The Fields of Heaven

by Anne Weale

  It was a rather cool day for early July, and they were both wearing summer trouser suits. Imelda’s was scarlet, paired with a striped matelot top. Mrs. Wingfield’s suit was silver-grey linen over a caramel silk shirt. Watching her, Imelda thought admiringly that Elizabeth Wingfield was an excellent example of how to grow old gracefully. Although her fine dry skin was very lined, and she had given up using cosmetics other than powder, she still used a delightful scent, and her slim figure and up-to-date choice of clothes - her satchel and shoes were in the same casual style as Imelda’s - made her seem younger than her years.

  “This I couldn’t resist, although it was rather expensive,” she said, unwrapping the tissue protecting a silver- gilt bodkin case.

  Imelda was studying the design through her pocket glass when, to her dismay, Mrs. Wingfield remarked, “Hello, Charles. You’re early, too. I met Imelda and persuaded her to join us.”

  Her grandson looked down at her guest, his expression unfathomable. “Hello, Imelda, how are you?”

  “Fine. How are you?” she returned, outwardly calm. Inwardly, she felt anything but composed. It had not crossed her mind that Charles might be joining them, and although his grandmother’s presence relieved the encounter of much of its awkwardness, it did not do so completely.

  The two women being already supplied with dry sherry, Charles signalled to the steward and asked for lager for himself. He sat down in the chair at his grandmother’s end of the sofa, and crossed his legs.

  Resuming her study of the bodkin case, Imelda was conscious of him watching her, and was grateful for the impulse which had caused her to spend the previous evening attending to her hair and nails. She might so easily have spent the time wire-wooling or stripping, and although it never bothered her if Sam, or other men, saw her looking less than her best, with Charles it was important to be immaculate. Until recently she would have pretended to herself that this was merely a matter of added self-assurance. Now she had to admit there was only one reason why a girl, not normally vain, suddenly minded very much how she looked in the eyes of one man.

  It was while they were finishing their lunch with strawberries, and cream that Mrs. Wingfield gave Imelda the opportunity she had hoped for by remarking, “You’ve had all my news, but said very little of your affairs. Has business been good lately?”

  “This week has been good. Last week was rather unpleasant.” Imelda told her of Sebastian’s death, and of the thefts. She looked across the table at Charles who was sitting opposite her. “I believe you called at the shop that morning?”

  “Yes, but I could see it was an inopportune moment, so I went away.”

  Imelda turned back to his grandmother. “Charles is being tactful. I’m afraid the truth is that I was ‘giving way to emotion’, as they say in Victorian novelettes. I’m not a weepy person normally, but having something stolen by someone you’ve liked the look of is a hateful sensation, and coming on top of the news about Sebastian ...” She left the sentence in the air.

  “My dear child, how wretched for you. I am sorry,” said Mrs. Wingfield concernedly. “Well, really, Charles, I do think you might at least have stayed to offer Imelda your handkerchief. To turn tail—”

  “Imelda wasn’t alone. She was already being comforted.”

  “Oh, by Mrs. Walsham, I suppose. But if she was at the shop, how did the other woman manage to—”

  “No, Sam Mutford was with me,” said Imelda. “It was he who noticed the watch was missing. Which reminds me, why did you say to me once that I shouldn’t have too much to do with him, Charles?”

  “The name Mutford is not synonymous with respectability in this district,” he replied, with a slight shrug.

  “Indeed it is not!” agreed Mrs. Wingfield wryly. “The trouble that family have caused. A most unruly clan! However, there may be exceptions. I don’t recall a Sam Mutford being brought before the Bench in my time.”

  Imelda explained the nature of her connection with Sam. “I’m sure he is completely honest. It’s most unfair to tar him with the family brush. But for their reputation, he would be engaged to the girl who was chosen Carnival Queen last week,” she added. “Unfortunately her mother has managed to put her off him, and now she’s going about with an Inland Revenue clerk who may be more respectable, but who’s not half the man Sam is.”

