by Barbara Pym
‘Harvest Thanksgiving, we call it,’ said the louder voice. ‘Harvest Festival has a rather different connotation, I feel. There is almost a pagan sound about it.’
‘Oh, yes.’ The softer voice sounded very demure. ‘Festival is altogether more pagan —I could almost see Mr. Mortlake in a leopard skin with vine leaves in his hair.’
‘Hush, Jessie,’ said the louder voice on a reproving note.
‘We must not forget that we are in church. Ah, here are Mrs. Crampton and Mrs. Mayhew. Perhaps we had better start.’
The speakers had now come into view and Jane saw a large woman who gave the impression of being dressed in purple hung about with gold chains, and a smaller younger one in brown with a vase of dead flowers in her hands. They were greeting two middle-aged ladies in tweed suits carrying bunches of dahlias.
An English scene, thought Jane, and a precious thing. Then she realised that it was of course Harvest Festival or Thanksgiving, and the ladies had come to decorate the church. She slipped quietly away behind their backs and found herself in the porch surrounded by fruit, vegetables and flowers.
‘Who was that?’ asked Miss Doggett, the lady in purple, who was elderly with a commanding manner.
‘I think it was the new vicar’s wife,’ said Jessie Morrow, her companion, in an offhand way. ‘It looked like her, I thought.’
‘But why was I not told?’ Miss Doggett raised her voice. ‘What must she have thought of us not even saying good morning?’
Mrs. Crampton and Mrs. Mayhew stood with their dahlias, expressions of dismay on their faces.
‘She will surely want to help with the decorating,’ said Mrs. Crampton, a tall woman with what is thought to be an English type of face, fresh colouring, blue-grey eyes and rather prominent teeth.
‘I wonder she didn’t introduce herself,’ said Mrs. Mayhew, who looked very much like Mrs. Crampton. ‘Mrs. Pritchard wouldn’t have been so backward, would she? Of course, I did recognise her myself, but I was so surprised at her walking away like that that I couldn’t even say good morning.’
Miss Doggett went out into the porch. ‘Why, she is in the churchyard walking about among the tombs,’ she exclaimed. ‘That long grass must be very wet — I wonder if she is wearing galoshes?’
‘Shall I go and see?’ asked Miss Morrow seriously.
‘Well, you could certainly ask her to come into the church,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘I mean, indicate to her that we should be very pleased if she would join us. After all, she may have her own ideas about how the Harvest decorations should be arranged.’
Miss Morrow nearly let out a shout of laughter. Even Mrs. Pritchard, the last vicar’s wife, who had been a forceful woman, had been unable to depose Miss Doggett from her position as head of the decorators. Mrs. Cleveland, as far as one could see, looked as if she would be neither desirous nor capable of doing any such thing.
Miss Morrow padded through the long grass and tombstones, humming a popular song of the day. She picked her way carefully, for she had a feeling about walking on the older graves, and some were so overgrown that it was difficult to avoid them.
She found Jane contemplating a rather new-looking mound, which was decorated, not with the conventional vases of flowers or growing plants, but with a large framed photograph of a rather good-looking man with a leonine head.
‘What a curious idea,’ said Jane, looking up at the woman who approached her through the tombs and dimly recognising her as the one in brown who had been holding the vase of dead flowers, ‘to have a photograph of oneself on one’s tomb. I wonder if it is usual. It seems to be rather a delicate thing — perhaps one would really prefer to be remembered for oneself alone, for one’s simple goodness, though it might be a kindness to posterity if one were particularly handsome, as this man appears to have been.’
‘Appears to have been!’ Miss Morrow gave a short laugh. ‘But he still is, or thinks he is. The photograph is of Fabian Driver, and that is his wife’s grave.’
‘Fabian Driver,’ Jane repeated, something about lions and eagles going round in her head. ‘Is his wife recently dead?’
‘Nearly a year ago. We thought at first that the photograph was put there temporarily until he could get a stone put up, but he seems to have come to the conclusion that he need not go to that expense after all. People are used to seeing it there now.’
