A Glass of Blessings (11 page)

‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘
that
was Ransome.’

I noted that he had dropped the ‘Father’, as also when he had said ‘Bode’s room’, and wondered why.

‘It’s poor old Mrs Beamish,’ he went on. ‘She’s gone.’

‘You mean she’s dead?’ asked Rodney.

‘Yes, dead—passed on or over.’ Mr Bason giggled nervously. ‘On Boxing Day, in the middle of tea, and all the clergy out—it does seem …’ he began pouring water into the teapot to hide his confusion. I have often noticed that preoccupation with teapots is a good way of covering embarrassment.

‘Poor Mary!’ I exclaimed. ‘Do you think we should go to her? Would there be anything one could do?’

‘Well, Father Ransome is with her,’ said Rodney, ‘and I suppose there will be nurses and that kind of thing.’

‘Yes, one would only be in the way if one rushed in now. Could we order some flowers, darling, or something?—I mean for Mary, just to show that we are thinking of her?’

‘You could have these chrysanthemums,’ said Mr Bason, taking the dripping bunch out of the vase. ‘They were only bought on Christmas Eve, so they’re really quite fresh.’

The whole affair now seemed to be turning into something ludicrous, and I was glad when Rodney attempted to take control by pointing out that there was nothing any of us could do at the moment and that we had much better finish our tea.

‘Yes, how right you are,’ said Mr Bason. ‘It was really rather upsetting though, hearing the news like that—one always wonders who will be the next to go. Now, Mrs Forsyth, what did you think of my meringues?’

‘So you did make them yourself—they were delicious.’

‘Everything is homemade here—I mean the cakes.’ He paused and then went on quickly. ‘Now Ransome will be ringing up Father Thames to tell him the sad news, and Sir Denbigh will be upset too—they are both elderly men and will be wondering if their own time is near.’

‘Do you think people do wonder that when they hear someone is dead?’ asked Rodney. ‘I think old people feel a kind of triumph at having outlived a contemporary or a younger person, and then there’s the natural personal sorrow and regret at losing a friend.’

‘There won’t be much of
that,
judging by all accounts,’ said Mr Bason waspishly. ‘Everyone says she was an old terror and treated poor Miss Beamish shamefully.’

‘Oh, I don’t think it was quite as bad as that,’ I protested. ‘I think she was selfish, as some old people are, but Mary was devoted to her mother.’

‘Well, blood
is
thicker than water, isn’t it? Now what about another cup?’ asked Mr Bason brightly. ‘I think I can manage one.’

We allowed our cups to be refilled, but conversation had become disjointed and it was obvious and perhaps fitting that a kind of gloom should have been cast over the tea party by the news of Mrs Beamish’s death.

‘Now do take these flowers,’ said Mr Bason as we stood up to go. ‘I can easily put some paper round them for you.’

‘Well, thank you very much—but I think we shall be able to get some,’ I said quickly. ‘It would be such a pity to spoil your arrangement.’

‘Yes, it’s most kind of you, but I’ve just remembered that my mother had some sent to her which would do very well,’ added Rodney.

I wondered if the thought had occurred to him, as it had to me, that Mr Bason might wish to be associated with us in the sending of the flowers. I saw the surprising card that might accompany them :

With love and deepest sympathy from Wilmet and Rodney Forsyth and Wilfred J. Bason

Down in the hall we lingered by the hat stand where Rodney had left his umbrella.

‘What a lot of cassocks!’ I exclaimed. ‘Do the clergy like to have one in every place in case of emergency, like keeping a plastic mackintosh at the office as Rodney does?’

‘One of those is mine, as a matter of fact,’ said Mr Bason.

‘Oh?’ I said innocently. ‘Don’t you keep it in the choir vestry, or wherever the servers keep theirs?’

‘That isn’t always very satisfactory,’ said Mr Bason stiffly. ‘Mistakes have been known to occur, and although some would think nothing of it others don’t take that line.’

‘Mr Coleman has rather a nice cassock,’ I couldn’t resist saying. ‘I noticed it one day when he was putting out the candles after Mass. It seemed to be a rather fine silky material.’

‘He had his specially made!’ said Mr Bason his voice going rather shrill. ‘He
would,
of course! Not that it’s anything special really, that cassock of his—there isn’t all that much difference between it and the others.’

‘Well, Bason, thank you for an excellent tea,’ said Rodney. ‘I shall be able to tell them at the Ministry that you are happily settled.’

He stood on the steps and waved good-bye to us, for all the world as if it were his own house.

When we had got a safe distance away, we both burst out laughing.

‘What was all that about the cassocks?’ Rodney asked. ‘I didn’t quite get the point.’

I told him of the unpleasantness between Mr Bason and Mr Coleman.

