'Yes, of course — quite a lot older,' said Ianthe, surprised at his tone.
'What does age matter,' said John gallantly.
'In some cases it does,' said Mervyn and then went out of the room.
'Oh dear,' said Ianthe. 'He's in a funny mood today, and I don't feel I've thanked him properly for his Christmas present.'
She was able to do this when he came back after having given Shirley her present.
'Three pairs of seamless mesh nylons in a shade called "Incatan",' he declared. 'How many of these girls who wear this colour have ever heard of the Incas of Peru?'
John looked at Ianthe and winked, a curiously old-fashioned gesture that made her want to laugh. Mervyn had his back to them and was getting a bottle of sherry and some glasses out of his private cupboard.
'A little drink before Christmas,' he announced.
After one glass Ianthe said she must go, as she had decided to visit Miss Grimes on the way home. She had bought some cigarettes for John and was wondering when she could give them to him. She had put on her hat and coat and was about to leave when he came up to her with two bunches of violets, so that she was able to press the cigarettes into his hand while taking the flowers from him.
Ianthe hurried down the library steps holding the flowers to her face. Their cold fresh scent and passionate yet mourning purple roused in her a feeling she could not explain. It was with a slight shock of coming back to reality that she remembered her resolution to visit Miss Grimes on her way home that evening, as part of her contribution to Christmas goodwill, a sort of 'good turn' done to somebody for whom one felt no affection. To love one's neighbour, she thought as she trudged resolutely up the Finchley Road, must surely often be an effort of the will rather than a pleasurable upsurging of emotion.
She had decided to take food rather than flowers. Old people liked little delicacies and Miss Grimes probably couldn't afford to buy all she wanted. A tin of shortbread, a box of chocolates and ajar of chicken breasts in aspic had seemed suitable. She hoped Miss Grimes wouldn't think them too extravagant.
The house where Miss Grimes had a room was in a side road, tall and of red brick, with many little cards by as many bells. It made Ianthe uncomfortable to think of so many people living alone. Should she offer to have Miss Grimes in her house? she wondered in a rush of wild impractical nobility. That would be true Christian charity of a kind that very few can bring themselves to practise.
Miss Grimes answered the bell quickly, for her room was on the ground floor. It was a large, almost gracious, room with a high ceiling and long windows hung with faded blue brocade curtains. There were some rather good pieces of furniture and china. Why, she had seen better days, thought Ianthe in surprise, for the Miss Grimes she had known in the library, with her raffish appearance and slight Cockney accent, had not suggested anything like this.
'I always wanted to have nice things,' she explained, seeing Ianthe's interested looks, 'so I collected these over the years.'
'Oh, I thought they might have been in your family.'
'Oh no, dear,' Miss Grimes laughed. 'I've always rather liked the idea of being a "distressed gentlewoman" — it's got a nice old-world sound about it. And people think more of you if you have nice things — as if you'd once had a "beautiful home".' She gave the words a slightly scornful emphasis that made Ianthe feel uncomfortable.
'I've brought you a few things,' she began, taking up her basket.
'So I can see, dear. What's this ah, bottle — violets,' she scrabbled with her not quite clean hands in the basket and took out Mervyn's bottle and John's violets. 'Oh, it is good of you, dear, it really is.'
Ianthe opened her mouth to speak but she could not bring herself to explain that these were her own Christmas presents. It served her right for thinking too much of the violets; not caring much for drink, she did not mind losing the Madeira.
'And there's some shortbread and chocolates and ajar of chicken breasts,' she said, taking them out of the basket and putting them on the table.
'Oh my — what a feast,' said Miss Grimes, tearing the wrapping paper off the bottle. 'Madeira. "Have some Madeira, m'dear" — I'll keep this for Christmas if you don't mind. But now you must have a drink with me. I find this Spanish Burgundy — Vino Tinto they call it — not bad. Reminds me of holidays on the Costa Brava.'
