Crampton Hodnet (11 page)

‘Well, of course, we’re such innocent
lambs
,’ Michael said, ‘but we did think it rather
odd
.’

‘It looked almost as if they were
hiding
from us,’ said Gabriel. ‘As if they didn’t want to be seen.’

Miss Doggett smiled indulgently but absently. ‘I think we must be going home to tea now/ she said, with the air of dismissing the young men. ‘You must come and see me soon,’ she added graciously.

‘Oh, Miss Doggett, we’d
adore
to,’ they said, melting gracefully away.

Miss Doggett and Miss Morrow walked on without speaking. Hiding in the bushes, thought Miss Doggett grimly. Obviously Francis had something to hide, something he was ashamed of. Well, she had no intention of interfering, not directly, that was. It was a thankless job talking to Margaret. Having no sense of duty herself, she did not seem to realise that other people had and that it might compel them to do things they would otherwise not have chosen to do. But when you compared Margaret with Miss Bird, you could hardly wonder at Francis’s behaviour.

I’ve never liked Margaret, thought Miss Doggett, suddenly and surprisingly. There she was, quite happy and contented, making no effort to keep her husband interested in her. Wearing the same old jumper suit and comfortable shoes, the same musquash coat with its old-fashioned roll collar, bicycling into town to do the shopping, sitting by the fire smoking cigarettes, taking no interest at all in her house and family. Look at those faded loose-covers, thought Miss Doggett unreasonably, and the way Anthea has been allowed to go about with young men ever since she was fifteen or sixteen. Yes, Margaret was a bad wife and mother. It was no wonder that Francis was looking elsewhere. And yet Miss Doggett would have been the first to condemn Mrs. Cleveland if she had suddenly started wearing smart clothes or spending money on beauty treatments, or if she had forbidden Anthea to go out with the eligible Simon Beddoes.

‘Murder will out,’ she said, with such suddenness that Miss Morrow was quite startled. ‘These old writers are very wise,’ she went on. ‘Things happened in their day just as they do now.’

Miss Morrow could not but agree. ‘Of course human nature doesn’t really change much,’ she ventured tentatively.

‘Nor can the leopard change his spots,’ said Miss Doggett gravely.

And so, with further exchanges of platitudes, the conversation was carried on until they reached the gate of Leamington Lodge.

‘Hullo, Mr. Latimer, going to take evensong?’

The bright, almost chirpy tones startled him, and Mr. Latimer turned round to see Mrs. Wardell standing by the vicarage gate, with a trowel in one hand and a young plant in the other.

‘Yes, I am,’ he said shortly. It was surely obvious that he was going to take evensong. Where else could he be going, with a cassock slung over his arm and a face as long as a fiddle?

‘It seems a shame on such a lovely evening,’ said Mrs. Wardell chattily. ‘You know, I think there’s almost too much church in some ways. It would do you all more good to be digging in the garden. I’m going to have a
gorgeous
show of sweet williams here,’ she went on, waving her earthy trowel in the air and depositing some of it on Mr. Latimer’s cassock.

‘Well, I suppose I must be getting along,’ he said, brushing off the earth rather ostentatiously. ‘I mustn’t keep my flock waiting.’

‘Your
flock
! Really, you say the funniest things,’ she called after him. ‘As if they were a lot of sheep.’

‘It’s quite a usual expression,’ said Mr. Latimer rather coldly.

When he got to the church he found the usual weekday congregation there. Miss Doggett and Miss Morrow, old Lady Halkin, the Misses Grote, Mrs. Allonby, Miss Nollard and Miss Foxe, Mrs. Jason-Lomax and Jim Storry, a feeble-minded youth who did odd jobs in the church such as fetching vases and putting up wire frames for the ladies when they did the flowers.

Yes, this was the Church of England, his flock, thought Mr. Latimer, a collection of old women, widows and spinsters, and one young man not quite right in the head. These were the people among whom he was destined to spend his life. He hunched his shoulders in his surplice and shivered. The church, with its dampness and sickly smell of lilies, felt cold and tomb-like. He had the feeling, as he mumbled through the service, that he and his congregation were already dead. Even Miss Morrow, usually so bright and amusing, looked grey and corpselike in her dowdy hat—the one that went with everything and nothing—and her greenish tweed coat. Looking at her, Mr. Latimer wondered whether he could possibly do worse than marry Miss Morrow.

