‘He was thin and dark, wasn’t he?’ she said anxiously. ‘But somehow I can’t see his face.’ There was a blank above the clerical collar, as it were, for so many had been thin and dark.
‘Oh, Belinda, you must remember him at that Whist Drive,’ said Harriet smiling tenderly, for she had no difficulty in recalling him as one of the most sought-after curates in the history of the Church of England. In his heyday there had been quite a procession of doting women towards his lodgings, carrying cooked pheasants and chickens, iced cakes, even jellies in basins … Harriet sighed over her reminiscences and then remarked in a regretful tone of voice that she did not think Belinda had really made the most of Agatha’s absence.
Belinda could not but agree, for Harriet was perfectly right. And yet, how could one make the most of the absence of an archdeacon’s wife. It was a thing no truly respectable spinster could or would do. She pointed this out to Harriet, who refused with characteristic obstinacy to understand and merely remarked that we none of us got any younger.
Ah yes, thought Belinda, as she turned to knitting the dull grey jumper that might have been a pullover for the Archdeacon, that was it. She thought about it so seldom but now she became melancholy at the realization that the fine madness of her youth had gone. She was no longer an original shining like a comet, indeed, it would have been unsuitable if she had been. Change and decay in all around I see … All, all are gone, the old familiar faces … Dear Nicholas was back in the Library, John Akenside was in heaven, while his earthly remains rested in an English cemetery in the Balkans, and if Harriet married Theodore Mbawawa, even she would be gone … Who was there apart from the forbidden Archdeacon? One’s women friends, of course, people like Edith Liversidge and Connie Aspinall, but they were a cold comfort. Belinda grew even more melancholy, and then she remembered Count Bianco. There was always Ricardo. Perhaps they could read Dante together and find some consolation in the great Italian poet. She did not think she would be equal to reading Tacitus.
In the meantime Belinda had promised to go to the station with the Archdeacon to meet Agatha and the Bishop. On this day she was classed with Agatha’s nearest and dearest in a way which seemed to her rather ironical. Who but a man could be so lacking in finer feelings as to think of such a thing? she wondered. But of course she said she would go.
‘After all, you both love the Archdeacon,’ Harriet had explained, and Belinda supposed that it was true, though one could hardly admit it even to oneself. Possibly, thought Belinda, I love him even more than Agatha does, but my feeling may be the stronger for not having married him.
As they waited on the station, Belinda decided that her sister had been wise to stay at home, for it was bitterly cold. Harriet liked her comfort and had decided that she would appear to better advantage in a less bleak setting.
‘The Bishop will surely find our climate very different from that of the tropics,’ remarked the curate, as they were stamping their feet on the platform to keep warm.
Belinda thought this remark to be so obvious as not to require an answer, so she turned to the Archdeacon and said that she thought his watch must be fast, as they seemed to have been waiting a long time.
‘Oh, no, but the train is late,’ he said, with a superior smile. So Milton’s Adam must have smiled on Eve. He was not pleased at the prospect of having to entertain the Bishop for an indefinite length of time, but nevertheless he was looking forward to it with a kind of grim relish. He remembered certain minor discomforts about the spare room at the vicarage as he stood there on the cold platform. It was a gloomy room with a northerly aspect and a tall, dark monkey-puzzle growing close to the window, which looked out on to an old potting-shed, full of flower-pots and dried-up roots and bulbs. And in addition, although the Archdeacon had not personally made the bed, he knew that there were sides-to-middle sheets on it, for Florrie had come into his study that morning, very agitated because all the whole sheets were still at the laundry. The Archdeacon was delighted. He seemed to remember also that the mattress was a particularly lumpy one, worn into uncomfortable bumps and hollows by a variety of visiting clergy, and that the bedside lamp did not work. All the same he had taken pleasure in making a suitable selection of books for the bedside table – a volume of Tillotson’s sermons, Klaeber’s edition of Beowulf, the Poems of Mrs Hemans, an old Icelandic grammar, and, as a concession to the Bishop’s connection with Africa, a particularly dull anthropological work, which had been included with some other books he had bought at a sale. The Bishop would naturally want thrillers – the clergy always did, he found – but he was keeping his own supply locked up in his study.
