by Barbara Pym
Miss Doggett sat down between Michael and Gabriel and opened the portfolio of engravings.
The others began some sort of a conversation with Miss Morrow, but it was a poor thing which soon flagged, and eventually the three of them stood up to go.
‘But you can’t go yet,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘I’ve hardly spoken to you.’
‘I’m afraid I really must,’ said Mr. Wyatt. ‘We have chapel at six.’
‘And Mr. Cherry and Mr. Bompas, you have chapel too?’
For one fatal second they hesitated and were lost.
‘I want to talk to you about your aunt,’ said Miss Doggett to Mr. Bompas. ‘And, Mr. Cherry, I think you need some advice from an older person.’
Michael let out a snort of laughter and received a sharp kick on the ankle from Gabriel’s elegant suede shoe.
Miss Doggett cleared her throat and said impressively, ‘I always think it such a pity when I see young people up here wasting their time in doing something which can only bring disgrace upon their families. All this Socialism and Bolshevism, for instance. If you take my advice, Mr. Cherry, you’ll have nothing to do with it.’
‘I don’t see how it can bring disgrace on my family/ said Mr. Cherry, with sudden boldness.
‘Do you think your mother would like to see you speaking in Hyde Park?’ demanded Miss Doggett.
‘My mother is dead,’ said Mr. Cherry, feeling that he had scored a point. ‘I was brought up by an aunt.’ He smiled. He rather liked the idea of himself speaking in Hyde Park.
‘Oh, I see.’ Either a natural pity for a motherless boy, or a feeling that bringing disgrace on an aunt was not quite the same thing, stopped Miss Doggett from pursuing the subject any further. ‘Join the Conservative Club, if you like,’ she said, in a more kindly tone, ‘or even the Liberal Club. I am by no means one of those narrow-minded people who condemn all forms of political activity.’
‘Oh, Miss Doggett, is it really so late?’ said Michael and Gabriel suddenly. ‘How terrible of us to have stayed so long! We were so engrossed in dear Lord Tennyson’s signature.’
‘Yes, it must be nearly half past six,’ said Miss Doggett, glancing at the marble clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I’m afraid I must send you away now. We are going out to supper at my nephew’s house.’ The Clevelands would not be having supper before half past seven at the earliest, but Miss Doggett always liked to be there a good three quarters of an hour before that time, so that she could catch the last of the Sunday afternoon guests. It was sometimes interesting to see who stayed longest.
Mr. Cherry and Mr. Bompas stood up eagerly. Then, to his horror, Mr. Bompas heard a crack and felt something scrunch under his foot. It was the little cactus he had told Mr. Cherry to be careful about. With elaborate concentration he moved the crushed mass of flower-pot, earth and plant with his foot, until it was hidden behind a footstool embroidered with pansies. The others were so much absorbed in their leave-taking that they did not notice his rather curious movements, as if he were practising dribbling a football.
‘I’m afraid we’ve monopolised you,’ said Michael and Gabriel. ‘We’ll be really unselfish and not come to tea again till next term.’
‘Oh, Mr. Bompas, I meant to have a long talk with you about your aunt,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘You must come again.’
And so, with many protests and mumbled speeches of thanks from Mr. Cherry and Mr. Bompas, who seemed to be having a race to see who could get out of the room first, the party broke up.
Miss Doggett followed them out into the hall, but Miss Morrow stayed to put the chairs back into their proper places. First of all she removed the crushed cactus from behind the footstool. It could easily be repotted. She was full of admiration for the skill which Mr. Bompas had shown in dealing with the situation. She hadn’t believed him capable of it. Perhaps the future held something more for him than sitting in a room somewhere in Luxembourg, putting on gramophone records. She really believed that he might go farther than that, and the discovery made her glad and filled her with hope even for herself, so that she walked upstairs humming one of the tunes she had heard earlier in the afternoon.
II. The Clevelands
At the exact moment when Miss Doggett was walking up the drive to her nephew’s house, Anthea Cleveland, his daughter, was being kissed in the library. The light was on and the curtains were not drawn. And so Miss Doggett was able to see Anthea in the arms of Simon Beddoes, who was telling her that although he had not known of her existence before he entered the Clevelands’ drawing-room that afternoon, he had fallen desperately in love with her.
