As they walked to the vicarage, Belinda regulating her normally brisk step in consideration for Harriet’s high heels, they were overtaken by Count Bianco, who was escorting Miss Liversidge and Miss Aspinall, both of whom were dressed exactly as Belinda had anticipated. Count Bianco wore a light grey suit and a panama hat. He carried a stick and grey gloves and there was a fine rose in his buttonhole. As they came together he gave them a courtly bow, which from anybody else might have seemed exaggerated.
‘How charming you are looking, Miss Harriet,’ he said, ‘and you also, Miss Belinda,’ he added, as a courteous afterthought. ‘Poor old John Akenside,’ he went on meditatively, ‘how he loved the hot weather.’
‘Nonsense, Ricardo,’ said Edith Liversidge, ‘he always went as red as a lobster in the sun.’ She had known the Count’s friend in what she called her Balkans Days and it was rumoured that he had been very fond of her, but had been too shy to declare himself. It seemed odd to think that anyone could have loved Edith, who seemed a person to inspire fear and respect rather than any more tender emotion, but, as Belinda had once suggested, perhaps the unpleasant nature of her work in the Balkans had hardened her and she had once been more lovable.
They walked on to the lawn where a group of people had assembled. Belinda could see the Archdeacon standing at the top of the front-door steps, against a background of Victorian stained glass, the vicarage being built in the Gothic style. She thought he looked splendid, and somehow the glass set off his good looks.
Lady Clara Boulding was to open the garden party officially at half-past two and as she had now arrived, there seemed no reason why she should not get on with it at once. But the crowd was obviously waiting for something. Agatha Hoccleve, who was standing by her husband, nudged him and said in an agitated and audible whisper, ‘Henry, a prayer.’
The Archdeacon started. He had been wondering whether Lady Clara would give some definite contribution to the church-roof fund as well as buying things at the stalls. He cleared his throat.
‘Let us ask for God’s blessing on our endeavours,’ he said, in a loud voice which quite startled some people.
Belinda looked down at the grass and then at Agatha’s neat suède shoes, so much more suited to the occasion than her own.
The Archdeacon began to recite a prayer. O Lord God, who seest that we put not our trust in anything that we do, mercifully grant that by Thy Power we may be defended against all adversity …
Harriet looked at Belinda and frowned. The Archdeacon always chose such unsuitable prayers. Prevent us O Lord in all our doings, was the obviously correct one for such an occasion. These little departures from convention always annoyed her.
Belinda, on the other hand, was thinking loyally, what an excellent choice! It strikes just the right note of humility. When Henry prays for defence from adversity, he must mean too much confidence in our own powers. One knew that pride often came before a fall. Or perhaps he was not referring to the garden party specifically, but taking in the larger sphere of life outside it … here Belinda’s thoughts became confused and a doubt crept into her mind, which was quickly and loyally pushed back. For it could not be that dear Henry had just said the first prayer that came into his head…
There was a short pause. Count Bianco replaced his panama hat and everyone began to move, relieved to be normal once more.
But they were not to be released yet. Lady Clara enjoyed opening garden parties and bazaars. Indeed, apart from attending memorial services in fashionable London churches, it was her chief recreation. She stood on a grassy bank, slightly raised above the rest of the crowd. She was still a handsome woman, and if her speech contained rather too much of her late husband’s meaningless parliamentary phraseology, her voice was nevertheless pleasant and soothing. Miss Aspinall, who had detached herself from Miss Liversidge in order to be among the foremost of the little group who would go round the stalls with Lady Clara, was listening with a pathetically eager expression on her thin face. Nobody knew how much Edith got on her nerves and how different it all was from the days when she had been companion to Lady Grudge in Belgrave Square. Treated like one of the family, such kindness … Connie’s eyes filled with tears and she had to turn away.
At last Lady Clara stepped down from her grassy platform and made her way towards the stalls, accompanied by Agatha and the Archdeacon, who had a particularly ingratiating smile on his face. At a respectful distance behind them came Miss Aspinall with a group of lady helpers, who were hurrying to get to their places at the stalls. Lady Clara’s progress was slow and stately but profitable. She bought some jam, two marrows, half a dozen lavender sachets, a tea cosy, a pair of bed socks, some paper spills in a fancy case and an embroidered Radio Times cover.