Belinda saw him smiling to himself and wondered whether it could be because Agatha was coming home. Naturally it must be, as she knew he was not pleased at the prospect of the Bishop. Prospect of bishops, she thought, liking the phrase, but at that moment the curate espied the train coming round the bend into the station.
‘There they are!’ he shouted, rushing towards a first-class carriage where Agatha’s face had appeared at the window.
‘I thought you would be travelling at the rear. I didn’t look for you at the front,’ said the Archdeacon rather reproachfully.
He kissed his wife, not very affectionately, Belinda thought, but she had kept herself rather in the background, waiting for this reunion of nearest and dearest to be over. There was a forced smile on her face to be used when needed. She looked about her and saw emerging from the railway carriage what she imagined must be the Bishop of Mbawawa. He too was looking as if he did not quite know what to do with himself.
Belinda moved towards him and introduced herself. ‘I don’t suppose you remember me,’ she said, smiling rather awkwardly. Nor did she remember him, if it came to that, for she could have sworn that she had never seen him in all her life. Could a beautiful curate have grown into this tall, stringy-looking man, with a yellow, leathery complexion? His expression reminded Belinda of a sheep more than anything; his face was long, his forehead domed and his head bald. He was even rather toothy, a thing that Harriet abhorred. Could it be the same person? she wondered.
‘But I certainly do remember you,’ he was saying. ‘You knitted me a beautiful scarf when I was a curate.’
Belinda was decidedly taken aback. She had always thought it rather wonderful that she had never done anything of the kind. He must have been thinking of Harriet or another of his many admirers.
‘Oh, did I?’ she said vaguely, which helped neither of them, and caused the Bishop to be assailed with doubts.
‘You did such splendid work with the Guild of St Agnes,’ he went on, less certainly.
Belinda, who had never heard of any such guild, felt rather foolish. ‘I daresay you remember my sister better,’ she ventured, ‘Harriet, you know.’
‘Ah, yes.’ His face cleared. ‘I shall look forward to renewing my acquaintance with her,’ he said politely. ‘She was always interested in missions, if I remember rightly.’
‘Oh, yes, she was,’ said Belinda, thinking that she might as well agree for a change. ‘She is looking forward to seeing you so much.’
The Bishop was just saying something about the pleasure of meeting old friends and looked as if he might almost be about to quote some Mbawawa proverb, when Agatha came over to them and Belinda found herself shaking hands cordially and telling her how well she looked.
‘You’re looking splendid,’ said Belinda, and indeed Agatha was quite fat in the face and seemed in very good spirits. Belinda was shocked to find herself wondering whether a month’s absence from her husband could have anything to do with it.
The curate was now bundling them all into a taxi, saying that he would walk as he had to call and see one of the church wardens. So Belinda found herself sitting by Agatha, while the Bishop and the Archdeacon squatted rather incongruously on the little folding seats.
‘I don’t think Henry is looking very well,’ said Agatha, with something of her old sharpness, so that Belinda felt that it w
as her fault.
‘Oh, I think he’s quite well really,’ said Belinda quickly. ‘A little tired, perhaps, but then he’s had so much to do while you’ve been away.’
The Archdeacon was unable to resist joining in this interesting conversation, so he rather rudely interrupted the Bishop, who was telling him something about the organization of his diocese, to remark that he was really quite exhausted and did not know how he was going to get through the rest of the winter.
‘Oh, I expect you’ll manage all right,’ said Agatha lightly. ‘I’m sure Bishop Grote will be only too glad to help with some of the services.’
