No Fond Return of Love (13 page)

The road she had marked on the map seemed much longer than it had looked, and the church was not easy to find. Dulcie had imagined that as soon as she turned into the road it would be immediately visible, if only in the distance, a Victorian Gothic building with its own kind of nobility, its lacy spire towering above the houses. But she had come right up to it before she realized that the ordinary-looking red brick building in front of her was indeed St Ivel’s Church. Only a notice-board, conveniently placed trader a street lamp, with the times of services in faded gilt lettering and a poster announcing a whist drive, gave any clue. Then she looked up and saw that it had a little campanile, half hidden by trees, and that the windows were vaguely ecclesiastical in shape. She stepped into the porch, where another notice-board gave the services for the week typed on a printed form with little crosses at the corners. ‘Confessions – Saturday 6.45’, she read with a shudder. So it was High Church and Aylwin Forbes’s brother might very well be unmarried.

Dulcie turned the heavy ring of the door handle. To her surprise the door opened; she had expected it to be shut at this time of the evening. What if some strange form of service were going on and she were trapped into taking part in it? But inside all was quiet; there was nobody to be seen, and yet she had a feeling that the building was not empty. Just inside the door was a marble stoup with some greenish – presumably Holy – water in the bottom. Dulcie dipped her finger in it and crossed herself, dropping down on to one knee as she had seen people do in Roman Catholic churches. Then, feeling that she had, as it were, a right to go in, she walked boldly up between the rows of chairs until she stood facing the altar. A few lights were on, and through the gilded rood screen she caught glimpses of bright Victorian stained glass and brass candlesticks on the altar. On her left was the organ, and she tiptoed up to it to examine the music lying on the stool – Rubinstein’s Melody in F, ‘O for the wings of a dove’, ‘Arias from
Cavalleria Rusticana
’, and, surprisingly, a piano selection of
Salad Days
. Did these reflect the musical tastes of the organist, she wondered, trying to picture him, young and eager, perhaps riding a scooter. Round the corner behind the organ was a sort of choir vestry with blue cassocks hanging on hooks and piles of rather tattered-looking music stuffed into a bookshelf. There was a kind of mist hanging over the place, either fog which had seeped in from outside or the smoke of incense lingering from the last service. Dulcie groped for a light switch, and rather to her surprise found one. She was now able to see more clearly and to read a notice nailed to the door in front of her, which said ‘Nobody, repeat nobody, is to tamper with the electric heating apparatus in here’. At the same time she was aware of a strong smell of paraffin. Puzzled, she tried the door, but it was, understandably, locked, so she switched off the light and returned to the main part of the church. The somewhat tetchy word-ing of the notice seemed out of keeping with the elegant italic hand in which, it was written. Could it be the hand of Aylwin Forbes’s brother, she asked herself. She wondered who might be tempted to ‘tamper with the heating apparatus – possibly the organist or the churchwardens; devout ladies slipping in for a moment’s prayer and meditation might even be seized with an irresistible urge to do so.

Dulcie left the church with a vague prayer and a small coin for each of the boxes that invited her charity – sick and poor fund (in these days?); altar flowers; sanctuary fund; restoration fund (all churches seemed to have this, whatever their state of repair); and vicarage expenses. The last was rather obscure, and just because it was so, Dulcie put a shilling into the box.

She had just come out into the porch when she was aware of somebody – a woman, she thought, hurrying past her, opening the door and going into the church. Dulcie was certain that she was crying, though the handkerchief held over her face might have meant that she had a cold. She opened the door a crack and heard the sound of sobbing. It was difficult to know what to do, and Dulcie might have stood there undecided for some time longer had she not seen another woman making her way rather purposefully towards her.

‘I’ve just come to put out the lights and lock up,’ she said. ‘Father Forbes would wish the church to be kept open for private prayer even at a time like
this
’.

‘Oh? Has there been some trouble then?’ asked Dulcie delicately.

‘Trouble? Oh, my
dear
!’ The woman made a little darting movement towards Dulcie, almost as if she were about to dig her in the ribs.

‘I suppose people might break in and steal things if the church were left open all day,’ Dulcie said, and yet she had a feeling that it was not that kind of trouble. Her thoughts ranged over the different varieties generally associated with the clergy and she began to feel that she had better have gone straight home rather than come here at what might be a painful and embarrassing time.

