‘Oh, so can I!’ said Winifred enthusiastically. ‘A neat little person of about sixty, rather nicely dressed.’
‘Well, I’m afraid you’re quite wrong,’ said Julian. ‘I should think she is very little older than Mildred. And she is tall, but nicely dressed, I dare say; you know I don’t really notice such things.’
‘But where did you find her?’ I asked. ‘Did you advertise in the Church Times?’
‘No, that was not necessary. She is actually living in this parish, in furnished rooms at the moment. You may have seen her in church, though she told me she always sat at the back.’
‘Oh, really? I wonder . . .’ Winifred began to enumerate all the strangers she had noticed lately, but somehow we did not seem to be able to identify Mrs. Gray. Julian’s description was vague enough to fit any of two or three women we could remember having noticed as strangers.
‘How did she know about the flat?’ I asked.
‘She went to Miss Enders to have a dress altered and I suppose they got talking. Then she mentioned the matter to Father Greatorex and he told me. She felt she did not like to approach me directly. She is a clergyman’s widow, you see,’ Julian added, as if this would explain a delicacy not usually displayed by people engaged in the desperate business of flat-hunting.
‘Oh, good,’ I exclaimed involuntarily, for I had an inexplicable distrust of widows, who seem to be of two distinct kinds, one of which may be dangerous. I felt that Mrs. Gray sounded very definitely of the safer kind.
‘I gather that she hasn’t much money,’ said Julian, ‘so I hardly know what would be a fair rent to ask. I found I couldn’t bring myself to mention it, and neither, apparently, could she.’
‘Well, really, I should have thought that would have been her first question,’ I said, thinking what a remarkable delicate conversation they must have had. ‘She can hardly expect to get three rooms for nothing. You must be careful she doesn’t try to do you down.’
‘Oh, Mildred,’ Julian looked grieved, ‘you wouldn’t say that if you had seen her. She has such sad eyes.’
‘No; I’m sorry,’ I mumbled, for I had been forgetting that she was a clergyman’s widow.
‘Of course we don’t want to make any profit out of it,’ said Winifred, ‘so I’m sure we can come to some friendly arrangement. Perhaps I could discuss it with her; it might be less embarrassing with a woman.’
Julian looked at his sister doubtfully and then at me. ‘Of course Mildred would be the ideal person,’ he said.
‘You mean because I’m used to dealing with impoverished gentlewomen?’ I asked. ‘But I’m afraid it’s made me develop a rather suspicious attitude. You see, we sometimes get people who aren’t genuine and every case has to be carefully investigated.’
‘Really, how distressing! I had no idea people would try that sort of thing.’
‘How terrible!’ said Winifred. ‘It always saddens me when I hear of wickedness like that. Especially among gentlewomen.’
‘Yes, perhaps one does expect rather more of them,’ I agreed, ‘but I can assure you it does sometimes happen.’ The Malorys often gave me a feeling that I knew more of the wickedness of the world than they did, especially as I had learned much of the weaknesses of human nature in my Censorship work, but so much of my knowledge was at second hand that I doubted whether there was much to choose between us in worldly wisdom. But I did feel that they were simpler and more trusting by nature than I was.
‘Oh, I expect I shall be able to manage it quite satisfactorily,’ said Julian. ‘It would hardly be fair to expect Mildred to deal with something that doesn’t concern her at all.’
‘I will if you like,’ I said doubtfully, ‘but of course it’s not really my business.’ I did not then know to the extent I do now that practically anything may be the business of an unattached woman with no troubles of her own, who takes a kindly interest in those of her friends.
‘We must look out for Mrs. Gray in church,’ said Winifred. ‘I think I know who she is. I believe she sometimes wears a silver fox fur.’
‘I thought Julian said she hadn’t much money,’ I said, ‘though of course the fur might have been left over from more prosperous days.’
‘It’s a rather bushy fur,’ said Winifred. ‘Perhaps it isn’t silver fox at all. I don’t know much about these things.’
‘I don’t think she was wearing a fur when I saw her,’ said Julian, ‘but she did appear to be nicely dressed.’
