by Barbara Pym
‘Oh, well, looking at the pictures is probably as far as I’ll get,’ said Norman. ‘Not like Letty here.’
‘I’ve never been to Greece,’ said Letty, but she was by far the most adventurous of the four of them. She had been on several package tours abroad with Marjorie, and her postcards of Spain, Italy and Yugoslavia still brightened the office walls. But this year Marjorie seemed to want to stay at home and as Letty was going to share her cottage with her when she retired it seemed quite a good idea for her to get used to living in the country. During her fortnight Letty would be getting a taste of village life, with excursions to the surrounding country and picnic lunches when the weather permitted. ‘Roses round the door and all that,’ as Norman used to say when Letty’s retirement plans were mentioned. ‘But of course the weather can spoil things,’ he couldn’t resist adding. ‘Don’t I know!’
Five
A PHEASANT SAT in the middle of a field, unconcerned as the train drew into the platform. Letty could see Marjorie’s dusty blue Morris 1000 standing among the larger and sleeker cars parked at the station. Even now, forty years later, she was reminded of ‘Beelzebub’, Marjorie’s first car bought for £25 in the nineteen thirties. Did young people still give their old cars facetious names, Letty wondered. Motoring was a much more serious business now, hardly fun at all, when the car was an important status symbol and large sums of money could be paid for particularly desirable registration numbers.
Marjorie seized Letty’s bag and stuffed it into the boot. As a comfortable widow living in the country, she seemed far removed from the dashing young woman that Letty remembered from their earlier days, even if she still retained some romantic extravagances. Now she seemed rather excessively interested in the new vicar who had recently been appointed and Letty saw him for the first time when—surprisingly for Marjorie—she insisted on taking her to church on Sunday morning. The Reverend David Lydell (he liked to be called ‘Father’) was a tall dark man in his middle forties who certainly looked good in his vestments. Nice for Marjorie to have an interesting new vicar, Letty thought, generously indulgent. Most of the inhabitants of the village were retired married couples with the ritual grandchildren. There was a certain amount of formal social life, mostly consisting of the drinking of sherry at certain times, and one evening Marjorie invited an elegant retired colonel, who had no conversation, and his wife, who had a good deal more, and Father Lydell, in for a drink. Seen at closer quarters and in ‘civilian’ clothes, Father Lydell was disappointing. He looked sadly ordinary in a ginger-coloured tweed jacket and grey flannel trousers with something not quite right about the cut of them—too wide or too narrow, or at least not what one saw people wearing now.
After a decent interval and a couple of glasses each, the colonel and his wife left, but Father Lydell, obviously with no evening meal of his own in view, lingered on, so that Marjorie had to ask him to stay to supper.
‘One is at a slight disadvantage,’ he said elliptically, when Marjorie left the room to prepare the meal and he and Letty were left alone.
‘Oh? In what way?’ Letty was not sure whether he meant the disadvantage to apply to himself or to the human race in general.
‘In being unable to return hospitality,’ he explained. ‘Marjorie has been so kind.’
So he called her by her Christian name, and there had been other meals.
‘I think people in a village usually are hospitable,’ said Letty, diminishing him a little. ‘More so than in London.’
‘Ah, London.. .’ Was the sigh too extravagant?
‘Of course David is here for his health,’ said Marjorie, coming back into the room and entering eagerly into the conversation.
‘Do you find the country is doing you good?’ Letty asked.
‘I’ve had diarrhoea all this week,’ came the disconcerting reply.
There was a momentary—perhaps no more than a split second’s—pause, but if the women had been temporarily taken aback, they were by no means at a loss.
‘Diarrhoea,’ Letty repeated, in a clear, thoughtful tone. She was never certain how to spell the word, but felt that such a trivial admission was lacking in proper seriousness so she said no more.
‘Strong drink would do you more good than the eternal parish cups of tea,’ Marjorie suggested boldly. ‘Brandy, perhaps.’
‘Enterovioform,’ said Letty.
He smiled pityingly. ‘All those English on package tours on the Costa Brava may find it helpful, but my case is rather different…’
The sentence trailed off, leaving the difference to be imagined.
