Excellent Women (12 page)

‘Mildred—at last!’ He turned round and faced me, but his voice betrayed the irritation of one who has been waiting for a long time rather than any pleasure at the sight of me. ‘I thought you were never coming out. Don’t people usually work till five?’

‘I don’t usually work in the afternoons at all,’ I said, ‘but some of our staff are away on holiday and I’m helping out. I hope you haven’t been waiting here on other evenings?’

‘No; I found out that you were working this afternoon.’

‘Really? But how?’

‘Oh, there are ways of finding out things,’ he answered shortly.

‘But you could have telephoned me and saved yourself this trouble,’ I said, wondering why he should want to see me and whether I ought to feel flattered.

‘Let’s go and have a drink, shall we?’ he asked.

I looked down at myself doubtfully, but he seemed impatient to be off, so I followed a step behind him, my string bag with its loaf of bread and biography of Cardinal Newman dangling at my side. I had certainly not expected to have any engagement that evening. We passed ruined St. Ermin’s and I saw the grey-haired lady who played the harmonium hurrying out, also with a string bag. I wondered if she too had a biography of Cardinal Newman—I could see that she had a loaf and a large book that might well have been a biography.

‘Omar Khayyam,’ I murmured to myself, ‘only it was a book of verse, wasn’t it?’ And Everard Bone wasn’t very suitable for the ‘Thou’ and although we were going to have a drink it probably wouldn’t be wine. So it was not really like Omar Khayyam at all.

‘Let’s go in here, shall we?’ he said, stopping at a public-house near St. Ermin’s, but he was already opening the door before I could say whether I wanted to or not.

I am not used to going into public-houses, so I entered rather timidly, expecting a noisy, smoky atmosphere and a great gust of laughter. But either it was too early or the house was too near the church, for all that I saw and heard was two elderly women sitting in a corner together talking in low voices and drinking stout, and a young man, whom I recognised as the curate of St. Ermin’s without his clerical collar, having what seemed to be an earnest conversation with the woman behind the bar. I could not call her a barmaid, for she was elderly and of a prim appearance. I felt that she probably cleaned the brasses in St. Ermin’s when she wasn’t polishing the handles of the beer pumps.

‘Good Heavens,’ murmured Everard, ‘isn’t it quiet? I suppose it’s early.’

‘Yes, I expect most people hurry away from this district at this time.’

‘Well, we needn’t stay long. What would you like to drink?’

‘Beer,’ I said uncertainly.

‘What kind of beer?’

‘Oh, bitter, I think,’ I said, hoping that it wasn’t the kind that tasted like washing-up water, but not being certain.

When it came I found that it was and I was a little annoyed to see that Everard himself had a small glowing drink that looked much more attractive than mine. He shouldn’t have asked me what I wanted just like that, I thought resentfully; he should have suggested various things, as Rocky would certainly have done.

I took a sip of my bitter drink and looked round the room. Being so near St. Ermin’s gave it an almost ecclesiastical air, especially as there was much mahogany, and I was fanciful enough to imagine that I even detected a faint smell of incense. A few more people had come in now and were drinking very quietly and soberly, almost sadly, sitting on a black horsehair bench or at one of the little tables. I stared into the fireless grate, filled now with teazles and pampas grass, and wondered why I should be sitting here with Everard Bone. He was silent too, which did not help matters, and the other people in the bar were so quiet that it was difficult to think of having a private conversation, assuming that we had anything private to talk about, which seemed unlikely.

‘I’m reading a biography of Cardinal Newman,’ I began, feeling that I could hardly have chosen a more unsuitable topic of conversation for a convivial evening’s drinking.

‘That must be very interesting,’ he said, finishing his drink.

‘Yes, it is really,’ I faltered. ‘One has great sympathy for him, I think.’

‘Rome, yes, I suppose so. One can see its attraction.’

‘Oh, that wasn’t what I really meant,’ I said, with really very little idea of what I had meant. ‘More as a person…’ my sentence trailed off miserably and there was now complete silence in the room.

Everard stood up holding his glass. ‘You don’t seem to like that drink,’ he said, suddenly becoming less withdrawn. ‘What do you really like?’