‘I hope she won’t distract you from writing your sermons, Julian,’ I said jokingly. ‘We shall probably notice a marked falling off in your preaching when Mrs. Gray moves in.’
Julian laughed and got up from the table. ‘I must go back to my distempering,’ he said, ‘or the place won’t be habitable. I shall enjoy it now that I know the colour dries lighter. I have certainly learnt something this afternoon.’
Winifred smiled affectionately after him as he left the room. ‘Men are just children, really, aren’t they. He’s as happy as a sandboy when he’s doing something messy. Now, Mildred, perhaps we could get on with pricing these things for the sale?’
We spent a contented half hour going through the jumble and speculating about Mrs. Gray.
‘Julian didn’t really tell us what she was like,’ lamented Winifred.
‘No, but I suppose women of my sort and age are difficult to describe, unless they’re strikingly beautiful, of course.’
‘Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely,’ Winifred pushed back her untidy grey hair, ‘if she were strikingly beautiful!’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it would if she could be nice as well, but one feels that beautiful people aren’t always.’
‘But she’s a clergyman’s widow. . . .’
‘Oh, dear,’ I laughed, ‘I’d forgotten that.’ It seemed like a kind of magic formula. ‘So she’s to be beautiful as well as good. That sounds almost too much. We don’t know how her husband died, do we? She may have driven him to his grave.’
Winifred looked rather shocked, so I stopped my foolish imaginings and went on pricing the worn garments, stuffed birds, old shoes, golf clubs, theological books, popular dance tunes of the ’thirties, fenders and photograph frames—jumble in all its glory.
‘I wonder . . .’ said Winifred thoughtfully, ‘I wonder what her Christian name is?’
CHAPTER SIX
Lent began in February that year and it was very cold, with sleet and bitter winds. The office where I dealt with my impoverished gentlewomen was in Belgravia, and it was my custom to attend the lunchtime services held at St. Ermin’s on Wednesdays.
The church had been badly bombed and only one aisle could be used, so that it always appeared to be very full with what would normally have been an average congregation crowded into the undamaged aisle. This gave us a feeling of intimacy with each other and separateness from the rest of the world, so that I always thought of us as being rather like the early Christians, surrounded not by lions, admittedly, but by all the traffic and bustle of a weekday lunch-hour.
On Ash Wednesday I went to the church as usual with Mrs. Bonner, one of my fellow workers, who was drawn more by the name of the preacher than by anything else, for, as she confessed to me, she loved a good sermon. We had hurried over our lunch—a tasteless mess of spaghetti followed by a heavy steamed pudding, excellent Lenten fare, I felt—and were in our seats in good time before the service was due to begin. We had made our way through the ruins, where torn-down wall tablets and an occasional urn or cherub’s head were stacked in heaps, and where, incongruous in the middle of so much desolation, we had come upon a little grey woman heating a saucepan of coffee on a Primus stove.
Mrs. Bonner settled herself down comfortably with the anticipation of enjoyment and peered round at the people coming in, as if she were at a fashionable wedding. I am afraid that she cannot have found them very interesting, for they were a mixed collection of office-workers and passers-by, together with the elderly ladies and dim spins
ters who form a proportion of church congregations everywhere. The vicar stood at the door, a gaunt figure in his rusty black cassock, while his wife fussed over the new arrivals, trying to prevent them from following their natural inclination to crowd into the back of the church, leaving no room for late-comers.
I sat quietly, sometimes turning my head, and it was on one of these occasions that, to my surprise and dismay, I found myself looking straight at Everard Bone, who was coming in at that moment. He looked back at me but without any sign of recognition. I suppose I was indistinguishable from many another woman in a neutral winter coat and plain hat and I was thankful for my anonymity. But he was unmistakable. His tall figure, his well-cut overcoat, his long nose and his fair hair were outstanding in this gathering of mediocrity. I felt that I could almost understand the attraction he might have for the kind of person who is drawn to the difficult, the unusual, even the unpleasant.
