After Such Kindness (2 page)

I was thus full of mixed emotions when, in response to a written invitation from Mrs Baxter, I climbed the hill to Westwood Gardens one day in late March. It was some time since I had visited the family home of anyone except my married sisters, as I took all my meals in Hall whether in or out of term (except for a seaside holiday once a year). I feared that perhaps my bachelor ways had become set, and my manners out-of-date. Not that I care about ‘manners’ as such. Indeed, I often find the goings-on of family life comedic in the extreme. However, Baxter had tried to put me at my ease by saying the family was ‘as you find us – harum-scarum to a degree’.

As soon as I saw the house, I doubted that. The vicarage was rather grand – a spacious and comfortable new house, entirely Gothic in style, with patterned brickwork and double-arched windows, each with mottled granite columns and individual carved capitols. The handsome front door had stained-glass panels each side of the big brass knocker (itself in the shape of a lion’s head), and there were stone pots of budding hydrangeas on each side of the porch. Through the tinted glass I could spy large vases filled with flowers, gilt-framed pictures, Italian statuettes, pots of ferns, silver candlesticks, rich brocade cloths and tasselled curtains. The whole house reflected Baxter’s status as a successful member of society as well as a successful clergyman.

He’d made no secret of his path to success. I knew how, after leaving the university the very year I myself had come up, he had worked hard and long hours as a curate in the poor parishes of London, doing much good there it would seem. But he had married early and, although still anxious in his heart to do God’s work, judged that his wife and young daughters were too delicate for a life in the slums. He had therefore been rewarded with a well-endowed Living in his own alma mater and had been established back in Oxford for over ten years. The parish he now administered was tremendously genteel, but Baxter contrived to steer his genial Broad Church way through the doctrinal extremes that had wrecked many of his predecessors, and not a few of his contemporaries. He was practical, too. He had instituted parish committees for the care of the poor, ignorant and sick, even beyond his parish boundaries. He was a man with a finger in a good many pies.

A housemaid with neat white cap and well-ironed streamers opened the door to me. ‘Reverend John Jameson,’ I enunciated with difficulty, as I gave her my hat. ‘C-Compliments to Mrs B-Baxter. I am expected.’

To my relief, Daniel appeared at a door near the back of the hall. He looked different – more lightly clad and comfortable. In fact, I noticed, he was wearing carpet slippers and something approaching a smoking jacket, although I had never seen him smoke and hoped sincerely that he did not do so. ‘My dear Jameson,’ he cried. ‘Delighted to see you! Welcome to my humble abode!’

‘Not so humble,’ I couldn’t help saying, as I eyed the particularly fine silver-gilt looking-glass that dominated the hallway.

He looked disconcerted, as if the opulence of his surroundings had never occurred to him. ‘It’s not mine, remember,’ he said apologetically. ‘The house goes with the Living, as you know. And most of the furniture belongs to my wife.’ Then he gave a grin. ‘But it is rather impressive, isn’t it? Built by subscription, in the Ruskin style. The parishioners insisted that only the best would do to glorify the Lord as He deserves, and I’m the first fortunate recipient of their generosity. But come in, come in!’ And, dismissing the servant, he ushered me into his study.

I always feel at home when I am among books, particularly in the special quietness that a book-lined room bestows. Daniel, I could see, had many books, but not so many as I did, and as far as I could see, not so varied: a little entomology and botany, the usual Classics and theology, but no mathematics. He made up the lack with many sporting trophies – silver cups on his mantelpiece and a wooden oar suspended above it with dates and names, indicating, no doubt, some achievement of note. There were some daguerreotypes too – a group of oarsmen in sporting gear and caps, and another group of men in clerical garb. One picture was slightly blurred, as if the camera had been carelessly moved, and the other was overdeveloped and dark. This annoyed me and I remember wishing people would take proper care with photographic work. It is an art on a par with drawing or sculpture and needs just the same amount of concentration and finesse.

‘Head of the River 1845,’ he said, seeing me look, and pointing first at the picture, then at the oar. ‘I was Stroke, and I set the best pace that season.’

‘Congratulations,’ I said, conscious of a dryness in my tone. ‘You are undoubtedly a fine, athletic fellow and all should bow their heads to you.’

