An Unsuitable Attachment (11 page)

Ianthe said she would try to come, though it seemed as if Wednesdays in Lent were going to be almost too devotional with her uncle's course of sermons at St Basil's in the evenings. She felt she would have to attend those.

'Try and bring some of your fellow workers with you,' said Randolph.

'Yes, perhaps I will,' said Ianthe.

When Ash Wednesday arrived, however, she found herself going alone to the service. She knew that Mervyn Cantrell was an agnostic, though on this particular day, as he pointed out to her, his packed lunch consisted of tuna fish sandwiches and hard boiled eggs in deference, as it were, to the beliefs of others. Ianthe did not think of asking John to accompany her, because it was difficult to imagine him in a church. Then, too, she had felt rather shy of him since Christmas when he had given her the violets and had tried not to encourage his obvious interest in her. She often found herself making excuses to avoid him though in some ways she was interested in him, even attracted to him. But he was younger than she was and so very much not the type of person she was used to meeting. Ianthe was not as yet bold enough to break away from her upbringing and background, and while she did not often think of herself as marrying now, she still hoped, perhaps even expected, that somebody 'suitable' would turn up one day. Somebody who combined the qualities of Rupert and John, if such a person could be imagined.

Today John had gone out to lunch before her and she ate her sandwiches quickly, then started out on the brisk quarter of an hour's walk to her uncle's church. When she got there she found that it was rather full, but being a regular churchgoer she did not mind going up to the front where there were plenty of empty pews.

She had never particularly liked the church as a building—there was a coldness and lack of 'atmosphere' about it that had nothing to do, she felt sure, with the wealthy congregation. Some of them indeed seemed to be at the service, looking somehow different from the 'office workers' for whom the services had been arranged. Poor things, with their cocktails, Ianthe thought, remembering her uncle's scorn, some of their faces under the elegant hats and above the fur coats were kindly, even noble. She was sure that they were thoroughly nice, good people.

The organ started to play and Ianthe's attention was diverted by the entry of the preacher, so that she did not notice John walking quietly up the aisle and slipping into the pew behind her. The service began with a prayer, then there was a hymn, and then the address. It was of a suitable Ash Wednesday character and left the congregation feeling sober and a little cast down. It was not until the last hymn that Ianthe happened to turn her head slightly and not so much see him as become conscious that he was sitting behind her and presumably had been throughout the service. Understandably, therefore, her last prayer was a little self-conscious. She knelt longer than she would normally have done, not out of devotion but to give him time to get away. Yet she was not surprised to find him waiting for her outside the church, apparently absorbed in the design of an iron pineapple on the railings.

'Why hullo, John—ha
ve you
been in church?' It was all she could think of to say. They were now walking along together as it was too cold to stand about.

'That fur collar suits you,' he said.

'It's nice and warm on a day like this,' said Ianthe apologetically, feeling herself like one of the rich members of her uncle's congregation. John's overcoat of a thin material in the rather common 'Italian' style did not look very warm, she thought with a pang.

They walked in silence for a few minutes. One could hardly assume that he had
not
gone to church out of piety and because it was Ash Wednesday, Ianthe thought, but it was rather puzzling and disturbing to think that she couldn't even attend to her devotions in peace.

'We must hurry or we shall be late back,' she said rather distantly.

'I'm sure Mervyn won't mind us being a few minutes late, and for such a good cause,' said John earnestly.

'I didn't know you went to church regularly,' said Ianthe.

'Well, I haven't done up to now.' He put his hand under her elbow as they crossed the road. 'I really only went today because of you. I'm afraid I followed you.'

'But that isn't the right reason for going,' she protested.

'Haven't you ever done such a thing?' He smiled down at her and Ianthe found herself noting, quite irrelevantly, that he was taller than Rupert Stonebird.

'Only when I was a schoolgirl,' she admitted. 'You shouldn't have followed me. If you'd wanted to go to church you could have gone to St Ermin's which is much nearer. You must pass the poster announcing their Lent services every time you go to your bus stop.'

'Yes I do, but I wanted to be where
you
were,' he said simply.

