Excellent Women

  Not enough salt, or perhaps no salt, I thought, as I ate the macaroni. And not really enough cheese.

  ‘Do tell me about this anonymous donation,’ I asked. ‘It sounds splendid.’

  ‘Yes, it’s really most encouraging. Somebody has sent me ten pounds. I wonder who it can be!’ When Julian smiled the bleakness of his face was softened and he became almost good-looking. There was usually something rather forbidding about his manner so that women did not tend to fuss over him as they might otherwise have done. I am not even sure whether anyone had ever knitted him a scarf or pullover. I suppose he was neither so handsome nor so conceited as to pretend a belief in celibacy as a protection, and I did not really know his views on the matter. It seemed a comfortable arrangement for the brother and sister to live together, and perhaps it is more suitable that a High Church clergyman should remain unmarried, that there should be a biretta in the hall rather than a perambulator.

  ‘I always think an anonymous donation is so exciting,’ said Winifred with adolescent eagerness. ‘I’m longing to find out who it is. Mildred, it isn’t you, is it? Or anyone you know?’

  I denied all knowledge of it.

  Julian smiled tolerantly at his sister’s enthusiasm. ‘Ah, well, I expect we shall know soon enough who has sent it. Probably one of our good ladies in Colchester or Grantchester Square.’ He named the two most respectable squares in our district, where a few houses of the old type, occupied by one family or even one person and not yet cut up into flats, were to be found. My flat was in neither of these squares, but in a street on the fringe and at what I liked to think was the ‘best’ end.

  ‘It doesn’t seem like them, somehow,’ I said. ‘They don’t usually do good by stealth.’

  ‘No,’ Julian agreed, ‘their left hand usually knows perfectly well what their right hand is doing.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Winifred, ‘a lot of new people have moved here since the war ended. I’ve noticed one or two strangers at church lately. It may be one of them.’

  ‘Yes, it probably is,’ I agreed. ‘The new people moved into my house today and I met Mrs. Napier for the first time this afternoon. By the dustbins, too.’

  Julian laughed. ‘I hope that isn’t an omen, meeting by the dustbins.’

  ‘She seemed very pleasant,’ I said rather insincerely. ‘A bit younger than I am, I should think. Her husband is in the Navy and is coming home soon. He has been in Italy.’

  ‘Italy, how lovely!’ said Winifred. ‘We must ask them in. Don’t you remember, dear,’ she turned to her brother, ‘Fanny Ogilvy used to teach English in Naples? I wonder if he met her.’

  ‘I should think it very unlikely,’ said Julian. ‘Naval officers don’t usually meet impoverished English gentlewomen abroad.’

  ‘Oh, but his wife told me that he spent his time being charming to dull Wren officers,’ I said, ‘so he sounds rather a nice person. She is an anthropologist, Mrs. Napier. I’m not quite sure what that is.’

  ‘Really? It sounds a little incongruous—a naval officer and an anthropologist,’ said Julian.

  ‘It sounds very exciting,’ said Winifred. ‘Is it something to do with apes?’

  Julian began to explain to us what an anthropologist was, or I suppose he did, but as it is unlikely that any anthropologist will read this, I can perhaps say that it appeared to be something to do with the study of man and his behaviour in society—particularly among ‘primitive communities’, Julian said.

  Winifred giggled. ‘I hope she isn’t going to study us.’

  ‘I’m very much afraid that we shan’t see her at St. Mary’s,’ said Julian gravely.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. She told me that she never went to church.’

  ‘I hope you were able to say a word, Mildred,’ said Julian, fixing me with what I privately called his ‘burning’ look. ‘We shall rely on you to do something there.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t suppose I shall see anything of her except at the dustbins,’ I said lightly. ‘Perhaps her husband will come to church. Naval officers are often religious, I believe.’

  ‘They that go down to the sea in ships: and occupy their business in great waters; These men see the works of the Lord: and His wonders in the deep,’ Julian said, half to himself.

  I did not like to spoil the beauty of the words by pointing out that as far as we knew Rockingham Napier had spent most of his service arranging the Admiral’s social life. Of course he might very well have seen the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep.

