An Unsuitable Attachment (10 page)

'Mark? Oh yes, he does, but only because he feels he ought to. Really he's a very remote sort of person. He hardly even notices those endless cups of tea.'

Rupert smiled. 'Yes, it's a pity—I mean, the endless cups of tea. I grew away from the Church being a clergyman's son, of course, and now that I've come back to it I find it the same only more so—fewer people and even more cups of tea.'

'There should be more people and lots of wine,' said Penelope impetuously.

'Yes, but just imagine the practical difficulties. And of course the outward trappings . . .' He paused.

'Don't affect the inward truth, do you mean?' Penelope asked. She was beginning to feel very hungry, hardly strong enough for a serious talk about religion. She found his 'return to the Church' peculiarly disconcerting, almost as if he might be going to become a clergyman himself. And when one came to think of it he did look a little like a clergyman in his dark grey suit, especially when he wore his spectacles.

'Have you ever been married?' she asked, boldly changing the subject.

'No—that hasn't come my way—marriage,' he said rather oddly, as if it were the sort of thing about which one had no conscious choice.

'But other things—oh, lots of other things, I'm sure,' went on Penelope, now a little desperate.

He smiled. 'There
are
other things, after all. What was it Dr Johnson said—"Love is only one of many passions and it has no great influence on the sum of life".'

He finished his drink, drained it, Penelope thought, 'with an air of finality', like a character in a novel. Soon he would get up and say he must be going.

'I suppose as an anthropologist you look on everything with detachment,' she said.

'Not quite
everything.'
He smiled—enigmatically, surely.

'Do you like your house?' she asked. 'Are you happy in it?'

'Yes—and I have good neighbours which is pleasant.'

Penelope supposed he must mean Ianthe Broome and Sophia and Mark.

'Do you know, one of them brought me an oxtail the other evening?'

'An
oxtail
?' Penelope saw it being carried in the hand, stiff and furry at one end like a kind of African fly switch. 'Whatever for?'

'To eat—it was in a basin.'

'Oh, I see—cooked. But surely not a
whole
oxtail?'

'Well, I don't know—it lasted me two meals. I suppose it must have been a portion,' he said uncertainly, feeling that the word was wrong.

'Fancy that.' A mixture of scorn and jealousy made Penelope also express herself uncharacteristically.

'I thought it was very kind,' Rupert went on. 'It's such a bore cooking when one's alone.'

How naïve he was, thought Penelope, trying to see Ianthe bearing a portion of oxtail up to his door. But somehow it was difficult—impossible really—to imagine her doing anything with oxtails.

'Do you live far from here?' Rupert was asking.

'No, I can get a bus to South Kensington.'

'Then I shall get a train in the opposite direction,' he said, thinking that there was something sad about it, especially now that she was thanking him politely for the drinks. It might be amusing to run across her some time. No doubt he would see her at the vicarage.

Penelope went to the top deck of the bus and lit a cigarette. The 'evening', if such it could be called, had not been exactly successful, though one obviously shouldn't expect too much of a chance meeting. It was something that it had happened at all.

The conversation about oxtail had made her realize how hungry she was and she stopped at a delicatessen shop on the way home and bought a pizza. She inserted her key as quietly as possible in the front door of the house where she had a room and crept upstairs. A strong smell of coffee emanating from the basement reminded her that Mrs Crouching, her landlady, was having one of her monthly 'evenings'—mild social occasions when she and her friends met to talk over important topics of the day. Race relations seemed almost cosy discussed at this distance from Notting Hill or Brixton, Penelope thought scornfully. But that had been last month. Tonight it might be the Common Market or the future of space travel.

As Penelope mounted further to the third floor where she and the other lodger had their rooms, she was relieved to hear the limpid notes of a recorder playing 'Brother James's Air'. This meant that Jocasta was unlikely to come bouncing out and invite her in to listen to a Mahler symphony on her record player. It also meant that the bathroom would be free for her to wash her hair. But before that she would make a cup of tea and read for a bit.