‘Perhaps his wife would have liked it better than a stone,’Jane suggested.
‘Well, it is something for her, poor soul. I suppose even a photograph is better than nothing. You see, her husband was more interested in other women than he was in her. I believe that does sometimes happen. Her death came as a great shock to him — he had almost forgotten her existence.’ Miss Morrow imparted this information in a cool, detached tone; there was nothing secretive or gossiping about her manner. ‘He takes flowers to the grave sometimes,’ she went on, ‘flowers of a particular kind that are said to have been her favourites, but I often wonder if they really were.’
‘You think he may be confusing her preferences with somebody else’s?’ Jane asked in an interested tone.
‘Well, it seems quite likely. He is one for the grand gesture and has no time for niggling details.’
‘And what now? Does he live alone?’
‘Yes. In a pretty house on the village green. He is an inconsolable widower.’
‘What does he do for a living?’
‘Oh, there is some business in the City which belonged to his father-in-law. Whatever it is it doesn’t seem to require his attendance every day of the week. He is often here, apparently doing nothing.’
‘I feel it a good thing that I should have this information,’ said Jane, walking with Miss Morrow towards the church. ‘Canon and Mrs. Pritchard told us so little about the people here.’
‘Yes, some things must be known,’ said Miss Morrow. ‘It is no use nodding and pursing lips and saying dark things, and as you were by the grave I felt I could tell you. It is not the sort of thing one can talk about in the church. I was to ask you if you would care to supervise the decorating, though I imagine that you would have stayed in church if you had wanted to.’
‘It isn’t really much in my line,’ said Jane. ‘I’m not very good at arranging flowers at the best of times and I have had little experience of fruit and vegetables. Coming from a town parish, we didn’t really have much at Harvest Thanksgiving. Sometimes we even had to have artificial fruit —I see you look shocked, but I think there was some excuse for us; London suburban gardens don’t burgeon as they do here.’
‘Perhaps I was thinking of Roman Catholic churches in Italy and Spain,’ said Miss Morrow apologetically; ‘those dusty bunches of artificial flowers. But I can see that fruit might be different; it would be easier to keep it clean.’
‘Something made me slip away when I saw everybody there in the church,’ said Jane. ‘I’m afraid it’s a fault in me and a great disadvantage for a clergyman’s wife, not to be naturally gregarious. But I should really like to meet them all,’ she added with more confidence than she felt.
‘Well, I am Jessie Morrow,’ said the little brown woman. ‘I suppose you would describe me as that outmoded thing, a “companion”. Miss Doggett, my employer, is a vigorous old lady who has no need of my services as a companion but rather as a sparring partner. The other two ladies are connected with the church.’
‘You mean they are deaconesses?’ Jane asked.
‘No, they are widows who do a good deal of church work. Actually they run a tea-shop with homemade cakes and that sort of thing.’
They stepped back into the church and introductions were made. The ladies had now been joined by others and there was a confusion of fruit, vegetables and flowers everywhere. Dahlias and chrysanthemums blossomed in unlikely corners, marrows tumbled off window ledges, spiked arrangements of carrots and parsnips flaunted themselves against stained glass.
‘I hope we shall have Let us with a gladsome mind,’ said Jane. ‘It is such a fin
e hymn. In many ways one dislikes Milton, of course; his treatment of women was not all that it should have been.’
‘Well, they did not have quite the same standards in the old days,’ said Miss Doggett, frowning. ‘Of course we shall have the usual harvest hymns, I imagine. We plough the fields and scatter,’ she declared in a firm tone, almost challenging anyone to deny her.
The corners of Miss Morrow’s mouth lifted in a half-smile. ‘Not without our galoshes,’ she murmured, looked down at her thin glacé kid shoes, damp from walking among the tombstones.
Mrs. Crampton and Mrs. Mayhew looked up from the font in surprise.
‘Miss Morrow was telling me that you run a tea-shop,’ said Jane. ‘I do hope you do lunches too. I have to send my husband out for lunch at least twice a week!’
‘Yes, it is difficult to manage sometimes,’ said Mrs. Crampton.