Ianthe remembered that Miss Grimes had been to Spain for her holiday one year, but she supposed that she must have bought the wine specially when Ianthe had said she was coming to see her. It was rather touching, especially when one realized that she had practically no money but her old age pension.
'I get a bottle of this every week,' Miss Grimes went on. 'It's six-and-six — quite cheap really. You want to warm it a bit, though.' She laughed and took a gulp of wine. 'We had one of those social workers come round a few weeks ago — she was doing a sort of survey of old age pensioners — some idea that they could live on twenty-five shillings a week for food. She asked me to join in like a kind of guinea pig and keep a weekly budget. She was a bit surprised about the wine — told me I'd be better off spending the money on haricot beans and lentils. They'd got it all worked out what we ought to eat — would you believe it!'
Ianthe took a prim sip of wine. She had not imagined Miss Grimes spending six-and-six a week on drink and might well have taken the attitude of the officious social worker. There was something slightly shocking about an old woman drinking wine alone in a bed-sitting room. Haricot beans and lentils — or chicken breasts in aspic if they could be afforded — were really much more suitable.
'Now tell me the library gossip,' said Miss Grimes. 'What's this new young man like? More to our Mervyn's taste than a girl, I shouldn't wonder.' She gave Ianthe a sly look.
Really, she wasn't a very nice old woman, thought Ianthe, beginning to feel indignant that Miss Grimes wasn't conforming more to type.
'He's very pleasant,' she said, but somehow she did not want to talk about John.
'He might do for you — it's not too late,' said Miss Grimes jovially.
'Oh, but he's younger than I am,' said Ianthe, and then found herself flushing with annoyance at having taken Miss Grimes's joke seriously.
'Well, you're not on the shelf yet, even if you are a librarian.'
Ianthe felt obliged to laugh at this, and after telling Miss Grimes about some of the everyday happenings at the library, she got up to go. She was relieved to be out in the cool night air, but the journey home was an awkward one and she felt a little sorry for herself as she waited for her second bus. She had set out with the idea of doing good by visiting poor lonely Miss Grimes but she did not seem to have achieved anything much. Miss Grimes had certainly been glad of the presents but she had not really seemed as destitute and lonely as Ianthe had expected — perhaps secretly even hoped — and she found herself resenting the way she had taken the violets.
***
How tired and drab she looks, thought Rupert Stonebird, walking up the road behind her. By no means 'lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd' — he had even gone so far as to look up Landor's lines about Ianthe — but perhaps women couldn't be expected always to live up to what poets wrote about them. He turned into his house, thankful not to have had to make conversation with her.
More Christmas cards lay on the mat in the hall. The first one he opened — an obviously carefully chosen new-old Victorian snow scene-was signed 'Penelope'. He stared at the signature, wondering who could have sent it. One of his students, perhaps. Then he remembered that the vicar's sister-in-law was called Penelope — but why should she send him a card? It must be somebody he had forgotten.
The next card, signed 'Esther', showed an African carving of startling unsuitability and crudeness. On the back was printed 'Proceeds from the sale of this card will be given to the Fund for Needy and Indigent Anthropologists (FUNIA).' Really, he thought in disgust, must they even cash in on Christmas? Then he remembered with a sinking heart that he had rashly accepted an invitation
to spend the holiday with a colleague and his wife who had, as they put it, 'taken pity on your loneliness at this so-called festive season'. They were agnostics — perhaps even old-fashioned Rationalists — and had a family of young children. No doubt he would be woken up in good time to go to church.
7
Penelope found Christmas disappointing. Not that it ever really came up to her expectations, but this year — spending it at the vicarage with Mark and Sophia and her mother — she had hoped for at least a glimpse of Rupert Stonebird. It had been a blow to learn that he had gone away to spend Christmas with 'friends in the country', and she imagined him surrounded by fascinating girls all more attractive than herself. Rupert had not specified what the 'friends' consisted of, so nobody could have known about the anthropological colleague and his wife and their children aged seven, five, and three, or pictured Rupert going to church alone on Christmas morning, helping to wash up after the adequate but plain Christmas dinner, spending the evening talking shop, and retiring early to his hard uncomfortable bed. He came back to London on Boxing Day evening, but the vicarage party went to the theatre that night and asked Ianthe Broome to join them. So nobody saw Rupert return to his house, or standing in his overcoat in the unheated hall, opening late Christmas cards, then going from room to room switching on electric fires.