‘What a fuss! Why does contact with the church seem to make people so petty!’ he exclaimed.

‘People are petty everywhere about small things,’ I retorted. ‘Wouldn’t you be annoyed if somebody used your special teacup at the Ministry?’

‘Nobody
could
use it—I keep it in my locked drawer.’

‘There you are then! And Mr Coleman’s cassock
is
a particularly nice one, whatever Mr Bason may say. Isn’t he an odd sort of man—I can imagine he wouldn’t do very well in the civil service. I really think it was brilliant of us to get him into the clergy house.’

‘Yes, a fortunate combination of circumstances, wasn’t it? I was a bit doubtful about going through all those rooms, though—do you suppose everyone who visits him is given a conducted tour?’

‘They could hardly be if the clergy were there,’ I pointed out ‘I must admit that I found it fascinating. We didn’t see the bedrooms or bathrooms, though—so not
quite
everything was revealed.’

‘We should have been quite justified in asking to see the bathroom if we had needed it,’ said Rodney.

‘What a pity—I didn’t think of that. I might have done if it hadn’t been for the interruption. Oh dear, what about poor Mary? Should we send those flowers or shall I just write a little note?’

‘I think perhaps a little note would be the best thing,’ said Rodney.

I began to wish even more that I had sent Mary something for Christmas, but there was nothing I could do about that now. I resolved to be as helpful as I could to her in the future, and with this in mind sat down at my desk to compose a letter of condolence. I struggled even longer than is usual with such letters, for it was so difficult to imagine anyone really regretting the loss of old Mrs Beamish.

Chapter Ten

‘I suppose I
could
take the afternoon off,’ said Rodney rather doubtfully. ‘I really think I shall have to. I couldn’t let my wife go to a funeral alone, could I?’

‘Of course you could,’ I said. ‘There will be people there that I know, and Mary wants me to go to the flat afterwards to help her with the relations.’

‘When I was young,’ said Sybil, ‘women didn’t go to funerals, for some reason or other it wasn’t customary. Perhaps one can see why. Women nearly always outlive men, and I suppose it may have been a kind of subconscious jealousy—the men wouldn’t want to have the women standing there in the cemetery, triumphant at having outlived them. You go along, Wilmet, and be a comfort to Mary. I will come with you to the church out of respect for poor Ella,’ she declared surprisingly. Then Rodney need not worry.’

‘No, I should really find it difficult to take time off
now,’
he said, with that air of mysterious importance which I have noticed sometimes in men, and especially women, who work in offices or ministries.

I did not expect to enjoy the funeral, though I felt a certain satisfaction in doing my duty. The little crowd of people—and it did seem to be such a very little crowd—in unrelieved black, the coffin standing in the chancel, the cold bleak day at the end of the old year with as yet no promise of the new, all combined to depress me to the point of tears. Sybil beside me seemed stoical and comforting. Not believing in an afterlife must amplify things, but the flat finality of such a creed was surely not to be borne where people one loved were concerned. I could of course be rather more detached about Ella Beamish, and was even able to notice who exactly had come to mourn her.

In the front pew I saw Mary, rather small and fragile beside her brothers, Gerald and William—large prosperous looking men, one of whom was accompanied by his wife, swathed in silver fox furs. Behind them sat Miss Prideaux and Sir Denbigh Grote and a few other elderly people, contemporaries or even friends of the dead woman. Some younger people, presumably family connections, were massed together on the opposite side of the aisle. Behind, at a respectful distance, I noticed Mrs Greenhill. I believed that she was the kind of person who would appreciate a good funeral, and I wondered if she came to all those that took place in the church. She was with her friend Mrs Spooner, and I imagined them perhaps comparing notes afterwards. Sitting exactly opposite to me was Mr Bason. I caught his eye as he came in, and for one moment it looked almost as if he were going to wave to me. As it was he gave me a kind of conspiratorial nod, as if our having been together when Father Ransome telephoned the news of Mrs Beamish’s death had made a bond between us.

Father Thames and Father Bode were officiating at the Requiem Mass. I could not help wondering what Father Ransome was doing. His position must be rather delicate now, for he could hardly go on living in the flat alone with Mary. Perhaps he was even now looking for lodgings. Then it occurred to me that this particular day was his day off, so he might have been doing practically anything—walking in the park or round the shops, even wallowing in Cinerama, perhaps.

The coffin was to go from the church for burial at Kensal Green, accompanied only by the men, so that we women found ourselves in an awkward little group, waiting for the cars which were to take us the short distance from the church to the Beamishes’ flat. Cynthia, the sister-in-law in the silver foxes, had her own little car and invited me to drive back with her and Miss Prideaux.

Comment after a funeral is much more difficult than after a wedding. The easy social expressions of pleasure and praise are inappropriate, and I felt that even a remark about the beauty of some of the floral tributes would be out of place. So we sat in silence, except for Cynthia’s brusque comments on the state of the motor car.