‘Well, when one is abroad … When we were in Naples, Napoli,’ said Marjorie, almost roguishly. ‘Do you remember that time in Sorrento, Letty?’
‘I only remember the lemon groves,’ said Letty, determined to change the subject.
David Lydell closed his eyes and lay back in his chair, thinking how agreeable it was to be in the company of gentlewomen. Far more what he was accustomed to. The rough voices of the village people grated on his nerves and sometimes they said cruel things. Any attempts he had made to ‘improve’ the church services had met with scorn and hostility and when he tried to visit the cottages he was forced to look at television programmes which they hadn’t even the good manners to turn off. He found it shocking that such people should have no running water or indoor sanitation and yet be slaves to the box. Even the old women, who might have been the backbone of the congregation in earlier times, seemed disinclined to attend church, even if conveyed there and back by car. The only services that drew congregations of any size were Harvest Festival, Remembrance Sunday and the Carol Service at Christinas. By contrast, Marjorie and her friend, Miss Something, a not very interesting person whose name he hadn’t caught, were highly civilized and he enjoyed eating poulet niçoise and talking about holidays in France and Italy.
‘Orvieto,’ he murmured. ‘Of course one wants to drink it there,’ and naturally they agreed with him.
Letty thought him rather tiresome but she did not say as much to Marjorie. The weather was good and she did not want to raise controversial subjects over tea in the garden or during leisurely country walks. Besides, if she was going to share Marjorie’s cottage in her retirement it would be as well not to be too critical of the vicar, especially as it seemed that he might often be dropping in. That was one of the country things she would have to get used to. There were other things too. On their walks she was always the one to find the dead bird and the dried-up hedgehog’s body or to notice the mangled rabbit in the middle of the road when they were driving. She supposed that Marjorie had seen them so often that she no longer found them upsetting.
On the last day of Letty’s holiday they were to go for a picnic to a nearby beauty spot. As it was a weekday the place would be less crowded and, best of all, as Marjorie revealed just before they started out, David Lydell would be able to accompany them.
‘But won’t he have things to do during the week?’ Letty protested. ‘Even if there aren’t any services, doesn’t he have to visit the sick and the old people?’
‘There’s only one sick person at the moment and he’s in hospital, and the old people don’t want visits from the clergy,’ said Marjorie, making Letty realize that it was no good thinking that such old-fashioned notions could be applied in these days of the welfare state or in a village where the health of every person was known and commented on. ‘I try to get David out into the countryside as much as I can,’ Marjorie added. ‘He needs to get right away and relax.’
Letty noted the use of the term ‘countryside’, which seemed to have a special significance, and bearing David Lydell’s need in mind, she was not surprised to find herself squashed into the back of the car with the picnic things and Marjorie’s old sealyham which left stiff white hairs all over Letty’s neat navy-blue trousers. David and Marjorie in the front made conversation about village matters which Letty could not join in.
When they arrived at the picnic spot, Marjorie
produced two folding canvas chairs from the boot of the car and these were solemnly put up for herself and David, Letty having quickly assured them that she would just as soon sit on the rug—indeed, she preferred it. All the same, she could not help feeling in some way belittled or diminished, sitting on a lower level than the others.
After they had eaten cold ham and hard-boiled eggs and drunk white wine—an unusual touch, this, which Letty could only attribute to the presence of David Lydell - the three of them fell silent; perhaps, because of drinking wine in the middle of the day, a natural desire for sleep overcame them. An awkward arrangement for sleeping—three people, two in the chairs and Letty down below—but she closed her eyes against her will and for a short time was unaware of her surroundings.
When she opened her eyes she found herself looking straight up at Marjorie and David, their canvas chain pushed close together, apparently locked in an embrace.
Letty immediately looked away and closed her eyes again, wondering if she had been dreaming.
‘More coffee anyone?’ Marjorie asked in a bright tone. ‘There’s some in the other thermos. Letty, I think you’ve been asleep.’
Letty sat up, ‘Yes, I think I must have dropped off,’ she admitted. Had she imagined the whole scene, or was this another of the things she was going to have to get used to when she lived in the country?