‘And the clergy are always with us where meals are concerned,’ sighed Jane.
‘Of course, a man must have meat,’ pronounced Mrs. Mayhew.
‘Certainly he must,’ said a pleasant voice in the porch.
Jane looked up to see a tall, good-looking man of about forty, with a marrow in his arms, coming towards them.
‘Oh, Mrs. Cleveland, have you met Mr. Driver yet?’ asked Miss Doggett, taking command of the situation, as if the other ladies might not be equal to making the introduction.
‘No, I don’t think I have,’ said Jane, taking in at a glance the rather worn, perhaps ravaged — if one could use so violent a word — good looks, the curly hair worn rather too long and touched with grey at the temples, also the carefully casual tweed suit and brogued suede shoes, which gave the impression of a town-dweller dressed for the country.
‘This is a great pleasure,’ said Fabian as they shook hands.
Jane looked up at him frankly and then lowered her eyes, embarrassed at being confronted by such an excellent likeness of the photograph she had just been looking at on his wife’s grave. She felt that she knew more about him than one usually does on a first meeting, remembering Miss Morrow’s words about his having been more interested in other women than in his wife and the possibility of his taking the wrong flowers to the grave. That might be a stumbling block between them, she felt, the photograph and the infidelities, but perhaps there might come a time when they would speak frankly of these things and even laugh, though, when one came to think of it, neither graves nor infidelities were really any laughing matter.
‘What a fine marrow, Mr. Driver,’ said Miss Doggett in a bright tone. ‘It is the biggest one we have had so far, isn’t it, Miss Morrow?’
Miss Morrow, who was scrabbling on the floor among the vegetables, mumbled something inaudible.
‘It is magnificent,’ said Mrs. Mayhew reverently.
Mr. Driver moved forward and presented the marrow to Miss Doggett with something of a flourish.
Jane felt as if she were assisting at some primitive kind of ritual at whose significance she hardly dared to guess.
‘We are so much looking forward to hearing our new vicar’s first sermon,’ said Fabian gallantly, looking at Jane rather intently.
‘Nicholas isn’t one of these dramatic preachers,’ she said quickly, feeling a little confused.
The ladies looked interested, as if hoping that she might be guilty of further disloyalties, but Jane recollected herself in time and said: ‘Of course, he’s a very good preacher; what I meant was that he doesn’t go in for a lot of quotations and that kind of thing.’
‘Much wiser not to,’ agreed Miss Doggett. ‘Simple Christian teaching is what we want, isn’t it, really?’
Jane had to agree, but she was conscious that Miss Doggett’s tone was a little patronising and was not surprised when she went on to add that Canon Pritchard had been a very fine preacher, ‘… most eloquent. Such a fine mellow voice and never at a loss for a word… .’
‘Nicholas is never at a loss for a word, and his voice is very mellow; I think one could call it that,’ said Jane, feeling ridiculous now, and wishing she could think of some excuse to leave the gathering.
‘I’m sure we shall find it to our liking,’ said Fabian kindly.
‘And now I really must be going,’ said Jane. ‘There is the meal to see to,’ she added vaguely, remembering that both Flora and Mrs. Glaze were at the vicarage that morning, so that her presence there was really quite unnecessary.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Mrs. Crampton sympathetically.
‘Why, here is your husband now,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘How nice of him to come and see us. We shall work all the better for this encouragement.’
‘Oh, there you are, darling,’ said Jane, stepping backwards on to a heap of vegetables. ‘I was just going to see about lunch. Goodbye, everybody,’ she said, leaving Nicholas to make his own impression. She had noticed that he seemed a good deal more at ease with the decorators than she had been, but perhaps that was to be expected.
She hurried away down the church path and found Fabian at her side.
‘I don’t feel I can do much good there,’ he explained. ‘I too must see about lunch.’
‘Do you cook for yourself then?’
‘I live alone, you know. Since my wife died …’
‘Yes, of course, Miss Morrow told me.’
‘Really? What did she say?’
