Less Than Angels (9 page)

‘What a lovely room!’ exclaimed Deirdre, looking around her in wonder.

In daylight the sitting-room, with its pale green walls, looked rather ordinary and in need of redecoration, but the dim lights were a s flattering to it as they are to most people, and to Deirdre, used to the beige walls and flowered chintz of her mother’s drawing-room, it was the most attractive room she had ever seen. Large jugs filled with leaves or even branches of trees stood on bookcases obviously full of ‘interesting’ books, but it was really no more remarkable than many another such room in Chelsea, Hampstead, Kensington or Pimlico. Who can say, also, whether there might not be such a room in Balham, East Sheen or Paddington?

The people in the room, who had been similarly softened and improved by the dim light, now turned out not to be strangers at all. Deirdre realized with a shock of astonishment that the two almost handsome young men standing in a corner against a background of leaves were none other than Mark Penfold and Digby Fox. Here, with drinks in their hands, they had a relaxed air, and Digby, who had on entering the room cast a startled glance at Vanessa Eaves’s bare shoulders and made for an opposite corner, now found himself joining the little circle she had collected round her. As for Tom, he did not need any dim flattering light or exotic background, for when a man is loved he is never more doted upon than when he appears at some slight disadvantage, in the harsh light of day. Deirdre had not been aware of this and was a little disappointed to see him moving from group to group with drinks or food in the suave way that a good host should. Whenever he passed near her he gave her a vague sweet smile and once he put his hand on her arm in a reassuring sort of way.

Conversation at real life parties is not usually very witty or worth recording, and where members of the same profession are gathered together it is likely to be incomprehensible to all but themselves. Deirdre, from feeling herself to be on the fringe of anthropological circles, now seemed to plunge right in, and the sensation was altogether delightful to her. She found herself joining in the speculations about the Foresight research fellowships, laughing at malicious little stories about her teachers and having what seemed to be a profound discussion with the American couple, Brandon and Melanie, and Jean-Pierre le Rossignol, about the changed position of the sexes, for now, Brandon maintained, women were more likely to go off to Africa to shoot lions as a cure for unrequited love than in the old days, when this had been a man’s privilege.

‘But there are more wild animals left in the French territories,’ declared Jean-Pierre, ‘and that is a good thing, I think, for Frenchmen are so much more likely to have women hopelessly in love with them.’

Deirdre looked down at him, her eyes sparkling, almost feeling that
she
could love him at this moment.

‘I have the intention of visiting your church one Sunday,’ he said rather primly. ‘It is a thing I have not yet studied, the Sunday morning in the English suburb. When is the best time to come?’

‘I should think at Whitsuntide. There is usually a procession at the eleven o’clock service and more people are likely to be there.’

‘Ah, yes, Pentecost,’ declared Jean-Pierre in a superior tone. ‘And afterwards there is the traditional English Sunday dinner with joint?’

‘Yes, most families eat their joint on Sundays.’

‘And after, the sleeping? That is a custom too, I think?’

‘Well, with the older people, perhaps.’

‘Lovely!’ said Catherine, joining them. ‘I adore sleeping on Sunday afternoons. Where do you live?’ she asked Deirdre.

Deirdre told her.

‘With your family, I suppose?’

‘Yes, my mother and brother and aunt.’

‘How lucky you are to have relations! I haven’t any now,’ said Catherine sadly.

‘They’re rather a nuisance, really,’ Deirdre mumbled. ‘I should like to live in a flat on my own.’

‘But they
care
about you,’ said Catherine. ‘They fuss when you’re home late. I expect your mother lies awake till you get in and then calls out when she hears you creeping up the stairs.’

Deirdre laughed. ‘Yes, she does do that.’

‘And on Sundays you all have a big tea together. Sunday afternoon is horrid in the middle of London. The flat’s all littered with crumpled Sunday papers, and after tea there’s the sad sound of church bells.’

‘You must come and have tea with us on a Sunday,’ said Deirdre shyly. ‘If you can face the journey, that is. I’m afraid it’s rather a long bus ride.’

‘Oh, I should like that! May I really come one Sunday?’

