A Particular Place

by MARY HOCKING

  Valentine, grieving for the disregarded salad, said lightly, ‘No, not by any means all. I thought the choir sang better than one might have hoped; I liked the shadows on the walls; the way the candlelight flickered on the brass railings; the deep blue stillness of the East window. All the inessentials.’ Although she sounded theatrical, she yet gave the impression of throwing each sentence away like a useless playing card. Life, the disdainful lips proclaimed, had dealt her an indifferent hand. ‘But then it’s just the same at concerts. You are moved by the music while for me the pleasure is in the intent faces of the players as they bend to their bows, or pluck their lutes, or whatever. I love the sheen of light on old wood, the women in cool dresses falling softly from the stem of the neck and the men gravely attentive in formal clothes. Why will you constantly invite rebuffs? You should know by now how superficial I am.’ Fit for nothing but providing light meals which are not appreciated.

  ‘My dear, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  She made a dismissive gesture with eloquent hands. ‘You are so fortunate. All your notes ring true. Even your distress.’ All this fuss about a few sprigs of varied greenery and a confection of yoghurt and almonds!

  Hoath put the tray in the hearth and came towards her; his hands, held out as if to touch her shoulders, fell to his sides as he looked into her eyes. The large violet eyes dominated her face and it was their anxiety which gave an air of fragility to features which were so finely moulded that they would stand very well the tests of time.

  ‘I am tired,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I know.’ He looked round the room. ‘But it is all beginning to take shape now, isn’t it?’

  ‘It had an unalterable shape to start with.’

  He turned away. ‘It was you who wanted to leave Oxford.’ His tone had a rougher edge, indicating limits to his patience.

  It was all getting out of hand. She was a lively and thoughtless speaker, heedlessly provoking emotional scenes in which he stumbled about like a lost child. She made an attempt at propitiation. ‘I hated to see you being patronised by those odious dons’ wives.’ He looked at her wryly. He had a long face with a jutting chin, the kind of face which taken to absurdity results in Mr Punch or the Man in the Moon. An odd companion for a woman of antique beauty and imperial temperament.

  Yet when they had cleared away the supper things and he left her to go to bed, she became, alone in the sitting-room, a more frail creature. She stood for some time by the empty hearth, studying her shadowy reflection in the oval looking glass. Her expression was one of haughty contempt, yet she seemed unable to drag herself from the mirror as though her beauty held her in thrall. Eventually, however, her eyes strayed from her own image to take in the details of the room. It was a pleasant room, generously proportioned and with those irregularities – alcoves, a good Victorian bay window – which give to a room an illusion of individuality. It was a room which waited for the occupants to make something of it. She said aloud, ‘If I were to say a prayer, I suppose it should be “Help me to make some sort of a decent life for him here.” ’

  This house had the feel of a place which has long been inhabited by people who have never regarded it as home. She was not a natural homemaker. It wasn’t that she was lazy, she simply did not know how to set about bringing warmth and comfort into a chill old barn of a place. Did one tackle first the matter of temperature, would a coat of paint here and there bring about an immediate improvement, or should one concentrate on wallpaper? And why was it that in houses where no marks would be given for paintwork, wallpaper or efficient heating, one simply did not notice such deficiencies because the feeling of home was so all-embracing?

  Valentine had been born during the war – that time when servants departed for factories never again to return to middle-class homes. All through her childhood their absence had occasioned more notice than their presence would ever have done. Her mother had lived in a state of perpetual mourning for lost Edies and Ethels. Her father had wisely provided himself with an Edie on the sly. Her mother had said, ‘It is what men of his class do.’ She had never ceased to be proud of her husband’s father who had never had to work for his living even although he had not handed this bounty on to his son. Valentine and her sisters had grown up bewildered rather than unhappy.

  ‘I shall do some gardening,’ she thought as she switched off the light in the sitting-room. ‘At least that will be a start.’ A garden was her real home: even her mother had felt no sense of impropriety when working in the garden. But the prospect of a day’s gardening failed to raise her spirits.