‘Oh, how sad it was and all that sort of thing,’ said Jane rapidly with her eyes on the ground.
‘Yes, I think she knows. She is a very understanding person in her way.’
‘And do you like cooking and looking after yourself?’ asked Jane in a brighter tone.
‘One manages,’ said Fabian; ‘one has to, of course.’
The use of the third person seemed to add pathos, which was perhaps just what he intended, Jane thought.
‘You and your husband must come and have a meal with me one evening,’ Fabian went on.
‘We should love to,’ said Jane, pausing to open the vicarage gate.
‘Goodbye, then.’ Fabian walked slowly away.
He is going back to cook a solitary lunch, thought Jane, or perhaps it will just be beer and bread and cheese, a man’s meal and the better for being eaten alone.
‘I’ve just met Mr. Driver,’ she said to Flora as she entered the house. ‘He is a widower and lives alone. I felt quite sorry for him going back to eat a rather miserable lunch.’
There was a bark of laughter from Mrs. Glaze, who was dusting in the hall.
‘I don’t think Mrs. Arkright would thank you for calling it that, madam,’ she said.
‘Mrs. Arkright?’
‘Yes, she goes in and cooks Mr. Driver’s meals, and a very good cook she is. I dare say he’ll be having a casserole of hearts to-day,’ said Mrs. Glaze in a full tone.
‘A casserole of hearts,’ murmured Jane in confusion, thinking of the grave and the infidelities. Did he eat his victims, then?
‘My nephew the butcher had hearts and liver this week, madam, but I didn’t know if you liked hearts. Not everybody does.’
‘No, I don’t think my husband does,’ said Jane.
‘The vicar doesn’t like hearts? Oh, I must remember that.’ Mrs. Glaze nodded her head and stopped in her dusting as if to let the fact sink into her memory.
‘But Mr. Driver gave me to understand that he did his own cooking,’ she said.
‘Well, madam, I dare say he might make a cup of coffee or boil an egg; you know how men are.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Jane agreed. ‘The church is going to look very nice, I think.’
‘Oh, Mother, you always say that,’ said Flora, Mrs. Glaze having left them alone together. ‘And you never really notice.’
‘No, I notice the things one shouldn’t,’ said Jane.
She thought of this again the following evening when she and Flora were sitting in their pew at Evensong and she found herself regretting that they were not sitting further back, where they could have had a better view of the congregation. Fabian Driver
was on a level with them at the other side. When they came into the church he had looked up and half smiled at Jane; it was the sort of smile one could give in church or to a very intimate friend. Miss Morrow and Miss Doggett and a few elderly ladies in yellowish brown fur coats were in the front pews. But apart from them Jane could see hardly anybody. It was not until the time for the collection came and a bag was handed to her that she realised that it must be Mr. Mortlake standing there, deferential yet expectant, appearing confident of the folded note or couple of half-crowns that would be slipped into it. But Jane had been taken unawares and a desperate fumbling in her purse produced only a threepenny bit and two pennies. She felt almost as if she should apologise to the tall, elderly man with the beaky nose waiting so patiently there, for surely he must have seen her miserable offering.
‘Oh, dear,’ she whispered to Flora, ‘I hadn’t got the right money. I’m sure he noticed.’
But Flora wasn’t really listening to what her mother said. Her eyes were fixed on the back of the young man in one of the front pews who had read the second Lesson. Tall, with fairish wavy hair and a thin, spiritual-looking face; he looked a little tired, perhaps even hungry. She must persuade her mother to ask him to supper some time.
I suppose that’s the one Mr. Mortlake doesn’t like reading the Lessons, Mr. Oliver or some such name, thought Jane, trying to get him clear in her mind. But she soon lost interest, and found herself turning her attention to Mr. Driver and wondering, though very faintly, if he might perhaps do for her friend Prudence?
Chapter Four
PRUDENCE, unlike Jane and her family, had attended no kind of Harvest Thanksgiving service, and got up on Monday morning thinking of nothing but the week’s work ahead of her and the rapture and misery and boredom of her love for Arthur Grampian.