The New Year came and with it a kind of hope, though of what Penelope was not sure. She was invited to a few parties, kissed good-night outside her door in South Kensington, taken out to lunch by a young man training to be a chartered accountant, and to an Italian film by another who was 'in the City'; she was beginning to forget about Rupert when one evening towards the end of January she was later than usual leaving Toogood and Shelve, the publishers, where she worked as secretary to Mr Shelve. An elderly female novelist had come in at a quarter to six and Penelope had found herself trying to explain why her latest novel had not been reviewed in the Sunday Telegraph, why it had not been advertised more widely, why copies had not been displayed on the bookstall of a friend's local station, why it had not yet been reprinted. It was perhaps fortunate for both of them that Mr Toogood was in America and Mr Shelve was at home in Haslemere with influenza, but publishers had to go to America and they were also as likely as anyone else to catch influenza, Penelope explained.
'This would not have happened with Mr Chatto or Mr Windus,' said the female novelist, as Penelope at last managed to get her out of the building. 'I shall go to the Army and Navy Stores,' she announced. 'They are sure to have copies of my book there.''
Penelope thought it wiser not to point out that the Stores would certainly be closed by the time she got there, but felt she had done enough in showing her which bus to take.
She had come rather out of her way and now walked back along a square where a learned society had its premises. In the days when she had first known him she had wondered idly whether she might see Rupert round here, 'going in' or 'coming out', though she was not clear when this might be expected or even what he might have been doing. This evening, however, she was surprised and excited to notice that the great carved door was wide open and that groups of people were coming out.
An elderly man with a white pointed beard was being shepherded into a chauffeur-driven car by the short rough-haired woman in a thick tweed suit, who had been at Rupert's house that evening in the autumn; a little man carrying two heavy-looking suitcases was hurrying away as if to catch a train; a group of younger men and women was standing on the pavement, talking and laughing.
'Well, Rupert, back to your solitary meal in your neo-Edwardian house rather too far west of St John's Wood,' said a voice near Penelope. 'And I must away to my Green Line bus — Lydia will be keeping something hot for me.'
Penelope dared not stop or turn her head, for she realized that Rupert must be close behind her. It was fortunate that at that moment the handle of her basket, insecurely mended, should suddenly give way, scattering the contents over the pavement — a library book, some oranges, and a rather shamefully adolescent bag of liquorice all-sorts.
'Let me help you — why, it's Father Ainger's wife's sister.' Rupert looked at Penelope seriously, concentrating on the relationship as an anthropologist should.
'Yes, Sophia is my sister. We met at dinner at the vicarage and at Miss Broome's house after the bazaar,' said Penelope firmly reminding him.
'Were you on your way to the vicarage now?'
Penelope hesitated, hardly remembering where she had been going. Home, she supposed, to wash her hair and do her nails — to have what her contemporaries called 'an early night'. On the other hand, she could have been going to see Sophia. Where was he going? That was the point.
'Would you like to have a drink with me?' Rupert asked, without waiting for her answer. 'That is, if you have no immediate engagement.'
Penelope could not help smiling at the formality of his words. 'That would be very nice,' she said.
They walked along together, neither quite knowing what to say, until they reached the pub, which was full and rather cosy. When they were settled down with their drinks she asked him about the learned society. Somebody had been reading a paper there, which apparently happened quite often, Penelope learned, and they usually finished at about this time. So there might be an advantage in working late and coming home a rather roundabout way, she reflected.
