared to a series of incongruous objects, scrubbing-brushes, dish-cloths, knives, being flung or hurtling rather than spinning, which were sometimes not caught at all but fell to the ground with resounding thuds. In the haze brought about by Malcolm’s cocktail, she saw the little dark-skinned aborigines, swinging the kangaroo by its legs and hurling it on to the fire. Certainly she had to admit that the conversation was different from what it usually was and perhaps that was the best that could be expected.

  ‘Have you published anything yet?’ Alaric asked Tom abruptly.

  ‘No, but I have a few articles nearly finished.’ Tom’s tone was evasive and he seemed as if he would like to change the subject.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be sending them somewhere soon,’ said Alaric, and then went on to name one or two journals much respected in the anthropological world.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Tom indifferently.

  ‘The editors will rewrite them—you must be prepared for that, they are quite unscrupulous you know. Even I have trouble with them sometimes.’

  ‘I should like to read some of your articles, Mr. Lydgate,’ said Rhoda. ‘Do you think I should enjoy them?’

  Alaric laughed shortly. ‘I’m afraid one doesn’t look for enjoyment in our field,’ he said.

  ‘Of course one does get a certain amount from pointing out other people’s mistakes,’ said Tom. ‘That’s a recognized sport.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Alaric quite genially. ‘It reminds me of the ideal hobby for retired anthropologists. Can you guess what it is?’

  Nobodv could.

  ‘Apiculture,’ he said, enjoying their puzzled expressions.

  ‘Bee-keeping,’ said Father Tulliver slowly. ‘Well, it is healthy and interesting, profitable too, I suppose.’

  ‘Bees in the bonnet,’ said Phyllis in her bright little voice. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘You’re quite right, that is what I meant.’

  ‘Have you hives at the bottom of your garden, Mr. Lydgate?’ asked Mabel politely. ‘That would be an ideal spot.’

  The sentence fell with a thud amid general laughter and then there was a pause and Father Tulliver asked Alaric a question about missions.

  ‘Oddly enough,’ he said thoughtfully, as if it were a matter of surprise to him or even some kind of oversight on somebody’s part, ‘I have not had the call to the Mission Field. I have felt, wrongly perhaps, though I cannot judge that, that my work lay here.’

  ‘Oh, you couldn’t leave us, Father, not when you’ve got everything so nice, the services and all that,’ said Rhoda confusedly. ‘Whatever should we do?’

  ‘It might be just what you needed,’ said Father Tulliver on a stern note. ‘It might prove a testing time—to show what you were made of.’

  Rhoda, thinking of the heavy wash she was about to undertake for him, felt that he was being a little unfair. Surely he could not feel that she had been found wanting in any way?

  ‘Of course we come of a missionary family,’ said Alaric, ‘and my sister had the call, at least I suppose it was that. She went out as a missionary originally but found that she was more interested in tongues than in souls. Perhaps the devil stepped in there.’

  ‘But surely a missionary ought to learn the language of the people he is seeking to evangelize,’ protested Father Tulliver. ‘I should say that the study of linguistics was an admirable thing.’

  ‘We met your sister that afternoon when we were having tea in the garden, didn’t we?’ said Rhoda.

  ‘Yes, I remember. And wasn’t there another young woman with you that afternoon—with dark hair and wearing a yellow dress? Miss Oliphant, I think you said her name was.’ Alaric spoke rather quickly as if he regretted having raised the subject.

  ‘Oh, yes, Catherine Oliphant,’ said Mabel. ‘Deirdre, we could have asked her to come tonight. I wish I’d thought of it.’

  ‘Well, it would have made the numbers wrong,’ said Deirdre in confusion.

  ‘We could have asked Bernard to put that right.’

  Deirdre broke into nervous laughter.

&nb
sp; ‘Poor old Bernard,’ said Phyllis. ‘Tom, you’ve quite put Bernard’s nose out of joint, I’m afraid. But I expect you’re used to doing that, what with all the glamour of darkest Africa about you.’

  ‘I do hope you won’t go to the Mission Field, Father,’ said Rhoda, seeming to be brought back to the subject by the phrase Phyllis had used. ‘I really feel quite worried at the thought of it,’

  ‘Of course we don’t want Father Tulliver to go,’ said Malcolm, ‘but we ought not to stand in his way if he feels he ought to. You know that hymn.’

  ‘O’er heathen lands afar, Thick darkness broodethyet’

  said Mabel.

  ‘I expect that’s why the darkness is so thick, because our dear Father Tulliver hasn’t had a chance to dispel it,’ burst out Rhoda impulsively.

  How silly Rhoda is, thought Deirdre, almost as if she were interested in Father Tulliver in a flirtatious way. She was as yet too young to have learned that women of her aunt’s age could still be interested in men; she would have many years to go before the rather dreadful suspicion came to her that one probably never does cease to be interested.

  ‘Well, I expect I shall find plenty of work to do here,’ said Father Tulliver, feeling that Malcolm’s words were almost forcing him to hurry to the U.M.C.A. headquarters. ‘And ot course there is Beatrice to consider.’

  ‘Ah, yes, poor Mrs. Tulliver. We were wondering if we could send some flowers or fruit to the nursing-home,’ said Mabel.

  The talk seemed to quieten down now and was sustained on a more comfortable parochial level until the end of the meal. Alaric found himself with Father Tulliver and the two older women, while the young people went into the garden.

  ‘You should take Tom to see the river,’ said Malcolm rather pointedly. ‘It’s really the chief attraction of the neighbourhood. I expect he’d like a walk.’

  ‘I suppose they wanted to be alone,’ said Deirdre apologetically, as she and Tom made their way towards the tow-path.

  ‘That seems fair enough. I like your brother-he’s a capital fellow—as they say in Victorian novels,’ Tom added quickly, for it was a favourite phrase of Catherine’s and seemed to need explanation.