‘Indeed I shall,’ said the Bishop, ‘and I daresay my own experience in organizing a large diocese will be of use to you. My African priests are dear, good fellows, but they sometimes need a helping hand.’
Belinda did not dare to look at the Archdeacon’s face, but she could feel the blackness of his look and she wondered if her own indignation on his account could be seen in her face. To class an English archdeacon with African priests! Surely that was going too far? Not, she hastened to assure herself, because they were Africans: she was certain that, as the Bishop had said, they were dear, good fellows, but she was surprised that he should have so little sense of what was fitting to the occasion.
The remainder of the drive was taken in silence. Fortunately it was not far, but it was long enough for Belinda to realize that the Bishop and the Archdeacon had taken an instant dislike to each other. This was in some ways rather unlucky, as it was essential to the success of Harriet’s plans that the Bishop should stay some time, and if the Archdeacon were really rude to him, as he might very well be, there was no knowing what might happen. Of course Harriet might not feel so enthusiastic after she had seen the Bishop. Belinda hoped that this might be so, as she did not think she would like him as a brother-in-law and she certainly did not want her sister to leave her and go to Africa.
They reached the vicarage and Belinda hovered uncertainly by the front door.
‘Belinda will stay to tea, of course,’ said the Archdeacon quickly.
‘Oh, yes, certainly,’ said Agatha. ‘We want to hear all the parish news.’
‘I should like a little moral support,’ said the Archdeacon in a low voice. ‘I am not sure that tea will be enough.’
Belinda walked quickly into the hall after Agatha. The Bishop followed them, but the Archdeacon stayed behind to supervise the unloading of the luggage.
‘I hope it isn’t inconvenient,’ said Belinda in her usual apologetic manner.
‘Not at all,’ said Agatha coolly. ‘One extra for tea is no trouble at all – I never find that it is.’
‘Oh, no, nor do I,’ said Belinda, floundering deeper. She was quite grateful to the Bishop for turning the conversation to the Mbawawa hunting customs, by which it appeared that when an animal was killed unlimited hospitality was extended to all neighbouring tribes.
‘What a nice custom,’ said Belinda inadequately, ‘but I imagine they would have to have more than one animal, wouldn’t they?’
‘Oh, it is a ritual eating,’ the Bishop explained. ‘The meat is not actually consumed.’
‘Well, I hope our tea will be a little more satisfying,’ said Agatha, smiling indulgently at the Bishop. ‘Where is Harriet, by the way?’ she asked Belinda, in a sharper tone. ‘She couldn’t come to the station,’ said Belinda evasively. After all it was none of Agatha’s business where Harriet was. She could hardly have told the assembled company that Harriet preferred to wait for some more elegant occasion before renewing her acquaintance with the Bishop. She had visions of herself advancing towards him graciously in her brown velvet or wine crêpe de Chine, and such clothes would hardly have been possible at the station on a cold winter afternoon.
‘I hope she is quite well? said Agatha politely.
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Belinda. ‘She was doing something else, as a matter of fact.’
‘With Ricardo, perhaps?’ suggested the Archdeacon helpfully.
‘Is she married then?’ asked the Bishop. ‘I did not know.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Belinda confusedly. ‘Ricardo isn’t her husband. He is an Italian count,’ she added quickly, as if that did away with any possibility of a misunderstanding. ‘One of our oldest friends here.’
‘Of course everybody in the village knows him,’ said Agatha. ‘He is a charming man, most friendly. I ought not to gossip, I know, but I don’t think anybody would be surprised if he were to marry Lady Clara Boulding, the widow of our former Member of Parliament,’ she explained for the Bishop’s benefit.
‘There is no reason why you shouldn’t gossip, my dear,’ said the Archdeacon, ‘but I think a great many people would be surprised if things happened as you suggested. I had an idea that Ricardo’s fancy lay in quite another direction.’
At this the Bishop directed a rather coy glance towards Belinda, who began talking quickly about missions and the very interesting preacher they had had one Sunday evening, from the diocese of Ndikpo, or some such name.
