Crampton Hodnet

by Barbara Pym

  But if most of them were thinking more prosaic thoughts than Barbara, two at least were in some way sharing in her experience.

  ‘Of course,’ said Miss Morrow rather timidly, ‘Mr. Cleveland is her tutor. It seems to me that it’s quite an ordinary thing for a tutor to take his pupil out to tea.’

  ‘I am not denying that,’ said Miss Doggett, ‘but the circumstances here seem to me to be quite different. It would be a perfectly natural thing for a tutor to ask a pupil to tea at his house, where his wife or housekeeper or some elderly person could act as hostess. But to sneak off to a cafe in the town, and then to rush off so unceremoniously when he sees somebody he knows … well, Miss Morrow, you can hardly say that that is quite an ordinary thing.’

  Miss Morrow was silent for a moment, silent in admiration at Miss Doggett’s capacity for twisting the facts of a situation so that it appeared to be something completely different. ‘But, Miss Doggett,’ she persisted, ‘I don’t think they did see us. I don’t think either of them did. They came here to look and found that it was crowded, so they went into the other part of the cafe. It seems to me perfectly simple.’

  ‘Miss Morrow,’ said Miss Doggett in a warning tone, ‘you are not a woman of the world. You cannot possibly know what goes on outside Leamington Lodge.’

  Miss Morrow went rather red, not so much from mortification as from a desire to giggle. She was thinking that if she did not know what went on outside Leamington Lodge, Miss Doggett was just as ignorant of what went on inside it. For she obviously had no idea of the conspiracy between her and Mr. Latimer, the secret of the walk on Shotover, the vicar of Crampton Hodnet, the splendid bath and the sherry. Thinking of these things, Miss Morrow bent her head and said nothing. The last thing she would ever claim to be was a woman of the world.

  Encouraged by Miss Morrow’s silence and bent head, Miss Doggett went on to speak of what she thought they ought to do. i believe it may be my duty to speak to Margaret about it,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Don’t think for a moment that I’m suggesting that there could possibly be anything in it,’ she said, turning to the unworldly Miss Morrow, ‘but you know what I mean. There are some things that one cannot let pass without comment. It is a duty one has to other people, not always a pleasant or an easy duty, but one which must be performed. Will you have another cake, Miss Morrow?’ she asked, putting on her skunk cape, fastening the buttons on her gloves, and obviously preparing to get up from the table.

  ‘No, thank you, Miss Doggett,’ said Miss Morrow virtuously.

  ‘Well, then, we may as well go home,’ said Miss Doggett, standing up. ‘I don’t like leaving Mr. Latimer alone; I feel he needs company.’ She turned suddenly to Miss Morrow. ‘When we pass Francis and that young woman,’ she said, ‘I shall merely nod, and you must do the same. Just an acknowledgement, simply that. We don’t want to be either cold or effusive.’

  They walked up the steps into the other part of the cafe. Miss Doggett took out her lorgnette and looked round. Then, fixing it on Barbara and Francis Cleveland, she gave a curt nod and passed on.

  Miss Morrow, struggling with gloves, handbag, umbrella and a great many parcels, made an odd sort of dipping movement with her whole body, as if she were genuflecting before an imaginary altar. She hoped that this expressed neither coldness nor effusiveness, but she suspected that it merely looked ridiculous and expressed absolutely nothing. And in any case Mr. Cleveland and the young woman were so deep in conversation that they hadn’t even noticed that they were being acknowledged.

  ‘Do let me walk back to your college with you,’ said Francis, as he and Barbara were preparing to go their different ways.

  ‘Well… .’ Barbara hesitated. ‘I had been going to do some work, but it hardly seems worth it now before dinner. But I’ve left all my books in the Bodleian.’

  ‘We can go round that way. I’ll wait while you get them.’

  Barbara ran up the wooden stairs, leaving Mr. Cleveland to wait for her at the bottom. He sat down on one of the broad window-sills and absentmindedly took out his cigarette case.