Belinda, now busy at the garden-produce stall, was wondering whether she ought to wrap Lady Clara’s marrows up, and if so what was the best way of doing it. They had only newspapers for wrapping, so she chose The Times as being the most suitable and made them up into a rather clumsy parcel. Lady Clara’s chauffeur was to collect them later.
Not long after this Agatha came back to the stall and began to fluster the helpers by rearranging them and collecting all the money together into one tin, so that they were all tumbling over each other to get change instead of each one having her own little pile.
‘What’s this?’ asked Agatha sharply, pointing to the Times-shrouded parcel which Belinda had put into a corner.
‘Oh, that’s Lady Clara’s marrows,’ Belinda explained.
‘Wrapped in newspaper?’ Agatha’s tone was expressive. ‘I’m afraid that won’t do at all.’ She produced some blue tissue paper from a secret hiding-place and began to undo Belinda’s parcel.
‘Oh, dear, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know there was any other paper,’ said Belinda in confusion. ‘I saw them lying there and I thought perhaps they ought to be wrapped up and put aside in case anybody sold them by mistake.’
‘I don’t think anybody would be so stupid as to do that,’ said Agatha evenly. ‘They were the two finest marrows on the stall, I chose them myself.’
‘Oh, well …’ Belinda gave a weak little laugh. All this fuss about two marrows. But it might go deeper than that, although it did not do to think so.
‘Perhaps you would like to go and have tea,’ said Agatha, who was having difficulty with the bulk of the marrows and the fragility of the tissue paper and did not want Belinda to see. ‘We may as well go in turns.’
‘Well, yes, if it isn’t too early,’ said Belinda.
‘Oh, no, Lady Clara is already having hers. She has gone with Count Bianco.’ Agatha stood up and reached for a ball of string.
Belinda felt herself hurrying away, routed was perhaps the word, Agatha triumphant. It was a pity they sometimes had these little skirmishes, especially when Agatha was so often triumphant. All over two marrows, even if they were the finest on the stall.
Belinda looked around to see if she could find Harriet. She felt that she wanted to tell somebody about the marrows and perhaps laugh over them. Harriet’s healthy indignation would do her as much good as a cup of tea, she thought. But Harriet was nowhere to be seen. And where was the Archdeacon? It would be just like him to retire to the house and have a bath. But he had already had one today, as Belinda knew, so she guessed that he was probably attending on some of the more distinguished visitors.
As she entered the tea garden she saw Harriet sitting at a table with the curate. Harriet was handing him a plate of cakes and urging him in her penetrating voice to try one of the pink ones which she had made specially for him. Perhaps it will be better if I don’t disturb them, thought Belinda, turning round to look for a vacant place at one of the other tables. And then she came face to face with the Archdeacon. He also wanted his tea, and as they had so often had tea together in the past what could be more natural than that they should have it together this afternoon?
They sat down at a table for two. Belinda began to be assailed by various doubts. What would p
eople think to see her having tea with the Archdeacon while his wife was still working tirelessly at the garden-produce stall? It was a pity really to worry about what people thought, but, Belinda flattered herself, she wasn’t entirely old and unattractive, even in her sensible shoes, and she still had the marrows on her conscience, although she did not feel that she could tell the Archdeacon about them.
He on the other hand had no such scruples. Belinda began to wish that he wouldn’t talk so loudly, for although she knew that it was only one of his little oddnesses to complain about his wife, other people might not realize this. So she put two lumps of sugar into his tea, and tried as tactfully as she could to change the subject of the conversation.
‘But Agatha has been so busy arranging things for the garden party and the concert tonight,’ said Belinda in a low voice. ‘She can’t see to everything at once.’ Raising her voice, she went on, ‘Speaking of the concert reminds me that Harriet is still undecided as to what she is going to play. Of course she has a large repertoire, but one must choose something suitable and not too long …’ Belinda babbled on. ‘… she’s very anxious to play a Brahms intermezzo, but it may be a little heavy for a village concert. I thought perhaps some Mendelssohn, some of the Songs without Words are so charming …’ She looked at the Archdeacon anxiously, to see if he had yet forgotten Agatha’s negligence in letting the moths get into his grey suit.
