Crampton Hodnet

by Barbara Pym

  ‘No, it’s even nearer to you than that,’ said Mrs. Wardell triumphantly. ‘But I’ll leave you to guess.’

  Mr. Latimer could feel his face getting hotter and redder every moment. Whatever would she be saying next? he wondered angrily. He dared not look at Miss Morrow.

  ‘Well,’ laughed Miss Doggett, in high good humour, i can only think you mean Mr. Latimer and me.’

  ‘I’m afraid Miss Doggett would hardly stoop to notice a humble curate,’ said Mr. Latimer, recovering his gallantry. But he wished, all the same, that they could change the subject. It was amazing how, even with the restraining presence of Miss Doggett, they always seemed to be talking about love, or what passed for love in a circle consisting of clergymen and spinsters.

  Thinking things over in bed that night, Mr. Latimer came to the conclusion that he might have to take some action in the matter himself, if only for his own safety and peace of mind. After all, he was thirty-five years old, old enough to know his own mind and yet not so old that he would behave as those elderly clergymen one read about in the cheaper daily papers, who married a servant or a chorus girl of eighteen. He was a man of private means, good-looking and charming. It was obvious that he could never expect to have much peace until he was safely married. Besides, there was something comforting about the idea of having a wife, a helpmeet, somebody who would keep the others off and minister to his needs without being as fussy as Miss Doggett was. Some nice, sensible woman, not too young.

  And at this point, in the high, wide bed, heaped with too many bedclothes, he fell asleep. And he soon began to dream violently. Somehow, he didn’t know why, he had asked Miss Doggett to marry him, and the ceremony was to take place on Shotover Hill. They stood on the hill, the vicar and his wife, the Clevelands, Miss Morrow, and a strange clergyman, perhaps the vicar of Crampton Hodnet, who was to perform the ceremony. And then suddenly Mr. Latimer was struggling to get back to Oxford, running along a wide, deserted road, looking for a bus which never came. And he remembered that he had all his packing to do, and how could he possibly manage it when he was on this road so far away from Oxford? He would never get there in time… .

  He woke up in a sweat and flung off the heavy crimson eiderdown. He knew now that it had been a dream, because he could see the dark masses of the trees against the window and hear the sound of the steadily falling rain. He switched on the light, deciding to read. There was only a Bible on his bedside table, so he opened it at the Acts of the Apostles and started to read from the beginning. But somehow the narrative did not grip him, for he found his thoughts wandering again to the question of marriage.

  And it was then that it occurred to him that he might do worse than marry Miss Morrow. The idea framed itself in precisely those words—that he might do worse than marry Miss Morrow. Besides, he thought, warming up a little, he liked her, and as she too was a person of discreet years, he felt that she would understand the way in which this plan had come to him: not as a wild, romantic love; he had known that as a young man of nineteen, and although it had been an experience which had enriched his life, he had now reached an age when he preferred something less disturbing. Love was all very well for young people; he was sure Miss Morrow would understand that.

  This time he fell into a dreamless sleep, which lasted till morning.

  VIII. Spring, the Sweet Spring

  Spring came early that year, and the sun was so bright that it made all the North Oxford residents feel as shabby as the still leafless trees, so that they hurried to Elliston’s, Webber’s and Badcock’s, intending to buy jumper suits and spring tweeds in bright, flowerlike colours to match the sudden impulse which had sent them there. But when they found themselves in the familiar atmosphere of the shop, they forgot the sun shining outside and the thrilling little breezes that made everyone want to be in love, and the young lady assistant forgot them too, because, although she may have felt them walking down the Botley Road with her young man on a Sunday afternoon, they were not the kinds of things one thought about in business hours. And so, after a quick, practised glance at the customer, out would come the old fawn, mud, navy, dark brown, slate and clerical greys, all the colours they always had before and without which they would hardly have felt like themselves. It would probably be raining tomorrow, and grey, fawn or bottle green was suitable for all weathers, whereas daffodil yellow, leaf green, hyacinth blue or coral pink would look unsuitable and show the dirt.

