by Barbara Pym
‘No, I am not visible to passers-by,’ said Mr. Oliver with a faint smile.
‘What a disappointment,’ said Jane, echoing her daughter’s thoughts, for Flora had been very much cast down when she realised that it would not be possible to see him by going into the Bank on some pretext or other. It was not, unfortunately, the one where the Clevelands had their account. But it didn’t really matter very much, she decided; she was beginning to fall out of love with him already. He was not so very interesting after all, and had hardly given her a glance. It had been nice of him to help her with the tray, but any man with reasonable manners would have done the same. Now he was talking to her father about the Parochial Church Council, a most boring subject. Something about Mr. Mortlake and Mr. Whiting. That was a kind offish that always had its tail in its mouth, Flora thought, wanting to giggle. Apparently there was some complication about something, nothing ‘overt’, whatever that might be, nothing had been said but the feeling was there. Nicholas was just nodding and saying ‘really’ or ‘oh dear’ as if he didn’t much want to be talking about it at all, but Mr. Oliver’s voice was going on and on. It was rather that kind of voice.
Jane wished he would go, so that she could have a fourth cup of tea, take off her tight shoes and finish reading the book reviews, but the party did not break up until Nicholas suddenly looked at his watch and it was discovered that they must all be getting ready for Evensong.
In church Mr. Oliver again appeared glamorous, seen in the distance and the dim light; Flora’s love came flooding back, so that she could hardly bear to look at him. His voice when he read the Lessons sounded different from when he was talking about the Parochial Church Council in the afternoon. She was reminded of a poem she had once read somewhere, something about my devotion more secure, woos thy spirit high and pure. … If she could find it, she would copy it out into her diary.
At supper afterwards Jane and Nicholas discussed what their visitor had been saying about Mr. Mortlake and Mr. Whiting.
‘I couldn’t quite follow,’ said Jane; ‘it all seemed rather obscure. For a moment I almost thought it was something to do with the men’s lavatory in the church hall, the cistern or something, but how could that be?’
‘Well, there is more to it than that,’ said Nicholas guardedly.
‘Though that does come into it. I’m wondering,’ he went on quickly, fearing his wife’s ready laughter, ‘whether it was perhaps a mistake to ask Oliver to tea. If Mortlake and Whiting got to hear of it, there might be feeling.’
‘Then we’ll have them all to tea in turn,’ said Jane comfortably, ‘though goodness knows what we shall talk about. I should think they would be even more difficult than Mr. Oliver.’
‘Well, the Bank and the Church aren’t always the easiest combination—I mean, the two together.’
‘We should have asked him about his home,’ said Jane regretfully, ‘his mother and sisters. I’m sure he has sisters.’
‘We didn’t touch on his war career, either,’ said Nicholas. ‘That would have been a topic of conversation.’
‘His triumphs in the Army,’ said Jane.
‘I don’t think he served with any particular distinction.’
‘I meant his triumphs with women,’Jane explained. ‘He might have had those, but I suppose they were hardly suitable topics of conversation for a vicarage tea party. Even the water-tank in the church hall was more in keeping.’
Nicholas sighed. ‘Yes, one does rather long for the talk of intelligent people sometimes — people of one’s own kind, I mean.’
Jane laughed. ‘Oh, that would be too much! Besides, we might not be equal to it now.’
Chapter Seven
JANE STOOD on the platform waiting for the train which was to take her to the junction where she would change to the London train. It was a cold November day and she had dressed herself up in layers of cardigans and covered the whole lot with her old tweed coat, the one she might have used for feeding the chickens in. Her hat, however, was quite smart, out of keeping with her other garments, since it had been bought for a wedding and seldom worn since. It was black and of quite a becoming shape, though the dampness of the day had made its veil droop rather sadly round her face.
She paced up and down the platform, humming to herself, looking at the gardens which bordered the station, wondering whether Nicholas really minded her missing the Mothers’ Union tea. He had seemed quite amenable to her going up to London to have luncheon with Prudence, though he had smiled a little at her serious excuses, the visit to Mowbray’s to buy suitable books for Confirmation presents and perhaps even to get some Christmas cards in really good time, and had told her to enjoy herself.