It was a pretty room, with pale green walls and a chintzy covered divan, piled with rose-coloured velvet cushions. Penelope lay among them, eating the cold leathery pizza—surely not quite as it was meant to be?—and drinking sweet tea. Because she had felt it might be vaguely suitable she had chosen to read a volume of Donne —

Whoever guesses, thinks or dreams he knows

Who is my mistress, wither by this curse . . .

Why should the book have opened at that poem? All the same he
had
been rather cagey about Ianthe Broome, not saying who it was that had brought the oxtail. I must be subtler than that, Penelope thought-just bringing food won't be enough.

***

'Reading, were you?' Rupert picked up the book which lay on the little table by the fire. It turned out to be the poems of Tennyson, bound in green morocco. Could she really have been reading
that
? he wondered, looking around for the novel stuffed behind a cushion.

'Yes, but I was just going to make some coffee,' said Ianthe. 'Would you like some?'

How convenient women were, Rupert thought, accepting her offer, the way they were always 'just going' to make coffee or tea or perhaps had just roasted a joint in the oven or made a cheese soufflé.

'I didn't think people read Tennyson nowadays,' he said, 'but then of course you aren't just "people".'

Ianthe flushed and busied herself with the coffee tray. She had not exactly been reading Tennyson but had remembered John quoting one of his poems during the first days of their acquaintance.

Now lies the earth all Danäe to the stars

And all my heart lies open unto thee . . .

She was ashamed to think that Rupert might have discovered her looking it up.

How comfortable it is here, he thought. Much better than sitting in pubs with young girls or even drinking with one's colleagues, the hastily snatched pint of bitter before they caught their trains home to their wives. There was a delicious smell wafting from a pink hyacinth which was growing in a glass on the table at his side. It seemed typical of Ianthe, the slightly schoolmistressy touch of growing the bulb in water so that its white Medusa-like roots were visible. One could almost imagine her saying 'Now, girls,' and explaining about osmosis or whatever the process was called. What an admirable person she was!

'I'm thinking of giving a small dinner party in the spring,' he said. 'My daily woman has offered to cook the meal. I do hope you will be able to come. The other guests will be just two of my colleagues and their wives, to whom I owe hospitality'—the way he said it made them sound utterly negligible, almost beneath contempt.

Ianthe looked up at him and smiled. 'That would be very nice,' she said. 'I should like to come.'

Looking at her Rupert remembered his colleagues and their wives. A vague idea formed in his mind—not that he loved her but that he would like to see her always in his house, like some suitable decoration or finishing touch.

'My dining room faces north and is difficult to heat,' he said rather briskly. 'I've been looking at some of those paraffin convector heaters. What do you think of them?'

Had she ever loved or been loved? he wondered. Perhaps living with her widowed mother had limited her opportunities.

A maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love . . .

Where had that fragment of Wordsworth come from? It must have been seeing her reading Tennyson that had dredged up an old forgotten quotation. He scarcely heard her soft voice going on about paraffin heaters and electric wall fans. He only became as it were conscious again when he realized that she was on to another topic. Apparently there was talk of a party from the parish going to Rome after Easter. Would he be joining it?

Then he remembered that he had a conference in Perugia over Easter. He could certainly arrange to come on to Rome afterwards though he did not think he had enough courage to join the parish party. Rome for Rupert meant the Vatican Library, the Museo Preistorico Luigi Pigorini, and restaurants in Trastevere, but azaleas were massed on the Spanish Steps at Easter and he could see that this might be the ideal setting for Ianthe.

'The vicar and his wife, of course,' she was saying, 'and I expect Penelope will come too. It should be lovely.'

Yes, he might have an amusing time with the two women, he thought suddenly, in the nicest possible way. Who knew what might come of it?

Ianthe was disconcerted, even a little shocked, to see bottles of milk still standing outside the door of her uncle's Mayfair rectory when she arrived there to luncheon on Quinquagesima Sunday. It looked as if nobody had been to church that morning and she even began to wonder whether there would be any lunch. Then she realized that her uncle would have entered the church through a side door connecting with the vestry, while her aunt, who enjoyed rather poor health, would not have set foot outside even to take in the milk. She was not sure what their present domestic arrangements were and whether there was some splendid woman in the kitchen who had perhaps failed in her duty on this occasion.