  But one afternoon Miss Morrow went impulsively to Elliston’s and bought herself a dress of tender leaf green and hid it in her wardrobe among her old, drab things, where it might have to wait many weeks before she had the courage to wear it. Only young people, like Anthea, could suddenly put on a new and pretty dress without fear of damping remarks and disapproving raised eyebrows.

  Barbara Bird, also, was able to say to herself when she woke up on a bright March morning, ‘I’ll wear my new green suit today and my yellow jumper.’ While she lay in bed thinking about shoes and other details, she realised that the sun was shining, and that must be because it was today that she and Francis had arranged to meet in the Botanical Gardens at half past two.

  The chapel bell started to ring and Barbara leapt eagerly out of bed. But as she poured the enamel can of hot water into her basin, she began to wonder how she was going to get through the six long hours before it would be half past two. It was a wonder that she managed to do any work at all these days, for even writing essays for Francis had lost some of its attraction. He didn’t seem to listen very attentively now and even stopped her sometimes, before she had finished reading, and began talking about things that had really nothing to do with tutorials. Barbara believed that Francis liked talking to her, and that she was able to bring into his life something which had been lacking in it before—sympathy, understanding, perhaps even love. But of course Francis wasn’t like the men in jokes who told young women that their wives didn’t understand them. He never spoke of his wife and daughter, except casually, and as they appeared to take so little interest in him, she supposed that there was nothing wrong in her meeting Francis occasionally and going for a walk or having tea with him. She had no intention of stealing him from his wife, and it never occurred to her that he might begin to return her love, and that it might be a different kind of love from her rather schoolgirlish passion, which could live happily on a smile or a kind word and asked nothing more than long walks and talks about life and poetry and themselves. Barbara was an intelligent girl, but she had never been in love with anyone of her own age and had cherished many impossible, romantic passions for people she scarcely knew, or had perhaps seen only once. She was not interested in undergraduates; they were so unintelligent and lumpish, and the few that weren’t were so conceited and effeminate that one couldn’t possibly take them seriously.

  She dressed quickly, not bothering to put on any make-up. Very few people in college did for breakfast, except that minority who were always elegant, or whose pride would not permit them to show their faces in their natural state. She hurried into the dining hall and, after collecting tea, cornflakes and fish, sat down in her usual place by her friends. They were already talking, mostly about work. Snatches of their conversation floated over her head.

  ‘I said “Bloody old Beowulf”, and she must have heard, because she turned round and gave me such a look… .’

  ‘I shall cut Boggart-Smith’s lecture today. He hasn’t said anything so far that’s not in the Cambridge History… . ‘

  ‘Sir Stafford Cripps is speaking at the Labour Club tonight, you ought to come… .’

  ‘I’m going to spend the whole morning at the Bodleian.’ This in a full, resolute tone, which promised four hours of concentrated work.

  ‘Why, Birdy’s got a new suit!’ exclaimed somebody, suddenly noticing her. ‘Isn’t it a pretty green? Oh, Birdy, wasn’t the Modern English paper bloody?’

  And so the morning went on and on, and after a very long time it was twenty-five past two, and Barbara was hur
rying over Magdalen Bridge. She stopped on the bridge and looked down anxiously into the Botanical Gardens and saw him, standing outside one of the hothouses and peering in. She could go straight there now. There would be no need to loiter in Rose Lane or Christchurch Meadows, in case she should be too early.

  ‘Hullo, I hope I’m not late,’ she said, coming up behind him. ‘What were you looking at?’

  ‘A curious orchid. They’re rather beautiful, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said happily. ‘I told you there were lots of lovely things here. This is one of my favourite haunts. I had to show it to you.’

  ‘I should feel ashamed of myself for not knowing it better,’ said Francis, ‘but I have the excuse of being an Oxford resident, who has never seen anything in Oxford, though of course I have been here, you know. But never with you,’ he added in a different tone.

  ‘Shall we look at the rock plants and bulbs and then go into the hothouses?’ said Barbara.

