“What a lot of fuss you women do make,” said Sir Robert, whose lunch had been rather interrupted by his women-folk’s telephonings.
Lady Fielding and Anne looked at each other, in a common bond of pity and tolerance for men.
Having made this great exertion, the Fielding household sank back into its usual routine. Lady Fielding went to her various societies or had them to meet in her house. Anne went to her domestic economy classes, and Sir Robert was as busy as ever on his own affairs and those of the diocese of which he was Chancellor and, though this was unusual in him, was late for dinner several times. His wife, who never enquired as she knew that she would be told everything sooner or later, had dishes kept hot for him, quelled with great courage the rising grumbles of the servants and bided her time, which came on the following Sunday when Anne was having supper at the Deanery.
“There is a good deal of talk about a General Election,” said Sir Robert when he and Lady Fielding were alone together. “I don’t know why there should be, but the Archdeacon thinks Labour is up to something.”
“I suppose Barchester is safe,” said Lady Fielding.
“It was,” said Sir Robert, “as long as Thorne was willing to stand. But he won’t this time.”
Lady Fielding looked up from her work.
“Heart,” said Sir Robert. “The Conservative Association will probably ask me to stand. And the deuce of it is that Adams is standing for Labour. I don’t like fighting him. He was a good sort of fellow according to his lights when we were at Hallbury last summer.”
“Really, Robert,” said his wife. “If you refuse to stand for Parliament simply because the man you are opposing is a good sort of fellow, you don’t deserve to get in. Anyway thank goodness Anne has seen no more of his lumping girl. Is this serious Robert?”
Sir Robert said it was quite serious. Nothing of course would happen, he said, unless Parliament really were dissolved, but he didn’t think there was another man who would be mug enough to stand.
“We could afford it,” he said. “And I think I’d rather like it. What about you, my dear?”
Lady Fielding said the only answer she could truthfully make was that this was so sudden, also that she would like further notice of the question if her husband expected her to make up his mind for him. Sir Robert said he would tell her everything as it happened, but was not mentioning it to anyone else and the subject was dropped for the time being though both gave serious thought to it, while the inner cauldron of politics bubbled and simmered and threw up a good deal of scum.
Anne, who was not much interested in politics, and vaguely thought that the Premiership was a kind of permanent official’s job held for life by Mr. Churchill (in which a good many other people agreed with her) was far more excited about Sylvia’s visit and the dinner party than the chances of a new government and thought Tuesday would probably never come. But nothing can thwart Tuesday, nor indeed any other day on its forward path, and in due course it arrived. Sylvia’s leave was not cancelled, and she arrived at Number Seventeen for tea in very good spirits. Sir Robert and Lady Fielding were dining out, so the two girls had a kind of high tea and talked about Hatch House and Holdings and Rushwater and all the Leslies, and giggled and altogether enjoyed themselves as befitted their ages.
“I’m looking forward frightfully to your party,” said Sylvia. “I haven’t been to a proper party for ages. Who’s coming?”
Anne named the guests.
“But David is in Paris,” said Sylvia.
At these words, the whole world suddenly turned upside-down as far as Anne was concerned, and fireworks chased each other across the ceiling.
“He wrote to me from the Embassy,” said Sylvia, in a woman-of-the-world way that Anne hopelessly envied, “but he didn’t say about your party. He was going about with Rose Bingham; dancing and things. She’s in the Foreign Office.”
Poor Anne. A fortnight ago she had been quite grown-up. Now she was like a schoolgirl again, ready to cry at a moment’s notice. David, with whom she had talked so dashingly on the telephone, David with whom she shared the secret of Miss Bunting, David who was the nicest person she had ever met except Robin who was quite different, David in fact; David, David. Also horrible, dreadful, hateful Rose Bingham, whoever she was. But a hostess must not derogate from her hostess-ship, so Anne went on chattering and giggling, but all the time, which gave her a miserable satisfaction, with death in her heart; so what with laughing with Sylvia and secretly despising David, she felt quite light headed. All of which passed entirely unperceived by Sylvia, we are glad to say.