‘She’s got cold standing here,’ she said, ‘though I did put a rug over her.’

Miss Prideaux murmured anxiously when the pressing of the self-starter failed to have any effect; but soon all was well and in no time at all we were at the flat, making our way into the vast high-ceilinged drawing-room, cluttered with heavy furniture—the kind of sofas and armchairs which engulfed a person of normal size in their brocaded depths, and the little tables covered with knick-knacks and photographs.

Mary was already in the room making us welcome.

‘I think a cup of tea would be best, don’t you?’ she said anxiously. ‘There is sherry, of course; Gerald and William thought…’

We reassured her that tea was what we all wanted and she went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. I followed her.

‘Oh, Wilmet, I’m so
glad
you’re here,’ she said. ‘Mrs Brock asked if she should come to see to the tea and everything, but I thought I’d be glad to have something to do. William and Gerald can pour out the sherry when they come back from the cemetery. Do you think we should have the silver teapot?’

‘How many are we?’

‘Well, there’s you and Cynthia and Miss Prideaux and me—that’s four, isn’t it?—yes, I think the silver teapot, though it isn’t a very good pourer.’

‘Are these the cups here?’ I asked.

‘Yes, Mrs Brock put everything ready. There’s this Dundee cake—oh, and some bread and butter covered up in the larder. There’s some Christmas cake too. I thought the men might like that with sherry. Wouldn’t Mrs Forsyth have liked to come back to tea? I saw her with you when you came out of church.’

‘No, Sybil just wanted to come to the church, thank you very much.’

‘She doesn’t usually come to church, does she?’ Mary asked.

‘No—she doesn’t believe in anything, you know. But having known your mother so long she felt she’d like to be there.’

‘It was good of her. Could you carry in this tray, Wilmet? I hope the fire’s going well in the drawing-room—poor Miss Prideaux does feel the cold so terribly.’

‘Where is Father Ransome?’ I asked rather bluntly.

‘He has had to move his things this afternoon. You see, he couldn’t very well stay here under the circumstances.’

‘No, I suppose not Where has he gone then?’

‘ To the guest room at the clergy house for the moment.’

‘Goodness,’ I exclaimed, ‘I wonder how he’ll like that!’ The memory of its austerity was still fresh in my mind.

‘I suppose he will be reasonably comfortable. Then he’ll get lodgings somewhere else.’

Our conversation had to be broken off at this point, for we began to carry the tea things into the drawing-room and the next few moments were occupied in getting everybody comfortably settled with tea and something to eat.

‘I thought Oswald looked
very
tired,’ said Miss Prideaux in a high piping voice.

‘Oh, Father Thames,’ I said. ‘Yes, he did look tired.’

‘He never spares himself,’ said Miss Prideaux.

I reflected that perhaps one did not really expect clergymen to spare themselves, but did not voice my thought.

‘Yes, the older generation is like that,’ said Cynthia ingratiatingly. ‘I’m afraid we have a lot to live up to.’

‘And Sir Denbigh
insisted
on going to Kensal Green,’ said Miss Prideaux. ‘Luckily he has that good thick overcoat.’

‘The one with the fur collar?’ I asked, just for something to say.

‘Yes. He had it when he was in Warsaw—of course he would need it there. It has a fur lining too.’

‘Really?’ said Cynthia, and we all murmured in approval. It was obviously right that retired diplomats should have fur- lined overcoats.

‘Will Father Ransome be staying here?’ asked Miss Prideaux, accepting another cup of tea from Mary.

‘No—I was telling Wilmet just now. He has moved his things to the guest room at the clergy house for the time being. I suppose lodgings will be found for him somewhere.’

‘He might stay with Julian and Winifred Malory in Pimlico,’ suggested Miss Prideaux. They have a flat in the vicarage. I believe there’s a deaconess in it at the moment, but I’ve no doubt she could be got rid of.’

I was a little surprised at the strength, almost violence, of her language, and wondered if it had anything to do with her long sojourn in European countries where people were more easily ‘got rid of’ than in England.

‘Is that far from here?’ asked Cynthia in a disinterested tone, one hand stroking her silver fox stole which she had placed beside her on the sofa.

‘Well, it is Victoria really,’ said Miss Prideaux. ‘He could come on a bus or on the Circle line from Victoria. The trains start running very early, I believe.’

‘But he could hardly be here in time for a seven o’clock Mass, could he?’ asked Mary a little anxiously.

‘It would certainly be quite a long way to come fasting,’ observed Miss Prideaux, folding a piece of bread and butter and taking a bite.

‘Perhaps he could get a dispensation,’ I said.