  “As Carnival Queens usually have very little to recommend them, beyond a pretty face and good figure, I should think he may be better off without her,” remarked Mrs. Wingfield. “Talking of carnivals and other summer festivities, I wonder if you would care to come to a reception at the Castle Museum next week, Imelda?”

  An hour later, as she was driving home, Imelda realised that she was no wiser about the cause of Charles’ visit to the shop. But at least he knew now the reason why Sam had had his arm around her, and surely her reference to Diane must have made it clear that there was nothing sentimental in her own relationship with Sam?

  On the evening of the reception, Imelda was ready some time before Mrs. Wingfield was due to call for her. She had had a new dress made at a shop in Norwich which sold unusual fabrics and made them up in whatever style customers wanted. She had chosen a lovely dull silk, the colour of bronze, and had sketched a plain, long-sleeved style to which, at home, she had added a collar and cuffs of ivory lace which someone had brought to Victoriana in a bundle of old trimmings.

  From her bedroom window, Imelda could see the junction of the main road with the road which led to the Hall. But it was Charles’ car, not Mrs. Wingfield’s, which presently came into view. Imelda had not realised he was coming with them. Perhaps he was not. Perhaps he had a different engagement, and was merely chauffeuring them to and fro.

  It was too mild an evening for a wrap to be necessary. Taking her bag from the bed, she went quickly downstairs to check that the back door was bolted. As she let herself out of the front door, Charles was parking the car alongside the kerb. But there was no one with him. Puzzled, Imelda turned to lock the door. By the time she had put the key in her bag, he was walking round the bonnet to join her on the pavement.

  “I came early in the expectation of having to wait at least ten minutes, but evidently I misjudged you,” he said.

  “Indeed you did. I can’t bear unpunctuality. Where’s your grandmother?”

  “She hasn’t been very well today, and she doesn’t feel up to an evening out. You have no objection to going to the reception with me, I hope?”

  “No, of course not. But had you intended to come with us? Or are you standing in so as not to disappoint me? If so, it’s very kind of you ... but quite unnecessary.”

  His left eyebrow tilted upwards. “Is that an oblique way of conveying that in the circumstances you would rather not go?” |

  “That was not what I meant at all.” And you know it, she added mentally.

  “Good, because Grandmother is expecting a detailed description of the occasion, and according to her I’m a very indifferent reporter,” he said, opening the nearside door of the car for her.

  “What’s wrong with Mrs. Wingfield? Nothing serious, I hope?” said Imelda, when he slid behind the wheel.

  “No, no - a headache and general lassitude. She does too much. Instead of resting after lunch, she weeds. Instead of having breakfast in bed, she gets up at seven to write letters to friends and relations who hardly ever write to her. I’ve tried to make her slow down, but she’s incorrigible.”

  The walls of Norwich Castle were tinged with apricot

  reflections from the western sky when they reached their destination. People in evening dress were converging on the Castle from all directions, dawdling to enjoy the sunset, the lingering warmth of the hot day, and the unwonted quiet of the city bereft of its heavy daytime traffic.

  The Castle stood on the summit of a great grass-covered mound shaded by mature trees. As Charles and Imelda strolled across the bridge which spanned the public gardens at the foot of the mound, it was evident that most of the other guests arri
ving for the reception had at least a nodding acquaintance with each other.

  “I suppose you know most of these people,” she said.

  “Not as many as Grandmother does. I don’t take much part in the local social life. I prefer my parties a deux,” said Charles in a tone which, although she knew he was teasing, sent a queer little shiver down her spine.

  He might not have as wide an acquaintance as Mrs. Wingfield, but there were many people who looked at him with interested recognition, and at her with curiosity, Imelda noticed, when they had shaken hands with the Lord Mayor and the other people in the receiving line.

  The first person she recognised was Beatrix, who at the same instant spotted Imelda and gave her a wintry smile which changed to a stare of surprise when she saw Imelda’s tall companion.