Next day Mr. Churchill tendered the resignation of the Government. Millions of people felt a sudden sense of desolation, of being children deserted in a dark lonely wood; much as they had felt it in that black winter when their ruler deserted them. Other millions saw the dawn of an even Braver and Newer World, as if the present brave new one were not unpleasant enough. But once the first shock had been taken, conversation in every circle veered round to the unpleasant fact that rations had been cut again. Barchester, nay indeed all England, was at once divided into two camps; the one rejoicing that all our food was going to feed the gallant Mixo-Lydians and other depressing minorities who were busy disliking us for liberating them, the other, perfectly furious that our already skimpy rations were to be cut in favour of Foreigners, who lived in Abroad. This difference of opinion cleft every rank of society in Barchester, let alone all England, upwards, downwards, sideways, circularly, zig-zag, in shops, homes, trams, cafés, garages, homes; even in the Cathedral where the head verger who had supported Mixo-Lydian refugees all through the war and had no opinion at all of that nation, told the sub-organist who had no family and was extremely leftist that he was no better than a Narzy.
But neither politics nor rations affected Sylvia and Anne, who spent the morning working in the garden and chattered and laughed as much as if they had not done it ever since Sylvia came. Anne had gone to bed the night before with a firm determination to be miserable and let no one see, but when her mother came in from her dinner party to kiss her good-night, she could not bear to be unhappy alone any longer, and told Lady Fielding that Sylvia had had a letter from David Leslie from Paris and how sad it would be if he wasn’t coming. To which Lady Fielding had answered in a very matter of fact way that letters took a long time from Paris and as David would probably be flying he was very likely to be back at Holdings now. Comforted by the voice of authority Anne had gone to sleep quite happily, and though doubts assailed her at intervals while gardening, she resolutely pushed them down.
At lunch Sir Robert praised the work the two girls had done and suggested a few more jobs.
“Oh, daddy,” said Anne reproachfully, “how could you? It’s the Palace Sale.”
Sir Robert thanked heaven aloud that he did not need to attend that function and told Anne to collect all the gossip she could, especially if in any way to the Bishop’s discredit. He then gave each of the girls a pound to buy rubbish with and Lady Fielding who quite truthfully had an important committee that afternoon told Anne to be sure to tell the Bishop’s wife about it, though she knew she would not believe it, and then gave each girl a pound to spend on her behalf.
“Oh, mummy,” said Anne, just as she and Sylvia were leaving the house.
“Well,” said Lady Fielding.
“Mummy,” said Anne again, standing on one leg in a way that Miss Bunting would have immediately corrected, “do you think David will come?”
“Of course he will,” said Lady Fielding; and such was Anne’s faith in her mother that she felt considerably relieved and did not worry more than twenty times during the afternoon.
When the girls had gone Sir Robert and Lady Fielding held a short committee meeting together about Sir Robert standing for Parliament and came with a mixture of excitement and regret to the conclusion that it would be his duty if officially asked.
“Well, it’s worth a fight,” said Sir Robert, “and Adams I know will be
a clean fighter, though I wouldn’t like to say the same of his supporters. In any case, I shan’t lose my deposit. Don’t wait dinner for me if I’m late, but I hope to get back in time.”
Lady Fielding went to the committee which was long and troublesome, dealt firmly with uppish members, helped diffident ones, got all her business done and came back tired at 5 o’clock, thankful to have her tea in peace. In more normal times she would have taken a committee and a dinner party in her stride, but after the strain of a long war and the almost greater strain of the recent peace, with all the upheavals and irritations and angers it had brought in its train, she felt her age. And though to be round about forty-five is not at all old, the six years of the war counted as six years of years, and young middle-age has become elderly middle-age, not knowing it till taken off the rack. Lady Fielding would willingly have thrown the remaining good tea-cups onto the marble hearth, hurled the teapot through the window into the Close, screamed at the top of her voice, burst into tears and then, as she sadly admitted to herself, been extremely ashamed and miserable. So she choked down her fatigue and her feeling of hopelessness, drank her tea, and felt a little better.