  ‘I’m entirely in your hands. You shall be my guide.’

  ‘Do you like flowers?’ she asked. ‘I mean, really like them?’

  Francis thought for a moment. He always made himself out to be a keen gardener, although he never did anything but snip off an occasional dead flower. ‘Yes, I like them,’ he said, feeling somehow that he had to be more honest with her, ‘but perhaps I don’t feel that every flower enjoys the air it breathes.’

  ‘I really think I do,’ said Barbara. ‘When I was a little girl I could never bear to see flowers thrown away before they were dead. I used to imagine they suffered. I believe I’m still a bit like that.’ She laughed, as if ashamed of herself.

  They walked in silence into one of the hothouses. In the middle of the floor was a raised square pool, full of water plants and goldfish.

  ‘Oh, this is nice,’ said Francis, wanting to say something to show that he was enjoying himself, although he really preferred to listen to Barbara talking.

  ‘I know these fishes quite well,’ she said. ‘I believe some of them must be quite old, and perhaps when we’re dead there’ll be some who will remember that we came here. If fishes have memories, that is,’ she added, ‘I don’t know if they have. Did you ever see those wonderful old horny fishes at the Petit Trianon?’ she went on. ‘They crowd under the bridge to be fed, masses of them. They must have seen Marie Antoinette, because some of them are supposed to be two hundred years old. I couldn’t stop thinking about it when I was there, it seemed so marvellous.’

  ‘You think of things that wouldn’t occur to other people,’ said Francis solemnly. He couldn’t imagine Margaret thinking that about the fishes. If they ever went sightseeing she was always preoccupied with uncomfortable shoes or whether they would be able to get tea somewhere. ‘It must be wonderful to go on a holiday with you, Barbara,’ he said rather wistfully. ‘You make me see things that I could never see by myself.’

  Barbara looked up at him, but just at that moment two old ladies came in and started poking at the fishes with the tip of an umbrella.

  Barbara and Francis moved off into another hothouse.

  ‘What a pity I can’t pick you some of those red lilies,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, you couldn’t do that. It’s not allowed. Besides, they look so nice growing there,’ said Barbara.

  If I were thirty years younger, thought Francis regretfully, I’d have no hesitation in breaking them off and giving them to her. But only young men like Simon Beddoes did things like that. Not middle-aged dons with grown-up families. They didn’t even buy lilies for anyone, not even for their wives, and certainly not for pretty female undergraduates.

  ‘It’s awfully hot and steamy in here,’ said Barbara. ‘I’m sure we ought to be outside in the sunshine.’

  ‘Let’s walk round here,’ said Francis, indicating a secluded path. He felt suddenly excited at the prospect of being alone with her. It was spring. Spring, the sweet spring. There was nothing at all unusual in feeling that one needed a little excitement. Everyone felt it. Arnold Penge had been seen in the High wearing knickerbockers and a green Tyrolean hat, and that morning Bodley’s Librarian had come into the Upper Reading Room humming a little tune. Even Edward Killigrew had now discarded his leather jacket and mittens. Undoubtedly there was something about the spring that made people behave differently, thought Francis hopefully.

  He flung his arm round Barbara’s shoulders, but the position was an awkward one, and they walked along stumbling in their efforts to keep in step with each other.

  They had been wandering like this for some time, when the silence was suddenly broken by the sound of familiar voices somewhere near.

  ‘Michael and Gabriel,’ said Barbara quickly. ‘We don’t want them to see us.’

  ‘Let’s hide in these bushes,’ said Francis impulsively.

  The footsteps came nearer and the voices grew louder.

  ‘… the décor was tolerable, but the choreography was simply frightful. Talk about Diaghileff turning in his grave!’

  ‘I always imagined it something like this,’ said Gabriel, leaping up into the air.

  ‘Yes, exactly,’ agreed Michael.

  They began to dance very prettily in the path.

  ‘They haven’t seen us,’ whispered Francis, crouching uncomfortably.

  But as they moved off, Michael said in a whisper, ‘My dear, did you see?’

