An Unsuitable Attachment (17 page)

Penelope, standing behind her sister, wished that a more exciting hotel would have been chosen. This was the wrong way to come to Rome, in such uninspiring company. One should visit Italy for the first time either alone or with a lover, she decided. When she and Ianthe were shown into their room she sat down on what looked to be the best bed and lit a cigarette. Ianthe went over to the window and flung open the shutters and it occurred to Penelope that she was probably one of those people who didn't approve of smoking in bedrooms. If that was so, she would just have to put up with it.

But Ianthe had not even noticed Penelope's cigarette. She was conscious only that she was now in Rome for the first time in her life. She wanted to stand on the balcony and look out over the roofs, listen to the strange sounds and watch the cars and scooters rushing by in the street below. She was too tired to be aware of much except the slight headache which a long journey always gave her, yet she felt curiously light-headed and carefree.

'There seems to be quite a lot of room for our clothes,' said Penelope. 'Two chests of drawers and this big wardrobe—which side will you have?'

'Oh, I don't mind,' said Ianthe, watching an old woman watering plants on a nearby roof. 'How I long for a cup of tea!' she went on, coming back into the room.

'Well, we're just going out to have one,' said Penelope, thinking how typical it was that Ianthe should long for such a dull and essentially English thing as a cup of tea. She hardly liked to admit that she wanted one herself.

'Shall we go out now and meet the others then?' Ianthe suggested.

The party was already waiting, and with Sophia leading the way they walked briskly to Babbington's tea room at the foot of the Spanish Steps. All the women exclaimed at the sight of the red, pink and white azaleas massed on the steps, but each thought privately that only she could appreciate the true beauty and significance of the flowers—Sophia feeling that here was the essence of the Italy she knew and loved, Penelope experiencing a lift of the heart as if the flowers held a promise of future romantic adventures, Ianthe knowing as she looked at the flowers what she had only suspected before—that she was in love with John. The emotions of Daisy and Sister Dew were of a different type. Daisy thought, a people that loves flowers yet is cruel to animals; Sister Dew said to herself, I must get a coloured postcard ofthat to send to my friend. The men's feelings were not so well defined and they were not to be diverted from their search for tea.

In the tea room their spirits were at once raised and depressed by the English-looking cakes, pots of jam and packets of tea in the showcases on the counter, but the dim interior, with its Kardomah-like décor, reassured and encouraged them. The whole place suggested tea, and a good cup at that.

They found two adjacent tables and settled down, the men a little aloof from the women. A waitress came and took their order in broken English though Sophia had started to speak Italian to her. There were a few obvious English tourists, but even more elderly Italians, and even a few young couples, as if it were the fashionable thing to do.

'Or perhaps they just like tea,' said Ianthe, grateful for the cup that Sophia had poured out for her. Oh, the benison of it, she thought, for she seemed to need comfort now, not only because she was tired after the journey and far away from John, but because she had admitted to herself that she loved him, had let her love sweep over her like a kind of illness, 'giving in' to flu, conscious only of the present moment. She tried to imagine what John would be doing; it would be past the time for the office tea but not yet time to go home. Was he thinking of her as she was of him? She gazed ahead of her, seeing neither the pots of Chivers jam in the glass showcase nor the dark handsome young man in the opposite corner, who was staring at her fixedly.

Penelope had noticed him, staring at Ianthe like that, and wondered who he was. It almost seemed for a moment as if he would come over to the table and speak, but then he turned away, looking rather puzzled and began to order his tea. At that moment, too, there was another diversion—a large black and white cat appeared from some kitchen region and stalked down the passage between the tables. Their first Italian cat and it was disappointingly sleek and well fed looking.

'Come here, pussy,' said Sister Dew. 'Oh. I suppose he doesn't understand English—and isn't he
fat
,' she added, with a reproachful glance at Daisy.

'That's because it's in the English tea room,' said Daisy. 'One would naturally expect him to be well fed.'

'Pettigrew and I are going for a stroll,' said Mark, who had been finding the atmosphere of the tea room rather oppressive and not really what he had come to Rome for.

'I expect they want to see a bit of night life,' said Sister Dew.

