An Unsuitable Attachment (7 page)

Lady Selvedge ate quickly, commenting on the excellence and cheapness of the food as she did so. 'Luncheon for only three and ninepence,' she declared, reaching out towards a miniature steamed pudding and drawing it towards her, 'excellent!'

At this point the young man, who had been reading a folded newspaper, looked up and said in a slightly truculent voice, 'Excuse me, madam, but that's
my
pudding you're about to eat.'

'Oh no, this is mine,' said Lady Selvedge firmly, making a shielding movement with her hands round the pudding in its little dish.

'I think the young man is right,' said Mrs Grandison. 'I don't remember seeing you take a pudding. The dishes get rather confused when they're all together on the table,' she added, trying to put things right.

'Oh well then, I suppose it is not mine,' said Lady Selvedge grudgingly pushing the pudding back towards the young man, who then proceeded to eat it in a kind of defiant confusion.

'Those sort of people eat far too much
starch,'
said Lady Selvedge to Mrs Grandison in an audible whisper. 'Meat pie, chips, roll and butter, and now this stodgy pudding. A dish of
greens
would be much better for you,' she said, raising her voice and turning towards the young man.

'If you'll pardon me, madam, I think you're—bloody—interfering,' he stammered, flushing scarlet from the—surely unaccustomed—boldness and violence of his language. Then, gulping down the remains of his cup of tea, he got up and left the table.

This would
not
have happened in Simpsons, thought Mrs Grandison grimly. She had been a fool to let Muriel choose a place to have lunch and would take good care that it did not happen again.

'There will be time for us to have a look round Westminster Abbey,' said Lady Selvedge, not in the least disturbed by the upsetting little incident of the pudding. 'I always like to have a good look round the Abbey.'

***

We dare not
ask
for the grace of humility, but perhaps we don't need to when it is so often thrust upon us, thought Sophia, beating together eggs and sugar for a sponge cake, knowing that her cake would not rise as high as Sister Dew's. When she took it from the oven she was pleased with it, but later, placing it on the trestle table in the hall where refreshments were to be served, she saw that Sister Dew's was higher.

'So you've made one of
your
sponges,' said the latter in a patronizing tone. 'It looks quite nice.'

'But yours is much better, Sister Dew,' said Sophia nobly. 'I don't know how you do it.

'Oh, I'm sure
she's
got a light hand with pastry,' said Sister Dew. 'I suppose one is born with a light hand in these things!'

'Yes, I suppose so,' Sophia agreed. 'Miss Broome has promised to make some sausage rolls.'

'Oh, I'm sure,
she's
got a light hand with pastry,' said Sister Dew eagerly. 'I hope I get a chance to taste one of her sausage rolls.'

'Yes—is that her coming now? I thought I saw somebody pass the window,' said Sophia. Her tone was a little agitated for she had also just seen Faustina mount the refreshment table and pick her way delicately among the dishes of cakes and savouries, sniffing the air, ready to pause and pounce when she came upon something that took her fancy.

Luckily Sister Dew allowed herself to be distracted and opened the door for Ianthe and her covered dish.

'Now here's Miss Broome with her sausage rolls,' she said fulsomely. 'They do look good, I must say. But they're not for Pussy,' she added, with a disapproving look at Faustina now held firmly in Sophia's arms.

'I hope they're all right,' said Ianthe. 'It's quite a long time since I made any. How this reminds me of old times,' she sighed, looking round at the hall with its decorated stalls and paper chains and lanterns hanging from the rafters. 'What time is the bazaar to be opened?'

'Half-past two,' said Sophia. 'I wonder if Mr Stonebird will come?'

'I didn't see any sign of him when I passed his house,' said Ianthe. 'Not that I looked, really.'

'But you might have seen signs,' Sophia reassured her.

'Yes, one might, though I'm not sure quite what. Is your sister coming this afternoon?'

'Yes, she's promised to help with the teas and refreshments.'

At that moment Penelope appeared, bringing with her a breath of Chelsea—or was there, Sophia wondered, some newer and more fashionable district it might have been, such as Islington, Earls Court or Camden Town? Sophia wished her sister had not been wearing tartan trews, but it would never do to say anything. And what
did
one wear at these parish functions? Poor though the district was, old Saturday morning clothes would not do—one must be seen to have made an effort. Sophia herself was wearing a green jersey suit and a small hat, but she felt that she did not look so absolutely right as Ianthe, whose plain blue woollen dress was set off by a feather-trimmed hat which had just the right touch of slightly dowdy elegance—if there could be such a thing. Her long training in church circles was evident too in her ease of manner with the other parish women, which contrasted with Penelope's slightly defiant air resulting from shyness and uncertainty.