His face betrayed that he had not. In fact all the bright conversation about the concert seemed to have been wasted on him. ‘I don’t think you’d have done that,’ he said thoughtfully, gazing at a piece of bread and butter on his plate.
Belinda saw that it was no good trying to change the subject yet. He must be humoured out of it. She seemed to be having a difficult afternoon altogether, what with the episode of the marrows and now having to humour the Archdeacon. Archdeacons ought not to need humouring, she told herself angrily. Supposing Henry were a bishop, could one still expect no improvement?
‘What are you smiling at?’ asked the Archdeacon crossly. ‘People look very foolish smiling at nothing.’
‘I wasn’t smiling at nothing,’ retorted Belinda. ‘I was wondering if you’d still make such a fuss about unimportant trifles if you were a bishop.’
‘Unimportant trifles! The only good suit I have ruined, and you call it an unimportant trifle.’
‘We are supposed not to take heed of what we shall wear,’ said Belinda unconvincingly.
‘My dear Belinda, we are not in the Garden of Eden. That is no solution to the problem. We may as well face the facts. Agatha ought not to have let the moth get into that suit. It was her duty to see that they didn’t. I am sure that you would have seen that it was put away with moth balls …’ the Archdeacon’s voice had now grown so loud that people at the other tables were beginning to look at them with interest and amusement. Belinda felt most embarrassed.
‘It would have smelt of camphor then and you would probably have disliked that,’ she said, almost in a whisper.
The Archdeacon gave a shout of laughter at this. Suddenly he was in a good temper again, fell on a plate of cakes and began to eat ravenously. ‘I was too busy to have any luncheon,’ he explained. ‘So many tiresome things to do.’
‘It will be nice for you to go away for a holiday,’ ventured Belinda.
The Archdeacon sighed heavily. ‘Ah, if only I could.’
‘But now that Mr Donne is here, surely it can be managed?’
‘One cannot leave the flock without a shepherd,’ said the Archdeacon in a mocking tone.
‘But he said – I mean we heard – that Agatha was going to Karlsbad in October,’ said Belinda, urged on by curiosity. ‘Surely you will be going too?’
‘Alas, no.’ The Archdeacon finished the last cake. ‘And even if I were, it would hardly be a holiday for me.’
Belinda could think of no reply to make to this and none seemed to be expected. She could neither agree nor protest, she felt, but did what seemed to her the best she could by getting up. from the table and saying that she really must get back to the stall. ‘I must go and relieve Agatha,’ she said. ‘I see she hasn’t been for her tea yet.’
‘It will please her not to have any,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘I wonder that you have had any. I thought women enjoyed missing their meals and making martyrs of themselves.’
‘We may do it, but I think we can leave the enjoyment of it to the men,’ said Belinda, pleased at having thought of an answer. But Henry was really too bad, there was no knowing what he might say next. And he was not going to Karlsbad … She hoped nobody had overheard their conversation. It had really been most unsuitable, but somehow she felt better for it and had almost forgotten the episode of the marrows.
Back at the garden-produce stall, Belinda saw Agatha, looking rather tired and flustered, bundling what remained of the flowers, fruit and vegetables on to the front of the stall.
‘Oh, there you are,’ she exclaimed, making Belinda feel that she had been away too long.
‘Yes, you must be longing for your tea, but surely you could have gone before now? Wouldn’t Miss Liversidge or Miss Aspinall have taken charge of the stall?’ said Belinda, doing the best she could.
‘Oh, well, I may as well go now,’ said Agatha grudgingly, ‘we seem to have taken quite a lot of money.’
‘Yes, and the tea garden has been crowded. The Archdeacon was still there when I left,’ Belinda added, thinking that this might encourage Agatha.
‘I have had no luncheon,’ she said. ‘I shall really be glad of a cup of tea.’