  Whatever harm she might have done to her husband, she knew that he would sleep soundly, having long ago constructed a picture of his marriage which met some, if not all, of his needs. Had he chanced to stay awake for any length of time, he would have occupied his mind with plans for the day ahead. He was not a man who would readily live with failure, while she tended to embrace it. Tonight she would go over in her mind all the irritations and imagined slights of the day, chief among which would be the social worker who had ignored her beauty as though it was at best irrelevant, at worst shameful, and Charles Venables whom she despised because he behaved as though her beauty was all that mattered. Men! Women! she thought as she climbed the stairs. God should have made a third species especially for me.

  Chapter Two

  It rained unrelentingly throughout Easter week and Low Sunday lived up to its name in all respects. By the following Thursday morning, however, the rain had stopped. The sky was no longer uniformly grey and to the west dirty cotton wool clouds dispersed in a sheen of silver.

  The dove-grey cat, which had arrived a month ago at the vicarage in great distress, sat on the top of the old coal bunker and brushed a neat white paw against its small pink nose. Now glossy and trusting, it performed its ablutions in leisurely manner before turning its attention to the birds, dotted like dead leaves on the branches of the apple tree. Beyond, in the lane leading past the graveyard, the bare branches of the surviving elm were knotted with rooks’ nests.

  In the lofty stone-flagged kitchen where the Hoaths breakfasted for warmth, Michael made notes on a pad. Valentine, after watching in silence for some minutes, said, ‘It’s all right for you. Your dog collar gives you a licence to meddle.’

  He reached for the toast. ‘If it does, I don’t make full use of it. I would so much sooner people came to me.’

  ‘They do come to you.’

  ‘Who are they? Devout old ladies troubled by David Jenkins’s latest indiscretion.’

  ‘What do you expect? You don’t imagine you can encroach on secular preserves.’ She poured tea for herself. ‘Social Services have the monopoly here. Need and deprivation there may be, but when one attempts to do something about it – however modest – one is reminded that the caring business is a closed shop. For people who claim to be overworked, social workers are very quick to defend their preserves.’

  He looked up, alerted by the sharpness of her tone. ‘How selfish of me. I was so occupied with the Easter services that I completely forgot. You went to make enquiries . . .’

  ‘In answer to my request some tousle-headed female emanated from a cloud of tobacco smoke. She covered, briefly and discouragingly, a range of auxiliary duties for which I was eminently unsuited. Then, taking advantage of her coughing fit, I told her I had thought of the Citizens’ Advice Bureau.’

  ‘But that doesn’t come under Social Services.’

  ‘They have their moles at work within the organization, though. She was able to assure me that I would have to take a course.’

  ‘Well, then . . .’

  ‘And, furthermore, “You will have to be able to deal with all sorts of people,” she informed me, making it quite apparent from her manner that I should be unable to sustain a conversation with anyone from Ambridge, let alone Coronation Street.’

  ‘I think it was probably a mistake to approach Social Services in the first place. Why not . . .’

&n
bsp; ‘On the contrary, it saved a lot of time. It convinced me that the only way that I could ever be of service to the community would be if I were to found an Order of my own. I doubt if I have the commitment – or the stamina, come to that.’

  Michael spread marmalade thickly on toast while he considered this. Something occurred to him which brightened his face. ‘You didn’t tell me what happened at the dramatic society meeting on Tuesday.’

  ‘My true milieu. How right you are! They are doing Hedda Gabler. You can guess what part I was offered.’

  ‘Hedda.’

  ‘The producer was obviously panic-stricken at the beginning of the audition because one of those prima donnas which every society has as its cross regarded the part as already hers. She actually did it without the book, just to drive her stake deep into his heart. When I read he looked at me as if I was a gift not merely from the vicarage but God Himself. It was quite amusing. I said I would have to think about it, because I was too old for Hedda. She, I may say, will never see fifty again.’

  ‘You will accept?’

