Harriet became defiant. ‘Edward Plowman is such a fine-looking man, too,’ she declared. ‘Like Cardinal Newman.’
‘Oh, no, Harriet,’ protested Belinda. ‘Cardinal Newman had a much bigger nose. And besides, he really did go over, you know, and I’m sure Edward Plowman would never do that.’
‘Oh, then I must have been thinking of somebody else,’ said Harriet vaguely. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘Mr Donne could certainly preach better sermons than the Archdeacon, I’m sure.’ She pulled the dress off over her head. ‘You needn’t bother to oversew the seams – they won’t show.’
When Belinda had finished the sewing she decided that she had better go over to the vicarage to see if she could help Agatha in any way. It did not take her long to reach the vicarage gate, as it was very near her own house. When they had finally decided to spend their old age together, Harriet had insisted that they should be well in touch with the affairs of the parish. Belinda had not felt so strongly about it, although when Archdeacon Hoccleve had been made vicar she was naturally glad that their house was so near his. She imagined friendly poppings in and out but somehow, dear Henry not being quite like other clergymen, it hadn’t worked out like that. And then of course there was Agatha. It was difficult to be completely informal with her, either because of her father having been a bishop or for some more subtle reason, Belinda had never been quite sure which.
She walked up the vicarage drive. The Archdeacon had a hankering after the picturesque and would have liked a haha, a ruined temple, grottoes, waterfalls and gloomily overhanging trees. He fancied himself to be rather like one of those eighteenth-century clergymen suffering from the spleen, but Agatha was a practical woman, who liked neat borders and smooth lawns, flowers in the front garden and vegetables at the back. So the vicarage garden, as Belinda saw it on this September morning, was admirably suited to a garden party but there were no grottoes.
Belinda walked up to the front door, but before she had time to ring the bell Agatha appeared, carrying many bundles of brightly coloured paper. She was wearing a plain but well-cut dress of striped Macclesfield silk and looked rather harassed.
‘How are you, Agatha?’ asked Belinda. ‘I’ve come to see if there’s anything I can do to help and I must see the Archdeacon about the Sunday School children’s recitations.’
‘Henry is having a bath,’ said Agatha shortly.
Surely rather late? thought Belinda. It was past eleven and oughtn’t an archdeacon to rise earlier than that?
‘So of course you can’t see him now,’ continued Agatha in the same tone of voice, which implied that she had the privilege not allowed to Belinda of seeing an archdeacon in his bath. ‘You will have to wait,’ she concluded, with a note of something like triumph in her voice.
‘Why, of course,’ said Belinda meekly. Agatha always seemed to be most formidable in the mornings. In the evenings she was often quite affable and would talk about begonias and the best way to pickle walnuts.
‘You seem very busy,’ said Belinda, moving towards Agatha as if to help her. ‘Can’t I do something while I’m waiting for the Archdeacon?’
Agatha nodded reluctantly. ‘I was going to arrange the garden-produce stall,’ she said, thinking that Belinda Bede was rather a nuisance although she no doubt meant well. ‘You might help me to pin the coloured paper round it. I thought green and orange and perhaps red would show off the vegetables rather nicely.’
‘What lovely marrows!’ exclaimed Belinda, catching sight of them among a heap of miscellaneous garden produce. They were gleaming yellow and dark green, with pale stripes. Surely the poor soil of the vicarage garden could not have produced such beauties?
‘Yes, they are fine,’ agreed Agatha. ‘They are from Count Bianco’s garden. He brought them round himself early this morning.’
‘Poor old Count Bianco,’ said Belinda gently. Ricardo Bianco was an Italian count, who for some unexplained reason had settled in the village many years ago. He was a gentle melancholy man, beloved by everyone for his generosity and courtly manners and he had admired Harriet Bede for more years than could now be remembered. He had the habit of asking her to marry him every now and then, and Harriet, although she always refused him, was really very fond of him and often asked his advice about her gardening problems. Gardening and his childhood in Naples were his chief topics of conversation, though he would occasionally enjoy a melancholy talk about his old friend John Akenside, who had been killed in a riot in Prague, when he had just been sitting at an open-air café taking a glass of wine, as was his custom in the evening, doing no harm to anybody. ‘Ricardo is so devoted to Harriet,’ said Belinda, giving the words a full meaning which was not lost on Agatha Hoccleve.