‘I expect some nearer lodgings will be found for him,’ said Mary. ‘Apparently Father Ransome does know of a vicar in the Holland Park area who might be able to take him—a contemporary of his at college, I believe.’

‘That does sound more satisfactory,’ said Cynthia.

Mary looked up at the little clock on the mantelpiece of whose ticking we had all become rather conscious. ‘I expect the men will be here soon,’ she said.

I think we were all relieved when they came into the room, the Beamish brothers rubbing their hands, Sir Denbigh merely looking pinched with cold.

‘I wondered whether the parsons might like to come back too,’ said Gerald Beamish, ‘but apparently they had another—er—funeral after this. Bad show in this weather.’ He held up a decanter and turned to Sir Denbigh. ‘This is quite a decent Amontillado, or would you prefer something with more body? Or there is tea, of course.’

‘Is it China tea?’ asked Sir Denbigh.

‘Well no, I think it’s just the usual tea we always have,’ said Mary apologetically, ‘but I can make some fresh.’

‘Please do not trouble, Miss Beamish,’ said Sir Denbigh. ‘I really prefer Indian tea that has stood for a while—
stewed,
I believe one calls it.’

‘Why did you put that rug over the car?’ William Beamish asked his wife Cynthia. ‘It’s quite unnecessary, and it might get stolen. You never know in London.’

I had heard that they came from Leamington and wondered whether people were more honest there.

Cynthia replied with wifely sharpness. ‘She was cold when we came out of church—it was a pity I didn’t cover her up then. And that rug is such an old one, anyway.’

‘I’m afraid people are very dishonest nowadays,’ said Miss Prideaux complacently.

The conversation continued on the same agonizing level of unreality, which must, I thought, have been a great strain for Mary. But it became easier When Miss Prideaux left, taking Sir Denbigh with her as it were. Now that only the family were left the talk became more personal and to the point.

‘What is happening to Mother’s clothes and things?’ asked Cynthia brusquely. ‘I suppose you’ll send most of them to charity?’

‘Yes, I had thought one of the distressed gentlefolks’ associations would be glad of them,’ said Mary. ‘But there are some furs that I shan’t want myself, so I wondered if you would like to have them?’

‘Let me see,’ said Cynthia thoughtfully, ‘there was quite a good summer ermine cape, if I remember rightly, or was it only squirrel?’

‘I don’t really know,’ said Mary unhappily, ‘but do have it if you would like it.’

‘Well, I’ll think it over and let you know,’ said Cynthia, getting up from the sofa and gathering her silver foxes to her bosom. ‘I really think we ought to be getting on our way, you know. William isn’t too happy about driving in the dark, are you, dear?’

William muttered something.

‘Gerald is staying for a while, isn’t he, so you won’t be alone?’ Cynthia asked perfunctorily. That’s good, then.’

I imagined them driving back to Leamington, perhaps bickering about the car or speculating on the details of Mrs Beamish’s will if they did not know them already.

‘I suppose you’ll give up this flat and get a smaller one?’ I said to Mary when we were alone together.

‘Yes, of course I shan’t live here. I’ve never really liked rooms this size. Shall we go into my room—it’s easier to talk there, somehow.’

Mary’s room looked out on to a quiet back street and one could see the spire of St Luke’s in the far distance. The atmosphere was very different from the heavy formality of old Mrs Beamish’s drawing-room. Mary still kept the painted furniture which she must have had as a girl, and the bookshelves were full of childish books; the only grown-up ones I noticed were a few novels by well-known women writers and some anthologies of poetry. On one wall hung the popular picture of a shepherd boy asleep on a hill, and on the little table by the bed there was a photograph of an Aberdeen terrier in a passepartout frame.

The bed was strewn with black clothing of various kinds.

Mary apologized for the confusion, and drew up a basket chair for me to sit down by the gas fire.

‘It really is a mess,’ she said, ‘but I’ve been going through my clothes. I found it helped to have something definite to do.’

‘Shall you wear black?’ I asked. ‘I hadn’t realized that people wore mourning very much these days.’ I could remember my own mother mourning her father’s death in black, then grey, and finally mauve; she had had a lilac summer coat which seemed much too pretty to be mourning.

Mary seemed confused for a moment. ‘Well, it isn’t exactly for mourning,’ she said. ‘I’m going to spend some time with the sisters at St Hildelith’s; I don’t know if I told you, probably not, because of course I couldn’t while Mother was still alive.’

A look of horror must have shown itself on my face, for she said quickly, ‘Oh Wilmet, don’t look so shocked — it’s something I’ve always wanted to do.’

I remembered our glib plans for Mary—foreign travel and leading her own life—this seemed to me to be exchanging one kind of imprisonment for another even worse, for although I had learned to accept the idea of the religious life for a few people it seemed terrible to contemplate when applied to oneself or anybody one knew at all well.