‘What a handsome man—though his nose is a shade too long,’ said Mrs. Bonner in a loud whisper, as Everard took his seat a few rows in front of us.
I did not answer but I found that I could not help thinking about him. He was certainly the last person I should have expected to see here. I suppose I was ignorant enough to imagine that all anthropologists must be unbelievers, but the appearance of Everard Bone had shaken my complacency considerably. And yet, of course, it might be that he was here in a professional capacity, observing our behaviour with a view to contributing a note on it to some learned journal. I should have to ask Helena about it the next time I saw her.
A grey little woman—perhaps the same one who had been brewing coffee in the ruins—took her seat at the harmonium and played the first line of a Lenten hymn. The singing was hearty, if a little ragged, and as I sang I began to feel humble and ashamed of myself for my unkind thoughts about Everard Bone. He was certain to be a much nicer person and a better Christian than I was, which would not be difficult. Besides, what reason had I for disliking him? His pointed nose and the fact that I had found him difficult to talk to? His friendship or whatever it was with Helena Napier? The last, certainly, was none of my business.
The preacher was forceful and interesting. His words seemed to knit us together, so that we really were like the early Christians, having all things in common. I tried to banish the feeling that I should prefer not to have all things in common with Everard Bone but it would keep coming back, almost as if he was to be in some way my Lenten penance, and I was quite upset to find myself near him as we crowded out of the church.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ whispered Mrs. Bonner loudly, ‘a very interesting sermon, but what a lot of talk about sin. I suppose it’s only to be expected at the beginning of Lent, but it’s all so miserable, don’t you think?’
I could think of no suitable comment and her loud whispering embarrassed me, for I was afraid that Everard Bone’s attention would be attracted and that he might recognise me. But I need not have feared, for after standing uncertainly outside the church for a second or two, he walked quickly away in the opposite direction from the one we were taking.
‘I can understand that man packing the churches,’ went on Mrs. Bonner. ‘He certainly has a forceful personality, and yet I can’t believe we’re really so wicked.’
‘No, but we have to be made to realise it,’ I said unconvincingly, for we certainly seemed harmless enough, elderly and middle-aged people with one or two mild-looking younger men and women. Indeed, Everard Bone had been the only person one would have looked at twice.
‘Of course a lot of very good people aren’t religious in the sense of being church-goers,’ persisted Mrs. Bonner.
‘No, I know they aren’t,’ I agreed, feeling that at any moment she would begin talking about it being just as easy to worship God in a beechwood or on the golf links on a fine Sunday morning.
‘I must admit I always feel the presence of God much more when I’m in a garden or on a mountain,’ she continued.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t got a garden and am really never on a mountain,’ I said. Was it perhaps likely though, that one might feel the presence of God more in Whitehall or Belgrave Square, than say, Vauxhall Bridge Road or Oxford Street? No doubt there was something in it.
‘A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot,’ said Mrs. Bonner rather half-heartedly. ‘Well, we must certainly go next week. It’s interesting having a different preacher every time—one never knows what will turn up.’
When I got home it occurred to me that I might ask the Napiers whether they had anything suitable for the jumble sale, which was to be held the next Saturday. It also occurred to me that I might find out something about Everard Bone and why he had been at the service. Of course it was nothing to do with me but I was curious to know. Perhaps if I did know I should understand and like him better.
As I walked upstairs past the Napiers’ flat I could hear that they were in, for they always seemed to keep their doors half open. Now their voices were raised in what seemed to be an argument.
‘Darling, you are filthy,’ I heard Rocky say, ‘putting down a hot greasy frying-pan on the linoleum!’
‘Oh, don’t fuss so!’ came her voice from the sitting-room.
I was just creeping slowly and guiltily past, feeling as if I had been eavesdropping, when Rocky came out of the kitchen with a cloth in his hand and invited me in to have some coffee with them.
I went into the sitting-room where Helena was sitting writing at a desk. Pieces of paper covered with diagrams of little circles and triangles were spread around her.
‘That looks very learned,’ I said, in the feeble way that one does.
