Dr Nicholas Parnell had unfortunately not been able to come down for the wedding as he had to welcome to the Library some distinguished Russian visitors who were bringing with them a number of interesting relics. Mr Mold had recently left for China, where he was to make a tour of libraries and a special study of the heating systems employed in them. There was, however, to be one distinguished visitor, the University Professor of Middle English, who was to give the bride away.
‘Perhaps he wanted Miss Berridge too,’ Harriet had suggested, ‘but hadn’t the courage to speak.’
‘Oh surely not,’ said Belinda, ‘or how could he bear to come to the wedding?’ She could certainly not have attended Agatha and Henry’s.
In the meantime the church was filling up. Count Bianco, whose gout was well enough now to allow him to go out, had chosen his seat carefully so that he could have a good view of Harriet. Edith Liversidge came in alone, for Connie Aspinall was in Belgravia, preparing for her own wedding in a few weeks time. Edith had honoured the occasion by wearing her best purple dress, and a kind of toque on her head, a little like a tea-cosy but dignified for all that. How dear John would have loved to see her, thought Belinda sadly. Being in church often made her think of John and his tragic death in Prague. They said it was a golden city, but how much more golden must it be from its associations with him.
She began to study the white and silver leaflet, announcing the marriage of Olivia Mary Berridge with Edgar Bernard Amberley Donne. The young couple had not chosen God moves in a mysterious way among the hymns, indeed, Belinda had hardly hoped for that. Their selection, except for a Middle English lyric to a setting by a relative of the bride’s, was conventional. Gracious Spirit, Holy Ghost and The voice that breathed o’er Eden were very suitable. It was true that the latter was often sung to the tune of Brief life is here our portion, but it did no harm to be reminded of that. Brief life was here our portion … Belinda’s eyes strayed to the rows of memorial tablets to past vicars. She could hardly bear to think that one day Henry’s would be among them and that she might be there to see it.
At this moment there was a stir of excitement as the curate appeared with his best man, a stocky, red-haired young clergyman, a typical rowing man, as Harriet whispered to Belinda.
Shortly afterwards the bride entered on the arm of the Professor of Middle English, a tall, thin man, ill at ease in his formal clothes. Belinda wondered whether Henry and Agatha were remembering their own wedding day. She had heard that people did on these occasions unless they were in a position to look forward rather than back. Count Bianco might be looking forward, but more quietly and with less rapture than a younger man. Was there anybody in the church without some romantic thought? Possibly Miss Prior, sitting with her old mother, was more interested in the bride’s dress which, Belinda noticed with approval, was not white but sapphire-blue velvet, the kind of thing that would ‘come in’ afterwards and could if necessary be dyed and worn for years. She really looked very nice, almost pretty and not as tall as she had seemed to be at the presentation.
‘If I’m ever married I shall certainly have a fully choral ceremony,’ said Harriet enthusiastically as they filed out of the church. ‘Or is there a special one for those of riper years?’
Belinda said nothing because she had been crying a little and could not trust herself to speak yet.
‘No, that’s only baptism,’ said Edith cheerfully. ‘I believe Connie and the Bishop are having quite an elaborate affair. You will be getting your invitations soon. She’s having a dress made at Marshall’s – embossed chenille velvet – though goodness knows what use that will be in the tropics,’ she snorted.
‘No, it doesn’t seem as if it would be much use,’ Belinda agreed. ‘But of course he won’t be Bishop of Mbawawa all his life. I suppose he may retire and write a book about his experiences. They often do, don’t they?’
‘With cassock and surplice in Mbawawa-land,’ retorted Edith. ‘Yes, one knows the kind of thing only too well.’
‘What a beautiful day,’ said a gentle voice behind them. ‘It is quite like Naples.’
‘My dear Ricardo,’ said Edith, looking round, ‘where in Naples would you see such a very odd-looking crowd of people as are now coming out of this church?’
‘I don’t see the new curate among them.’ said Harriet, looking worried. ‘It can’t be the best man, can it? Nobody would call him Italian-looking. Ricardo, Italians don’t ever have red hair, do they?’