‘We’ve never had people steal things here,’ said the woman. ‘We always leave it open till about ten o’clock every night – then I generally come over and lock up, or Father Forbes does – it all depends. I’m his housekeeper, you see.’

‘He’s not married?’ asked Dulcie boldly.

‘Oh, no!’ The woman looked surprised at the question, as if Dulcie ought to have known that he was not married. ‘But of course a good-looking man like that would have his difficult moments – only to be expected, seeing what women are, too. People are only human after all, be they male or female,’ she added rather strangely.

Dulcie could not but agree. What does it mean, being ‘only human after all’? she asked herself. It was generally said of a person who had committed some indiscretion or even sin. It looked rather as if Neville Forbes had got himself involved with some woman – perhaps a young Sunday school teacher, or even a married woman.

‘I saw a woman go into the church just before you came,’ Dulcie said. ‘She seemed to be crying, and I wondered if I ought to go after her and ask what the matter was.’

‘What the matter was!’ echoed the housekeeper derisively. ‘Well, I suppose there’d have been no harm in
asking
, as they say. I wonder what she’d have said, though.’

Naturally Dulcie wondered too, but the housekeeper had now turned towards the church and pushed the door open in such a way that Dulcie felt she was being dismissed.

‘Bye-bye, dear,’ said the housekeeper. ‘I expect we’ll be seeing you in church.’

Dulcie murmured something suitable. It did rather look as if she would have to visit Neville Forbes’s church again, though in what capacity she could not as yet say.

“TROUBLE? Oh, my
dear
!”’ said Dulcie. ‘Those were the words she used. It seemed to have something to do with a woman who ran into the church crying. The housekeeper was one of those bright, friendly little women who are natural but harmless gossips. I’m sure she wanted to talk about the “trouble” but felt she ought not to.’

‘I don’t suppose it was anything much,’ said Viola in her usual damping way. ‘The clergy are always having women make scenes over them – one reads about it in the papers nearly every day.’

‘Not in
The Times
or the
Manchester Guardian
, somehow,’ said Dulcie rather doubtfully.

‘No, of course not,’ said Viola impatiently. ‘But clergymen are rather at the mercy of women, aren’t they; all this popping into church at odd times.’

‘And people are only human after all, be they male or female – that’s what the housekeeper said. Still, the Forbes brothers do seem to have a rather unfortunate touch with women. Do you think Aylwin knows much about his brother’s affairs?’

‘I can’t think why you’re so inquisitive. It isn’t as if you’d even met Neville Forbes.’ 

‘No, but it’s like a kind of game,’ said Dulcie. It seemed – though she did not say this to Viola – so much safer and more comfortable to live in the lives of other people – to observe their joys and sorrows with detachment as if one were watching a film or a play. ‘Perhaps,’ she went on, ‘we might ask Aylwin to come in one evening – for a drink on his way home?’

‘On his way home? But
this
could hardly be on anybody’s way home,’ said Viola scornfully.

‘If he had been to Deodar Grove,’ suggested Dulcie tentatively, ‘it
could
be – almost. But then, if he had been
there
, it’s perhaps hardly likely that he would want to go on anywhere else afterwards. Could we invite him to a meal? That might be better. I could ask another man,’ she said, going rapidly through the list of her male acquaintances. But somehow none of those who first came to mind – Paul Beltane, Senhor MacBride-Pereira, her uncle Bertram – seemed at all suitable.

‘Yes, that would be best. What about your – er – ex-fiancé – Maurice?’

‘Maurice? Why, of course.’ It would show him, she thought, not quite certain what it would show – perhaps that she could now bear to meet him in the ordinary course of social life – that she was a delightful hostess, a wonderful cook – that she knew people like Aylwin Forbes? ‘And Aylwin Forbes,’ she went on. ‘Will you ask him or should the invitation come from me?’

‘I don’t think it matters. Perhaps I should ask him, making quite sure that he realizes it is not to be
à deux
,’ said Viola a little bitterly. ‘I suppose he will wonder why he is being asked. I can’t very well say it’s because you want to find out about his brother’s “trouble”.’