Ianthe picked up a bottle in each hand, then had to put one of them down to ring the front door bell. It seemed a long time before anyone answered and she felt rather stupid standing there with the bottles. Eventually it was the Reverend Randolph Burdon himself who came to the door, looking a little surprised, as if he had expected somebody else. He was a tall stout man with a florid complexion, who looked well in vestments seen from a distance. Close to he was somewhat overwhelming and earthy, the priest of a pagan cult rather than an Anglican rector of the twentieth century. Appropriately enough he was holding a bottle of wine with the corkscrew already inserted.

'An unfair exchange,' he said, taking the milk bottles from Ianthe. 'You will find your aunt in the drawing room.' He put the milk bottles down on a small table in the hall, where they were to remain until Ianthe left, and as far as she knew, for ever after.

'Ah, my dear,' said the languid voice.

'How are you, Aunt Bertha?' said Ianthe, bending to kiss her aunt's pale powdery cheek. She then wished that she had greeted her with less solicitude for she would now have to hear how her aunt was.

Fortunately a gong sounded at that moment and Bertha sprang up with surprising alacrity and led the way to the dining room, where Randolph was already at the sideboard carving the meat.

He seemed to be in a gloomy yet exultant mood at the approach of Lent.

'You know that I have been asked to give a course of sermons at St Basil's? I shall want your advice about that.'

'
My
advice?' said Ianthe.

'Yes, as to the type of thing required.'

'But you must know that, surely, with all your experience,' Ianthe protested, knowing that her uncle was quite a celebrated preacher.

'My dear, this is a fashionable London parish, so called,' said Randolph. He carved the saddle of mutton savagely, as if he were rending his parishioners. 'What hope is there for them this Lent? I suppose they can give up drinking
cocktails.''

Ianthe thought the word 'cocktails' a little old-fashioned, and so evidently did her aunt, who protested that everyone drank whisky or gin and tonic now.

'Somebody has got to minister to the rich,' she added complacently. She was often thankful that her husband had not felt the call to serve in a slum parish or on a new housing estate. Life in a Mayfair rectory suited her very well and she had private means. It had always seemed so hard, that saying about the rich man and the kingdom of heaven.

'I suppose St Basil's is a poor parish?' Randolph asked in an almost hopeful tone.

'Yes,' said Ianthe. 'The congregation tends to be a poor one and there are quite a number of coloured people living in the district.'

Randolph sighed. 'If only I had that opportunity—such a rewarding experience working among people of that type.'

'But they are much more naturally religious than we are,' said Ianthe. 'It is the white people who are the heathen.'

'No, dear, you must be mistaken,' said Bertha in a pained tone.

'Ah well, it was not meant that I should work in such a parish,' said Randolph. 'Bertha's health wouldn't have stood any district but W1 or SW1. Anything near the Harrow Road, or the canal, or Kensal Green cemetery had to be avoided at all costs. My particular cross is to be a "fashionable preacher", as they say. Bertha is quite right when she says that somebody must minister to the rich.'

'Of course,' said Ianthe. 'And you have some very nice people in your congregation,' she added consolingly.

'Yes, both my church wardens are titled men,' said Randolph simply. He stood with the carving implements poised over the ruined saddle. 'Let me give you some more mutton, my dear.'

'No, thank you, uncle—I've had plenty.'

'You aren't a great meat-eater, are you, dear,' said Bertha, 'so the approach of Lent won't be so much of a hardship for you.'

Ianthe murmured noncommitally.

'I
have
to eat meat, unfortunately—doctor's orders,' Bertha went on. 'He has forbidden me to fast or even keep the days of abstinence. "You are not to
think
of making do with a collation on Ash Wednesday", he said to me. "You must have a full meal
with meat
".'

'I don't think it does one any harm to fast a little—if one is in good health,' Ianthe added hastily.

'I hope you will savour the Lenten fare, as I call it, that is being offered in this church,' said Randolph. 'We're trying lunch hour services with a short address this year. They have them at St Ermin's, of course, and I know Ossie Thames used to get quite a lot of office workers when he had them at St Luke's. I've got quite an interesting lot of preachers.'