The Count considered the question seriously. ‘Red hair is certainly not unknown in Italy,’ he pronounced at length, ‘but I do not think you would say that it is characteristic of the Italians. In the north of course it is sometimes found, but,’ he paused impressively, ‘I do not remember that I ever saw a red-haired man in Naples.’
‘Oh, that’s good,’ said Harriet perfunctorily, ‘it can’t be him then. But I did hope he was going to be at the wedding.’
‘I daresay there was some difficulty about the trains,’ suggested Belinda. ‘We shall probably find that he is at the reception.’
This was to be held at the parish hall. The curate had invited all the village, so that the vicarage drawing-room would hardly have contained them. The bride and bridegroom were in the doorway to shake hands with the guests as they filed in.
Belinda murmured what she hoped was a suitable greeting and passed on but she heard Harriet laughing loudly with Mr Donne, so that she wondered rather fearfully what her sister could have said. She found herself standing by Agatha and confronted by a tray of glasses of champagne which one of the hired waiters was holding in front of her.
‘I must just have a sip, to drink their health, you know,’ she said apologetically, feeling Agatha’s eyes on her.
‘Oh, certainly,’ said Agatha. ‘It is quite the thing.’
‘I’m not really very used to drinking champagne,’ Belinda admitted.
‘Aren’t you?’ Agatha gave a little social laugh, which would normally have crushed Belinda and made her feel very gauche and inferior. But today she did not mind. She was almost glad to be able to see Agatha as her old self again. The socks not quite long enough in the foot, which the Bishop had so unkindly mentioned, had been worrying Belinda. She had suddenly seen Agatha as pathetic and the picture was disturbing. Now she knew that there could never be anything pathetic about Agatha. Poised and well-dressed, used to drinking champagne, the daughter of a bishop and the wife of an archdeacon – that was Agatha Hoccleve. It was Belinda Bede who was the pathetic one and it was so much easier to bear the burden of one’s own pathos than that of somebody else. Indeed, perhaps the very recognition of it in oneself meant that it didn’t really exist. Belinda took a rather large sip of champagne and looked round the hall with renewed courage.
Most of the guests were known to her, although some people from neighbouring villages had been invited. She noticed Father Plowman, near the food and with a well-filled glass, Lady Clara Boulding, putting a small vol-au-vent whole into her mouth, and a group of Sunday School teachers, Miss Beard, Miss Smiley and Miss Jenner, standing in a corner by themselves and looking suspiciously into their glasses. Agatha had left her now and was greeting some of the guests, so Belinda moved over to where Miss Prior and her mother were standing.
‘Very nice, isn’t it?’ she said inadequately, nodding and smiling in their direction.
‘Oh, yes, it’s quite nice,’ said Mrs Prior. ‘It’s nice to see everyone enjoying themselves. I like to see that.’
‘Mother was saying she wished there was a cup of tea,’ said Miss Prior in a low voice, ‘but we’ll have one when we get home. You see, Miss Bede, we’re not really used to drinking champagne. It’s different for you of course.’
‘Well, I don’t often have it,’ Belinda admitted, feeling that she must stand midway between Agatha and the Priors in this matter, ‘but of course we all want to drink the health of the bride and bridegroom in it.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Miss Prior agreed. ‘She loo
ks very sweet, doesn’t she? That Vogue pattern makes up well in velvet, it was in the December book. Your dress has turned out quite nicely, too, Miss Bede. I had such trouble with the sleeves, you wouldn’t believe it. I found I’d put them in the wrong way round!’ Miss Prior laughed rather shrilly and took a gulp of champagne.
‘Are they the right way round now?’ asked Belinda.
‘Oh, of course, Miss Bede. I took them out again. I couldn’t let you wear a dress with the sleeves in the wrong way round.’
‘No,’ said Belinda, feeling all the same that this kind of thing might very well happen to her. ‘Mrs Hoccleve’s dress is very smart, isn’t it?’ she ventured, feeling that it was not at all the thing to discuss the guests’ clothes with Miss Prior but being unable to resist the temptation. Perhaps, she thought, Miss Prior’s profession will excuse me.
