by Ann Swinfen
He went forward and knelt in the front pew on the left, and was surprised to see Peter, sitting in his wheelchair below the memorial to Edmund. He acknowledged the other man with a smile and an inclination of the head, then addressed a few apologetic words to his Maker. Richard knew that he was neither a great churchman nor an evangelical hunter of souls, and this sometimes troubled him. His apology now was wordless and brief, for he knew he would be fretted over by Irina and Mabel if he did not turn up in time to drink coffee.
Richard fell in beside Peter's chair on the way down the aisle.
'I hope you don't object,' said Peter.
'Object?'
'That a Jew should come into your Christian chapel.'
'We are all,' said Richard gently, holding the door open, 'children of the same Father.'
'Yes,' said Peter. He began to wheel his chair along the path towards the house. Richard knew better than to assist him. 'I have never been a religious man, myself. An irony, perhaps, when one takes into account that I was imprisoned by the Nazis for the faith into which I happened to be born, but to which I paid so little heed. For me, music was my faith and my creed. An international faith that knows no boundaries of race or religion.'
'That's very true. That is its power.'
'I thought, you see, that other men saw it in the same way, and I was proved wrong. In my old age, however, I have come to think about God more, as I am sure many of your parishioners do.'
Richard inclined his head.
'It has come to seem to me,' Peter went on, as though talking to himself, 'that all religions, like music, belong to a universal family, speak one language. That is, when religion is truly an experience of awe, of faith, of something beyond this material world, and not a partisan banner behind which the men of violence hide.'
'Men of doctrine would take issue with you, but I am not, myself, a man of doctrine. Faith, after all, is a matter of the heart and of the spirit, not of the logical mind. I think you are right – that an underlying belief in a Being, a Power beyond what our empirical senses perceive, is the root and branch of all true religions. As is the belief in good.'
'But is there an absolute good?'
'That's tricky ground. As soon as we start to define what we mean by good – love, honesty, loyalty, selflessness – and try to cite examples from human lives, we become tangled in arguments. Because goodness in daily life is so easily tainted by the not-good which surrounds it and overlaps it. But, yes, I do believe in striving after what is good. Not,' said Richard humbly, 'that I find myself very successful.'
'Come,' said Peter, neatly negotiating the sill of the french window into the drawing room. 'I did not intend to involve you in a theological discussion. Today is a day of celebration, even though for some of us it is tinged also with a little sadness in our memories.'
* * *
All of the present St Martins community, together with a few close neighbours and friends, had gathered in the drawing room and were passing around cups of coffee and plates of biscuits made by Sally and Frances. Natasha, reluctant to admit that she felt a little tired after her walk with Anya in the garden, was enthroned on her high-backed chair just inside the window, talking to Jonathan Deerley, St Martins' most reclusive member. This was the first time he had been seen for a week. He lived, by preference, high in one of the attics, well away from the other members, with a gas ring for cooking and a window that opened on to the parapet, where he was sometimes seen walking at midnight. He was a shy man, whose plays – of an agonising complexity – were occasionally broadcast, very late at night, on Radio 3. Natasha was listening with kindly patience to his exposition of his latest work – he never talked of anything else. As his conversation was as tortuous as his prose style, this showed, Gregor thought, great forbearance on her part.
'How typical it is of Natasha, I always think,' he said to Frances as they came in together, 'that she prefers that high, hard Jacobean chair to all others. She has only consented to have a thin cushion on the seat in the last couple of years. To my mind that chair is a kind of symbol of her strength and endurance.'
Anya was determined to remain cheerful. Between mouthfuls of coffee she began to tell her mother and Nicholas funny stories about her Swiss and Swedish girls and their earnest pursuit of aristocratic husbands, which their romantic reading had led them to believe were to be found in great numbers in Oxford.