‘Ah, yes, Ndikpo,’ the Bishop shook his head. ‘The labourers are indeed few in that field. They have no African priests there.’
‘I suppose some parts are more backward than others,’ Belinda ventured. ‘I mean it takes some time before the natives are ready to be ordained.’
‘Ah, yes, yes. Time and Money,’ the Bishop nodded again and then asked whether the Archdeacon gave out collecting boxes for missions to his parishioners.
‘No,’ replied the Archdeacon shortly. ‘We have a collection at Mattins every now and then.’
‘But surely it would be more lucrative if people took collecting boxes?’ suggested the Bishop. ‘You would find that the spirit of friendly rivalry would increase the amount considerably. You might publish the results in the parish magazine when the boxes were opened. I have always found that the best way.’
‘It wouldn’t work here,’ said the Archdeacon emphatically.
‘I think it’s an excellent idea,’ said Agatha. ‘Miss Smiley does it for the Zenana Mission, you know.’
‘Does she?’ said the Archdeacon. ‘I really could not undertake to do anything about it myself, I am much too busy, as you will realize when you have been here a little longer, my dear Bishop.’
Belinda could only wonder how he was to be made to realize this, but, loyal as ever, she agreed that the Archdeacon was much too busy and, much to her own surprise and dismay, heard herself offering to take on the organization and distribution of the boxes.
‘I knew it!’ said the Bishop. ‘As soon as I saw Miss Bede, I said to myself “here is one of us – that splendid work for the Guild of St. Agnes” – do you know, Archdeacon, she even denied that she had been connected with it?’
Belinda was by now covered with confusion and began to wonder whether she had indeed worked splendidly for the Guild of St Agnes; after all, her memory was not always completely reliable. Perhaps she had also knitted the Bishop a beautiful scarf. She felt that it was time to be going.
‘Oh, Belinda is a very excellent person altogether,’ said the Archdeacon with casual charm. ‘I don’t know what we should do without her.’
Belinda reflected a little bitterly on these words as she walked home, but the sight of Ricardo and Edith Liversidge, deep in conversation, soon turned her thoughts to other matters. She could guess what they were talking about and was not surprised to hear Ricardo saying that he had hoped the tombstone would be of white marble rather than commonplace grey stone.
‘Well, as long as he’s dead I don’t see that it matters what his tombstone is like,’ said Edith very sensibly, but with a lack of feeling regrettable in one who had lost her love so tragically. ‘I’m sure John wouldn’t mind,’ she went on jovially. ‘He was never all that particular about appearances.’
‘A mind and spirit as great as his needed no outward decoration,’ said Ricardo solemnly.
Belinda waited until he had gone before interrupting with an in
vitation to Edith to come in for a cup of tea.
‘I’ve had mine at the vicarage,’ she explained, ‘but I expect Harriet will still be having hers.’
‘Well, if it isn’t a nuisance,’ said Edith, with unusual consideration.
‘Oh, one extra for tea is no trouble at all,’ said Belinda gaily. ‘I never find that it is.’
‘It might quite easily be,’ said Edith. ‘If there were only a small piece of cake left, for instance.’
Belinda was confident that the tea table would be well stocked and was quite ready to forget that she had had her own tea at the vicarage. After the little strains and awkwardnesses there she felt that she deserved a second tea and was able to do full justice to the potato cakes and her favourite Belgian buns.
At tea they were all very gay, in the way that happy, unmarried ladies of middle age often are. Naturally they talked about the Bishop. Try as she would, Belinda could not give a flattering description. After several attempts to soften the blow, she burst out, ‘Well, Harriet, there’s no getting away from it, he reminds me of a sheep!’
‘But surely a very handsome sheep?’ Harriet protested. ‘Of course I haven’t seen him for many years, but people don’t alter all that much, and he was such an exceptionally good-looking curate.’