After the service he lingered in the vestry, feeling disinclined to make conversation, but when he got outside he saw that he had not escaped. Miss Doggett and Miss Morrow were waiting in the porch. He felt like some pet animal being led home. As he walked by Miss Doggett’s side, a sudden feeling of despair came over him, wrapping him round like the heavy crimson eiderdown which he so often tossed onto the floor when he woke in the night.

When they got to Leamington Lodge he sat in the drawing-room, waiting for dinner, while Miss Doggett knitted. At her request he read some extracts from In Memoriam. He chose them at random, but, as so often happens, the lines seemed to be appropriate.

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust,

Thou madest man, he knows not why,

He thinks he was not made to die—

And Thou hast made him—Thou art just.’

Perhaps there was a message of hope here. It referred to a life after this. But he didn’t want to think about that. What he was concerned with was how to escape from the life he was living now; he didn’t care what happened afterwards. Oh, this place! These heavy velvet curtains, green-papered walls, high-collared clergymen of the eighties and nineties, Swiss water-colours and Bavarian engravings… . His voice droned on through
In Memoriam
. Miss Doggett’s needles clicked. The marble clock on the mantelpiece chimed to remind him that the days of man are three score years and ten and that he was sitting in a North Oxford drawing-room, reading Tennyson to an old woman. He felt he wanted to make some loud noise, to roar, bellow or scream at the top of his voice, as if by so doing he might have the same effect on the walls of Leamington Lodge as the trumpet on the walls of Jericho.

He put down the book and stopped reading. But all the noise that came out of him was a weak, faltering, bleating sound, something between a yawn and an ‘oh’.

‘Poor Mr. Latimer, I’m afraid I’ve made you read too much,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘You must be tired after taking evensong. You shall have some Ovaltine before you go to bed.’

Mr. Latimer slumped down in his chair. He was a creature without bones, a poor worm of a man. He laughed as he remembered his idea of marrying Miss Morrow. A creature without bones, a worm, marry? How was it possible? He was fated to live and die in a gloomy house in North Oxford, where the sun was not allowed to shine through the windows in case it might fade the carpets and covers.

‘Mr. Latimer, you look quite pale,’ said Miss Doggett in a solicitous tone. ‘I don’t know if it is against your principles, but perhaps you would like a glass of sherry?’

I have no principles. I am a worm, thought Mr. Latimer, gladly accepting her offer. ‘You must have some too,’ he said, with something of his usual gallantry. ‘I can’t drink alone.’

‘Well… .’ Miss Doggett hesitated. ‘Perhaps I could do with something. Elderly people need stimulants sometimes, you know.’

Mr. Latimer emptied his glass in one gulp and then suddenly and without warning burst out,

‘O for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim …‘

Miss Doggett looked at him with some anxiety, but before anything could be said, the door opened and Miss Morrow came into the room, wearing her new dress of leaf green. She had meant to slip in quietly, but now her entrance only added to the dramatic quality of the scene. The appearance of Miss Morrow in this most unsuitable dress combined with the sight of Mr. Latimer standing on the hearthrug waving his empty glass and reciting Keats was too much for Miss Doggett.

‘Really, Miss Morrow,’ she began, ‘
really
…‘ and then muttered a word that sounded like ‘popinjay’.

‘Doesn’t she look splendid?’ said Mr. Latimer. ‘Every woman should have a new dress in the spring.’

Miss Doggett said nothing. Perhaps in her opinion Miss Morrow hardly counted as a woman, certainly not the kind to be associated with spring and new dresses.

‘I think dinner is just going in,’ said Miss Morrow in a hurrying tone, to hide her embarrassment.

‘Allow me to escort you, Miss Morrow,’ said Mr. Latimer, offering his arm.

‘Mr. Latimer isn’t feeling very well tonight,’ said Miss Doggett, as if explaining away his courtly gesture. ‘I persuaded him to take a glass of sherry.’

I don’t imagine he needed much persuading, thought Miss Morrow sardonically.

‘I took a glass myself,’ went on Miss Doggett deliberately. ‘It has considerable medicinal value.’

‘And Miss Morrow is the only person who hasn’t had any,’ said Mr. Latimer eagerly. ‘She must have some.’

‘I don’t want any, thank you,’ said Miss Morrow. ‘I am feeling perfectly well.’