  Beatrix murmured something to the women with whom she had been chatting, and came to speak to them. She was wearing a ’Thirties dress of flowered chiffon with bishop sleeves, a tiered skirt and a knot of chiffon flowers tucked through the belt. She looked graceful, and noticeably chic amid the preponderance of too-tight Lurex.

  “Good evening, Miss Calthorpe. I didn’t expect to see you here, Charles. I thought you loathed these affairs? But I daresay you don’t like Elizabeth to drive herself at night, and Miss Calthorpe is a novice, I believe.”

  “Grandmother is having an early night after a tiring day, and Imelda and I have dropped in on our way to a dinner party,” he said pleasantly.

  “Oh ... I see.”

  But she doesn’t, thought Imelda. And neither do I. What dinner party?

  She had no opportunity to ask him. When, after some rather forced pleasantries, Beatrix drifted away, a tall, upright, elderly woman in a dress which appeared to be a genuine relic of the ’Thirties, not merely a fashion copy, bore down on Charles with a loud, “Hello, old chap, how are you? Where’s Elizabeth? I want a word with her.”

  For the third tune that evening Charles explained the reason for his grandmother’s absence.

  “Hmph, not like Elizabeth to give way to a headache,” said the tall woman. “Hope she isn’t beginning to crack up. You ought to get married, you know, Charles. Shouldn’t be difficult for you to find a suitable wife now. Must be any number of nice girls who’d be only too delighted to take you on.”

  “You mean now that I stand in my brother’s shoes?” His voice held no expression, but the hardening of his jaw was not lost on Imelda, although the tall woman seemed oblivious of it.

  Her attention had shifted to Imelda. “Are you the Bengates’ youngest girl?”

  “Miss Calthorpe is an antique dealer from London,” said Charles, introducing the tall woman as Mrs. Bawburgh.

  “How d’you do? You’re not with Sotheby’s, by any chance?” enquired Mrs. Bawburgh.

  “No.”

  “Pity. I’ve a Chinese pot which I’m told I ought to have valued. Hideous thing, but it could be frightfully valuable apparently. Do you know about Oriental stuff?”

  “I’m afraid not. It’s a very specialised field.”

  Mrs. Bawburgh turned back to Charles. “I wanted to ask Elizabeth if she would open our fete on Saturday. Lady Raynham has broken her leg. Most inconvenient of her! But I expect Elizabeth will come to the rescue. I’ll telephone first thing in the morning.” She moved away.

  Seeing the stormy light in Charles’ eyes, Imelda said lightly, “Is it a compliment to be mistaken for one of the Bengate girls?”

  “I haven’t met them. As I told you earlier, I don’t socialise more than I must,” he replied rather curtly.

  “Because you’re annoyed with Mrs. Bawburgh, there’s no need to bite my head off,” she retorted, in the tone she might have used to her brother in one of his grumpy moods.

  Charles turned a glacial grey gaze on her, and for an instant she quailed.

  “You’re right. I apologise.” The icy glint left his eyes, replaced by a look less daunting but equally disturbing. “Let’s go and look at the Gotmans, shall we?” He took hold of her arm to steer her through the increasing throng in the Rotunda.

  There were fewer people in the picture galleries. As Imelda had discovered many weeks ago, the Castle contained a fine collection of pictures by the famous Norwich School of landscape painters. Now she found that not only did Charles share her preference for watercolours rather than oils, but that her favourite landscape was also his favourite.

  “Why did you tell Beatrix we were on our way to a dinner party?” she asked him presently.

  He turned from gazing at a Girtin. “Was I unwise to assume that you would dine with me afterwards?”

  “You mean ... alone with you?”

  “Only in the sense that there won’t be anyone else at our table. We’re unlikely to have the restaurant to ourselves.

  “I - I should be delighted,” she answered, her throat oddly tight.

  Less than an hour later, somewhere in the country to the south of the city Charles parked the car in the yard of a weatherboarded water-mill. In the late summer dusk they lingered to look at the mill stream before entering the building where, in the restaurant overlooking the river, a candle in a shining glass storm shade shed its soft light over each table.

  “I gather you don’t rate respectability as one of the essential attributes of a husband,” he said unexpectedly, between the melon and the lamb cutlets.