'Hardly at half-past five in the afternoon,' said Penelope coldly. She was finding the presence of Sister Dew intolerable and couldn't think why Mark and Sophia had invited her. Surely she wasn't going to go everywhere with them.

'Well, I expect it starts earlier on the Continent,' said Sister Dew happily.

Now that the women were by themselves, the man whom Penelope had noticed staring at Ianthe seemed to pluck up courage to come over to their table. Could it be that Ianthe
knew
this good-looking young Italian? she wondered enviously.

'It
is
Ianthe Broome?' he asked tentatively and with no trace of foreign accent.

'Why, yes.' Ianthe looked puzzled for a moment. 'And you're . . . ?'

'Basil Branche.'

'Basil Branche, of course! Father Branche was one of my father's curates,' she explained to the rest of the party, and began making introductions.

So he was a clergyman, thought Penelope, a little disappointed. Still, he was very good-looking and not being dressed as a clergyman might be quite an asset to their party. She began to wonder if he was unattached.

'Are you staying long in Rome?' asked Sophia politely.

'I've already been here a fortnight and shall probably stay a week or two longer before moving south,' said Father Branche vaguely.

'My word, you
are
having a nice long holiday! Won a football pool or something on Ernie?' asked Sister Dew.

He smiled faintly. 'No, my health broke down and I was ordered to take a long holiday in the South of France or Italy.'

Goodness, were people 'ordered' to do such things in these days Sophia wondered, seeing the crowded waiting-room at the doctor's surgery. But perhaps he had been to a Harley Street specialist—it was easier to imagine the long holiday being recommended behind thick net curtains in one of those tall houses with several brass plates on the door.

'How lucky that you were able to arrange it,' said Ianthe, not in the least sarcastically.

'Yes, a most extraordinary thing happened. I was glancing through the personal column of the
Church Times
when I saw an advertisement for "a curate in poor health"—those were the very words—to accompany two elderly ladies on an Italian tour, all expenses paid.' He smiled. 'So naturally I applied.'

'They must have had a lot of replies,' said Penelope. 'How lucky that you were chosen.'

'No, the strange thing is that I was the only applicant. I suppose no other curate happened to be in poor health at that time.' Father Branche looked puzzled for a moment, as if he might have said something amusing. 'Or perhaps others didn't feel they could give in to it as I did.'

'No, they felt it their duty to
struggle on,'
said Daisy, half to herself.

'I suppose it was a nervous breakdown, that sort of thing,' said Sister Dew knowingly.

'What do you do—act as chaplain to these ladies?' Sophia asked quickly, feeling that Sister Dew might go too far.

'Not really, they just like to have an escort sometimes.'

'They are able to get about, then?'

'Goodness, yes—they're in their seventies and very active, especially the younger sister. She was left some property in Italy by an elderly Count who had always admired her, even wanted to marry her, I believe.'

'How romantic,' said Sophia. 'It seems to be not quite of this age, a story like that.' Neither was Father Branche, she thought, a kind of 'tame curate' of the old-fashioned type beloved by elderly ladies. One did not seem to meet many of them now. 'I expect we shall run into you again, as English people do in Rome,' she added, as they were leaving the tea room. 'We are staying at the Pensione Laura.'

'And we are at the Albergo di Risorgimento,' said Father Branche, his voice seeming to rise in triumph at the noble word.

'Perhaps we could all stroll back together,' said Ianthe. 'I expect we shall just be spending the evening quietly—dinner at the pensione and then an early night.'

Penelope looked appealingly at her sister, but Sophia was no help.

'Yes, we're all rather tired,' she agreed. 'We only arrived this afternoon —I think that's the best plan.'

'I want to visit my old school friend Nellie Musgrove, who lives in the Via Botteghe Oscure,' said Daisy firmly, 'so I may get Edwin to take me along there. I have some tins of cat food for her.'

If Father Branche was surprised he did not show it, but no doubt he was well used to English women in Rome and the kind of things they were likely to do. Before they parted it seemed to Sophia that he was trying to draw Ianthe aside, as if to make an assignation with her, but she gave him so little encouragement, indeed seemed almost to avoid him, that he had to be content with looking forward to the doubtful pleasure of meeting the whole party the next evening after dinner at the Trevi fountain. If it was fine, of course.