‘After all,’ Jane had said, ‘I don’t really feel so very much of a mother, having only one child, and you know how bad I am at presiding at meetings. It would be far more suitable if somebody like Miss Doggett were to do it, though I suppose spinsters aren’t eligible, really.’
‘Good morning, Mrs. Cleveland . . A firm voice called out the greeting from some distance away. It was Miss Doggett herself approaching at a steady pace. But just as she came near to Jane, she seemed to hesitate. Her mouth opened and she glanced round as if to make sure that they were not overheard, then said in a low confidential tone, ‘I hope you’ll excuse me for mentioning it, Mrs. Cleveland, but I thought you might like to know.’ She lowered her voice still more and almost whispered, ‘Your underskirt is showing a little on the left side.’
‘It’s this wretched locknit,’ said Jane rather too loudly and gaily, so that Miss Doggett recoiled a little; ‘it does sag so. Still, there’s nothing I can do about it now. The train’s coming.’
They got into an empty carriage together and sat rather stiffly on opposite sides by the window. Miss Doggett produced a safety pin from her bag.
‘You could take it up at the shoulder, perhaps,’ she suggested, offering the pin.
‘Thank you,’ said Jane, who had had no intention of doing anything about her sagging slip, ‘I suppose I ought to do something, especially as I am going to London. People might notice,’ she added unconvincingly, for who among the many millions — six, was it, or eight? — would notice that a country vicar’s wife had half an inch of underskirt showing on the left side?
‘Well, it is feeling right oneself that’s the important thing,’ said Miss Doggett, stroking her musquash coat. ‘I am going up to my dressmaker for a fitting.’
‘How grand that sounds, having clothes specially fitted so that they are exactly your shape and nobody else’s,’ said Jane impetuously.
Miss Doggett, whose figure was rather an odd shape, known to dressmakers as ‘difficult’, seemed as if she did not quite know how to take Jane’s remark, but she must have decided that she was obviously much too unworldly to mean any offence, so decided not to take umbrage.
‘I suppose you have to go to London on business,’ she said quite pleasantly. ‘You will be sorry to miss the Mothers’ Union tea. I believe it is quite an event.’
‘Yes, I am sorry,’ said Jane quickly; ‘but you know, I feel so unlike a mother when I am at these functions. I am so very undomesticated. They are all so splendid and efficient and have really quite wonderful ideas. Do you know, a mother in our last parish had one of her hints published in Christian Home’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. It was a use for a thermometer case, if you had the misfortune to break your thermometer, of course. A splendid case for keeping bodkins in!’ Jane chorded with laughter.
An uncertain smile appeared on Miss Doggett’s face. ‘Well, well, I must remember that,’ she said.
‘Yes, do!’
There was a short pause. The last topic of conversation did not seem to lead very easily to anything else.
At last Miss Doggett said, ‘I suppose you and the vicar are coming to the whist drive?’
‘Oh, certainly,’ said Jane. ‘I do so very much want to meet our Member. I have heard he is very charming.’
‘I often wonder whether people born into his station of life can really know how others live,’ said Jane thoughtfully. ‘I’m always reminded of that verse in We are Seven — something about a little child that lightly draws its breath, what can it know of death? Do you see what I mean?’
Miss Doggett obviously did not, but she went on to repeat that Edward Lyall’s principles were very sound and that of course his father and his grandfather had been Members of Parliament before him.
‘He is not married?’ asked Jane, trying to keep her voice neutral.
‘No, he does not appear to be.’ Miss Doggett sounded puzzled for a moment. ‘He is thirty-two, but of course a man in his position couldn’t afford to make a hasty or unsuitable choice.
His wife would have to be quite exceptional — one could hardly expect him to marry a very young girl, either,’ she added with a glance at Jane.
‘Certainly not,’ Jane agreed. ‘I have no hopes in that direction.’