  ‘Now, now, no smoking here, Cleveland,’ said the playful, slightly petulant voice of Edward Killigrew, who was just coming down the stairs at that moment. ‘What are you doing here lurking in the shadows?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m waiting for somebody,’ said Mr. Cleveland shortly.

  ‘Oh, ho,’ said Mr. Killigrew with ridiculous coyness.

  ‘Here I am.’ Barbara came running down with her books.

  ‘Well, I must be off,’ said Mr. Killigrew, raising his eyebrows.

  When he had gone out of earshot, Barbara began to laugh. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I always think he’s such a funny young man.’

  Young man, thought Mr. Cleveland, remembering that he himself wasn’t much older than Edward Killigrew. He began to feel quite sprightly. ‘Let me carry those books for you,’ he said.

  ‘Well, it isn’t part of a tutor’s duty to be so polite to his pupils,’ said Barbara.

  ‘Yes, but I’m not your tutor now.’

  There was a pause, as if both were considering their new relationship, whatever it might be. They walked on in silence over Magdalen Bridge. Barbara tried hard to think of some intelligent remark to make. He’ll think I’m so stupid if I don’t say anything, she thought desperately, and I may not get another opportunity to be with him like this again.

  How sympathetic she is, thought Francis. She doesn’t spoil the magic of a beautiful evening—it happened to be a particularly raw December evening—by making conversation. One could enjoy it in peace. She seemed to know one’s feelings. If he went for such a walk with Margaret she would be chattering all the time about unimportant things, something they ought to get done in the house or some trivial bit of North Oxford gossip. One somehow couldn’t imagine Barbara talking about things like that. He began to see himself as a sensitive, misunderstood person, who had at last found a soul-mate.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ he said with real regret in his tone, as they came to the gates of her college.

  ‘I must go,’ she said, lingering by the gate and not going.

  Francis put out his hand and daringly touched her dark, furry sleeve. It was really just the right moment for a kiss, he thought, and he was sure that she felt it too.

  Oh, why can’t I think of anything intelligent to say. So anxiously had Barbara been racking her brains for the sort of remark an intelligent woman well read in English Literature would make that she had not even noticed his tentative advance, the touch on her sleeve.

  At that moment a dark shape could be seen hurrying down the drive. It was Miss Rideout, the Principal, a good-natured woman who had unwittingly cut short many a good-night kiss.

  ‘Good night,’ said Francis quickly.

  ‘Good night and thank you,’ said Barbara in a small voice, disappointed with herself. She hurried upstairs and into her room, still going over all the things she might have said.

  It was really a good thing, she thought, looking around her, that men weren’t allowed in the women’s rooms. The majority of them were so sordid and unromantic. Even Barbara’s, which was sometimes quite nice, was not looking at its best this evening. The folding washstand was open, there were stockings drying over the back of a chair, the chrysanthemums were dying and the desk was littered with her attempts at a Middle English paper. It was not the kind of room she would have liked to entertain Francis in, although it was better when it was tidy. Barbara thought of it as quite a good setting for herself, with its books and flowers and the large reproduction of a Cézanne landscape over the mantelpiece. But there was nowhere really comfortable to sit except the bed, and it didn’t seem quite right to think of Francis sitting there, among the cheap, gaudy cushions.

  There was a knock at the door, and her friend Sarah Penrose came in. She was a heavily built, fair girl, always overburdened with work.

  ‘Oh, Birdy,’ she wailed, ‘I wonder if you could help me with Sir Gawaine. I simply c
an’t translate it. I’ve been at it all afternoon, from two o’clock until now. I thought perhaps we might go through it together.’ She flopped down on the bed, exhausted.

  ‘Have a cigarette,’ said Barbara, ‘and wait while I tidy things up. I’ve been out to tea.’

  ‘Out to tea?’

  Yes, out to tea, thought Barbara. My heart is like a singing bird, just because I’ve been out to tea… .

  ‘I’ve had tea,’ said Mr. Cleveland, as he stood in the drawing-room doorway.