Agatha went rather pink and said angrily, ‘Count Bianco comes of a very old Italian family. I always think he and Lady Clara Boulding would be very suited to each other, but of course her father’s earldom was only a nineteenth-century creation,’ she mused.
Belinda was rather annoyed at this. ‘I don’t think Lady Clara and Ricardo would be at all suited to each other,’ she said, repeating his Christian name with triumph. ‘Harriet and Ricardo have a great many tastes in common, especially gardening. Why, whenever he comes to our house he nearly always brings with him some roots or seeds …’ here Belinda broke off, aware that this sounded rather ridiculous, but Agatha did not seem to have noticed. She was just opening her mouth to say something else, when their attention was diverted by somebody calling out in a loud voice.
Belinda recognized the voice as that of the Archdeacon. He was leaning out of one of the upper windows, calling to Agatha, and he sounded very peevish. Belinda thought he looked so handsome in his dark green dressing-gown with his hair all ruffled. The years had dealt kindly with him and he had grown neither bald nor fat. It was Agatha who seemed to have suffered most. Her pointed face had lost the elfin charm which had delighted many and now looked drawn and harassed. She had rheumatism too, but Belinda realized that she would have to have something out of self-defence and perhaps with the passing of the years it had become a reality. One never knew.
The voice went on calling. It seemed that the moths had got into the Archdeacon’s grey suit and why had Agatha been so grossly neglectful as to let this happen? The tirade was audible to anyone in the garden or in the road beyond.
Belinda turned away from the window and began to hang festoons of green paper along the top of the stall. The gardener, who was weeding one of the flower beds nearby, also turned away. He could not bear the Venerable Hoccleve, as the servants called him. He was a bit mad in his opinion, wanting yew trees on the lawn and something he called a ha-ha, which no gardener had ever heard of.
Eventually Agatha returned to the business of decorating, looking extremely annoyed, but not mentioning the incident. She began to take down all Belinda’s decorations and arrange them another way. Belinda thought it better to say nothing, so they went on with their work in silence. At last Belinda, who felt rather uncomfortable, drew Agatha’s attention to the arrangement of the marrows.
‘I think they would look rather effective in a kind of pyramid, if it could be managed,’ she suggested, thinking to herself that it would obviously be better if Agatha were to humour dear Henry a little more. But of course Belinda could hardly give an archdeacon’s wife a few hints on how to manage her husband.
At that moment one of the marrows fell over and the pyramid had to be rebuilt. While they were doing this, the Archdeacon came out on to the lawn.
‘Good morning,’ he said, ignoring his wife. ‘I see that I have kept you waiting, but so many annoying things have happened that it was quite impossible to be ready any sooner.’ He darted a quick, angry glance at Agatha.
Belinda spoke hastily in order to change the subject.
‘I’ve brought a list of the recitations the children have learnt, so you can choose which ones you think best from it,’ she said, knowing perfectly well that he would find fault with the pieces and ask why th
ey had not been taught more Middle English lyrics or passages from Gower and Chaucer.
He smiled with an affectation of weariness and then sighed. ‘Ah, yes. There is so much to be done before this afternoon. I haven’t been able to sleep for thinking about it. Nobody can possibly know how much I have to do,’ he went on, with another meaning glance at Agatha.
‘Perhaps if you had got up earlier, Henry,’ she said sharply. ‘Florrie called you at eight. I was up at seven.’
The Archdeacon laughed and began to pace about the lawn with his hands in his pockets. Belinda was embarrassed and began to walk slowly towards the house. Eventually the Archdeacon followed. They walked together into his study. He was smiling to himself in a sardonic way that Belinda found very disconcerting. It was unsuitable for a clergyman to look sardonic. Perhaps Harriet was right to prefer the more conventional Mr Plowman and Mr Donne.
There was an awkward silence and to break it Belinda descended weakly to flattery.
‘I did enjoy hearing you read Urn Burial last Sunday,’ she said. ‘It is so very fine and you read it so well.’