“Well, it would hardly be suitable,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘Your daughter …’
‘Has just gone up to Oxford, where she is surrounded by young men. A man of twenty-two would seem old to her,’ said Jane gaily. But was she failing in her duty as a mother, she wondered, by not entertaining hopes of Edward Lyall as a possible husband for Flora? He would be more suitable for Prudence, if anybody, but the truth was that one hardly considered members of his Party as being within one’s own sphere; it would have seemed presumptuous to regard them as possible husbands for one’s relations and friends.
‘What is Mrs. Lyall like?’ asked Jane bluntly.
‘Well, of course she is not one of us,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘You may have heard that she goes to Father Lomax’s church, which seems a pity.’
‘Oh, well, Nicholas is the last person to mind a thing like that. He and Father Lomax were at Oxford together. I often think I would prefer a High Church service myself, but of course clergy wives have to be very careful, you know. They have to be sitting there in their dowdy old clothes in a pew rather too near the front — it’s a kind of duty.’
Again Miss Doggett had no ready answer. ‘Of course,’ she went on after a while, ‘Mrs. Lyall is not very sound politically either. I have heard that there are tendencies the other way….’ She moved her hands about in a vague gesture.
‘The other way?’ Jane echoed. ‘Yes; I see what you mean. Rome and Russia.’
‘Oh, not Russia,’ said Miss Doggett in a shocked tone. ‘After all, her son was educated at Eton and Balliol, and Mrs. Lyall herself is of quite good family.’
‘Well, thank you for telling me,’ said Jane in a reassuring tone. ‘I shan’t indicate in any way that I have heard when I meet Mrs. Lyall.’ Then, seeing that Miss Doggett was looking very puzzled, she added, ‘About the tendencies the other way, I mean.’
They sat in silence in their corners for a moment or two, then Jane said, ‘I do like your companion, Miss Morrow, so much.’
‘You like Miss Morrow?’ Miss Doggett sounded surprised. ‘Well, she is really a distant relation more than a companion. Her mother was my cousin. I felt I had to do what I could for her when she was looking for a post.’
‘That is a difficult position to be in, especially when there’s a relationship,’ said Jane. ‘She seems such a bright, intelligent sort of person — she told me quite a lot about the village.’
‘You mean about the people in the village?’ said Miss Doggett sharply. ‘Yes, Jessie certainly has her eyes open.’
‘She told me a good deal about Mr. Driver,’ said Jane. ‘About his wife and other things.’
‘Ah, the other things,’ said Miss Doggett obscurely. ‘Of course, we never saw anything of those. We knew that it went on, of course — in London, I believe.’
‘Yes, it seems suitable that things like that should go on in London,’ Jane agreed. ‘It is in better taste somehow that a man should be unfaithful to his wife away from home. Not all of them have the opportunity, of course.’
‘Poor Constance was left alone a great deal,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘In many ways, of course, Mr. Driver is a very charming man.
They say, though, that men only want one thing — that’s the truth of the matter.’ Miss Doggett again looked puzzled; it was as if she had heard that men only wanted one thing, but had forgotten for the moment what it was. ‘Ah, here we are at the junction,’ she said, gathering her things together with an air of relief. ‘You will need to hurry to catch the London train — they don’t allow much time.’
The remainder of Jane’s journey was shorter and less interesting. She thought idly about Fabian, turning him over in her mind as a possibility for Prudence, but in no time the train was slowing down under the great glass roof of the London terminus and she was gathering together her bag and umbrella and unread book and newspaper.
She was to meet Prudence at a quarter to one and found that when she got to Piccadilly she still had some time to spare. So, in anticipation of lunch or perhaps to tantalise herself by looking at dainties she would most certainly not be eating, she wandered into a large provision store and moved slowly from counter to counter, her feet sinking into the thick carpet, her senses bemused by the semi-darkness and the almost holy atmosphere. She finally stopped in the middle of the floor before a stand which was given over to a display foie gras, packed in terrines o creamy pottery, some of them ornamented with pictures.
A tall man, rather too grandly dressed for his function, Jane thought, came up to her.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ he asked quietly.
‘Well, now, I wonder if you could,’ said Jane.