Now that she saw Rupert again he was rather less interesting than she had remembered — a little older, slightly inhibited in his conversation, and unresponsive to her semi-flirtatious looks and remarks in a way that puzzled her. It must be something to do with being an anthropologist, she decided. It seemed a dark mysterious sort of profession, perhaps in a way not quite manly, or not manly in the way she was used to. Her young men hitherto had been in the City, or in advertising, chartered accountancy, or even television. They took her to the sort of restaurants she could mention without shame next day when her colleagues at work asked 'Where did he take you?' And now here was Rupert, asking her if she was hungry and would she like a sandwich. He had suddenly realized that he hadn't had any lunch.
'No thank you,' said Penelope, feeling that he could hardly sit there eating a sandwich unless she did too.
But her life had been, though in different ways, as narrow and sheltered as Ianthe's. Men could and did eat sandwiches while their female companions ate nothing. Rupert went to the bar and came back with more drinks for them both and a thick and delicious-looking ham sandwich for himself.
Penelope poured tonic into her gin and looked away from him.
Rupert, devouring his sandwich with enjoyment, looked at her. Her beautiful red hair was arranged in its usual chaotic beehive, but there was something strange about her eyes which had a curious bruised look about them. Perhaps it was just purple eye-shadow lavishly applied, he decided eventually. She was wearing a navy blue duffel coat with a tartan-lined hood, black stockings and pointed shoes with very high heels. As he had remembered, there was something slightly comic about her appearance.
The pub suddenly seemed to empty. Crowds of people went out and a young clergyman came in and ordered a pint of bitter. He seemed to be on good terms with the people behind the bar. He was handsome in a blond rugger-blue sort of way.
'Curate having a drink,' said Penelope rather scornfully. 'Bringing the church to the people.'
'Yes, I suppose it's a good thing when they can do that,' said Rupert, seeming not to notice the scorn in her voice. 'I should think your brother-in-law gets on well with people,' he added formally.
'Mark? Oh yes, he does, but only because he feels he ought to. Really he's a very remote sort of person. He hardly even notices those endless cups of tea.'
Rupert smiled. 'Yes, it's a pity — I mean, the endless cups of tea. I grew away from the Church being a clergyman's son, of course, and now that I've come back to it I find it the same only more so — fewer people and even more cups of tea.'
'There should be more people and lots of wine,' said Penelope impetuous
ly.
'Yes, but just imagine the practical difficulties. And of course the outward trappings . . .' He paused.
'Don't affect the inward truth, do you mean?' Penelope asked. She was beginning to feel very hungry, hardly strong enough for a serious talk about religion. She found his 'return to the Church' peculiarly disconcerting, almost as if he might be going to become a clergyman himself. And when one came to think of it he did look a little like a clergyman in his dark grey suit, especially when he wore his spectacles.
'Have you ever been married?' she asked, boldly changing the subject.
'No — that hasn't come my way — marriage,' he said rather oddly, as if it were the sort of thing about which one had no conscious choice.
'But other things — oh, lots of other things, I'm sure,' went on Penelope, now a little desperate.
He smiled. 'There are other things, after all. What was it Dr Johnson said — "Love is only one of many passions and it has no great influence on the sum of life".'
He finished his drink, drained it, Penelope thought, 'with an air of finality', like a character in a novel. Soon he would get up and say he must be going.
'I suppose as an anthropologist you look on everything with detachment,' she said.
'Not quite everything.' He smiled — enigmatically, surely.
'Do you like your house?' she asked. 'Are you happy in it?'
'Yes — and I have good neighbours which is pleasant.'
Penelope supposed he must mean Ianthe Broome and Sophia and Mark.
'Do you know, one of them brought me an oxtail the other evening?'
'An oxtail?' Penelope saw it being carried in the hand, stiff and furry at one end like a kind of African fly switch. 'Whatever for?'
'To eat — it was in a basin.'
'Oh, I see — cooked. But surely not a whole oxtail?'
'Well, I don't know — it lasted me two meals. I suppose it must have been a portion,' he said uncertainly, feeling that the word was wrong.