An Unsuitable Attachment (20 page)

'But Miss Bede must be more than twice as old as Basil Branche,' said Ianthe, almost protesting, for she had seen Penelope's disgusted expression when Sophia was speaking and could not forget that John was five years younger than she was.

'I
couldn't
be in love with a man younger than myself,' Penelope declared.

'But then you're so very much younger than the rest of us,' said Ianthe. 'A man younger than you would be just a boy. When you're older you may feel differently.'

'Yes, Penny, you don't really know what you're talking about,' said Sophia sensibly. 'I don't think it matters at all a man being a few years younger than a woman—provided he's suitable in other ways, of course.'

She smiled as she watched her sister run ahead to where the guide was pointing out a particularly interesting mosaic pavement. In her pocket Sophia had a postcard from Rupert Stonebird saying that he was arriving in Rome from Perugia that evening; she was keeping the news as a surprise for Penelope.

'But when he isn't particularly suitable,' Ianthe continued, her tone almost agitated, when Penelope was out of earshot. 'I mean, doesn't
appear
to be suitable . . . what then?'

'Well . . .' Sophia felt embarrassed and confused, as if she had heard something not meant to be spoken aloud. 'Perhaps then it doesn't concern anybody but the woman herself—obviously it doesn't.
She
is the one who must know in her heart whether he's suitable or not, whatever other people may think.' She was remembering that her mother had not considered Mark a suitable match for her, Sophia, the older daughter, though nobody could exactly
disapprove
of a clergyman. So if Ianthe really fancied Basil Branche—and it suddenly occurred to Sophia that this could be the reason for her unexpected outburst—it was difficult to see why a few years difference in age should be holding her back. And she had no parents to disapprove of her choice or to find him 'unsuitable' in any other way. Sophia was just about to say something that might draw Ianthe out still further, while being at the same time sympathetic and comforting, when Edwin Pettigrew, guide book in hand, came up to them and began talking about the amphitheatre which they were now approaching.

'Remarkable carrying power sound has in such a structure,' he said. 'We must put it to the test. Perhaps your husband will oblige us, being the one most accustomed to public speaking.'

'It will be a new beginning for one of his sermons,' said Daisy. 'Let's run up to the top and see if we can hear him.'

'My friends,' Mark began, 'many of you have no doubt stood in the amphitheatre at Ostia Antica, marvelling . . .' then suddenly he broke off, for Sister Dew in her scramble up the steps to the top had stumbled and fallen and appeared to be unable to get up.

'Sister Dew, are you hurt?' called out Sophia anxiously.

'It's my ankle—something seems to have gone. I can't move.'

'Quick, Edwin, go to her,' said Daisy, 'and see what you can do.'

Edwin hurried to where Sister Dew lay in a tumbled heap. In his veterinary practice he specialized in the treatment of small animals, and the sheer bulkiness of Sister Dew reminded him that his work had been with cats and pet dogs rather than with horses and cows, but he examined her ankle as best he could.

'We must get her to hospital for an x-ray,' he said. 'Something may be broken.'

'But we don't know where the hospital is,' moaned Sister Dew, forgetting to be splendid for a moment. 'I never did like these old places. There should be a notice up saying these steps are dangerous—you wouldn't have this kind of accident in England.'

'Well, there aren't any amphitheatres in England,' murmured Penelope. She could not help wanting to laugh, for Sister Dew looked so comic lying there, and it was even funnier when two burly-looking middle-aged Italians offered to take her to hospital in their car and attempted to carry her shoulder high to the place where it was parked.

'Ought I to go with her?' Sophia asked.

'No, my dear,' said Daisy firmly. 'Edwin and I will go. I should like to see inside one of those hospitals.'

'Well, we can't all go,' said Sophia, sounding relieved. 'And one of those Italians does seem to speak English.'

'She couldn't be in better hands,' said Mark. 'I suppose they will take her to the English hospital? And of course I shall visit her there—if she is detained.'

'Yes, darling—but don't forget that this evening we're going to have dinner in Trastevere,' said Sophia. And without Sister Dew it would really be a more suitable party, if, as she very much hoped, Rupert Stonebird could be persuaded to join them. 'Of course you must visit her,' said Sophia, 'but there's an English chaplain and you must leave him something to do.'