He had stayed on talking after the other guests had gone and, pretending an interest in some of her father’s seventeenth-century first editions, had contrived that Anthea should show him the library.
Anthea had often been kissed by undergraduates before; indeed, she was the chief reason why the sort of young men who generally avoided North Oxford tea parties would condescend to accept an invitation from the Clevelands. She was a tall, slender girl, with golden hair curling onto her shoulders and a gentle, pretty face, not too intelligent but just right for one whose only occupation in life so far had been to fall in love and be fallen in love with. She was wearing a rather sophisticated peasant dress of blue wool, embroidered with little flowers. Simon liked that. He often went to Kitzbühel for the winter sports.
‘Now you’re angry with me,’ he said in a pleading voice. They usually were at first. ‘Please don’t be angry,’ he said again, with attractive shyness.
He was dark and thin, just a little taller than she was. He had a young, lively face and charming manners. Was it necessary to go through the tedious comedy of being angry? Anthea supposed that she ought to show some kind of disapproval, because it was the first time they had met, and they were standing in a lighted, uncurtained window where anyone might see them. Perhaps, after all, she ought to explain this to him. At least she ought to try. ‘Simon,’ she began, ‘I’m not angry… .’
‘You’re not angry! Darling Anthea.’ He kissed her again with even greater confidence. ‘You’re so sweet.’
‘I don’t want to be ungracious,’ said Anthea at last, ‘but we’ve got people coming to supper, and I must help to get things ready.’ She gently pushed him out into the hall.
‘But when can I see you again?’ he asked urgently. ‘I must see you tomorrow. I’ll call in the morning. Good-bye, darling. I shall think of you every moment till tomorrow,’ he called, as he went out of the front door.
It is to be hoped that he has no essay to write, thought Miss Doggett drily, as she came into the hall from the cloak-room, where she had been taking off her coat. She found Anthea gazing thoughtfully at a vase of dahlias which stood on the oak chest.
‘Doing the flowers, Anthea?’ she said brightly. It was time she found a suitable husband, she thought. It was bad for her to be hanging round Oxford with men too young for her.
‘Oh, do go into the drawing-room, Aunt Maude,’ said Anthea. ‘Father and Mother are there. Haven’t you brought Miss Morrow with you?’
‘She is coming later. I believe the vicar and his wife are expected, aren’t they? They will be able to tell us about the new curate.’
‘Yes, I expect they’ll be late. Mrs. Wardell is so hopelessly unpunctual.’ Anthea shepherded her great-aunt into the drawing-room, where the rest of the family were eating up the remains of tea.
Francis Cleveland stood with his back to the fireplace, holding a slice of fruit-cake in his hand. The crumbs dropped onto the carpet as he waved his hand about to illustrate what he was saying. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man in the early fifties, with a thin, sensitive face and dark hair streaked with grey. Young women flocked to his lectures on the seventeenth century. It was a delight for them to hear him read Donne in his rather affected voice, or to smile—not laugh—at his subtle jokes, exactly the same jokes, had they but known it, that had delighted generations of admiring young women. Francis Cleveland was a fortunate man
with a comfortable, easy occupation, some private means and nothing to do but give the same lectures and tutorials he had given for the past twenty-five years. When he had any leisure he worked at his book. This was a study of his ancestor, John Cleveland, the poet. He had started it twenty-eight years ago as a thesis for a post-graduate degree. It was not yet finished, and there seemed no prospect that it ever would be.
Margaret Cleveland, who had at one time helped and encouraged her husband with his work, had now left him to do it alone, because she feared that with her help it might quite easily be finished before one of them died, and then where would they be? Francis was like a restless, difficult child if he had nothing to occupy him. This book meant that he spent long hours in his study, presumably working on it. It would not be at all convenient for Mrs. Cleveland to have him hanging about the drawing-room, wanting to be amused. After nearly thirty years of married life she had come to take very much for granted the handsome, distinguished husband whom she had once loved so passionately. Indeed, she even thought poor Francis rather a bore sometimes. She was two years older than he was, a sensible, kindly woman, stout and grey-haired, with many interests in her life, although vastly different ones from those of her youth. For now she never thought of seventeenth-century love lyrics but only of her house and daughter and the generations of undergraduates, who sometimes needed her help as a friend or even as a mother.