‘Oh, it’s just kinship diagrams,’ she said rather shortly.
Rocky laughed and poured out the coffee. I had the impression that Helena was annoyed with him for having invited me in.
‘You mustn’t mind if I get on with this,’ she said. ‘Our paper is due to be read soon and there’s a lot to do.’
‘I expect you’ll be quite relieved when it’s over,’ I said.
‘I shall be,’ said Rocky. ‘At the moment I have to do all the cooking and washing up. I’m worn out.’
‘Well, you’re not in the Admiral’s villa now, and anyway it won’t be long. I thought you liked cooking, darling,’ said Helena in an edgy voice.
I felt rather uncomfortable. I suppose married people get so used to calling each other ‘darling’ that they never realise how false it sounds when said in an annoyed or irritable tone.
‘I wonder if you could let me have anything for the jumble sale on Saturday?’ I asked quickly. ‘Old clothes, shoes or anything?’
‘Oh, I’ve always got lots of junk. It will be a good chance to get rid of it,’ said Helena without looking up from her writing. ‘I’ll look out some things this evening.’
‘I’ve got a pair of shoes and a suit that the moth got,’ said Rocky, with a glance at his wife. ‘I’ll bring them to you tonight. Everard Bone is coming to talk to Helena about the paper.’
‘Oh, I saw him today,’ I said in what I hoped was a casual tone.
‘Did you?’ Helena turned round from her desk, her face animated.
‘Yes, I’ve been to the Lent service at St. Ermin’s and I saw him there. I was quite surprised. I mean,’ I added, not wanting to sound smug, ‘I was surprised because one doesn’t usually see anyone one knows there.’
‘You mean you don’t expect anthropologists to go to church, Miss Lathbury,’ said Helena. ‘But Everard is a convert, quite ardent, you know.’
‘I thought converts always were ardent,’ said Rocky. ‘Surely that’s the point about them? The whole set-up is new and interesting to them. Did he get converted in Africa, seeing the missionaries going about their work? One would have thought it might have the opposite effect.’
‘Oh, no,’ I protested, ‘they do such splendid work.’
‘Splendid work,’ Rocky repeated, savouring the words, ‘how I love that expression! It has such a very noble sound. Perhaps Miss
Lathbury is right—it may have been the sight of his fellow anthropologists that sent him over to the other side.’
‘Well, it wasn’t in Africa,’ said Helena, not sounding amused. ‘I think it happened when he was at Cambridge, though he never talks about it.’
‘Perhaps it is rather an awkward thing,’ said Rocky. ‘In many ways life is easier without that.’
‘Of course it is more of an intellectual thing with him,’ said Helena. ‘He knows all the answers.’
‘We certainly want people like that,’ I said. ‘The Church needs intelligent people.’
‘I should think so,’ said Helena scornfully. ‘All those old women swooning over a good-looking curate won’t get it anywhere.’
‘But our curate isn’t good-looking,’ I said indignantly, visualising Father Greatorex’s short stocky figure in its untidy clothes. ‘He isn’t even young.’
‘And anyway, why should the Church want to get anywhere?’ said Rocky. ‘I think it’s much more comforting to think of it staying just where it is.’
‘Wherever that may be,’ Helena added.
I made a faint murmur of protest, but it was rather faint, for between the two of them I hardly knew where I was, though Rocky’s attitude seemed the more sympathetic. ‘I’m afraid we aren’t all very intelligent about our religion,’ I said, slightly on the defensive, ‘we probably don’t know many of the answers and can’t argue cleverly. And yet I suppose there’s room for the stupid as well,’ I added, for I was thinking of the lines in Bishop Heber’s hymn,
Richer by far is the heart’s adoration,
Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.
Though obviously He must be very pleased to have somebody as clever as Everard Bone.
‘Did he speak to you?’ Helena asked.
‘Oh, no, I don’t think he saw me, or if he did he didn’t recognise me. People don’t, you know. I suppose there’s really nothing outstanding about me.’
‘Dear Miss Lathbury,’ Rocky smiled, ‘how completely untrue!’