  We got up from the table and Julian went out of the room. There was to be some kind of a meeting at half-past seven and I could already hear the voices of some of the ‘lads’ in the hall.

  ‘Let’s go into the den,’ said Winifred, ‘and I’ll make some coffee on the gas ring.’

  The den was a small room, untidily cosy, looking out on to the narrow strip of garden. Julian’s study was in the front on the same side, the drawing-room and dining-room on the other side. Upstairs there were several bedrooms and attics and a large cold bathroom. The kitchen was in the basement. It was really a very large house for two people, but Father Greatorex, the curate, a middle-aged man who had been ordained late in life, had his own flat in Grantchester Square.

  ‘We really ought to do something about letting off the top floor as a flat,’ said Winifred, pouring coffee that looked like weak tea. ‘It seems so selfish, wrong, really, just the two of us living here when there must be so many people wanting rooms now. I do hope this coffee is all right, Mildred? You always make it so well.’

  ‘Delicious, thank you,’ I murmured. ‘I’m sure you’d have no difficulty in getting a nice tenant. Of course you’d want somebody congenial. You might advertise in the Church Times.’ At this idea a crowd of suitable applicants seemed to rise up before me—canons’ widows, clergymen’s sons, Anglo-Catholic gentlewomen (non-smokers), church people (regular communicants) . . . all so worthy that they sounded almost unpleasant.

  ‘Oh, yes, we might do that. But I suppose you wouldn’t think of coming here yourself, Mildred?’ Her eyes shone, eager and pleading like a dog’s. ‘You could name your own rent, dear. I know Julian would like to have you here as much as I should.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, speaking slowly to gain time, for fond as I was of Winifred I valued my independence very dearly, ‘but I think I’d better stay where I am. I should be only one person and you’d really have room for two, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘A couple, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, or two friends. Something like Dora and me, or younger people, students, perhaps.’

  Winifred’s face brightened. ‘Oh, that would be lovely.’

  ‘Or a married curate,’ I suggested, full of ideas. ‘That would be very suitable. If Father Greatorex does get somewhere in the country, as I believe he wants to, Julian will be wanting another curate and he may very well be married.’

  ‘Yes, of course, they don’t all feel as Julian does.’

  ‘Does he?” I asked, interested. ‘I didn’t realise he had any definite views about it.’

  ‘Well, he’s never actually said anything,’ said Winifred vaguely. ‘But it’s so much nicer that he hasn’t married, nicer for me, that is, although I should have liked some nephews and nieces. And now,’ she leapt up with one of her awkward impulsive movements, ‘I must show you what Lady Farmer’s sent for the jumble sale. Such good things. I shall be quite set up for the spring.’

  Lady Farmer was one of the few wealthy members of our congregation, but as she was over seventy I was doubtful whether her clothes would really be suitable for Winifred, who was much thinner and hadn’t her air of comfortably upholstered elegance.

  ‘Look,’ she shook out the folds of a maroon embossed chenille velvet afternoon dress and held it up against her, ‘what do you think of this?’

  I had to agree that it was lovely material, but the dress was so completely Lady Farmer that I should have hated to wear it myself and swamp whatever i
ndividuality I possess.

  ‘Miss Enders can take it in where it’s too big,’ said Winifred. ‘It will do if people come to supper, you know, the Bishop or anybody like that.’

  We were both silent for a moment, as if wondering whether such an occasion could possibly arise.

  ‘There’s always the parish party at Christmas,’ I suggested.

  ‘Oh, of course. It will do for that.’ Winifred sounded relieved and bundled the dress away again. ‘There’s a good jumper suit, too, just the thing to wear in the mornings. How much ought I to give for them?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Lady Farmer said that I could have anything I wanted for myself, but I must pay a fair price, otherwise the sale won’t make anything.’

  We discussed the matter gravely for some time and then I got up to go.

  There were lights in Mrs. Napier’s windows as I approached the house, and from her room came the sound of voices raised in what sounded like an argument.