Ianthe was touched and flattered in spite of herself. This ridiculous young man, she told herself. And yet why shouldn't he be fond of her. He could be . . . well, a younger brother. Having, as she thought, settled their relationship satisfactorily, Ianthe was then conscious that he was looking at her in a way that did not seem quite what she thought of as brotherly, though she had never had any brothers of her own to make the comparison with.

'Oh there you are, you two,' said Mervyn irritably. He held an open book in his hand. 'I can't have all my staff out to lunch at the same time.'

'I'm sorry,' said Ianthe. 'We've been to church.'

'That doesn't impress me. A friend of mine knew a clergyman who used to have
bouillabaisse
flown over specially from Marseilles every Ash Wednesday. I don't call
that
self denial.'

'Well, we didn't have anything like that,' John protested, and Ianthe, remembering her uninteresting cheese sandwich, also felt that Mervyn was being a little unjust.

'Is there something wrong with that book you're holding?' John asked.

Mervyn did not answer but thrust the book towards him. The pages appeared to be stained with gravy or some kind of reddish sauce.

'However can that have happened?' asked John. 'I thought people weren't allowed to take books out of the library.'

'Normally they aren't,' said Mervyn with a baleful glance at Ianthe. 'But the staff sometimes use their discretion.'

'Oh dear—was it somebody I gave permission to?' asked Ianthe.

'It was.'

'And he seemed such a nice young man,' said Ianthe helplessly, for by what standards was one to judge the kind of person who might be allowed to take a book out of the library if not by the usual ones of manner, speech, dress, and general demeanour?

' "Nice" he may be but his taste for Brand's Al Sauce—or is it HP?'—Mervyn examined the page more closely—'does seem to be excessive. Why is it, I wonder, that when books have things spilt on them it is always bottled sauce or gravy of the thickest and most repellent kind rather than something utterly exquisite and delicious?'

'I suppose because the people who read sociological and political books don't eat exquisite and delicious food,' said Ianthe sensibly.

'Of course,' said Mervyn thoughtfully, 'it could just be a genuine tomato sauce from a dish of spaghetti or ravioli. Yet it is difficult to imagine anyone reading Talcott Parsons and manipulating spaghetti at the same time.' He closed it up, obviously delighted to have found a reasonable explanation.

'I'm glad the young man's name is cleared,' said Ianthe.

'She rather likes good-looking young men,' said Mervyn rather spitefully, turning to John. 'I once caught her letting one eat his sandwiches in the library which, as you know, is
strictly
forbidden.'

'It was such a cold day,' said Ianthe, 'and you're not allowed to eat in the Public Record Office, so I thought just for once . . .' She stopped, feeling that too much attention was being drawn to her and that they ought to be getting on with their work, especially as the Ash Wednesday service had made them late coming back from lunch.

During the afternoon she worked hard and realized almost with dismay that she was going home not to a comfortable evening by the fire but to yet another Lenten service at which her uncle was to be the preacher.

It was a relief to see Sophia standing in the window of the vicarage drawing room and beckoning her to come in. Ianthe was sure it must mean that her uncle had been unable to come—for some comparatively harmless reason—and that there was to be no service that evening.

But Sophia had something else to tell her.

'I feel I
must
show somebody the parcel I've just had,' she said, greeting Ianthe on the doorstep. 'I was so astonished that I've been waiting until people started to come to church so that I could show somebody and you're the first and most suitable. Come and see.'

Ianthe went into the drawing room which was in considerable disorder. Clothes were strewn on the sofa and chairs and Faustina was dragging a silver lamé belt along the carpet.

'Look!' said Sophia, with a gesture. 'Clothes—and from Lady Selvedge.'

'How generous of her! I suppose she knew you'd planned to have that big jumble sale after Easter.'

'But they're not jumble—they're for me! Look at this suit—it's a real Paris model with a mink collar.'

'Yes, so it is,' said Ianthe, stroking the fur. 'Did she
say
they were for you?'

'Yes, she wrote a little note. I suppose Mother had been telling her what a poor parish this is and what a pity Mark hadn't taken a more wealthy living. If only the clothes had been plainer and more suitable for the vicar's wife of such a poor parish,' Sophia lamented, holding up the lamé cocktail dress whose belt Faustina had now taken out into the hall. 'When should I ever wear
this?'