He laughed. ‘You are hard on me, as always. But you must allow a man a little justifiable pride from time to time.’ He smoothed his impressive set of whiskers in a smug manner.

‘Must I?’ I said, with as straight a face as I could manage. ‘When we both know pride is the worst of sins?’

He looked at me as if to ascertain if I were serious, and I continued with my solemn look. Although I did not care a jot if he was (or was not) proud of his rowing achievements, it seemed to me that if he accepted the seven sins as deadly, it was logical to have a healthy respect for them.

‘You are right of course,’ he said after a while, his face almost comically full of self-reproach. ‘I am a proud man – a vain man, in fact. It is a terrible failing and one I fight against every day. Forgive me, John.’

‘Oh, it’s not for me to forgive,’ I said, airily. ‘You’ll need to ask for mercy in a very different quarter.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. And I will again add it to my nightly prayers.’ He seemed flustered, and I thought again how easily he was put off his stride. ‘It wasn’t meant as a boast, you know,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Just a passing remark. But, as usual, some
pernickety
person takes it up and makes much of it.’ He ran his hand through his hair and in the good light I noticed for the first time how brown it was, how deeply wavy. ‘You see what you have done, John. I am now filled with guilt.’

‘Are you? Oh, dear,’ I said. ‘And a guilty man is no better than a stoker.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Well, they both heap up coals of fire all day.’

He laughed. ‘You say the most absurd things, John. But you always make me
think
– that’s what I like. You always bring me back to the point.’

‘Glad to be of service,’ I said, wishing
he
would come to the point and take me to meet his children.

As if he had read my mind, he suddenly brightened and said, ‘Come, I must introduce you to my wife. She is most anxious to meet you.’ To my relief, he took off his quilted jacket and donned his clerical coat, straightening his stock and smoothing his hair back, running a hand along his whiskers.

‘And am I to meet your daughters too?’

‘I have asked them to join us for tea. I will show you my son, first. It’s de rigueur, even though you are not a devotee of boy-children.’

He ushered me across the hall and into the splendid drawing room, furnished in the same plush way, the glitter of mirrors and the green of potted plants being much in evidence. I was nervous, as always, when entering a lady’s domain and hardly dared raise my eyes to take in more detail.

‘Evelina, my dear, this is the Reverend John Jameson, the clerical friend I have spoken so much about, the one who keeps me from your side every Wednesday evening, and keeps me on the straight and narrow every day. John, may I present my wife?’

I could see the pattern in the brocade of the chaise, and the small boots peeping out of the frilled hem of Mrs Baxter’s deep green gown as she reclined along it. I raised my eyes and there was a delicate and beautiful lady, with pearly skin, thick dark hair, and remarkably bright eyes. She was much more youthful than I expected, and, seeing her look so fondly at her husband, with his manly bearing and glossy head of hair, and seeing him hold her glance in return, I could sense that their marriage was not simply one of true minds, but was still alive with the breath of conjugal passion. Of course, I could not put from my mind what Baxter had told me of his nightly struggles and, as she turned her eyes to mine, I immediately had an image of her sitting up in bed in her white nightgown. It was most awkward and I felt quite unpleasantly hot, but I made an effort of will and, to my relief, the impertinent image disappeared.

Mrs Baxter held out an ivory hand. ‘How do you do, Mr Jameson? I have tried hard to forgive you for taking my husband from me for so many hours, but I regret to say that I have not yet succeeded. You will need to work very hard to gain my favour.’ And she gave me what I felt was almost a flirtatious smile. At which point my tongue became a tortured ball of string, which filled my mouth and would not unravel. I took her hand and nodded, making a dreadful half-choking sound which I hoped would be taken for a heartfelt assent.

She must have taken it as such, because she laughed and said, ‘Excellent.’

Such was my discomfort, I was unsure I could maintain the required level of civilized conversation through the whole of teatime. But I was saved by the arrival of young Benjamin Baxter, brought down from the upper regions by his nursemaid to spend half an hour with his progenitors. The nurse was a sensible body of about thirty, and she seemed both modest and conscientious. She also spoke of her other charge, and my ears pricked up. ‘Miss Daisy has learned a poem she would like to recite to you,’ she said. ‘But she wasn’t expecting visitors to be here.’