'I expect he has plenty to do,' said Penelope. 'I'm sure English tourists, especially women, are always falling about in ruins and getting taken to hospital. And getting upset by the food and wine, too.'

'And English people are dying everywhere,' said Sophia. 'Rome is full of their bones.' Here lies one whose name was writ in water—she felt she could not bear to visit the English cemetery with Sister Dew.

Back at the pensione there seemed to be some agitation at the reception desk. Rupert Stonebird was trying to explain to the little man in the striped jacket that he wanted a room for a few nights.

'It isn't enough to have read Colucci when it comes to ordinary conversation,' he said, turning to Sophia thankfully. 'Somehow the things one wants to say aren't to be found in that excellent work.'

Behind Sophia he could see Ianthe and Penelope standing side by side. He wäs struck immediately by Ianthe's absolute rightness here—the Englishwoman in Rome—in her cool green linen suit and straw hat. Penelope looked slightly grotesque by contrast, in dusty black cotton, with red sandals on her stumpy little bare feet. She reminded him of some of the women who had been at the conference in Perugia. And yet Penelope was more appealing than these and seemed genuinely pleased to see him. Her dusty little toes amused him, for they were such a contrast to Ianthe's smooth beige linen shoes. When Sophia, tentatively yet somehow firmly, put forward her plan for the evening he found himself thinking that it would be fun and was delighted to accept. There had not been much time for romance or even flirtation at the conference. A handsome Italian girl to whom he had been attracted had turned out to be disappointingly serious-minded, wanting from him only a secondhand copy of a long out of print anthropological book which he had promised to look for in Kegan Paul's and other suitable shops. Somehow it had not seemed a promising start to an affair, though it might well have provided a solid basis for marriage. But perhaps it was something lacking in himself that made an attractive woman see him rather as a procurer of secondhand books than as a lover. With this thought in mind he set out for the evening in a rather subdued mood—dark-suited, with his spectacles in his hand. Nor was he encouraged to find that a possible rival—a good-looking dark man some years younger than himself—had been invited to join the party. Sophia addressed him as 'Father Branche', which made Rupert think that he must be a celibate Roman Catholic priest—so perhaps he was not a rival in the true sense of the word after all. Apparently they were fortunate in having his company that evening, since the two ladies he was with had another engagement.

'The Misses Bede are dining with Cardinal Pirelli this evening,' he said, or seemed to have said, for the name 'Cardinal Pirelli' seemed to Rupert at once familiar and unlikely. Yet English ladies in Rome no doubt did dine with Cardinals—it seemed right for both parties for they would have much to learn from each other.

Edwin and Daisy, after reassuring Sophia about Sister Dew's ankle, which was only a severe sprain, decided not to join the others for dinner but to go in search of more Roman cats to feed. Edwin even hoped to get another sight of the Aberdeen terrier he had seen a few evenings ago in the Via Botteghe Oscure. Their absence left a rather suitable party of six to dine at the restaurant in Trastevere. Nicely paired off, Sophia thought happily, dividing the party between two taxis.

'You come with us, Ianthe,' she said, 'and Penny can go with Rupert and Father Branche.'

Two
taxis, thought Rupert, what extravagance! The anthropologists in Perugia had gone everywhere by tram or on foot. Indeed, the dusty-looking group, most of them carrying briefcases and raincoats, had been quite a familiar sight in the town. Still, he could hardly question Sophia's arrangements, though he did wish that Ianthe could have been in his taxi. All the same Penelope looked attractive in an outlandish sort of way, in a black skirt and orange velvet top. She wore no jewellery and her lips were pale, though her eyes seemed to be heavily made up. The heavy scent she wore tantalized him because it was one he knew though he could not remember its name—whether it was an evocative French phrase or a downright English word like 'Carpet' or 'Swamp'. He wondered if Basil Branche knew, then decided that a celibate priest—or at least not an English one—would probably not know such things.

Mark sat back complacently in his taxi with Sophia and Ianthe. Sophia wore a black dress and an antique silver necklace set with turquoises; Ianthe was in flowered silk with pearls. She smelt rather faintly of lily of the valley and was in a mood to match the sweetness of that flower, smiling and finding everything delightful. What an asset to our congregation, Mark found himself thinking, without realizing what an odd thought it was to have in a taxi in Rome.