‘I shall certainly endeavour to, madam,’ said the man gravely.
‘The point is this. How can a clergyman’s wife afford to buy foie gras?’
‘It would seem to be difficult,’ said the man respectfully. ‘Let us see now.’ He took down a card from the stand. ‘The smallest size is fourteen and ninepence.’
‘Yes,’ said Jane. ‘I saw that. But I shouldn’t really want the smallest size. Those large decorated jars have taken my fancy.’
‘Ah, madam, those are one hundred and seventeen shillings,’ said the salesman, rolling the words round his tongue.
‘Well, I’m sorry to have wasted your time like this,’ said Jane, moving away. ‘I should like to have bought some.’
‘To tell you the truth, madam, I don’t care for it myself,’ said the salesman, bowing Jane out of the door, ‘and my wife doesn’t either.’
And, comforted by these words, Jane moved out into the street feeling that she had been vouchsafed a glimpse of somebody else’s life. She wondered about the man as she walked to meet Prudence — perhaps he was a churchwarden or sidesman somewhere, there had been something about his bearing that suggested it; in a way he had reminded her of Mr. Mortlake.
Jane realised that she had killed too much time and was now a little late, for Prudence was already waiting at the vegetarian restaurant where they were to have lunch. The place was crowded and they found themselves sitting at a table with two women, under the photograph of the founder of some system of diet in which the restaurant specialised. He was bearded and wore pince-nez, which seemed suitable.
Prudence ordered a raw salad while Jane chose a hot dish of strange vegetables. Conversation was a little difficult at first, since the women already at the table were engaged in an interesting family tale which Jane and Prudence could not help listening to. Indeed, it would have seemed impolite to start a conversation of their own, and they contented themselves with murmurs and glances. Jane noticed a woman wearing heavy silver jewellery and an orange jumper — she looked the kind of person who might have been somebody’s mistress in the nineteen-twenties. She was also interested in two foreign gentlemen at the next table, arguing vigorously.
‘Prue,’ said Jane when they were at last alone at their table, ‘I do so want you to come down and stay with us the week-end afte
r this one,’ said Jane. ‘Flora will just be back, and there’s going to be a kind of political whist drive where you’ll meet simply everybody.’
Prudence hoped that her horror did not show in her face. She disliked going away from home in the autumn and winter. Other people’s houses were so cold, and she knew from experience that Jane and her family lived in an uncomfortable, makeshift way. The food wasn’t even particularly good; it seemed that Jane would stop to admire a smoked salmon in a window or a terrine of foie gras, but in the abstract, as it were; her own catering never achieved such a standard even on a lower scale.
‘I don’t know if I shall be able to manage that week-end,’ she said warily. One’s married friends were too apt to assume that one had absolutely nothing to do when not at the office. A flat with no husband didn’t seem to count as a home.
‘Oh, Prue, do come! I’m sure it will be fun, and it will do you good to get away from London.’
‘Well, I dare say I could — though the idea of a whist drive fills me with dismay.’
‘But we needn’t play — or at least not seriously,’ said Jane. ‘You know I’m no good at anything but patience, and not always very good at that. But I feel it will be a drawing-together of the threads — we shall see the place all of a piece as it were.’
‘Have you met any interesting people — people of one’s own type, I mean?’ asked Prudence cautiously.
‘Yes, in a way. There’s Miss Morrow and Fabian Driver —I think I told you about him in my letter.’ Jane was too wise to appear anything but casual in her tone as she mentioned this eligible widower. She knew that the pride of even young spinsters is a delicate thing and that Prudence was especially sensitive. There must be no hint that she was trying to ‘bring them together’.
‘Yes — you said something about him eating the hearts of his victims,’ said Prudence, equally casual. She realised that Jane might have some absurd idea in her mind about ‘bringing them together’, but determined not to let her see that she suspected or that she entertained any hopes herself. So they were both satisfied and neither was really deceived for a moment. The conversation went on smoothly — Jane revealed that Fabian was good-looking and quite tall, about five foot eleven which was really tall enough for a man, and that he had a nice house.