‘Of course, my mother would love to meet you. Do you think I dare ask Tom to come as well?’ Deirdre burst out, encouraged by Catherine’s friendly manner.

‘Why, yes! He’s so busy with his wretched thesis all the time, it would do him good to get away from it.’

Somebody had now put a record on the radiogram and a few people began to dance. When Vanessa stood up it was seen that she wore tight-fitting leopardskin trousers; these, with her long silver ear-rings and bare-shoulder black jersey, made a striking effect.

Jean-Pierre leaned back in an arm-chair, eyes closed and finger-tips joined in a prayer-like attitude, listening to the jazz as if it had been Bach.

Deirdre found Tom beside her, asking her to dance. ‘Not like Vanessa and her Ethiopian boy friend,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I can only do ordinary dancing, going round the room and turning at the corners.
We
prefer dancing like this, don’t we.’ He took hold of her right hand and laid it against his heart.

‘We haven’t ever danced together before,’ said Deirdre, feeling rather gauche but happy that he should have singled her out in this rather unusual way. She closed her eyes, trying to hold the moment, but it would not stay. Soon the record came to an end and although another was immediately started that came to an end too, and at last people began to go home.

After the good-byes and thanks had been said, Deirdre was outside in the street with Mark and Digby, who seemed to be going in her direction.

‘Quite a good party, wasn’t it,’ said Mark dispassionately. ‘Plenty to eat and drink.’

‘Yes, Catherine usually has good parties,’ said Digby. ‘A woman who can cook
and
type—what more could a man want, really?’

‘I think she’s awfully nice,’ said Deirdre, in the warm tone a woman unconsciously uses when praising another woman to a man.

‘Trust Tom to get himself well looked after,’ said Mark. ‘I suppose it must be his ruling-class upbringing asserting itself. A Coppersmith’s research fellowship, and they’re about the best one can get, and a nice cosy place to live.’

‘Does he live in the same house then?’ Deirdre asked.

‘He lives in the same flat,’ said Digby.

‘With Catherine,’ Mark added.

‘He
lives
with Catherine?’ Deirdre’s voice faltered a little, for she could not believe that Mark and Digby could mtan what they seemed to. ‘You mean, he is her lover?’ she went on, in a high unnatural voice.

‘Well, we haven’t actually asked him, but one presumes that is the arrangement.’

‘It would be a reciprocal relationship—the woman giving the food and shelter and doing some typing for him and the man giving the priceless gift of himself,’ said Mark, swaying a little and bumping into a tree. ‘It is commoner in our society than many people would suppose.’

‘I wonder if we could find anyone to look after
usT
asked Digby. ‘Perhaps if we were to advertise in one of the learned journals. “Two personable young anthropologists, early twenties, would like to meet sympathetic woman under thirty-five with flat and private income—object subsistence.” ‘

‘Miss Clovis and Miss Lydgate might take us on,’ suggested Mark. ‘I believe they are quite kind, really, but I suppose we should have to give ” help with rough”, as they say in advertisements.’

‘All the same, Catherine is quite attractive,’ said Digby. ‘We might aim at someone a bit younger than Qovis and Lydgate.’

Deirdre walked between them in a stunned silence, their frivolous conversation passing over her head. It had never occurred to her that Tom might be attached to another woman. She had not realized that the very fact that she had immediately loved him could mean that other women would love him too.

‘I suppose they will be getting married?’ she asked at last.

‘Who-.Tom and Catherine? Oh, I shouldn’t think so,’ said Mark cheerfully. ‘Catherine isn’t keen on going to Africa with him and she isn’t a trained anthropologist. He would do better to marry Primrose or Vanessa.’

‘Or even you,’ said Digby, squeezing her arm affectionately. ‘You’re still young enough to be moulded.’

‘I think there will be a train still running,’ said Deirdre quickly, as they approached an Underground station, ‘so I’d better go down here. Good-bye I’

She had gone before they could offer to see her to the train, which they would not have done in any case.

‘Did you think she seemed a bit upset about something?’ asked Digby as they walked on.

‘No, did you?’