'How interesting and mysterious all this looks,' said Ianthe, as the taxi nosed its way through the narrow alleys and little squares of Trastevere and finally came to a stop in what seemed to be a dead end, a blank wall on which mysterious scrawls—perhaps even a ghostly DUCE—could be discerned. A few gesticulations and shouted phrases between Sophia and the driver had them turning round and threading their way down another dark alley, until suddenly the headlights picked out Rupert, Penelope and Basil Branche standing in front of a doorway, like characters in an opera. Perhaps here will be enacted the drama which was lacking at the Trevi fountain, Sophia thought hopefully.

'We've been here ages,' said Penelope, running up to the taxi. 'Did you get lost?' She had quite enjoyed her ride, though she kept remembering Miss Bede and the hot milk whenever she looked at Basil. He, however, seemed not at all embarrassed and had rather irritatingly told Rupert of all the things he had apparently missed seeing in Perugia.

Now they entered a narrow doorway with a lantern hanging from it, from which a grey cat scuttled away into the shadows, and found themselves in a kind of anteroom leading to the restaurant proper. One wall was taken up with an elaborate gilt-framed mirror under which stood a marble-topped table laden with a still life of food. There was a joint of meat, raw steak, a large fish and a lobster, flanked by a pile of artichokes, apples, and oranges, with rough-looking skins and withered leaves still clinging to them.

'I wonder if pussy was at that fish,' said Penelope, in Sister Dew's manner. 'I shouldn't fancy it after that.'

They were shown to a table in an inner room by a wall covered with signed photographs of celebrities of some kind, with an occasional face almost recognizable among so many flashing sets of teeth and gleaming waves of hair.

'It reminds me of Edwin Pettigrew's waiting room,' said Sophia, 'except that his are animal celebrities.'

'All this smiling humanity is a bit overwhelming,' said Basil in an affected way. 'I feel I should enjoy my meal more if I couldn't see them.'

'It's hardly the still sad music of humanity, is it,' said Rupert.

'Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue,' said Mark, smiling. 'Wordsworth, isn't it?'

'How tiresome the men are being,' said Sophia, who was studying the menu. 'Showing off their knowledge when they should be advising us what we ought to eat. We really don't want to be thinking of Wordsworth at a time like this.'

'We must all have
carciofi
,' sighed Basil extravagantly.

'That's artichokes,' Sophia explained briskly, 'and they certainly are very good here. And then perhaps . . .' she suggested various dishes which sounded perhaps even more delicious than they could possibly be, so musical were their names. Mark and Basil consulted together about the wine, while Rupert sat quietly, feeling that he was showing himself to be not quite a man by allowing them to do this. He wondered if Penelope had noticed and would hold it against him; he was sure Ianthe would not.

The least he could do was to suggest a toast, when their glasses were filled—it was only Chianti, after all the fuss—but here again Mark forestalled him.

'I think we should all like to drink to poor Enid Dew's speedy recovery,' he suggested dutifully.

They sipped their wine in a slightly awkward silence.

'
Enid
,' said Sophia, 'so
that's
her Christian name—I never knew what it was.'

'One seems unable to get away from the poets,' said Rupert. 'Tennyson is so very much . . .' he began and then realized that he had been about to betray something private—the volume of Tennyson discovered in Ianthe's sitting room that January evening. He glanced to where she sat, on his right, dealing neatly and carefully with her artichoke. It should be possible for him to escort her home alone after dinner, he thought. It would surely be natural, even with two clergymen present—for the party to separate in three couples.

Ianthe herself, having no interest in any of the men present, was thinking how delicious the cannelloni looked and wondering how Mervyn could possibly have disliked them. If only John could have been with them instead of Rupert or Basil, how much nicer the evening would have been! Not that it wasn't very pleasant and she was thoroughly enjoying it, but Rupert with his rather stiff conversation and Basil with his tiresome affectation seemed to add nothing to it. Of course Mark was a dear and it was lovely to see him and Sophia so happy—she had not once mentioned Faustina the whole evening.