  I went into my little kitchen and laid my breakfast. I usually left the house at a quarter to nine in the morning and worked for my gentlewomen until lunchtime. After that I was free, but I always seemed to find plenty to do. As I moved about the kitchen getting out china and cutlery, I thought, not for the first time, how pleasant it was to be living alone. The jingle of the little beaded cover against the milk jug reminded me of Dora and her giggles, her dogmatic opinions and the way she took offence so easily. The little cover, which had been her idea, seemed to symbolise all the little irritations of her company, dear kind friend though she was. ‘It keeps out flies and dust,’ she would say, and of course she was perfectly right, it was only my perverseness that made me sometimes want to fling it away with a grand gesture.

  Later, as I lay in bed, I found myself thinking about Mrs. Napier and the man I had seen with her. Was he perhaps a fellow anthropologist? I could still hear voices in the room underneath me, raised almost as if they were quarrelling. I began to wonder about Rockingham Napier, when he would come and what he would be like. Cooking, Victorian glass paper-weights, charm . . . and then there was the naval element. He might arrive with a parrot in a cage. I supposed that, apart from encounters on the stairs, we should probably see very little of each other. Of course there might be some embarrassment about the sharing of the bathroom, but I must try to conquer it. I should certainly have my bath early so as to avoid clashing. I might perhaps buy myself a new and more becoming dressing-gown, one that I wouldn’t mind being seen in, something long and warm in a rich colour. . . . I must have dropped off to sleep at this point, for the next thing I knew was that I had been woken up by the sound of the front door banging. I switched on the light and saw that it was ten minutes to one. I hoped the Napiers were not going to keep late hours and have noisy parties. Perhaps I was getting spinsterish and ‘set’ in my ways, but I was irritated at having been woken. I stretched out my hand towards the little bookshelf where I kept cookery and devotional books, the most comforting bedside reading. My hand might have chosen Religio Medici, but I was rather glad that it had picked out Chinese Cookery and I was soon soothed into drowsiness.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was several days before I saw Mrs. Napier again, although I heard her going in and out and there seemed to be voices coming from her room every evening. I had an idea that I might ask her in to coffee sometime but hesitated about it because I did not quite know how to convey the impression that it was not, of course, to become a regular thing. I wanted to appear civil rather than friendly. One day a new roll of toilet paper of a rather inferior brand appeared in the lavatory, and I also noticed that an attempt had been made to clean the bath. It was not as well done as I should have liked to see it; people do not always realise that cleaning a bath properly can be quite hard work.

  ‘I suppose she did it,’ said Mrs. Morris, my ‘woman’, who came twice a week. ‘She doesn’t look as if she could clean anything.’

  Mrs. Morris was a Welshwoman who had come to London as a girl but still retained her native accent. I marvelled as always at her secret knowledge, when, as far as I knew, she had not yet set eyes on Mrs. Napier.

  ‘Kettle’s boiling, miss,’ she said, and I knew that it must be eleven o’clock, for she made this remark so regularly that I should have thought something was wrong if she had forgotten.

  ‘Oh, good, then let’s have our tea,’ I said, making the response expected of me. I waited for Mrs. Morris to say, ‘There’s a drop of milk in this jug,’ as she always did on discovering the remains of yesterday’s milk, and then we were ready for our tea.

  ‘I was cleaning at the vicarage yesterday, those rooms they’re going to let,’ said Mrs. Morris. ‘Miss Malory was saying how she wanted you to go there.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but I think it’s really better for me to stay here,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, indeed, Miss Lathbury. It wouldn’t be right at all for you to live at the vicarage.’

  ‘Well, Father Malory and Miss Malory are my friends.’

  ‘Yes, but it wouldn’t be right. If Miss Malory was to go away now . . .’

  ‘You think it wouldn’t be quite respectable?’ I asked.

  ‘Respectable?’ Mrs. Morris stiffened, and straightened the dark felt hat she always wore. ‘That isn’t for me to say, Miss Lathbury. But it isn’t natural for a man not to be married.’

  ‘Clergymen don’t always want to,’ I explained, ‘or they think it better they shouldn’t.’