  ‘They’ve gone now,’ said Barbara. ‘We can get out of here.’

  ‘Oh, must we? I think it’s rather nice,’ said Francis, uncomfortable and ridiculous though he felt. ‘Don’t you think so?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Barbara doubtfully.

  ‘It could be even nicer,’ said Francis boldly. He put his arm round her and gave her a tentative peck on the cheek. Not very successful, he felt. It was so difficult not to overbalance.

  ‘I think we’d better be platonic,’ said Barbara nervously. ‘It makes things so difficult if we aren’t.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I suppose it does,’ said Francis regretfully. It’s too dangerous, he thought. We can’t trust ourselves. Those dark, passionate eyes. All or nothing.

  Barbara rose eagerly and brushed the dust off her skirt. She hoped he wasn’t going to be like that. So many beautiful friendships had been spoilt because of that.

  ‘How are you getting on with your book?’ she asked quickly. ‘You promised to tell me about it.’

  ‘Did I?’ he said vaguely. It was so long since he had spoken to anyone about his book, so long, indeed, since anyone had taken it seriously, that he found himself at a loss to know what to say about it. He could talk about his book any time, with Doge or Fenning or Edward Killigrew. It was a waste of a spring afternoon to talk about it with a beautiful girl whom he wanted to kiss.

  ‘Love that’s in contemplation placed is Venus drawn but to the waist,’ he thought, remembering one of his ancestor’s neat couplets. How odd that his book should suddenly have come alive. But it wasn’t at all the sort of thing he could quote to Barbara. He began to feel rather ashamed of himself for having thought of it when Magdalen clock struck the half hour, and Barbara leapt to her feet.

  ‘I simply must go,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to be at Headington by four, and I must go back to college first.’

  ‘Oh, I hoped you’d have tea with me.’ Francis looked and felt disappointed, even jealous. A tea party with some young men, he supposed, or perhaps one special one, for such an attractive girl must surely have many admirers.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ said Barbara. ‘I should have liked that very much, but I’m afraid it can’t be helped. And I’ve got to write an essay for you, you know,’ she added.

  Damn the essay, thought Francis. ‘Your company does me much more good than an essay,’ he said gallantly.

  ‘Well, I don’t do them for your good,’ Barbara replied, and then she was gone, leaving him standing forlornly under a tree.

  He watched her hurrying over Magdalen Bridge and hoped that she might look down into the garden. B
ut she kept her eyes straight in front of her. He stood looking after her for a moment and then decided that there was nothing to do but go back home to tea.

  The thought of tea and his family made him feel slightly guilty about the way in which he had spent the afternoon, and as he walked along the High and turned into Catte Street, he busied himself finding reasons to justify his behaviour. A few harmless walks and talks were really nothing, he decided. Margaret would be the last person to mind anything like that. She never minded anything. Not that there had ever been anything for her to mind, for that matter. Of course he didn’t intend to tell her, because, although he knew she wouldn’t mind, she would be sure to want some sort of explanation, and explanations invariably got one into difficulties. Francis Cleveland had kept away from difficulties for as long as he could remember, and he had no intention of going to meet them now.

  But suddenly, as he walked along Broad Street, he came upon a little flower shop, and in the window was a jar of red lilies, exactly like the ones he and Barbara had seen in the hothouse. Without waiting to consider whether it was wise, he went in and bought them and asked that they should be sent to Miss Bird at her college. He wrote a message on a card and slipped it into an envelope. It was all done in five minutes.

  He walked out of the shop and nearly collided with Edward Killigrew, who was going home for his tea.

  ‘Well, Cleveland, buying flowers?’ he said. ‘Ordering a wreath for a deceased relative from the look of you,’ he added. ‘Not lost but gone before.’

  Francis smiled. Yes, that was what everyone would think. Flowers for a funeral or a sickbed, or a dutiful husbandly offering, not red lilies for a beautiful girl, he thought, feeling very pleased with himself. He was willing to bet that Killigrew had never done such a thing in his life.

  ‘How is Mrs. Killigrew?’ he asked politely.