No sooner had Letty come back from her holiday than Edwin went on his. There had been a good deal of discussion in the office as to whether he should go by coach or by train and the advantages and snags of each method were endlessly weighed up. In the end the train won. It was more expensive but it was quicker, and Edwin would get enough motoring with his son-in-law and daughter and the two children. They would be in easy reach of Eastbourne, where there were some splendid churches, and he was looking forward to that. In addition there would be visits to a safari park and to the stately homes that offered the best attractions; perhaps they would even go as far afield as the Lions of Longleat, driving on as many motorways as possible, the men in the front of the car, Edwin’s daughter and the children in the back. It would be a break for all of them, but soon, with the children growing up, they might want to go to Spain, and then what was to be done about Edwin? He wouldn’t like Spain, they decided. Perhaps he could go on holiday with one of the people from his office; that might be a solution to the problem.
Edwin hardly gave a thought to his working companions when he was away from them. It was only Marcia who came into his mind and that was in a rather curious way, when he was standing at the station bookstall before his train went, wondering whether he should buy something to read. He had already slipped down to Portugal Street to get that week’s Church Times but that might not last him the whole journey. There was a colourful range of magazines on the counter, some of which displayed the full naked breasts of young women, enticingly posed. Edwin looked at them dispassionately. He supposed that his wife Phyllis had once had breasts but he could not remember that they had been at all like this, so very round and balloon-like. Then he recalled Marcia and her operation—mastectomy, he believed it was called, Norman had told him at the time. That meant that she had had a breast removed, a deprivation for any woman, though he could not imagine that Marcia had ever been endowed quite so abundantly as the girls on the magazine covers. Still, one must feel compassion for her even though she was not at all a lovable person. Perhaps he should have dropped in that evening he found himself over the other side of the common, passing the road where she lived. He wondered if she ever went to the church with the locked door, if the vicar ever called to see her. She had never mentioned it but no doubt somebody from that church was keeping an eye on her and knew that she was the kind of person who liked to keep herself to herself and must not be organized in any way. Although Edwin was not of the school that regarded the church as an extension of the social services, he knew very well that it was the attitude of a number of very good people nowadays, conscientious and well-meaning. It was very likely that Marcia would not be neglected, so there was no need to worry about her. There was certainly nothing he could do at this moment, standing on Victoria Station. So, turning away from the magazines that had reminded him of Marcia, he bought a copy of Reader’s Digest and dismissed her from his thoughts.
The church people did make a mild effort with Marcia and suggested that she might like to join a coach trip to Westcliff-on-Sea (‘Much nicer than Southend, dear’), but she didn’t seem to want to go and of course they couldn’t force her. Janice Brabner also was concerned that she didn’t seem to be getting a holiday and made various suggestions, none of which met with Marcia’s approval. ‘She’s so difficult,’ Janice complained to her friend, who was a medical social worker. ‘People like that don’t seem to want to be helped. And yet some of them are so grateful, it’s lovely, really, makes it all worth while…’ she sighed. Marcia certainly wasn’t like that.
Yet Marcia did have two holiday treats in store, though she had no intention of revealing to anybody what these were. The first was a visit to out-patients at the hospital, where she was due for a check-up at Mr Strong’s clinic. The time indicated on her card was 11.35, a funny sort of time, giving the impression that the appointments were calculated so exactly to the nearest five minutes that there would be none of the usual hanging about. She arrived at the hospital punctually, checked in at the appointments desk and sat down to wait. If you were too early you could read a magazine or get a cup of tea or coffee out of the machine and of course there was always a visit to the toilet Marcia did none of these things but sat staring in front of her. She had chosen a seat away from the other people and she was annoyed when a woman moved up next to her and appeared to want to get into conversation. The people waiting did not talk to each other; it was like the waiting room in a doctor’s surgery except that there was something more sacred about the vigil here, each person having something wrong’. Marcia did not respond when a remark was made about the weather, but continued to stare straight in front of her, fixing her eyes on a door that had a notice over it saying ‘Mr D.G. Strong’. Next to it was another door where the notice said ‘Dr H. Wintergreen’. It was impossible to tell which of the people sitting in the chairs were waiting for the surgeon and which for the physician; there did not appear to be any distinguishing marks, for even though they all seemed to be rather cowed, some even broken, they were of both sexes and all ages.