'Of course, there is an occasional conquest,' she said, 'when a well-endowed (in every sense) Swiss hotelier's daughter captivates an impoverished sprig of the lesser gentry. But really they're rare today amongst the students. Mostly they're as earnest and studious as any young men the girls would find at home in Berne or Gothenburg. In the end the girls go home disappointed, or settle for nice young men with no pretensions to blue blood. No doubt they're doing their bit for the greater unity of the countries of Europe.'
Sally came in flushed from the kitchen, carrying Sarah on her hip. Fine strands of hair had broken free from her plait and stood out around her head like a rakish halo of red-gold frizz.
'Has anyone seen Bob? I can't find him anywhere. When last seen he was totally filthy, although I had him like a new pin this morning.'
'He ran off after Tony went to the station,' said Chrissie. 'He was cross, 'cos he wanted to go too.'
'I shouldn't worry,' said Frances, relieving Sally of Sarah, who immediately began to tug at her strand of beads with great absorption. 'I expect all the children will be covered in mud, grass stains and orange juice before we are halfway through the afternoon. Do sit down, darling, you've been working like a galley slave.'
Sally took a seat beside Lisa on the old, sagging, linen-covered couch and accepted a cup of coffee. 'How are you feeling, Lisa? You're looking peaky. Why don't you skip the service and lie down for a while?'
Lisa gave her a weak smile. 'I'm OK, really. It's just a bit overpowering in here, with so many people. I'll sit at the back of the chapel so I can slip out if I don't feel well.'
There was the sound of voices coming along the hall, and the clatter of Katya's football boots.
'That will be Tony back with Alice,' said Frances. 'I'm looking forward to meeting a woman who can unsettle our Tony.'
Katya flung back the door in her usual dramatic way.
'Look who we found!' she announced. 'Anya's Greek!'
* * *
It was Olga who discovered Bob, when they were starting on their second cups of coffee. Coming back along the hall from the kitchen with more milk, she noticed that the dining room door was slightly ajar. She set the jug of milk down on the marble-topped table in the hall and went to investigate. Her cry of outrage could be heard even above the level of conversation in the drawing room.
'Oh no!' cried Sally, as possibilities raced through her mind.
She beat Frances, Katya and Gregor to the dining room door by a short head.
Bob, red-faced and defiant, was standing with a spoon in his hand and liberal lumps of trifle dotted about his face and the front of his T-shirt.
'Bob!' said Sally in tones that drained away the defiance from his face, to be replaced with a down-turned, woebegone mouth. She seized the spoon from him and surveyed the violated trifle. 'Bob, how could you? You are nearly seven years old. You know you were not to touch anything in here.'
Bob shuffled his feet and mumbled that he was hungry.
'You should have come in with the rest of us – there were plenty of biscuits and flapjack, and juice.' Sally's voice shook. She was not only angry, she was very upset. She had just noticed the chunks torn from the galantine of chicken, the tumbled plates of sandwiches, and the grooves where fingers had been dragged through the icing on two of the cakes.
Bob looked around desperately for an escape route, but he was surrounded. 'Sorry,' he muttered, looking down at the spoon in his mother's hand, which he had no recollection of picking up.
'Watch out!' shouted Katya, and dived across to the other side of the table. 'Picasso and Seura
t!'
Spiro, coming in behind them, looked about in astonishment on hearing this and saw two cats, a large randy black Tom and a multi-coloured tabby, leap from the table and streak between their legs and out of the door before anyone could catch them. The tabby had a chicken leg gripped determinedly in his jaws.
Olga sank down on a chair, put her hands over her face and began to cry. Bob, feeling there was safety in numbers, joined in with a howl. Sally looked wildly across at Katya.
'How much damage have they done?'
'It's difficult to tell.'
'We can't throw everything out,' wailed Sally. 'We can't! It's less than an hour till the party starts – it's almost time for the service. What are we going to do?'