‘What you had looked nice.’

‘I rather doubt if you would like it. I’ll get you something like gin and orange or lime—they’re quite harmless.

I felt somewhat humiliated but was glad when he came back from the bar with a gin and orange for me, and after I had taken a sip or two I felt quite cheerful.

‘Why did you say you wanted bitter when you obviously don’t like it?’ Everard asked.

‘I don’t know, really, I thought it was the kind of thing people did drink. I’m not really used to drinking much myself.’

‘Well, you stay as you are. It isn’t the kind of thing one wants to get used to,’ he said, in what I thought was rather a priggish way. ‘You’re better off reading about Cardinal Newman.’

I laughed. ‘When I was at school we were sometimes allowed to choose hymns, but Miss Ridout would never let us have
Lead, kindly light
—she thought it was morbid and unsuitable for schoolgirls. Of course we loved it.’

‘Yes, I can imagine that. Women are quite impossible to understand sometimes.’

I pondered over this remark for a while, asking myself what it could be going to lead up to, and then wondered why I had been so stupid as not to realise that he wanted to say something about Helena Napier. It was not for the pleasure of my company that Everard Bone had asked me out this evening—or rather not even asked me and given me the chance of appearing better dressed and without my string bag, but had waylaid me in the street.

‘I suppose each sex finds the other difficult to understand,’ I said, doing the best I could. ‘But perhaps one shouldn’t expect to know too much about other people.’

‘One can’t always help knowing,’ said Everard. ‘Some things are so obvious and stand out even to the most imperceptive.’

I reflected that we could not go on indefinitely in this cryptic way, it was altogether too much of a strain. I took a rather large sip of my drink and said boldly, ‘I feel perhaps that women show their feelings for men without realising it sometimes.’

‘Have you noticed that too?’

‘Why, yes,’ I said, rather at a loss. ‘It’s often a difficult thing to conceal.’

‘But it ought to be concealed,’ he said irritably, ‘especially when the whole thing is quite impossible and the feeling isn’t returned in the same way. If they are really going to separate, the whole thing may become most awkward and unpleasant.’

‘What
are
you talking about?’ I asked, startled.

‘Oh, you must know that I mean the Napiers. Helena has been behaving in a most foolish and indiscreet way.’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t seen much of her lately,’ I said, as if I could somehow have prevented her.

‘She came to my flat the other night after ten o’clock,
alone,
and stayed for nearly three hours talking, although I did everything I could to get her to go.’

I felt I could hardly ask what methods he had employed.

‘Of course I had to go out with her eventually to find her a taxi—you will agree that I could hardly have done less than that,’ Everard continued. ‘By that time it was nearly one o’clock and naturally I didn’t expect to see many people about, let alone anyone who knew both of us.’

‘And did you?’ I asked, feeling that the story was really getting quite exciting.

‘Yes, it could hardly have been more unfortunate. We were just coming out of the house when who should walk by but Apfelbaum and Tyrell Todd—the last two people I should have expected or chosen to see.’

‘Oh, Tyrell Todd’s the man who gave the paper on pygmies, isn’t he?’ I asked, in an honest effort to place him. ‘And Apfelbaum kept asking questions after your paper.’

Everard looked annoyed at this irrelevant interruption, so I said soothingly, ‘I don’t see why you should worry about seeing them. I am sure they would think nothing of it. Anthropologists must see such very odd behaviour in primitive societies that they probably think anything we do here is very tame.’

‘Don’t you believe it. Tyrell Todd revels in petty gossip.’

I stopped myself from making the facetious observation that possibly it was his work among the pygmies that had made him small-minded and petty, and went on to ask reassuring questions.

‘But what were
they
doing together so late? It may well have been something disgraceful. Did they speak to you?’

‘No, they just said “Good evening” or words to that effect. I think we were all a little surprised.’

‘Four anthropologists meeting unexpectedly in a London square at one o’clock in the morning,’ I said. ‘There does seem to be something a little surprising about that.’

‘You make everything into a joke,’ said Everard resentfully, but with the suspicion of a smile.