  ‘Strong passions, isn’t it,’ she muttered obscurely. ‘Eating meat, you know, it says that in the Bible. Not that we get much of it now. If he was a real Father like Father Bogart,’ she went on, naming the priest of the Roman Catholic Church in our district, ‘you could understand it.’

  ‘But Mrs. Morris, you’re a regular churchwoman. I thought you liked Father Malory.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve nothing against him really, but it isn’t right.’ She finished her tea and went over to the sink. ‘I’ll just wash up these things.’

  I watched her stiff uncompromising back which hardly seemed to bend even though the sink was a low one.

  ‘Has something upset you?’ I asked. ‘Something about Father Malory?’

  ‘Oh, miss,’ she turned to face me, her hands red and dripping from the hot water. ‘It’s that old black thing he wears on his head in church.’

  ‘You mean his biretta?’ I asked, puzzled.

  ‘I don’t know what he calls it. Like a little hat, it is.’

  ‘But you’ve been going to St. Mary’s for years,’ I said. ‘You must have got used to it by now.’

  ‘Well, it was my sister Gladys and her husband, been staying with us they have. I took them to church Sunday evening and they didn’t like it at all, nor the incense, said it was Roman Catholic or something and we’d all be kissing the Pope’s toe before you could say knife.’

  She sat down with the drying-cloth in her hands. She looked so worried that I had to stop myself smiling.

  ‘Of course,’ she went on, ‘Evan and I have always been to St. Mary’s because it’s near, but it isn’t like the church I went to as a girl, where Mr. Lewis was vicar. He didn’t have incense or wear that old black hat.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose he did,’ I agreed, for I knew the seaside town she came from and I remembered the ‘English’ church, unusual among so many chapels, with the Ten Commandments in Welsh and in English on either side of the altar and a special service on Sunday morning for the visitors. I did not remember that they had expected or received ‘Catholic privileges.’

  ‘I was always church,’ said Mrs. Morris proudly. ‘Never been in the chapel, though I did once go to the Ebenezer social, but I don’t want to have anything to do with some old Pope. Kissing his toe, indeed!’ She looked up at me, half laughing, not quite sure if Gladys and her husband had been joking when they said it.

  ‘There’s a statue in St. Peter’s Church in Rome,’ I explained, ‘and people do kiss the toe. But that’s only Roman Catholics,’ I said in a loud clear
voice. ‘Don’t you remember Father Malory explaining about the Pope in his Sunday morning sermons last year?’

  ‘Oh, Sunday morning, was it?’ she laughed derisively. ‘That’s all very fine, standing up and talking about the Pope. A lot of us could do that. But who’s going to cook the Sunday dinner?’

  No answer seemed to be needed or expected to this question, and we laughed together, a couple of women against the whole race of men. Mrs. Morris dried her hands, fumbled in the pocket of her apron and took out a squashed packet of cigarettes. ‘Let’s have a fag, any road,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ll just tell Gladys what you said, Miss Lathbury, about it being some old statue.’

  I did not feel that I had done as well as I might have in my attempt to instruct Mrs. Morris in the differences between the Roman Church and ours, but I did not think that Julian Malory could have done much better.

  After she had gone I boiled myself a foreign egg for lunch and was just making some coffee when there was a knock on the kitchen door.

  It was Mrs. Napier.

  ‘I’ve come to ask something rather awkward,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Well, come in and have a cup of coffee with me. I was just making some.’

  ‘Thank you, that would be nice.’

  We went into the sitting-room and I switched on the fire. She looked around her with frank interest and curiosity.

  ‘Rather nice,’ she said. ‘I suppose this is the best from the country rectory?’

  ‘Most of it,’ I said, ‘and I’ve bought a few things from time to time.’

  ‘Look,’ she said abruptly, ‘I was wondering if your woman, the one who’s been here this morning, could possibly do for me at all? Perhaps on the mornings when you’re not here?’

  ‘I daresay she would be glad to have some more work,’ I said, ‘and she’s quite good. She does go to the vicarage occasionally.’