‘Smart, yes, that’s what I would call it too,’ said Miss Prior. ‘But red’s not her colour. The material’s good, I can see that, but you take a look at the seams inside – you won’t find them finished off like mine are.’
‘No, I dare say not,’ said Belinda, realizing that she would certainly never have the opportunity of examining the dress so minutely, but feeling, none the less, that Agatha’s splendour was considerably diminished.
‘Oh, look, the Archdeacon’s going to make a speech,’ said Miss Prior. ‘Pray silence for the Venerable Hoccleve,’ she giggled.
The champagne was having a different effect on Belinda, who was now gazing very sentimentally at the Archdeacon, thinking how nice he looked and what a clever speech he was making, not at all obvious or vulgar as wedding speeches so often were. She had really no idea what he was talking about, but there were a great many quotations in it, including one from Spenser which really seemed to be quite appropriate, something about love being a celestial harmony of likely hearts
Which join together in sweet sympathy,
To work each others’ joy and true content …
He was not saying anything about Burdens or sudden calls to the Mission Field.
The curate replied very nicely after the health had been drunk and was followed by the Professor of Middle English, who made an unintelligible but obviously clever little speech about The Owl and the Nightingale, embellished with quotations from that poem. Agatha and Olivia were smiling knowledgeably at each other, and Belinda turned away to meet Harriet, who was moving towards her through the crowd. Her face radiated joy and happiness. How nice it is that Harriet is entering so whole-heartedly into their feelings, thought Belinda, for she had been so afraid that her sister might be made unhappy by the curate’s marriage and departure.
‘The third from the left,’ whispered Harriet eagerly.
Belinda looked about her, rather puzzled. Then she saw what her sister meant, for in a corner she saw five curates, all young and all pale and thin, with the exception of one, who was tall and muscular and a former Rugby Blue, as she afterwards learned.
The third from the left. How convenient of the curates to arrange themselves so that Belinda could so easily pick out Harriet’s choice. He was dark and rather Italian-looking, paler and more hollow-cheeked than the others. Now Belinda understood her sister’s joy and suddenly she realized that she too was happier than she had been for a long time.
For now everything would be as it had been before those two disturbing characters Mr Mold and Bishop Grote appeared in the village. In the future Belinda would continue to find such consolation as she needed in our greater English poets, when she was not gardening or making vests for the poor in Pimlico.
Harriet would accept the attentions of Count Bianco and listen patiently and kindly to his regular proposals of marriage. Belinda did not go any further than this in her plans for the future: she could only be grateful that their lives were to be so little changed. It was true that the curate on whom Harriet had lavished so much care and affection was now a married man and lost to them, but another had come in his place, so like, that they would hardly realize the difference, except that he was rather Italian-looking and had had a nervous breakdown.
Then she fretted, ah, she fretted,
But ’ere six months had gone past,
She had got another poodle dog
Exactly like the last …
thought Belinda frivolously, but the old song had come into her head and seemed appropriate. Some tame gazelle or some gentle dove or even a poodle dog – something to love, that was the point.
‘I think I’ll ask him after the reception, although it’s rather soon. But we do want to make him welcome at once, don’t we?’ Harriet was speaking eagerly to her sister.
Belinda smiled. ‘Of course, dear.’ Asking the new curate to supper seemed a particularly happy thought.
‘I knew you would agree,’ said Harriet, making boldly for the curates’ corner.
Belinda was looking round the room to see if she could find some sympathetic person to whom she could say that Dr Johnson had been so right when he had said that all change is of itself an evil, when she saw Harriet approaching with the new curate.
She smiled and shook hands with him, but before either of them could utter a suitable platitude, Harriet had burst in with the news that the young man was coming to supper with them on his first Sunday evening in the village, which would be in about a fortnight’s time.
‘He says he is fond of boiled chicken,’ she added.
Belinda laughed awkwardly and hoped that the new curate would not be embarrassed by Harriet’s behaviour.