From her seat by the window she could see the life of the Close going gaily on as usual. The motor mower was making silky tracks with exquisite regularity on the grass, its noise not disagreeable at a distance. Black coats, an occasional black gown (worn more in defiance of the Bishop than from any deep conviction), here and there a pair of gaiters; wives of clergy; children of clergy; several of the Dean’s grandchildren being taken to a children’s party in perambulators and on foot; the verger’s dog barking at the sub-organist’s cat who was sitting contemptuously on a brick wall washing its face and hands; the gentle clink of stonemasons at work on a small exterior repair to the lady-chapel; one of the prebendaries’ wives gardening in a disgraceful old hat, a flowered apron and a very unecclesiastical old tweed skirt; a few boys on bicycles; rooks; a steady stream of town people going through the Close on their way to or from the Sale of Work. The sights and sounds were much as they had always been and Lady Fielding thought that if she sat quite still, never moving, hardly breathing, the war and the more dreadful peace would turn out to have been a dream. Full May; laburnum, syringa, flowering thorn, rhododendron, wallflowers against old red brick walls. Peace. Golden peace, not the pinchbeck that was being offered, indeed thrust upon people, in its place. She closed her eyes, a thing she most rarely did except in bed, and half-dreaming felt that if she remained still enough she would be a little girl in a holland smock, playing in one of those gardens in the warm spring sunshine: for she had been born and brought up in the Close and except for the first few years of her married life had always lived there.
A cheerful and very powerful aeroplane, driven by a cheerful and very powerful young man who had already twice been cautioned about low flying over built-up districts, suddenly roared out of nowhere, skimmed the roofs of the Close, circled the Cathedral spire, turned over contemptuously two or three times, deliberately made a noise like the end of the world and disappeared into the blue heights. Lady Fielding controlled herself very well. She picked up an empty tea-cup and threw it as hard as she could at the fattest cushion on the sofa, where it lay placidly for a moment, then deliberately rolled to the ground and shed its handle. This hideous example of the diabolical tendencies of inanimate objects broke the spell. Lady Fielding laughed aloud at herself, collected the cup and its handle and put them on the tea-tray. She then rang the bell.
“Oh, Pollett,” she said, when the parlourmaid came in, “the handle came off this cup. Can we get it riveted?”
Pollett said with dark triumph that she’d noticed the handle was cracked last Friday week but hadn’t liked to say anything about it and she didn’t know no one who could do riveting now that old Mr. Cornstalk in Barley Street was dead.
“Put it away then,” said Lady Fielding, “and I’ll ask about a riveter. There must be one somewhere.”
Pollett took the tray away. Lady Fielding gave herself a mental shake and sat down to her writing table to deal with a pile of the letters that took so much of her time. She heard the front door bell ringing downstairs, then a good deal of conversation in the hall. Pollett could be as a rule relied upon to protect her from unexpected callers, but was evidently getting the worst of this particular encounter. She went to the window and looked out. A car was standing at the door, but cars look much alike from above and in any case Lady Fielding could rarely recognise even her own car, being totally deficient in motor sense. Steps came very slowly up the stairs. Pollett flung open the door, announced “Lady Emily Leslie, my lady, and Mr. Leslie” and disappeared.
“I do hope you will forgive me, Lady Fielding,” said Lady Emily, advancing on David’s arm with her most enchanting and mischievous smile, “but your daughter said she thought you wouldn’t mind if I called. I am hardly ever in Barchester, but we all made a great effort to come to the Palace sale, and Martin and Emmy wanted to come too, so we stopped at your door, and your maid, who is quite delightful, said she thought you were at home, so I said to David ‘I’m sure Lady Fielding will let me rest here for a few moments till Martin and Emmy come and pick us up.’”
It was impossible to be annoyed with Lady Emily, even if one knew she was making the most unblushing capital of her age and infirmities and using one’s house as a convenient port of call for her grandchildren. Lady Fielding welcomed her and began leading her to the sofa.