Dinner seemed to be hardly Italian at all, except that there was spaghetti, so English and German was the company. But the Roman evening was not to be disposed of in quite the way they had imagined, with an early night because they were tired after the journey. Everyone felt a desire to go out, even if only for a moment, to feel the pleasure of walking in a foreign city at night. Edwin and Daisy marched off with a map and the numbers of suitable trams to find the Via Botteghe Oscure; Sister Dew, Ianthe, and a rather unwilling Penelope went to buy postcards; Mark and Sophia, the cares of the parish temporarily forgotten, strolled up to the Trinità dei Monti and down the Spanish Steps.

At this moment she is all mine and without Faustina, Mark thought, then added quickly, 'I wonder what Faustina is doing now,' for he could afford to be generous among the azaleas, with Sophia's hand in his.

'I don't know, she's so unpredictable. Perhaps she's even giving to somebody else the love and devotion she's never given to me.'

Mark pressed her hand.

Sophia, looking up at him, saw that his usual remote look had gone and that he was smiling.

'What amuses you?' she asked.

'I was thinking that an obviously romantic setting has something to be said for it. I suppose I don't love you any more here than when we're walking together in Ladbroke Grove—how romantic
that
might sound to a foreigner, by the way— and yet it seems as if I do.'

'But
do
we walk in Ladbroke Grove?' Sophia murmured.

One of many photographers who had been lurking among the azaleas seemed to take hope at the sight of such an obviously affectionate couple and presented himself before them.

'Why not?' said Mark. 'We could print it in the parish magazine.'

'Or at least look at it in the winter,' said Sophia. 'If only Penelope could find love here. What did you think of Father Branche? Oh—I forget—you and Edwin had gone for a walk. He's a sort of curate we met in Babbington's. Apparently he used to know Ianthe and now he's here with two old ladies, for his health.'

'He sounds an improbable sort of curate,' Mark commented.

'Yes, but very good-looking. There
might
be something . . . Oh, Mark, she does need to love and be loved.'

'It isn't given to everyone to have that good fortune,' he said rather stiffly, for he often found it difficult to know what to say about Penelope.

'Oh don't talk like that—it's inhuman. What is there for women but love?'

'Now, darling, you know there are many things,' said Mark, the usual stern note coming back into his voice.

'I've been taught to believe that there are —perhaps I've even seen it, but I don't
know
,' Sophia protested. 'And mustn't all these things be a second best? Oh, not to God—I know what you're going to say.'

They had now reached the house where Keats died and Sophia was diverted—fortunately, Mark felt.

'And there
is
poor Penny with Ianthe and Sister Dew,' Sophia went on. 'They've been buying postcards. What a way to spend one's first evening in Rome. Still, I have hopes for tomorrow and the Trevi fountain.'

'Oh, Mrs Ainger, such lovely cards,' said Sister Dew. 'I'm going to send this one to my friend'—she lowered her voice—'the one who's had that big operation. It'll cheer her up. We've had ever such a nice walk.'

Ianthe and Penelope seemed less enthusiastic. When they were in their room together they agreed that Sister Dew was 'a bit of a trial' and that seemed to draw them together. And then there was the other bond between them.

'I suppose Rupert Stonebird will be at that conference in Perugia now,' said Penelope casually.

'Yes, with a lot of odd anthropologists,' said Ianthe, who was unpacking her suitcase and arranging her various possessions. Penelope noticed a leather photograph frame and wondered whose photograph Ianthe carried about with her. When the frame was unfolded and set up she saw that it contained two photographs—one of a good-looking white-haired clergyman wearing a biretta, and the other of a 'sweet-faced' woman, her slender hand fondling the large cameo brooch at the throat of her dark dress. Her parents, of course, and like so much that was connected with Ianthe, almost too good to be true.

The conversation about Rupert petered out; perhaps the thought of a crowd of anthropologists was somehow unfruitful and put a stop to the wanderings of the imagination. It seemed easier to discuss the encounter in Babbington's.