‘Well, I think the whole thing sounds slightly ridiculous. If you can see it like that perhaps you won’t worry about it.’

‘But Helena is so indiscreet and from what I’ve seen of Rockingham I shouldn’t imagine he would be likely to behave in a very sensible way, either.’

‘No,’ I murmured, ‘I don’t think you would exactly call him sensible.’

‘On the other hand, it is unlikely that he would want a divorce,’ said Everard thoughtfully.

‘Oh,
no,’
I exclaimed, shocked out of the pleasant haze into which the drink had lulled me, ‘and I suppose you would not want to marry Helena even if she were free. I mean, divorce would be against your principles.’

‘Naturally,’ he said stiffly. ‘And I don’t love her, anyway.”

‘Oh, poor Helena. I think she may love you,’ I said rashly.

‘I’m sure she does,’ said Everard in what seemed to be a satisfied tone. ‘She has told me so.’

‘Oh, no! Not without encouragement! Do women declare themselves like that?’

‘Oh, yes. It is not so very unusual.’

‘But what did you tell her?’

‘I told her that it was quite impossible that I should love her.’

‘You must have been rather startled,’ I said. ‘Unless you had expected it, and perhaps you had if it can happen. But it must have been like having something like a large white rabbit thrust into your arms and not knowing what to do with it.

‘A white rabbit? What do you mean?’

‘Oh, if you don’t see I can’t explain,’ I said. I gathered my string bag to me. ‘I think I had better be going home now.’

‘Oh, please don’t go,’ said Everard. ‘I feel you are the only person who can help. You could perhaps say something to Helena.’

‘I
say something? But she wouldn’t listen to
me.’

We stood up and went out together.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Everard. ‘Why should you be brought into it, really? I just thought you might be able to drop a hint.’

‘But men ought to be able to manage their own affairs,’ I said. ‘After all most of them don’t seem to mind speaking frankly and making people unhappy. I don’t see why you should.’

We walked on in silence.

‘I should be very distressed if I thought I had purposely made anybody unhappy,’ said Everard at last.

There seemed to be nothing more to say. I was to tell Helena that Everard Bone did not love her. I might just as well go home and do it straight away.

We came to St. Ermin’s. ‘I wonder if anybody is making coffee on a Primus in the ruins?’ I asked idly.

‘Do people do that?’

‘Oh, yes, that little woman who plays the harmonium.’

‘Yes, she looks as if she might.’

We had suddenly forgotten about Helena Napier and were talking quite easily about other things.

‘I promised to go and have dinner with my mother tonight,’ said Everard. ‘Perhaps you would like to come too?

I decided that I might as well put off telling Helena that Everard did not love her for an hour or two at least, so we got into a taxi and drove to a dark red forbidding-looking house in a street of similar houses.

‘My mother is a little eccentric,’ he said as we got out of the taxi. ‘I just thought I should warn you.’

‘I don’t suppose I shall find her any more odd than many people I have met,’ I said, feeling that it was not perhaps a good beginning to the evening. ‘I’m sorry I’m not more suitably dressed. If I had known … only, things do seem to happen so unexpectedly.’

‘You seem to be very nicely dressed,’ said Everard without looking. ‘And my mother never notices what anybody is wearing.’

An old bent maidservant opened the door and we went in. There was a good deal of dark furniture in the hall and a faintly exotic smell, almost like incense. The walls were covered with animals’ heads and their sad or fierce eyes looked down on us.

‘Perhaps you would care to wash your hands, miss?’ said the maid in a hushed voice. She led me upstairs and into a bathroom, with much marble and mahogany and a stained-glass window. I began to think that it was perhaps suitable that I was carrying a biography of Cardinal Newman in my string bag, and as I washed my hands and tidied! my hair I found myself thinking about the Oxford Movement and the architecture associated with it. But then I was seized with a feeling of alarm, waiting outside the bathroom door on a dark landing, then creeping down the stairs and wondering where I should go when I got to the bottom. I was surprised to see that Everard was standing in the hall waiting for me, turning over a heap of old visiting cards that lay in a brass bowl on an antique chest.