Miss Doggett sailed majestically into the shabby, comfortable drawing-room. That chintz has faded, she thought with satisfaction; I knew it would. But it’s no use telling Margaret anything, she won’t listen.
‘Margaret,’ she said, addressing Mrs. Cleveland, ‘who was that young man who went just now?’
‘Oh, that was Simon Beddoes,’ said Mrs. Cleveland casually. ‘His father used to be British Ambassador in Warsaw, or something like that.’
‘Really?’ Miss Doggett looked interested and thoughtful. She glanced at Anthea, who seemed a little confused when her father asked her what Simon had thought of the first editions. ‘Then he must be the son of Sir Lyall Beddoes, who died a year or two ago,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘I believe he left a considerable fortune. He was a kinsman on his mother’s side of Lord Timberscombe… .’ Miss Doggett wandered on happily. She had a good deal of information from Debrett and Who’s Who tucked away in her head. ‘I don’t remember who Lady Beddoes was before her marriage. Nobody distinguished, I think. She lives in Chester Square.’
‘Well, he seemed to be a very nice boy,’ said Mrs. Cleveland, as if this was hardly to be expected of young men whose mothers lived in Belgravia.
‘He’s third year, reading History,’ said Anthea, feeling that something was expected of her.
‘The vicar and Mrs. Wardell,’ announced Ellen, opening the door. ‘And Miss Morrow,’ she added, as an afterthought.
The Reverend Benjamin Wardell, vicar of St. Botolph’s, came into the room, followed by his wife, Agnes. He was a short, jolly-looking man, while Mrs. Wardell was tall and thin, with a vague expression, and clothes which were untidy through absentmindedness, rather than from any other cause. She was wearing a smocklike garment of flowered shantung over a blue skirt. On her feet were heavy shoes, the heels caked with mud.
‘Margaret, my dear,’ she said, looking down at them. ‘I’ve just realised that I’ve come in my gardening shoes.’
‘Were you gardening on a Sunday?’ asked Francis Cleveland, in tones of mock disapproval.
‘On a Sunday?’ repeated Miss Doggett, in a different tone.
‘Yes. Do you think it wrong to garden on a Sunday?’
‘Well, if your conscience allows you to,’ said Miss Doggett gravely.
‘My conscience?’ Mrs. Wardell laughed. ‘My husband or his parishioners are far more likely to stop me than my conscience.’
‘You are lucky, Mrs. Wardell, in having a husband who is something more than just a husband,’ said Francis Cleveland.
‘I think it’s really quite enough for a husband to be just that,’ said Mrs. Wardell. ‘It’s certainly a whole-time job, isn’t it, Ben?’
‘Supper’s ready,’ said Mrs. Cleveland.
‘I forgot to put out the beetroot,’ said Anthea, hurrying from the room.
‘And what would Sunday supper be without beetroot?’ said Miss Morrow brightly.
‘Ah, Miss Morrow, I didn’t notice you,’ said Miss Doggett, ‘I see that you are here.’
‘She can hardly deny that,’ said the vicar, chortling with laughter, as he always did at his own jokes.
‘I might,’ said Miss Morrow. ‘A companion is looked upon as a piece of furniture. She is hardly a person at all.’
They went into the dining-room and sat down. Mrs. Cleveland carved the cold beef at the sideboard. Mr. Cleveland sat staring down at the tablecloth, while Anthea passed round beetroot and potatoes in their jackets.
‘I’ve let Ellen go out,’ said Mrs. Cleveland apologetically. ‘Another of her cousins has come down from Manchester. Why is it always Manchester, I wonder?’
But the others were talking about the new curate.
‘His name’s Stephen Latimer, and he’s got red hair,’ said Mrs. Wardell. ‘I think he’s awfully good-looking, don’t you, Ben?’
‘I can’t say that I really noticed,’ said her husband. ‘He seems an able young man. Quite cultured too, I should think.’
‘Where’s he going to live?’ asked Anthea.
‘Ah, that’s the point. “Ay, there’s the rub”, I might say.’ Mr. Wardell’s eyes brightened and he looked rather mysterious. ‘He tells me that he doesn’t want to be in lodgings but would prefer to live with a family in the parish.’
‘I can understand that a cultured young man would wish to live with people of his own class,’ said Miss Doggett.