‘You waiting to see Dr Wintergreen?’ Marcia’s neighbour persisted.
‘No,’ said Marcia.
‘Oh, then you must be for Mr Strong. Nobody’s gone into that room for the last half hour, ever since I’ve been here. I’m waiting for Dr Wintergreen. He’s a lovely doctor, foreign. I think he might be Polish. He’s got ever such kind eyes, lovely. He always wore a carnation in his buttonhole when he came round the ward. He grows them himself, he’s got a big house in Hendon. Digestive disorders, stomach, you know, that’s his speciality and of course he’s in Harley Street, too. Is Mr Strong in Harley Street?’
‘Yes,’ said Marcia coldly. She did not want to talk about Mr Strong, to discuss sacred matters with this person.
‘Sometimes they get the Registrar to do the operation,’ the woman went on. ‘Still, they’ve got to learn haven’t they, how to do it.’
At that moment the nurse called out Marcia’s name and she knew that her turn had come. She was not so naive as to imagine that Mr Strong’s name on the door was a guarantee of his presence in the room, so she was not unduly cast down when, having half undressed and lain down on a couch, she was examined by a golden-haired boy, a houseman doing his training in surgery. He prodded her in a highly professional manner, took her blood pressure and listened with his stethoscope. Of course he did not notice her new pink underwear but did comment admiringly on the neatness of her operation scar—Mr Strong’s work, of course—and told her that she was too thin and ought to eat more. Yet he, just coming up to his twenty-fifth birthday, hardly knew what to expect of a woman in he
r sixties. Were they always as thin as this? Certainly his great aunt, the nearest equivalent he could think of, was not at all like Miss Ivory, though he had never seen her without clothes.
‘I think perhaps somebody should keep an eye on you,’ he said kindly, and Marcia was not at all offended or irritated as she was when the social workers and the church people implied the same thing, for hospital was different She was quietly triumphant when she handed her card in at the appointments desk to arrange for a further check-up at some future date.
Marcia’s second holiday treat was a visit to Mr Strong’s house, or rather to view at a safe distance the house where he lived. She knew from the telephone directory that he functioned not only in Harley Street but also at an address in Dulwich, a district easily reached by her on a 37 bus.
She let a week elapse after her visit to the hospital—spacing out the treats—before setting out on a fine afternoon to see Mr Strong’s house. The bus was nearly empty and the conductress kind and helpful. She knew the best stop for the road Marcia asked for, but when she had punched the ticket she seemed, like the woman at the hospital, to want to chat. They were lovely houses in that road—did Marcia know somebody who lived there or—for this seemed unlikely—was she perhaps going after a job there? It was dreadful, Marcia felt, the way so many people wanted to know one’s business and, when she did not respond, to tell one about their own. She had to listen to quite a long story about husband and kiddies, categories she knew nothing about, but at last the stop was reached and she got out and walked along the road in the sunshine.
The house was imposing, as were its neighbours, just the kind of house that looked worthy of Mr Strong. There were shrubs in the front garden. Marcia imagined the laburnum trees and the lilacs in May, but now in early August there wasn’t much to admire. Perhaps there were roses at the back, for the garden behind the house seemed extensive, but all she could see was a swing hanging from a massive old tree. Of course Mr Strong was a family man; he had children, and now they were all away at the seaside. The house seemed completely deserted which meant that Marcia could stand in the road gazing, noticing discreetly drawn curtains in a William Morris design. It went through her mind that there were no net curtains here, they did not seem to go with Mr Strong. Her thoughts were unformulated, it was enough just to stand. Afterwards she waited for over half an hour at the bus stop, unconscious of the delay, time passing and no bus. Eventually she reached home and made a cup of tea and boiled an egg. The young doctor at the hospital had told her she ought to eat more and she was sure Mr Strong would agree with that.