‘She looked as if she might be going to cry—it was when we were talking about Tom and Catherine.’

‘But she hardly knows Tom, does she?’

‘No, but I think she likes him. I wonder if she will be all right? Ought one of us to have seen her home—supposing there isn’t a train as late as this?’

‘Seen her home?’ echoed Mark in astonishment. ‘Has the drink or the night air gone to your head? She probably lives miles away. You really must cure yourself of these old-fashioned ideas.’

‘Yes, of course, one’s apt to forget that women consider themselves our equals now. But just occasionally one remembers that men were once the stronger sex,’ said Digby almost sadly.

‘Of course, if she really wants Tom,’ said Mark, his eyes brightening as they did when there was the prospect of some interesting piece of gossip, ‘ there’s no reason why she shouldn’t get him. Did you notice how he seemed rather interested this evening? A few obstacles in the way will only make it more worth while for her.’

They had come to a crescent of once beautiful houses, now decayed and shabby, in one of which they shared a flat with an African student. The sound of his typewriter greeted them as they opened their front door. The kitchen was full of washing-up and there was no milk left for breakfast. Mr. Ephraim Olo liked to drink Ovaltine while he composed articles of a seditious tone for his African newspaper.

The day on which Catherine and Tom were coming to tea was Whitsunday. At breakfast the question of churchgoing was discussed. Mrs. Swan was grieved that Deirdre had not been with them at Early Service. The vicar called it Low Mass, but she could not yet bring herself to adopt this unfamiliar and somehow rather shocking terminology.

‘Malcolm and Mr. Dulke took the collection,’ she said. It was such a nice service -I wish you’d come, dear.’

‘I didn’t feel like it,’ said Deirdre evasively. ‘I don’t really know that I believe in it all any more.’

There was silence at the table. Malcolm passed up his cup for more coffee. Rhoda took another piece of toast. Nothing was said, but Deirdre began to feel that her remark had been rather childish and in bad taste.

‘What was that thing the organist played when we went up?’ Malcolm asked. ‘Rather a nice tune, I thought.’

‘It
sounded
like Hiawatha’s wedding feast,’ said Rhoda in a worried tone, ‘Coleridge Taylor, you know. But I don’t think it could have been that.’

‘Mr. Lewis was improvising,’ said Mrs. Swan. ‘There were nearly a hundred communicants, I should think, and I dare say his thoughts wandered. I suppose the music wasn’t really so very unsuitable, in a way; many Indians are Christians, aren’t they?’

‘These were
Kid
Indians, surely,’ said Malcolm.

They seemed to be getting into rather deep water, so Mabel changed the subject by mentioning that there was to be a procession at the eleven o’clock service.

‘I might come to that,’ said Deirdre. ‘I suppose it will be quite an interesting spectacle.’

Mabel wisely made no comment and was glad to see that Deirdre was ready to go with Rhoda and Malcolm when the time came. She herself was staying behind to cook the Sunday joint, a fing fillet of veal.

If only I lived by myself in a flat like Catherine’s, thought Deirdre. as she sat in their usual pew between her brother and aunt, then I shouldn’t have to worry about family peace and hurting people’s feelings.

So as to make sure of their favourite seat they had arrived rather too early, and there was nothing to do but look around the church which, like so many suburban churches, had been built at the beginning of the present century and had no ancient monuments or outstanding architectural features. Everything that could be was beautifully polished, from the altar candlesticks and lectern to the memorial tablets to late vicars, Ernest Hugh la Motte Spofford, George William Brandon, and James Edward Ferguson Law. The present incumbent, Laurence Folkes Tulliver, could not expect to be immortalized in brass for some years to come, for he was a man in vigorous early middle age who had introduced into the services many features which were new and startling to his congregation. He had been wise enough to do this gradually, so that by the time the church had won the right to have the mysterious letters DSCR after its name in Mowbray’s
Church Guide
, most of the congregation were rather proud of themselves for having become High Church almost without knowing it. Only some of the older members still found the bells and incense a little alarming, for as Father Tulliver put it, rather aptly where Asperges was concerned, the young people had taken to the ritual like ducks to water.