‘Ah, yes. Do you remember when I used to read Milton to you?’ he said, his thoughts going back to the days when Belinda’s frank adoration had been so flattering. By this time he had forgotten how bored he had been by her constancy. Agatha never asked him to read aloud to her when they were alone together in the evenings. ‘Do you remember the magnificent opening lines of Samson Agonistes?’ he asked, warming to his subject and looking dangerously on the brink of reminding her of them. Indeed, the first words were already out of his mouth when Belinda interrupted him, and directed his attention to the matter in hand. There was of course nothing she would have liked better than to hear dear Henry reciting Milton, but somehow with Agatha outside and so much to be done it didn’t seem quite the thing. Also, it was the morning and it seemed a little odd to be thinking about poetry before luncheon.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘what about these recitations? I have a list of the ones they know, so I think perhaps you’d better let me choose the most suitable ones. I know you must be very busy with other things,’ she added soothingly, ‘and even though Mr Donne can help you, I know that you like to see to everything personally.’
‘I doubt whether our friend Donne will be much help,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘His sermons are very poor. He and Edward Plowman are about a match for each other.’
‘Oh, but one must be tolerant,’ said Belinda, ‘and many people prefer a simple sermon. I’ve heard people say that Edward Plowman is considered quite a saint in his parish.’
The Archdeacon laughed rather bitterly. ‘Do you wonder when his parish consists almost entirely of doting spinsters?’ he said. It was one of the Archdeacon’s grievances that people never made a fuss of him as they did of Father Plowman or of the younger curates, although he pretended to despise such adulation. And then too, Lady Clara Boulding, whose country seat lay midway between the two villages, had chosen to attend Plowman’s church rather than his. The Archdeacon could not help feeling bitter about this, for although Belinda might put a pound note into the collection bag on Easter Sunday, it was hardly the same as Lady Clara’s five or ten. In these days of poverty the spirit in which it was given counted for very little.
‘You need not make fun of doting spinsters,’ said Belinda, roused by his mockery. ‘After all, it isn’t always our fault …’ she stopped in confusion, fearing that he might make some sarcastic retort.
‘No, women like to have something to dote on,’ he said mildly enough, ‘I have noticed that. And we in the Church are usually the victims.’
‘We are all in the Church,’ said Belinda gently. ‘I think I should go out into the garden again and help Agatha. There must still be a great deal to do.’
Out in the garden, Agatha, surrounded now by several willing helpers, for she was popular among the church workers because of her distinguished ecclesiastical connections, had finished decorating and arranging the garden-produce stall.
The vicarage garden was beginning to look like a fairground. Stalls, coconut shies, bran-tubs and even a fortune-teller’s booth had taken root on the lawn. The Archdeacon always hated this annual garden party and tried to have as little to do with it as possible, although he had to put in an appearance to fawn on the more distinguished visitors. There was always a possibility that Lady Clara Boulding might decide to come to his church, which was really nearer if one walked across the fields, although it was difficult to imagine anyone as impressive as Lady Clara doing that.
‘It looks as if everything is finished,’ said Belinda. ‘I don’t feel as if I have done my share.’
‘You have put up with my ill-humour for ten minutes,’ said the Archdeacon, ‘which is more than anyone else could have done.’
Belinda flushed with embarrassment and secret pleasure. She felt herself to be somehow exalted above the groups of busy women, who had been arranging pyramids of apples, filling bran-tubs and decorating stalls with coloured paper. Once, she knew, she had been different, and perhaps after all the years had left her with a little of that difference. Perhaps she was still an original shining like a comet, mingling no water with her wine. But only very occasionally, mostly she was just like everyone else, rather less efficient, if anything. Even her paper decorations had been taken down and rearranged. There was nothing of her handiwork left on the garden-produce stall.
‘Why, look,’ she exclaimed, unable to deal with the Archdeacon’s curious compliment, ‘there’s Edith Liversidge. Whatever is she doing?’ For Miss Liversidge, looking even more dishevelled than usual, was pushing her way through a thick clump of rhododendrons on the opposite side of the lawn.