  ‘I should hope you have,’ said his wife, laughing. ‘It’s after six, and you certainly won’t get any here. Did you have it in the town?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Francis shortly.

  Francis sounds rather huffy, thought Mrs. Cleveland. Perhaps he’s annoyed about what I said. ‘You can have more tea if you like, dear,’ she said, not very encouragingly.

  ‘But I’ve had tea. Why should I want any more?’ he said impatiently.

  ‘I don’t know. I just thought you might. You do sometimes want odd things, you know,’ she said. ‘Who did you have tea with?’

  Really, Margaret was exasperating sometimes, he thought, sitting down by the fire. ‘I had tea with Killigrew,’ he said defiantly. It was the first time, as far as he could remember, that he had ever told his wife a deliberate lie. It made him feel fine and important, a swelling, ranting Don Juan with a dark double life, instead of a middle-aged Fellow of Randolph, ignored or treated with contempt by his wife and daughter.

  ‘Oh?’ said Mrs. Cleveland. ‘How is old Mrs. Killigrew?’

  ‘I don’t know, just the same as usual, I imagine. We went to Fuller’s. We talked about Milton,’ he said, enlarging on the fiction. ‘Killigrew was quoting Paradise Lost. The beauty of the work is certainly lost through a mouthful of walnut cake. He looked ridiculous.’

  Dear Francis, thought his wife affectionately. Was it possible to recite Milton over the tea table and not look ridiculous? ‘Won’t you recite some now?’ she asked solemnly.

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Don’t you remember … ?’ she began, but she stopped, because she was herself being ridiculous now. For there was surely something essentially ridiculous in remembering how Francis had once recited the whole of Marvell’s ‘To His Coy Mistress’ to her over tea in Boffin’s.

  ‘Did you see Aunt Maude and Miss Morrow in Fuller’s?’ she asked. ‘They may have been there when you were. I know they were going shopping, and they usually have tea there if they stay in town.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Francis confidently, ‘I didn’t see them.’ But the news that they might have been there made him a little uneasy. He couldn’t really remember noticing anyone, except Mrs. Furse and her three little boys, and the cafe had been very full. Supposing they had been there and had seen him with Barbara? One must consider that possibility. If they had seen him, Aunt Maude would be sure to tell Margaret. She would consider it her duty. And yet there was nothing wrong in taking Barbara Bird out to tea. Margaret had herself suggested that he should do something of the kind. It was only that he had told her that he was with Killigrew, and she would probably wonder why he had told a lie about it. He didn’t really know why he had. The whole thing was Margaret’s fault, he thought unreasonably. She oughtn’t to have turned him out and sent him to the Bodleian on a cold afternoon. And she ought to have told him as soon as he came in about Aunt Maude’s probably having been in Fuller’s. Then he would have been warned.

  ‘Did you see anyone else that we know?’ persisted Mrs. Cleveland.

  There she was, going on about it again, he thought, exasperated. ‘The whole of North Oxford was there, I should think,’ he said in an even tone. ‘It usually is in the vacation. So you can gather that I probably saw almost everyone we know.’

  VII. Mr. Latimer Gets an Idea

  ‘If I were you, Miss Morrow,’ said Miss Doggett to her companion, ‘I shouldn’t say anything to Mrs. Cleveland about what we saw in Fuller’s last week. You are inclined to be impulsive, you know, and well-meaning busybodies often do more harm than good in matters like this.’

  ‘Oh, no, I never thought of mentioning it,’ said Miss Morrow meekly, without attempting to protest against the injustice of Miss Doggett’s implications. ‘I shall certainly not say anything.’

  ‘I do not think it is really our business,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘We will let the matter drop,’ she added, having no intention of doing anything of the kind. It was quite possible that there would be further incidents in the story. It would be much more interesting to wait. It was really not her duty to tell Margaret about last week, but it might very well be to confront her with a complete and convincing story of her husband’s unfaithfulness.