Anya, coming along the hall to investigate the disaster, joined them. She had listened to Spiro's explanation of his unexpected arrival with outward coolness, but inner turmoil. She was still angry at his failure to catch the train, but her anger had been softened by the fact that, instead of waiting for the next train or abandoning the journey, he had been so resourceful in getting himself here. She had been keeping well away from him, however, talking to Mum and Nick and then to Peter Kaufmann and Richard Lacey.
'Let's start sorting it out – quick now,' she said. 'There isn't much time. Katya, help me move the things that are definitely all right along to the far end of the table.'
'OK,' said Katya. 'These cheese straws are fine. And the brownies – the cats won't have touched those, and Bob didn't get this far.'
They began to sort out the food, and Sally and Olga, pulling herself together, came to help them. Bob, seizing his chance, tried to wriggle out of the doorway, but was fielded by Gregor's long arm.
'You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Bob,' he said sternly. 'The least you can do is to help clean up the mess. Go and get a bucket from the kitchen, for the things that have to be thrown away.'
Bob ran off quite happily, thinking himself let off lightly. Frances smiled across at Gregor. 'I remember another little boy who used to find it difficult to keep his fingers out of the baking.'
He grinned back at her. 'I still do. Look, there are enough of us here. Why don't you go back and calm the others down. Natasha and Mabel will be fearing the worst.'
Quietly Spiro helped with sorting out the food. The damage was less than they had feared at first, but the amounts consigned to the bucket left the spread on the table distinctly thinned out. Sally and Olga were frantically reviewing what else they could provide for two hundred guests.
'I could go down to the village,' said Sally, 'and see what I can pick up. But there isn't usually much left by this time on a Saturday. There won't be any cakes and there's no hope of any more bread, and we only have a couple of loaves left in the freezer. I suppose we could make a few more sandwiches with those.'
'Drop scones,' said Olga. 'I could make some drop scones. That won't take long.'
'We could have crudités,' suggested Anya, 'if Gregor fetched in some more vegetables from the garden – bits of raw carrot and cauliflower and celery.'
'I can make a dead good dip to go with them,' Katya volunteered. 'You use yoghurt and a packet of French onion soup.'
'We do not have packet soups at St Martins,' said Olga with dignity.
'I do,' said Gregor. 'I drink mugs of the stuff when I'm working late at night. I think I might have some French onion, Katya. Good idea.'
Katya flushed with pleasure.
'If you will permit –' said Spiro, diffidently.
They stopped talking and looked at him.
'Coming in, I saw that you have a orangery, yes? With a grape vine? If you have rice, sultanas and vegetables, I can make some dolmades – stuffed vine leaves, you know? Would this help? And if you have honey and almonds, I can make a very good Greek cake –'
'Wow!' said Katya.
'You mean you can cook!' exclaimed Sally. 'Come on then. And Katya, be sure to close the door after you.'
Chapter 5
It was 11.25 and Mr Dawlish was ringing the chapel bell for the service of thanksgiving. Ten years ago he had appointed himself bell-ringer, verger, churchwarden and general factotum whenever services were held in the chapel. At St Paul's in Clunwardine Priors he was a mere sidesman, with occasional charge of hymn books, so that during services at St Martins' chapel he conducted himself with massive and remote dignity. The old bell had a peculiar sweetness of tone and rang out so clearly that it could be heard down in the village, even behind closed windows. It was this clarity of its note that Natasha had feared for when Mabel had raised in committee the recasting of the bell. Mabel was worried by fragile objects – glasses that might crack in the washing up, old fabrics that emitted the fine dust of disintegration – and longed to have the bell sturdily recast and rehung.
Natasha had proved surprisingly stubborn. 'The old bell will see me out, Mabel,' she argued, when the matter was raised again at Easter. 'Let us at least allow it that long.'