‘Oh, Archdeacon,’ she called in her rough, mannish voice, ‘there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
‘Well, Miss Liversidge, I hardly see why you should have expected to find me in the rhododendrons,’ he said.
‘Oh, that’s the treasure hunt,’ she explained. ‘I’ve just been arranging some of the clues. We shall have everybody tied up in knots this afternoon.’
‘That will certainly be diverting,’ said the Archdeacon politely, ‘but I had imagined it was only for the younger people.’
‘Oh, nonsense, everyone will be encouraged to join in. Now, what I really wanted to see you about was the cloakroom arrangements. Lavatories, you know. What has been done?’ Edith rapped out the question with brusque efficiency.
Belinda turned away in embarrassment. Surely Edith could have asked Agatha and need not have troubled the Archdeacon with such an unsuitable thing? But he appeared to be enjoying the conversation and entered into the discussion with grave courtesy.
‘I cannot really say. I had imagined that people would use their own discretion,’ he ventured.
‘Children are not noted for their discretion,’ said Edith bluntly, ‘and even grown-ups aren’t angels.’
The Archdeacon smiled. ‘No, not even the higher orders of the clergy would claim to be quite that. Perhaps you can help us, Miss Liversidge, we all know your experience in these matters.’
‘Yes, but of course it wasn’t at all the same thing in the Balkans after the war,’ said Edith, perhaps unnecessarily. ‘Still, I have been thinking things over. We must have clear notices put up. I’ve got Mr Matthews from the Art School at work on them now.’
‘Poor Matthews, a prostitution of his talents, I feel,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘I think Gothic lettering would be most suitable. What is your opinion, Miss Bede?’
Poor Belinda, confused at being drawn into the conversation, could only murmur that in her opinion the largest and clearest kind of lettering would obviously be the best.
Miss Liversidge looked from one to the other impatiently. ‘I thought the ladies should use the ground-floor cloakroom and the gentlemen the place behind the toolshed.’
‘The Place Behind the Toolshed, what a sinister sound that has,’ mused the Archdeacon. ‘I’m sure your arrangements will be admirab
le, Miss Liversidge, though perhaps hardly necessary.’
‘We shall see about that,’ she said in a dark tone, and then stumped off in search of her relative, Miss Aspinall, calling her as if she were a dog, ‘Connie! Connie! Come along! Time to go home to lunch.’
Miss Aspinall, who had been enjoying a snobbish little talk with Agatha, hurried after her. She could never keep pace with Edith and was always a few steps behind her.
‘I think Edith Liversidge is really disgusting,’ said Harriet indignantly. ‘Mr Donne and I could overhear what she was saying from the tea garden. He seemed most embarrassed.’
‘Ah, what it is to be young,’ sighed the Archdeacon. ‘Or perhaps he is what the higher orders of the clergy would not claim to be. One never knows.’
‘He is an excellent preacher,’ said Harriet stoutly, if irrelevantly, ‘and he seems to have the coconuts very well organized. Now Mr Donne,’ she called, bringing him into the group, ‘don’t forget that you promised to let me win a coconut.’
‘Ah, Miss Bede, I’m sure your skill will win the biggest one of all,’ said Mr Donne gallantly.
At this point Belinda thought it would be as well if they went home to luncheon. They would need to reserve all their strength for the afternoon, she explained.
CHAPTER THREE
‘Don’t you think you would be more comfortable in low-heeled shoes, dear?’ suggested Belinda tentatively. ‘One’s feet always get so tired standing about.’ She glanced down at her own – long, English gentlewoman’s feet she always thought them, sensibly clad in shoes that were rather too heavy for the printed crêpe de Chine dress and coatee she was wearing.
Harriet glanced down too. ‘I always think low heels are so dowdy,’ she said. ‘Besides, high heels are definitely the fashion now.’
‘Yes, I suppose they are,’ agreed Belinda, for Harriet always knew things like that. And yet, she thought, at our age, surely all that was necessary was to dress suitably and if possible in good taste, without really thinking of fashion? With the years one ought to have grown beyond such thoughts but somehow one never did, and Belinda set out for the afternoon conscious that she was wearing dowdy shoes.