Penelope wished now that she had worn a dress or suit instead of the elegant tartan trews, but they had seemed the only way to make Rupert Stonebird notice her. Standing behind the refreshment table, though, she now realized that only her upper half was visible. And anyway he had not yet arrived. He would probably slip in at the last minute, just as a matter of duty.

***

We should have taken a taxi, thought Mrs Grandison unhappily as she and Lady Selvedge, jostled by crowds, hurried down the passage leading to the northbound Bakerloo trains. She should have insisted, have pretended that Sophia's part of London was inaccessible by public transport, and of course, when one came to think of it, there
was
quite a long walk from the station. Mrs Grandison's pointed Italian-style shoes were already beginning to pinch her left foot. Lady Selvedge, she now realized to her surprise, was wearing low-heeled walking shoes, not really quite the thing with her elaborately draped velvet toque but eminently sensible.

'This is the train,' she declared. 'Come along, Dorothy, or we shan't get a seat.'

A great many people seemed to be crowding in, presumably returning home for their Saturday half day. Was it right, Mrs Grandison asked herself, that she should stand while men sat? But the question was academic, for there was nothing she could do about it. This was no way for the opener of a bazaar and the guest of honour to arrive, she thought indignantly. Perhaps they would be able to get a taxi at the station.

But it was not the kind of station that has taxis waiting outside it, and the two ladies were forced to walk through the crowded streets, now full of people doing their weekend shopping.

'So many
black
people,' said Lady Selvedge in her penetrating Voice. 'And do I see
yams
on that stall? I don't think the vicarage can be
here
—Dorothy, are you
sure
we're going in the right direction?'

'I have always been by car or taxi before,' said Mrs Grandison shortly. 'Of course the streets near a station are always sordid. Think of Victoria.'

'Well, Buckingham Palace is near Victoria,' said Lady Selvedge unhelpfully. 'And so are some of the best parts of Belgravia—not to mention Westminster Cathedral.'

'That's a Roman Catholic cathedral,' snapped Mrs Grandison, whose feet were now hurting considerably, 'so I see no reason why we should mention it.' If only Mark could have got a living in a better district, she thought, as she had so often thought before. 'My son-in-law was offered the living of St Ermin's when it fell vacant recently,' she said, 'but he felt there would be more scope here.'

'
Scope
?' echoed Lady Selvedge as if the word were unfamiliar to her. 'Ah,
scope
, I see what you mean. Yes, scope is a great thing where the clergy are concerned.'

'This part of the district is becoming quite fashionable,' said Mrs Grandison as they approached the terrace where Ianthe Broome and Rupert Stonebird lived. 'Such pretty little houses—and there is St Basil's spire,' she added encouragingly.

'Ah, yes—you see, it hasn't been such a long walk after all,' said Lady Selvedge. 'I always believe in saving a taxi fare where possible.'

'Sophia will be waiting for us at the vicarage,' said Mrs Grandison. 'I expect you would like to go upstairs to tidy yourself before the opening.'

'Tidy myself?' Lady Selvedge raised a hand to her elaborate hat. 'Oh, I doubt if that will be necessary. Ah, my dear,' she said, seeing Sophia at the front door, 'here we are, you see, safe and sound.'

'How nice to see you. I take it you've had lunch?' It would be disastrous if they had not, Sophia thought.

'Yes, thank you, an excellent meal and only three and ninepence.'

Where could they have lunched? Sophia wondered. 'Perhaps you'd like to sit down and rest for a while?' she suggested.

'Rest? Oh no, thank you.'

Then what were they to do? Sophia wondered.

'
I
should like to go upstairs,' said her mother plaintively and left them.

'Do you know, I thought I saw
yams
on one of the vegetable stalls as we were coming along,' said Lady Selvedge. 'It reminded me of our time in Nigeria. Humphrey was there, you know.'