‘Oh, dear, I wish I’d known that, then you could have gone first,’ said Belinda. Had there been no luncheon at all at the vicarage today? Surely a bad arrangement, or had the Archdeacon and his wife wished to outdo each other in self-denial?
‘Well, Belinda, I expect you enjoyed your tea,’ said Harriet, advancing towards the stall.
Belinda was thankful that Agatha was out of hearing. ‘Yes, I thought the cakes were lovely,’ she said.
‘You and the Archdeacon looked so cosy. Having a nice conversation about moth balls, too, most domestic. What a pity it is about Agatha. They have really nothing in common.’
‘Oh, Harriet, you’re quite wrong,’ said Belinda stoutly. ‘Agatha is a most intelligent woman. She knows a great deal about medieval English literature. And then there’s palaeography,’ she continued, as if her emphatic tone would explain its importance in the married life of Agatha and the Archdeacon.
‘Oh, yes, that’s about apes, isn’t it?’ said Harriet, losing interest in the subject. ‘Do you think a fur cape would be too hot for the concert this evening? The gold lamé jacket doesn’t really go so well with my blue as the white fur. Besides, it’s rather severe and needs something to soften it.’
Eventually Harriet decided to wear the white fur cape, and everyone agreed that she looked very handsome, although one of the more spiteful Sunday School teachers whispered to her friend that she suspected it was not real ermine, but only shaved coney.
At the beginning of the concert, the Archdeacon, looking very striking in clerical evening dress, made a charming little speech. He seemed to have recovered completely from his bad temper of the afternoon, because they had made a splendid lot of money at the garden party and there was a good attendance at the concert. He beamed on the crowd of zealous church workers, as he praised their untiring efforts, and they in their turn were so greatly carried away by his charm that they forgot all his annoying oddities and began to think themselves fortunate to have such a distinguished-looking vicar.
Belinda was sitting by Count Bianco. She had seldom seen him so animated. He did not refer even once to the sad death of his friend John Akenside. After Harriet had played her Brahms intermezzo, he declared in an enthusiastic mixture of English and Italian that for him everything would be an anticlimax after this.
Belinda found herself thinking, as she often did, that it would be an excellent thing if Harriet would marry the Count.
He was wealthy and he had a beautiful house and garden: and, moreover, as Agatha had remarked that morning, he came of a very old Italian family. Belinda was sure that he would have no objection to Harriet making cakes and other dainties for the curates. He was such a kind-hearted man.
In the meantime a child was reciting, rather too fast, but Belinda caught one or two lines.
In dingles deep and mountains hoar
They combatted the tusky boar.
She tried to remember why the Archdeacon had been anxious to include this, for it was not a particularly suitable poem. Then she realized that it was in order that he might explain to an audience not really interested in such linguistic niceties, the history of the rare word dingle. How it is first known in the twelfth or thirteenth century in a work called Sawles Warde; then it is revived by the Elizabethans, who gave it to Milton – you remember it in Comus, of course…
The Reverend Edward Plowman, sitting in the front row by Agatha, listened to the explanations jealously. How like Hoccleve to show off his knowledge on such an unsuitable occasion! Father Plowman, as he was called by his devoted parishioners, was not a clever man. He had failed to take Honours in Theology, but he worked hard in his parish and the elaborate ritual of his services was ample compensation for the intellectual poverty of his sermons. He was greatly beloved by his flock and one Christmas he had received so many pairs of hand-worked slippers that he gave the Archdeacon a pair. The gift was accepted rather grudgingly, especially as they were a size too small. This evening Father Plowman was not wearing his usual costume of cassock and biretta and his evening dress was less well cut than the Archdeacon’s. He shifted uneasily, reflecting that even the best seats were hard. But soon there would be an interval. Would there be refreshments? he wondered. He tried to remember whether they had had refreshments at the last concert. He could hardly ask Mrs Hoccleve. These recitations were really rather heavy going, though this was better. Time wasted is existence, used is life … one might almost use a line like that for a text. He began to meditate on the theme, although he did not really approve of these literary sermons. Still, he had no doubt that he could do them as well as Hoccleve.