  ‘I am too old, Michael. I am forty-five.’

  He looked at her unhappily, recognizing the need for reassurance but fearing it would be rejected as unacceptable no sooner than offered. He said, ‘My dearest, to me you always seem as young as the day I married you.’

  The wretched sincerity of the tone in which this statement was made amused her so much that her gloom was dispelled. ‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘better Hedda than Mary Rose. I shall certainly accept.’

  As he left the vicarage Michael Hoath was comforted in the knowledge that for the next month or so Valentine would be absorbed in the production of Hedda Gabler. This would undoubtedly give rise to a series of crises as she found herself in conflict with the producer, out of sympathy with Ibsen, unsure of Hedda’s motivation, dissatisfied with her costume, hampered by the limitations of the set and, towards the end of the rehearsal period, constantly proclaiming that she could not carry the role and should stand down. But all this had happened before and he had some understanding of that kind of instability which is a part of the creative process.

  Michael shared with his wife a taste for drama; but while Valentine realized her need within the confines of a theatre, he looked to life for its fulfilment. As a result he tended to see his world as a course with obstacles set up with the express purpose of testing his spiritual prowess. Now, he paused on the vicarage lawn, tossing the car keys about in one hand, wondering what kind of a course this slate-roofed town overhung by the bluff hills would offer. It was difficult to construct an optimistic scenario.

  The place to which he had come was a small market town of some ten-thousand inhabitants in which light industry had never really taken root. Once it had had a modest reputation for shoes and gloves, but fashions had changed and only one shoe firm remained in the area. The only continuing feature of its commercial success was the brewery. In the Sixties there had been hopes that the new university would be sited here, but it had gone elsewhere, although some staff used the town as a dormitory, enriching its life with occasional lectures and participating vociferously in protests about developments which would devalue their property. It was a decent enough little place in which to grow old, with good cultural facilities for those of a more contemplative cast of mind; but with little hope for those seeking employment and with nothing to offer the young except a swimming pool which had been designed to Olympic standards and built to meet the requirements of the County Council for its schools’ gala. The only real excitement in recent years had been its successful fight for a by-pass. Feeling must indeed have run high in those days. Michael had met respectable elderly ladies who recalled marching up and down the high street bearing banners warning ‘Jugger off!’ and ‘Truck off!’ But all that was over. The town had won and hoteliers and shopkeepers had discovered to their cost that the one-time invaders were only too willing to avail themselves of the by-pass. All passion seemed now spent. As far as Michael could judge, there were no very interesting sins. Indifference would be the major hurdle here. It was the sort of place to which St Paul, for all his shipwrecks, would have given a wide berth.

  As he stood on the vicarage lawn, breathing in the damp, lifeless air, he had a premonition that here a demand would be made of him which he would be unable to answer. He looked at the garden and was not comforted. Well-stocked borders and a smooth green lawn were refreshment to the eye and solace to the soul, but an unkempt garden filled him with a sense of impotence because he did not know how to set about restoring order. Here, rampant climbers and rioting shrubs menaced him on all sides. He had no idea what should be left undisturbed and what rooted out. His one attempt at cutting back roses had drawn from Valentine the comment, ‘Well, they won’t trouble you again!’ since when she had never let him into a garden with a pair of secateurs in his hands. He did not know the kinds of soil which different plants needed nor how often they should be fed and watered. The sheer amount of detailed knowledge required to keep oneself on even terms with growing things bewildered him. His brain became confused every time he looked at a disorderly garden. This garden was very disorderly.