  “What makes you say that?” she asked, startled by the abrupt change of subject. They had been discussing a seascape on the wall near their table.

  “It was the impression you gave when you were telling my grandmother about Mutford’s ex-girl-friend over lunch last week.”

  “It depends what one means by respectability. I believe it’s important to be honest and clean and punctual,” she answered thoughtfully. “But I don’t think people who work in offices are necessarily more eligible than people who work with their hands. Surely the important factor is not how much someone earns, or how secure their job is, but whether they really enjoy what they do for a living. Can anyone enjoy totting up other people’s taxes or filing forms? When I worked in an insurance office I never looked forward to the days as I do now, and I’m certain that Sam is a much happier person than Melvyn.”

  “Are you completely happy living here? You don’t miss London at all? You don’t feel any urge to discover other places ... other countries?”

  “I should like to go abroad, certainly. Perhaps next year, if the profits will stand it, I shall be able to have a foreign holiday. You’re a much-travelled person, so I’m told. Where would you recommend me to go the first time?”

  “The places I prefer are not very suitable for a girl on her own. If you wanted a busman’s holiday, France would be better than Spain, where most of the so-called antiques are made of plastic.” He drank some wine, eyeing her over the rim of the glass. As he replaced it on the table, he said, “What would you do if you had to live somewhere where there were no antique shops and nothing to collect?”

  “There’s always something to collect ... old bottles, shells, even pebbles. Nowhere could be more frustrating than London — for a collector who hasn’t any money!” she answered dryly.

  It was only a little after eleven when he stopped the car outside her door. As she took her latch-key from her bag, he held out his hand to take it from her and unlock the door. She was about to invite him in for coffee, and to ask his opinion of some old books she had bought a few days before, when he forestalled her by saying crisply, “I won’t come in. This village is a hotbed of gossip and you don’t want to risk your reputation. Goodnight, Imelda. I hope you’ll dine with me again some time.”

  “I should like to. Thank you for tonight, Charles. Goodnight.” She held out her hand and felt again the firm clasp she remembered from the day of her great- aunt’s funeral.

  In the kitchen, making coffee for one, she could not

  help feeling a certain disappointment that the evening had ended so early. Had he meant his suggestion of a future date, o
r had that been merely a politeness? “Some time” was extremely vague. Perhaps she had bored him. And yet there had been moments during the evening when she had felt the rapport between them almost as tangibly as, at other moments, she had felt his fingers on her elbow.

  The following morning, while Imelda was hanging up a large oval earthenware goose dish with the Minton impressed mark for 1859, Beatrix called on her.

  Imelda was surprised to see her, and even more surprised when, without knowing the price, Beatrix said she would buy the dish.

  “I didn’t think Victorian pottery was your line of country,” Imelda remarked, as she lifted it down and detached the wire hanger.

  “It isn’t really, but a customer has asked me to find her two or three chargers to use as trays for cocktail snacks,” Beatrix explained. “How much are these?” - picking up a boxed set of silver Art Nouveau buttons.

  “There should be a price ticket on the underside of the box.”

  Beatrix found it, and bought the buttons. As she turned her attention to a watercolour of Venice, Imelda’s kettle began to whistle.

  “Would you care for some coffee?” she asked.

  "How kind. Yes, thank you, I should,” Beatrix said affably.

  They drank it in the back parlour. Presently, watching Imelda wrapping the charger, the older woman said, “There’s something I think you should know about Charles and myself.”

  Imelda stiffened. She had felt in her bones that the visit was not a business call.

  “Shortly before you came to Norfolk, Charles asked me to marry him.”

  Imelda was fastening the parcel with sticky tape, an occupation which helped her to conceal her dismay. Then dismay gave place to incredulity. “And you refused him?” she asked sceptically.

  “Yes - and now I wish I hadn’t,” Beatrix admitted. “I feel I should tell you the circumstances, because I gather that Charles is making a set at you, and I wouldn’t like it to lead to unhappiness for you.”