Mabel was made uneasy by references to Natasha's age. She bowed her head and dropped the suggestion. She had never felt quite secure at St Martins. Her original arrival with Irina and the children had been meant as a temporary stay, just until she took up her intended career as a teacher and moved out. At first they had all been too busy – scrubbing, painting, replacing windows, hanging curtains and blackout material – for anyone to think about what Mabel should do. After six months, when the house was passable and Mabel made half-hearted suggestions to Irina about finding a job, Irina panicked, insisting she must stay until the end of the war. Edmund's death had left his daughter fearful for William's safety as never before, and she could not think beyond the end of hostilities and his return to his family.
To quieten her conscience, Mabel managed to have herself taken on part-time at the village school to assist Miss Binns, who had come out of retirement for the duration and tired easily, but she found that she did not care for teaching as much as she had expected. She enjoyed the company of one or two children, but a roomful of them alarmed her. She did not move out of the house, as there was nowhere else to live in the village – all the spare rooms being occupied by evacuees – and in any case Natasha would not hear of her leaving St Martins.
The war ended and the regular village school teacher returned from her war work. Mabel could have stayed on in her part-time post, but did not care to, so she allowed the community to think that she had had to leave. She had no real right to be at St Martins, she knew. She was not a refugee or artist, musician or writer. She thought Natasha's paintings striking but did not care for them, with their bright colours and elongated figures against vaguely suggested backgrounds, in which the perspective was all wrong. She was tone deaf; her favourite reading was Ethel M. Dell. Knowing herself a misfit in what she regarded as the rarefied intellectual atmosphere of St Martins, she nevertheless felt a passionate love for the place that she could not explain. Fearing all the time that it might occur to Natasha and Irina that she was no longer needed, she set to work to make herself indispensable.
Irina, who had been accustomed to having a maid in London before the war, and who did not subscribe to her mother's belief in self-help and self-sufficiency, was only too happy to share housekeeping and child care with her younger friend. Natasha, watching with amusement as Mabel bustled about, visibly busy and important, said nothing until, in the autumn of 1946, she suggested to the committee that, as Mabel had taken over so many of the general housekeeping duties and had no other source of income, the trust should arrange to pay her a small salary for her services while she remained with Irina's family at St Martins.
When William was demobbed, he decided to join a solicitors' firm in Hereford instead of going back to London, and his family made St Martins their permanent home. Mabel stayed on, becoming even busier as Hugh and Frances grew up and went away to university. While Natasha lived, she knew that her position was safe. But the younger generation saw less need of Mabel's services, preferring to scramble along, cooking for the
mselves, cleaning and repairing on a casual rota basis. It was part of the trust agreement that members of the community should be able to remain at St Martins in old age if they wished; it was tacitly understood that younger and abler members would always help and care for the older and less able. The trouble, Mabel sometimes thought to herself, was that she had never exactly been a member. She had not exactly been an employee either. She still received her regular income, gradually increased over the years, but she had a worrying conviction that she no longer earned it. She was seventy now, though she felt ten years younger and was sure she could continue to be useful for some years yet, if they would allow her.
No, if everything continued as in the past, she would probably be safe enough. What she dared not articulate was: what would happen to St Martins itself, when Natasha was no longer there to lead it? Until his stroke, William would have been her natural successor. Of the next generation, Hugh and Frances had moved away. That left Nicholas, and he was surely too young, barely past thirty, and too busy forging ahead in his career.
Donning her decent navy felt hat, Mabel made her way to the chapel in answer to the summons on the bell, conscious of what, in vague terms, she would be praying for during the service, but not at all certain how the Almighty might see His way to answer her.
* * *
'You have your own church?' Alice was asking Tony in astonishment.
'It's just a chapel. It's part of the original buildings, which belonged to a priory. It isn't used all that often.'
They paused on the threshold. Alice took in the short sturdy pillars and the whitewashed walls, and the clean June sunlight falling through the windows across arrangements of foxgloves and cow-parsley and bluebells, whose names she did not know, but whose unassuming character was somehow non-threatening. Beyond the clear but elderly glass she could see the wavering images of trees and a few old gravestones, leaning gently into the earth. Unconsciously her mind began to arrange the shapes on canvas.