  He experienced a moment of panic, an impulse to run into the vicarage and tell Valentine that he could not see this through – an infantile urge, blind and unreasoning as a child’s refusal to go to school. He walked slowly towards the garage, forcing his shaken mind to consider what was happening to him. He had not wanted to come here, that was undeniably true; it had meant giving up much that he enjoyed in Oxford, together with any hope of preferment. But he had thought that out and accepted it. He was unlikely to suffer anything stronger than a passing disappointment at the prospect of remaining a parish priest. Ambition had played little part in his life. His father, a solicitor in a Sussex country town, had never sought to better himself by moving to a more thriving practice. His mother, the daughter of a local chemist in the town where he now found himself, had lovingly described the unsuccessful father as ‘a dear, unreliable man’. Michael’s parents had not been ambitious for themselves or for their only child. Certainly, there would be no lasting bitterness eating into his soul were he to end his days as a parish priest. Indeed, there was much that could be made of the situation – better by far to grow old nose to the grindstone than overseeing the mill-race from some lofty window. But there was something else, some underlying fear which had never openly declared itself. He felt it at the pit of his stomach and knew by the weight of it that it had been growing within him for a long time. He rested two fingers between his eyes, a habit he had when he wished to calm himself. ‘I have to think about this, not run away from it.’ But he had a busy day ahead and must put it to one side until he had read the Office and the day was spent.

  He had arranged to visit a site up in the hills where unemployed youngsters were helping to erect a log cabin in a country park. This was the kind of activity which he enjoyed and he was soon at work unloading logs. He returned to the town feeling healthier in body and renewed in spirit. It was a quarter to twelve and he had to take Mass at noon. The church, sited in the high street, had no parking space adjacent but he was fortunate in finding a space in a cul-de-sac where infilling had created four cramped town houses at the back of a builder’s yard.

  His churchwarden, Walter Ellery, an elderly man with the face of an ancient walrus, was already in the vestry when Michael arrived. Valentine had said that he was one of those people who seem already to belong to posterity rather than the ephemeral everyday world. Michael asked him, ‘And who have we today?’ It seemed that the congregation consisted, as usual, of Mrs Cummins, Mrs Challoner, Miss Addison and Mrs Flack.

  Michael said wryly, ‘Ah well, when two or three are gathered together in His name, all things are possible . . .’ The old man smiled and Michael saw that for him this was the simple truth. He felt rebuked in the presence of such humility.

  After the service he returned to the church intending to retrieve a duster which he had
noticed lying to one side of the chancel steps. He was half-way down the nave before he realized that Mrs Flack was still there.

  He would have said that, of the four women who had attended the service, Miss Addison was the most likely to remain so long in prayer. Mrs Flack, who was no doubt responsible for the duster, was a good church cleaner but she had given little indication that she was endowed with the equipment for prolonged meditation. He checked himself, realizing that this was how he would report the incident to Valentine, hoping to amuse her.

  As he came level with Mrs Flack she turned her head and said, ‘I’ve been waiting for a word, Vicar.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Flack.’

  ‘I have been examining my soul, like you told us to the other week.’

  Michael, wincing at this crude rephrasing of his attempt at spiritual guidance, bowed his head and waited for whatever revelation was to follow.

  Mrs Flack raised her face, the blunt features not much softened by the muted light. ‘I have decided I must speak.’

  ‘Yes, please . . .’

  ‘Mr Hughes played the organ last Sunday.’

  ‘Mr Painter has ’flu,’ Michael pointed out, trying to conceal his impatience at the thought of another complaint about an unfamiliar tune.

  ‘I didn’t expect that Mr Hughes would be asked to play the organ. Not after what he’s done.’

  ‘What has he done?’

  ‘Standing by the war memorial with that petition.’

  It had not occurred to Michael that anyone was capable of thinking in this way. He was tempted to tell the woman that as long as he was Vicar Ewan Hughes would be welcome to play the organ whenever he could be persuaded to do so. But as he gazed at the brown coat which gave off a damp, woolly smell and saw the now familiar crease punched in the crown of the ancient velour hat, he realized that after two months in the parish these articles were his surest means of identifying Mrs Flack. What went on beneath that ungainly bundle was a mystery to him. Yet as a priest it was a mystery which it was his duty to investigate since, as she herself had reminded him, it was not Mrs Flack’s outer garments with which he should be concerned, but the state of her soul. He seated himself beside her in the pew.