When Mrs Grandison had rejoined them it was still not quite half-past two, but Mark came in to say that as everybody was already waiting in the hall and it would be difficult to restrain them from buying things much longer, the bazaar might as well be opened immediately.

Lady Selvedge allowed herself to be led on to the platform and was introduced in a short speech by Mark, who found himself unable to think of very much to say about her, confused as he was by the talk of 'higher principles', cocktail parties, and her former husband's misdeeds which he remembered having with Sophia and Penelope. It was obviously good of her to have given up an afternoon—perhaps a precious afternoon in these days when all time was precious—'to come from afar to open the bazaar'. Here Mark stopped, dismayed at finding himself breaking into rhyme. There was some laughter and he took the opportunity to sit down. Lady Selvedge then rose and made her little speech—the one she always made on these occasions, for the 'cause', whether Church, Conservative Party or District Nursing Association, was always a good one and it was safe to urge her hearers to spend just a little more than they thought they could afford, however relative the amount might be. Penelope had taken note of the two quite personable-looking men who had just come into the hall and were standing looking about them with some bewilderment, as if uncertain what they ought to do. Then, to her surprise and annoyance, she saw that they were greeting Ianthe Broome with every appearance of being old friends.

'Why, Mervyn, and Mr Challow, too,' said Ianthe, who had experienced a shock of dismay mingled with pleasure on seeing them, 'how did
you
know about St Basil's bazaar?'

'Oh, you let slip a word about it,' said Mervyn, 'something about making two dozen sausage rolls, so we thought we'd come along.'

'Shall we buy something off your stall, Ianthe?' John asked.

'Yes, of course you must,' she said quickly, a little taken aback by his use of her Christian name. 'I'm not sure that there are many things suitable for men, though,' she added, looking helplessly at the aprons, bed jackets and hand-knitted babies' woollens.

'I'll have this mauve bed jacket for Mother,' said Mervyn. 'It'll be just the job.'

'This blue one's pretty. It would suit
you
,' John said, lowering his voice and looking at Ianthe intently. 'That's swansdown round the neck, isn't it, that soft fluffy stuff.'

Ianthe turned away, slightly embarrassed, and began wrapping up the purchase. Sister Dew, who was also helping at the stall, said gushingly, 'Well, Miss Broome, you
are
a good saleswoman—another bedjacket gone already! Now who wants a nice apron or a baby's romper suit? Haven't you got a little nephew or niece?' she asked, thrusting a small knitted garment at Mervyn. But at that moment Lady Selvedge and Mrs Grandison were seen approaching the stall and Sister Dew quickly switched her attention to them. Both bought a gratifyingly large number of things before passing on to the next stall, where Miss Pettigrew sat behind pyramids of tinned food, most of which, on closer inspection, proved to be for cats.

'We hoped we might get a peep at your house,' said Mervyn to Ianthe.

'Oh yes, of course,' said Ianthe. 'It will be a good chance for you to see it later on—a cup of tea or a glass of sherry—I should be so pleased.'

'I'm dying to see where you live,' said John.

'Perhaps we should pass on to the home-made cakes,' said Mervyn. 'I should like to buy a sponge before they all go.'

Whoever
can
they be? Sophia wondered. They did not seem quite the sort of men one imagined Ianthe knowing as friends, though she had certainly greeted them cordially enough. Perhaps they were former choirmen or servers from her father's old parish—that might be the answer. Sophia could imagine them in cassocks, doing something with candles or incense. Having, as she thought, placed them, she turned her attention to her own stall. Mark was approaching with an elderly clergyman, Father Anstruther, a former vicar, who had on his retirement bought a house just on the boundary of the parish, rather tactlessly, some thought, but as he was a celibate there was no wife to poke her nose into parish affairs which was something to be thankful for.

'Ah, Mrs Ainger, you see before you the dog returning to his vomit,' he said cheerfully, greeting Sophia.

Not the happiest of phrases, she thought, though one could see what he meant.

'You know we're always glad to see you,' she said, not quite insincerely for he was a source of amusement in many ways and quite willing to take Sunday duties when Mark was on holiday.

'We always had a big crowd here in the old days,' said Father Anstruther, glancing round the hall, which certainly might have been fuller. 'People came from miles around.' He shook his head, then took a plate and wandered off to choose cakes for his tea. 'Fairies,' he murmured, 'who
was
it now who used to make such deliciously light fairies?'