‘But will he wonder? Surely men – and even women – can accept a simple invitation without too much questioning? Aylwin will think it is a simple tribute to himself. And after all, we can always talk about indexes – this having some little academic interest in common is a great safeguard. I suppose it will have to be after Christmas, won’t it?’

‘Oh,
Christmas
…’ Viola sighed, for she was to spend the holiday with her parents at Sydenham. She regarded it as her duty to go to them, while they, in their turn, felt they ought to ask her though they would much have preferred to be by themselves. At Christmas, Dulcie thought, people seemed to lose their status as individuals in their own right and became, as it were, diminished in stature, mere units in families, when for the rest of the year they were bold and original and often the kind of people it is impossible to imagine having such ordinary everyday things as parents. Christmas put people in their places, sent them back to the nursery or cradle, almost. Where, she wondered, would Aylwin Forbes be spending Christmas? Surely not in the house in Deodar Grove? Perhaps he was one of those people who ignored it and went on working, regarding it as nothing more than an unusually long week-end. After Christmas, if he came to dinner, it might even be possible to ask him what he had done.

Dulcie herself was to travel home with Laurel on Christmas Eve to spend the holiday with her sister Charlotte and her family. It would be better than spending Christmas alone in London, she knew, yet she felt reluctant to uproot herself and be reduced in status to the spinster aunt, who had had an unfortunate love affair that had somehow ‘gone wrong’ and who, although she was still quite young, was now relegated to the shelf and good works. When Dulcie wondered, did one begin to take up good works if they didn’t come naturally? When – and how? Then she remembered the evening she had gone to Neville Forbes’s church, and his housekeeper saying ‘Bye-bye, dear – I expect we’ll be seeing you in church.’ Perhaps it wasn’t so difficult after all.

The day before they were to go, Laurel asked if she might bring her friend Marian to tea. Dulcie was delighted; she had always hoped that Laurel might bring her friends home, but the cosy student tea-parties up in the bed-sitting-room with the cooking on the gas-ring had not so far materialized. Laurel seemed to prefer to meet her friends in coffee bars or in their homes or lodgings, which were nearer the centre of London.

‘You see,’ Laurel said to Marian, rehearsing her beforehand, ‘if we were to get the idea into her head
now
about my moving into a flatlet in your house and get her to realize what a
good
idea it would be* then she would be on my side at Christmas when we discuss it at home. My parents haven’t the least idea about life in London, but my aunt is fairly reasonable – I think she’d see the point.’

As soon as Marian came into the room, Dulcie realized that she was an aunt, old, finished, fit only for the Scouts and their little jumble cart. Could it be that a generation was only ten years? Marian’s elegant appearance and deferential, almost solicitous, manner towards her made Dulcie feel like a rather fragile old lady. Even the girl’s voice seemed a little louder and more distinct than was necessary, as if she were speaking to a person who was slightly deaf. She was tall and slim, with fair hair done in a bun on top of her head and a side-swept fringe. Her dress was of the ‘chemise’ type, of a pale creamy brown shaggy material, adorned only with a string of beads that hung to her waist. On her feet were shoes with alarmingly pointed toes and stiletto heels.

‘How do you do?’ murmured Dulcie, taking the long slender hand that was languidly held out to her. ‘It’s so nice to meet one of Laurel’s friends.’

‘So kind of you to ask me,’ said Marian. ‘You’re almost in the country here, aren’t you. It seemed quite an adventure, coming all that way on the bus.’

‘The Underground is really quicker,’ said Dulcie a little sharply.

‘Oh, but it always gives me claustrophobia being shut away down there with all those people – I’ve got quite a
thing
about it…’

‘Marian has a lovely flatlet in Quince Square,’ said Laurel a little nervously. ‘I think I told you about it, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, with a cooker concealed in a cupboard,’ said Dulcie. ‘In a house full of young or old women? I suppose career women would be the right description.’

‘That’s rather an old-fashioned way of putting it, isn’t it?’ suggested Marian. ‘One takes it for granted nowadays that women have careers. All sorts of people live in this house, anyway, and I don’t think there’s anybody over twenty-five. As it happens, one of them is leaving at the end of the year and we were wondering if Laurel… ‘ she paused delicately.