  ‘Is it this evening that the vicar and his wife are coming to dinner?’ asked Mr. Latimer, coming into the room.

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Doggett with a sigh. ‘He is such a boring little man, but we must do our duty.’

  How smooth he is, thought Miss Morrow, as she listened to Mr. Latimer criticising, quite respectfully, of course, the vicar’s sermons. Every remark that he made was taken up eagerly by Miss Doggett and, as it were, magnified.

  ‘In the old days,’ declared Mr. Latimer, ‘nobody would have tolerated a sermon lasting only ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. Mr. Wardell thinks he is still in those old days. He has material for a ten-minute sermon, but he tries to spin it out for half an hour. The result is—well’ —he turned to Miss Doggett with his charming smile— ‘you have seen that for yourself. Ideas have changed now.’

  Certainly they have, thought Miss Morrow with amusement. Clergymen nowadays apparently think nothing of telling deliberate lies. She wondered whether Mr. Latimer would claim that the change was for the better.

  ‘Of course Mr. Wardell has none of that dignity one associates with the clergy,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘He looks more like a grocer. When I see him in church, I imagine he ought to be slicing bacon.’

  So these were the thoughts that were in Miss Doggett’s mind during Divine Service, reflected Miss Morrow, with interest. Sometimes one could tell, or at least imagine, what people were thinking, but that Miss Doggett should imagine the vicar slicing bacon was something entirely unexpected. By her grave and reverent demeanour, one would have thought that her mind was fixed on God, a large, solemn, bearded God, who might, if He were on earth, very well live in a house like Leamington Lodge, with its massive furniture and general air of gloomy dignity.

  ‘I think he’s quite a good sort of man in his way,’ said Mr. Latimer condescendingly.

  ‘Oh, yes, one never hears anything definite said against him,’ agreed Miss Doggett reluctantly, ‘but I never feel he is quite at his ease among people like us.’

  ‘Well, we must do our best to make him feel at ease tonight,’ said Miss Morrow seriously. ‘He must be in a permanent state of uneasiness, considering how often he comes here.’

  ‘The vicar and Mrs. Wardell,’ said Florence, opening the door.

  Mrs. Wardell strode into the room, her husband scuttling behind her like a crab. Miss Morrow had a brief vision of him in a white coat and apron, slicing bacon.

  ‘How nice Miss Morrow is looking,’ said Mrs. Wardell. ‘I do like that blue velvet.’

  Miss Morrow smiled rather stickily. She did not want anyone to notice or make any comment on her dress. She had already been made to feel that she had done the wrong thing in putting it on, first by Miss Doggett’s raised eyebrows and then by the startled, appealing look Mr. Latimer had given her when he saw it. It was as if he were afraid that the very wearing of it would make her betray his secret.

  ‘Have they been knitting for you already?’ said Mrs. Wardell, plucking at the grey pullover which Mr. Latimer wore. ‘I see nothing but lovesick young women hanging round the church these days. You mark my words,’ she said to Miss Doggett, ‘we shall be losing Mr. Latimer soon.’

  Mr. Latimer gave her a wan smile. One never knew what Mrs. Wardell was going to say. He certa
inly did not want any reference to be made to that fatal Sunday evening, although she and Miss Morrow were the only ones who had heard his foolish story. He had made the excuse of ill-health to the vicar, and it had been accepted without question, and with a bottle of Dr. Armstrong’s Influenza Mixture thrown in. Mr. Wardell was a very easy-going little man and had not seemed in the least curious. He was smiling now as he thought about what his wife had said about Mr. Latimer and Miss Morrow. She had some wonderful story about them, almost as if there were something between them. Just like dear Agnes, thought the vicar affectionately. There was nothing she enjoyed more than a nice romance. Even now she was chattering away to Miss Doggett about a new one she had discovered.

  ‘Really?’ said Miss Doggett indulgently. ‘Don’t tell me it’s Mr. Killigrew and Miss Morrow.’ She tittered. ‘They’d be a nice pair.’