Dinner was a strained meal and nobody said very much. Miss Doggett darted occasional glances of disapproval at her companion, who seemed unconscious of having done anything wrong. Miss Morrow knew that she was looking nice this evening, or as nice as it was possible for her to look, and she was feeling happy and excited, as one does on an unexpected sunny morning in winter. She realised as she sat eating her boiled mutton and caper sauce—the kind of food calculated to bring anyone down to earth again—that this was a most unsuitable state of mind for the companion of an elderly lady. It was the feeling that had made her plunge boldly among the drab dresses in her wardrobe and take out the new green one, which she knew she ought to be keeping for some special occasion that would never happen.

‘Do have some cheese, Mr. Latimer,’ said Miss Doggett. ‘You are eating hardly anything.’

Mr. Latimer took some without seeming to know what he was doing. The moment he had seen Miss Morrow in her green dress it had all come back to him—the realisation that he might do worse than marry her. Of course that was what he should do. He would ask her tonight, before anything could change his mind. How pleased she would be! They really ought to be quite happy together: that was perhaps the most one could expect of any marriage and more than many people got. He could hardly wait for dinner to be over and for Miss Doggett to have gone to bed, which she usually did between half past nine and ten.

But tonight it seemed as if things were being specially arranged to suit him, for before dinner was over Florence came in to say that old Lady Halkin’s companion had telephoned to ask whether Miss Doggett would go and play bezique with her ladyship. Miss Doggett, who had never been known to refuse an invitation from a titled person, sent Miss Morrow running upstairs for her hat and skunk cape and did not even wait to have her coffee.

‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Latimer. ‘We shall have an evening to ourselves.’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Morrow. ‘I wonder if there’s anything good on the wireless.’

‘Oh, don’t let’s have the wireless,’ said Mr. Latimer quickly. ‘We so seldom have a chance to be by ourselves. Let’s make the most of it.’

Miss Morrow sat down and assumed an attitude of patient expectation, as if ready to receive suggestions as to how this might be done.

‘I think we always get on very well together,’ began Mr. Latimer.

Miss Morrow laughed. ‘A curate and an old lady’s companion?’ she said. ‘But what else would you expect?’

Mr. Latimer wished she hadn’t put it like that, making them sound slightly ridiculous. It was a bad beginning, he felt. But he was not yet discouraged, i meant that in some ways we seem to be very close to each other, very near,’ he went on.

Miss Morrow took her knitting out of its bag and began to count stitches.

Mr. Latimer looked round the room, as if expecting to receive inspiration from the objects in it. Oh, Canon Tottle, he thought, gazing at a faded sepia photograph, how would you do what I have to do this evening? How would you lead up to it? What words would you use? Looking at the heavy, serious face with its determined expression, Mr. Latimer decided that with Canon Tottle there would be no leading up to it. He would plunge straight in and say what he had to say quickly and definitely. That was obviously the right thing to do if one had the courage. He looked round the room again. The sherry and glasses were still on one of the little tables.

There’s no need to look so furtive,’ said Miss Morrow, following his glance. ‘It’s quite natural to want cheering up occasionally. I’m not sure that sherry
after
a meal is the correct thing, though. Shouldn’t it be port?’

‘Oh, I suppose so,’ said Mr. Latimer, impatient at the turn the conversation was taking.

‘Still, if you’re considering only its medicinal value I shouldn’t think it matters when you drink it. I should have some now if you feel like it,’ said Miss Morrow.

A glass of sherry would not do much for him, but Mr. Latimer felt encouraged. ‘How well you understand me,’ he said. ‘You must feel it too, the gloom here, the sense of being imprisoned… .’ He fluttered his hands in hopeless, birdlike gestures.

‘Of course I have,’ said Miss Morrow briskly. ‘I warned you about it when you came. It’s different for me, I’m a paid companion and as such I expect gloom; it’s my portion. But on the whole I’m lucky and I really enjoy life.’

‘You enjoy life?’ asked Mr. Latimer, as if this were something new to him.

‘Yes, of course I do. And you ought to even more because you’re young.’

‘But I’m not,’ said Mr. Latimer. ‘We’re neither of us young, if it comes to that. But we aren’t old yet.’ His voice took on a more hopeful note. ‘Oh, Miss Morrow—Janie,’ he burst out suddenly.

‘My name isn’t Janie.’