‘It will be good practice for her,’ said the vicar. ‘She must learn to accommodate a larger audience than her parents if she is to learn the art of public speaking. Mr Jameson is a connoisseur of verse, so he will be well-placed to offer his comments on her performance.’

‘Well, p-perhaps not yet,’ I added, afraid I would predispose the little girl to dislike me by first encountering me in the role of critic. ‘It might make her shy. I will listen, but I won’t interfere.’

‘I’ll tell her, then, shall I, that there’ll be an extra gentleman but not to take no notice of him.’ The nurse gave me a droll look.

‘Exactly. I like it b-best when I am not noticed,’ I said, and I got up and moved myself to a place behind Mrs Baxter’s chair where I was partly in the shadow of the curtain.

I could hardly contain my excitement at the prospect of seeing the little girl. Of course, I said to myself, she might be ugly, or lame or sickly, or, even worse, spoiled. But I had a strong premonition that she would be as delightful as I had imagined. With a handsome father like Baxter, and a beauty for a mother, I felt she must surely have the best of attributes. I was not mistaken. When the door opened and the nurse ushered her in, I beheld the most graceful and charming of children – small-boned, delicate, with pale skin and wonderful dark, rather wild-looking hair. She looked like a fairy creature, a fawn. She seemed made for the meadows and woods of the Garden of Eden, where, like our first forefathers, she could walk naked and innocent. But of course she was heavily clothed, as is our regrettable fashion. A blue cotton dress and a substantial embroidered pinafore obscured the childish curves of her arms and neck, and her well-shaped little legs were covered in dark woollen stockings. She was very self-possessed, however, and without a glance at me, approached her mother and handed her a book before taking up her position in the middle of the room.

‘Off you go,’ said Baxter, with a smile.

‘“
How Doth the Little Busy Bee”, by Isaac Watts,’ she announced, folding her hands in front of her in the approved classroom manner. I groaned inwardly. I dislike that poem with its mincing platitudes, but I was still keen to see how Daisy would perform it. She fixed her eyes on some spot out of the window and began. Both Mr and Mrs Baxter nodded with approval, and I buried the urge to laugh as Daisy metrically informed us of her need to keep permanently busy in case Satan found mischief for idle hands to do.

I looked at Daisy’s sweet face, her little hands, and thought how unlikely it would be for such a child to be doing any serious mischief in the world, and how wrong it was that she should be preoccupied with imaginary sins in this way, spouting sickening cant about work and duty, and devoting herself to stultifying dullness. How natural and enjoyable it would be for her to cast off the chains of duty and propriety that Society was forcing on her, and to do exactly as she wished in the short golden time of childhood, before she was obliged to conform to the absurd rules and regulations of adult life. Even then I determined to devote my powers to this end: Daisy would know what it was to have days of enchantment; to know amusement and freedom and laughter; to explore the wild ways of the imagination. Of course, in order to do so, I would need to have her to myself – and that would not be easy to bring about.

With the fourth verse, Daisy’s recitation came to an end, and she executed a deep curtsey, her face flushed with relief, her cheeks dimpling with pleasure. The nurse, I saw from the corner of my eye, clapped her hands discreetly together, and Mrs Baxter handed back the book saying, ‘Well done! Word perfect.’

‘Nettie helped me,’ said the child, giving the nurse a grateful glance.

‘Then well done, Nettie, too,’ said Mrs Baxter, somewhat languidly.

‘But we won’t let ourselves become too proud, will we?’ said Baxter, rising and placing his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. ‘It is only a recitation and there is much more of worth to be striven for in this life.’

I thought this speech somewhat rich after our conversation in the study, and for the first time thought it might be possible that Daniel Baxter was a hypocrite. I also noted that the child’s pleasure in her achievement was on the instant undermined, and that her face fell. To be frank, I could have wrung her father’s neck. But I was immediately put into a mixture of confusion and ecstasy as he steered her towards me. ‘Daisy, this is Mr John Jameson, a good friend of mine, and a very clever man. I hope we will be seeing much more of him at the vicarage.’