“I shall sit here, if I may,” said Lady Emily, tugging at a heavy arm chair and much hampered by her crutch handled stick, “and then I can see Martin and Emmy coming.”
“Do let me move that heavy chair, Lady Emily,” said Lady Fielding, fearing that her visitor might do herself some serious harm, but Lady Emily had already pushed it towards the window and sat down.
“And now that my mamma has finished moving the furniture,” said David, “may I speak? I didn’t mean to come to dinner with you at half past five in the afternoon, but my mamma insisted on having my company. As soon as she goes, I shall retire to the Deanery and come back to your kind dinner party looking quite different. Or would you rather I went now?”
Lady Fielding did not really want any visitors at all between her committee and her dinner party, but politeness comes first; and like everyone else she found the peculiar Leslie charm subtly undermining her constitution. So she said nice things and expressed her regret that her husband and daughter were out and offered tea.
“Now, I will tell you why I really came,” said Lady Emily, “and no tea thank you, for we had a delightful tea at the Palace.”
“A revolting tea,” said David pleasantly. “Powdered milk for the common herd is one thing, but when the Bishopess offered mamma a private cup of tea in her own sitting room, I did think she would ask the cow.”
“I believe,” said Lady Fielding dispassionately, “that she calls it her boudoir.”
“God bless you, Lady Fielding, and defend the right,” said David piously. “Are you sure she doesn’t call it her oratory.”
“Quite sure,” said Lady Fielding. “It would smack of Popery.”
Then they all laughed and felt on safe ground.
“Now,” said Lady Emily, who did not believe in wasting time, “I will tell you why I really came. I always have wondered where old Canon Robarts put his maids. These houses look big, but then the rooms are large and I know he used the whole of the second floor for his books, as well as the drawing room and most of the ground floor. Now, how do you manage?”
Lady Fielding, a passionate lover of houses herself, quite understood Lady Emily’s interest and asked if she would care to see the servants’ bedrooms. “I think it will be safe now,” she said. “Will you come too, Mr. Leslie?”
David thanked her, but said he was always frightened of servants’ bedrooms in case they were there. So Lady Fielding ushered Lady Emily upstairs, while David sat in the window seat and looked at the Close and wondered idly where the
Fielding girl was. He had not exactly suggested to his mother that she should call, but he had played upon her curiosity about the servants’ bedrooms quite deliberately; and if he had thought that he would see Anne more comfortably in the afternoon than at a dinner party, well she was not there, and the thought was not worth attention, And then he thought of Paris and the amusing time he had spent with his cousin, Rose Bingham, who knew her world like anything and was hand in glove with all the big noises in Paris, besides having her own very comfortable flat, and then he thought, which he mostly avoided doing, of his future. A flat in town with central heating and valeting and a restaurant and meals in one’s own dining room if one wished was most convenient and he had no intention of giving it up, but sometimes he thought that a small but perfect house in the country was also indicated. There were one or two houses on the Rushwater estate that might suit him, and Martin would always let him rent one, and he would be near Agnes and his mother. With a good cook-housekeeper one could be comfortable. A wife, if she were the right wife, might be agreeable. Someone like the Fielding girl who would sit on an Empire couch—and he knew exactly where to get the Empire couch he wanted—and look up at him under her long lashes. A captivating creature that little Anne; quick, intelligent with depths he had not plumbed. A line from Byron suddenly rose from old forgotten readings to his mind about the young ladies who “always smell of bread and butter.” Would Anne be a bread-and-butter wife? Would she do in London or in Paris? He could not see her mixing with Rose Bingham’s friends. And she was after all only a schoolgirl. Whether Anne would think of him as a husband he had not yet begun to consider, but it amused him to sit in the sunlight making plans, with no real foundation, for his own pleasure and comfort. So absorbed had be become in his imaginings that he did not hear footsteps on the flagged path below, nor the shutting of the front door and the sound of voices. The drawing-room door was opened. Anne and Sylvia came in talking and laughing.
Peace Breaks Out Page 15