Ianthe looked at it doubtfully.

'Yes, it is rather elaborate, isn't it, with that sequin trimming at the neck. Still you're about the same height, and they're obviously such
good
clothes.'

'Yes, like those wardrobes of titled ladies one used to see advertised,' Sophia agreed. 'Worn only once, or suddenly going abroad. I used to wonder about them. Perhaps somebody decided to enter a religious order just after she'd bought a whole new wardrobe ... I shall have to wear them obviously—it will teach me a rather curious and special kind of humility. People will think I've been terribly extravagant and I shan't be able to defend myself.'

'What will your husband think?' Ianthe asked tentatively.

'Mark? Oh, he probably won't notice. He is not of this world, you know, in some ways we're so far apart. I'm the sort of person who wants to do everything for the people I love and he is the sort of person who's self-sufficient, or seems to be . . .' she paused. 'Then there's Faustina.'

Faustina? Ianthe was puzzled for a moment. Oh the cat, she thought but, perhaps wisely, didn't say it. Instead she remarked that cats were usually considered to be particularly self-sufficient sort of animals.

'But they aren't always,' said Sophia. 'I feel sometimes that I can't reach Faustina as I've reached other cats. And somehow it's the same with Mark.'

'Oh dear,' Ianthe heard herself saying, feebly, she felt, but it was difficult to know how best to express her sympathy. She felt she wanted to shut herself away from life if this was what it was like. Yet Sophia was not usually the kind of person to say disturbing things. Wives shouldn't talk thus about their husbands, she thought resentfully, especially when they were clergy wives. Nor could one really compare a sacred and honourable estate like marriage to a relationship with a cat.

'I think I'll go into church,' Ianthe went on. 'It must be nearly time for the service to start.'

'Yes,' said Sophia, meekly now, 'it is time.' She bundled the clothes onto a chair, leaving Faustina burrowing into the middle of them. She sat humbly in the cold church, making some effort to get into the right mood for the service. God is content with little, she told herself, but sometimes we have so little that it is hardly worth the offering.

In February or March, when spring was waiting to burst out but the trees were still leafless and the earth grey and cold, Sophia used sometimes to pretend that she was in Italy—not necessarily in a beautiful or famous part but perhaps in some obscure little town in the Alban Hills or a dusty coastal village between Naples and Sorrento. Sometimes she walked in imagination in a Roman suburb, passing tall old houses with balconies and secret leafy gardens glimpsed through a gate in the wall. She would even extend her fancy into the shops she visited, seeing them as markets where she could choose a fish by the brightness of its eye, a chicken by its stiff yellow claws and plump breast, or pick out tangerines with the leaves still on them. If only one could apply the same tests to people, she thought, and of course in a way one did; but as life went on this kind of choice came to be a luxury—one took what came one's way. If the fish was fresh it was because it had been deep frozen within minutes of being caught and packed up to be bought by her goodness only knew how many months later for Mark's Lenten supper. He ate it cheerfully enough or sometimes abstractedly.

Mark came home one evening to find Edwin Pettigrew, the vet, drinking tea in the kitchen with Sophia.

'You could try a little
minced
veal,' he was saying. '
Lean
veal, of course—not just scraps.'

Faustina was in her basket by the boiler, looking understandably complacent.

'Oh the best meat, of course,' said Sophia.

'Well, you know what they are,' said Edwin apologetically.

'Yes, and they can't let us know their wants,' said Sophia.

'Not in so many words perhaps,' said Mark, 'but they do manage somehow to make their wants known and perhaps even more persistently than we do.' He could smell fish cooking and wondered if it was Faustina's coley, then realized that in view of the conversation about the finest minced veal it was more likely to be something for themselves. All the same he rather hoped it wasn't coley, suitable Lenten fare though it might be.

'We were talking about the trip to Rome after Easter,' said Sophia, pouring out a cup of stewed tea for Mark. 'Edwin is hoping to be able to come, and of course Daisy will.'