‘I don’t know if we could have a curate here,’ said Mr. Cleveland doubtfully, as if it were some strange kind of animal.
‘As a matter of fact I was thinking that perhaps, that is just perhaps, Miss Doggett might like to have him,’ said the vicar, bringing out the words with a rush.
Everyone looked at Miss Doggett doubtfully, but to their surprise she seemed very much taken with the idea.
‘Of course I don’t pretend to be a young woman,’ she declared in a measured tone. ‘I don’t think I could spend my time running up and down stairs with glasses of hot milk and poached eggs.’
‘Oh, I would do that,’ broke in Miss Morrow eagerly.
‘Well, I hardly think it would be necessary,’ said the vicar seriously.
‘Oh, Ben, you know it wouldn’t be necessary,’ said his wife, ‘but it always happens with curates. Don’t you remember Willie Bell?’ she added, referring to a former curate who had lodged with a widow and eventually married her.
The vicar looked rather embarrassed. ‘I hardly think that this is the same sort of thing,’ he said hastily.
‘No, Mr. Wardell, it is not. Mr. Latimer would be quite safe in my house,’ declared Miss Doggett.
‘There are no widows in Leamington Lodge,’ said the vicar, in a hearty tone.
‘But there are two spinsters,’ whispered Anthea to Miss Morrow. ‘Surely that’s just as dangerous?’
‘Won’t the poor young man be fussed over at all?’ said Mrs. Wardell regretfully.
‘I can see to his material welfare,’ said Miss Doggett, ‘and I believe he will find the atmosphere of my house an extremely cultured one.’
Miss Morrow thought of the dining-room on a wet Sunday afternoon, with the rain dripping off the dark branches of the monkey-puzzle, and the bright, jangling music from Luxembourg.
‘And,’ continued Miss Doggett, ‘I shall be able to keep an eye on him—insofar as that is necessary in one of his profession.’
III. A Safe Place for a Clergyman
The Reverend Stephen Latimer’s first sight of Leamington Lodge was on an October evening. Preparations were already being made for the Fifth of November, and there was a smell of fireworks in the air. Ever
afterwards this smell reminded him of his arrival in Oxford. The street lamps were already lit, and the Victorian-Gothic house looked mysterious and romantic in the misty half-light. Its ugliness was softened and the monkey-puzzle and the dingy laurels were blurred masses of darkness.
Miss Morrow heard the scrunch of feet on the red gravel but took no notice of it. Mr. Latimer was not expected until seven. Miss Doggett, who had gone out to tea, was coming back at six. It was now only half past five.
Miss Morrow was in her bedroom putting rouge on her cheeks. She was experimenting. She had read that if you put the rouge far out on the cheek-bones, and smoothed it in carefully so that no hard line showed, it gave roundness to a thin face. A touch on the chin was another trick, but it didn’t say what that gave. She had got as far as putting on some lipstick, and two large dabs of rouge on her cheeks and a smaller one on her chin, when Florence tapped at the door.
‘Please, Miss Morrow, I’m sorry to disturb you,’ she said, ‘but Mr. Latimer is here.’
‘Mr. Latimer here, now?’ echoed Miss Morrow incredulously. She spoke with her back turned, so that Florence should not see her face. ‘Well, tell him I’ll be down in a minute. Miss Doggett wasn’t expecting him till seven.’
‘No, miss, but the sheets are on the bed,’ said Florence virtuously. ‘I’ll tell him what you say.’
I don’t suppose he’ll want to go to bed at half past five, thought Miss Morrow, who was now in a flurry of agitation. There was no time to change her dress, but she washed her hands and sprinkled herself lavishly with Parma Violet, as if to make up for it. Then, with her handkerchief, she scrubbed at her lips and cheeks, but the cosmetics she had used were of an indelible brand, and while the scrubbing took some of it off, it by no means removed all of it. This was especially noticeable with the lips. Miss Morrow thought, with sudden shame but also with some amusement, of the advertisement on the little card to which the lipstick had been fixed. Something about your lips never having looked so tempting. How humiliating it was to be caught out in such folly! She assured herself that nothing had been further from her mind than the idea of tempting anyone. The very possibility of Jessie Morrow’s tempting anyone was so ludicrous that it made her feel like blushing.