But he seemed completely at ease as Harriet confided to him that she always liked to eat chicken bones in her fingers.
‘Like dear Queen Victoria used to,’ she sighed.
‘Now, I’m sure you don’t remember Queen Victoria,’ he said gallantly.
‘We older people remember a great deal more than you think,’ said Harriet coyly.
‘Oh, come, now,’ laughed the curate, and although his voice was rather weak as a result of his long illness, Belinda was overjoyed to hear that it had the authentic ring.
JANE AND PRUDENCE
Barbara Pym
‘Barbara Pym is the rarest of treasures; she reminds us of the heartbreaking silliness of everyday life’ Anne Tyler
If Jane Cleveland and Prudence Bates seem an unlikely pair to be walking together at an Oxford reunion, neither of them is aware of it. They couldn’t be more different: Jane is a rather incompetent vicar’s wife, who always looks as if she is about to feed the chickens, while Prudence, a pristine hothouse flower, has the most unsuitable affairs. With the move to a rural parish, Jane is determined to find her friend the perfect man. She learns, though, that matchmaking has as many pitfalls as housewifery …
‘Over the years, as Barbara Pym replaced Nancy Mitford, Georgette Heyer, even Jane Austen, as my most loved author, I devoured all her books, but Jane and Prudence remains my favourite. Even an umpteenth reading this weekend was punctuated by gasps of joy, laughter, sympathy and wonder that this lovely book should remain so fresh, funny and true to life’ Jilly Cooper
NO FOND RETURN OF LOVE
Barbara Pym
‘She has a unique eye and ear for the small poignancies and comedies of everyday life … [her novels] are miniatures, perhaps, but will not diminish’ Philip Larkin
Dulcie Mainwaring is always helping others, but never looks out for herself – especially in the realm of love. Her friend Viola is besotted by the alluring Dr Aylwin Forbes, so surely it isn’t prying if Dulcie helps things along? Aylwin, however, is smitten with Dulcie’s pretty young niece. And perhaps Dulcie herself, however ridiculous it might be, is falling, just a little, for Aylwin. Once life’s little humiliations are played out, maybe love will be returned, and fondly, after all …
‘One of her very best – comic, heartrending, brave; in short, like life itself’ Shirley Hazzard
‘A splendid humorous writer’ John Betjeman
OUR SPOONS CAME FROM WOOLWORTHS
Barbara Comyn
s
Marry in hast, repent at leisure.
Sophia is twenty-one years old, carries a newt – Great Warty – around in her pocket and hastily marries a young artist called Charles. Swept into bohemian London of the thirties, Sophia is ill-equipped to cope. Poverty, babies (however much loved) and her husband conspire to torment her. Hoping to add some spice to her life, Sophia takes up with the dismal, ageing art critic, Peregrine, and learns to repent her marriage – and her affair – at leisure.
But in this case virtue is more than its own reward, for repentance brings an abrupt end to a life of unpaid bills, unsold pictures and unwashed crockery …
‘An off-beat humour’ Graham Greene
A FAR CRY FROM KENSINGTON
Muriel Spark
‘One of Muriel Spark’s most liberating, liberated and meditative novels. Spark is a writer who can take the meditative and make it mercurially funny, playful and mischievous’ Ali Smith
When Mrs Hawkins tells Hector Bartlett he is a ‘pisseur de copie’, that he ‘urinates frightful prose’, little does she realise the repercussions. Holding that ‘no life can be carried on satisfactorily unless people are honest’ Mrs Hawkins refuses to retract her judgement, and as a consequence, loses not one, but two much-sought-after jobs in publishing. Now, years older, successful, and happily a far cry from Kensington, she looks back over the dark days that followed, in which she was embroiled in a mystery involving anonymous letters, quack remedies, blackmail and suicide.
‘The divine Spark is shining at her brightest … Pure delight’
Claire Tomalin, Independent
‘An outstanding novel … A Far Cry from Kensington has an effortless, translucent grasp of the spirit of the period’