Wish Her Safe at Home (11 page)

What a lovely way of making contact. Now
this
was certainly more Christian!

“Hello. Do you come here often? My name, by the way, is Waring.”

Unluckily (how British!) most of my well-wishers didn’t seem able—quite—to follow it through. Hands yes, smiles too, yet nothing that went deeper. The overture but not the play. Well, never mind. I found it by far the nicest portion of the service; that and my singing of the first hymn. I had been happy then.

Otherwise the fact that I was based at the end of a row would have been a huge advantage—for it meant I could go round shaking hands long after everybody else had finished. I wanted to show that Londoners weren’t the standoffish souls many considered them. Nor were they soft. They possessed character; had tenacity.

One hand I definitely refused to shake, however, was the vicar’s—when afterwards he had the nerve, or the insensitivity, to place himself outside the church door.

“No, thank you,” I said; and totally ignored his
Good morning I believe you may be new here
.

Oh, the hypocrite.

In fact I seemed to have provided his comeuppance. He looked really at a loss. Piety, dynamism, invigoration—all.

“Er...
there’s coffee in the church hall if you’d like some.”

Because he so clearly didn’t expect me to accept I nodded. “Thank you, yes, I think I’d like a cup. But please don’t inconvenience yourself. I’m sure I shall be able to find my own way.”

So perhaps he wasn’t
quite
as bad as I had drawn him. I had always been taught the overriding importance of good manners; I felt that—at least to some extent—I ought to show him what it meant to have breeding.

Therefore, while he was still, I noticed, gazing after me (along with the old couple who’d been just about to speak to him) I went back and said, “Incidentally I forgot to thank you for the wafer and the wine. The wine was good; where did you get it? And you may be surprised to hear that I believe in the idea of transformation. At least I think I do. Not of course that I’m a Roman Catholic.”

“Er...
no,” he said.

I even made a little joke. After all, I wasn’t likely to forget our first ten minutes of good fellowship. “And I don’t imagine you are?”

“Er...
no,” he said.

He had no sense of humour and, in reality, not much conversation either. I went in to have my coffee.

The hall was fairly crowded. I joined the queue at a small counter. There was an older woman in front of me who was looking in her purse for change. “Oh, do you have to pay?” I said. “I thought the vicar had invited me. Well, actually it’s all of a piece, isn’t it? I’m not a bit surprised.”

She smiled at me in a way which I was beginning to realize seemed special to Bristolians. “The coffee’s just five pence,” she said but didn’t sound unfriendly. “If you haven’t got it no one’s going to mind.”

“Well, that’s a relief; but I think I can
probably
rustle up five pence.”

“I hope you enjoyed the service. Oh, excuse me just one moment. I see that little monkey of mine is about to make a pest of herself over there.”

But her three- or four-year-old, as soon as she was called, came skipping across quite obediently.

“Well, I can’t say,” I observed, “I thought a great deal of the sermon.”

“No,” she agreed, “I’m afraid you hit a bad week so far as the sermon was concerned.” She laughed. “
I
was expecting it to be all about the Wedding! Felt so disappointed to find Charles and Diana weren’t even mentioned!”

I gave a little shrug. “Well, one must always be philosophical. I suppose that it could have been worse. Look for the good in any sermon and you can possibly find it.”

We got our coffees; her daughter had a squash. We stood together, halfway down the room, suddenly not appearing to have very much to say.

“Let’s hope the weather will be nice and sunny for next Wednesday!”

I smiled and nodded.

“I do think Lady Di looks such a charming girl.”

“Do you?” I asked.

From her expression I might have announced that I’d just left a bomb in the vestry. “Well...
don’t you?”

“Oh, I daresay she’s pleasant enough. But you’ve got to admit she’s very ordinary. Very ordinary, indeed.” I sipped my cup of coffee. It was peculiarly revolting.

“Well, yes, in a way, I suppose she is. Yet that’s what makes it all rather nice, isn’t it? I mean, he’s marrying the girl next door!”

“Precisely,” I said. “Entirely my point.”

At least I had the satisfaction of seeing her think for a moment. But the moment was short-lived and the thinking unproductive. It led merely to her displaying what she must have considered her winning card. “She’s undoubtedly
very
popular!”

I was kind. “Yes, you’re right. Obviously I’m out of step. But I really don’t see what all the hoo-ha is about.” It was a relief to be able to say this to a person I should almost certainly never meet again. (If we passed in the street I could pretend to look the other way.)

“Well...
” She smiled and seemed to be glancing around for others to support her. “At any rate,” she suggested, “far better than some foreigner!”

“Oh, I’m not so sure.” She clearly hadn’t followed my argument. “An Englishwoman—well, it could have been you or me or anyone. Just picture it.” I laughed: to add a little levity, a little reassurance: because for some reason she was starting to look flustered. “Coming out of St. Paul’s. Riding through the City in an open carriage. Thousands lining the route, cheering themselves hoarse, waving flags, holding their children up to get a better view. Loving you like the Queen herself. But
why
? Where is the fairness in it all? Why
her
, not you?”

The woman laughed. (Again I’d been able to cheer somebody up; again a victory for politeness!) “Perhaps you hadn’t noticed?” she said. “I am a
degree
older than she is.” I laughed as well—just as if she’d made some joke.

“But you do see what I mean?” I persevered. “She doesn’t even dress well. All those choirboy collars!” I gave another shrug: my good-humoured bewilderment at the folly of the Royal Family. “And Dr. Runcie has asked for the prayers of the whole nation to be offered during the ceremony. Why? Haven’t they already got enough without all of us being expected to pray for them as well? But of course”—I smiled—“to them that hath shall be given.” It was the old, old story. “Has the whole nation ever been asked to pray for
you
?”

I never got an answer. Before she could supply one her little girl had made an abrupt turn and jerked her mother’s elbow. The woman’s cup was knocked out of her saucer—and threw its entire contents down my skirt. I screamed.

The next few minutes were chaotic: someone with a tea cloth doused in cold water; half a dozen others offering remedies and opinions, anecdotes and concern; the scolding of the child; the cleaning of the floor.

The little girl cried. No doubt she felt frightened and defenceless, for her mother had been sharp with her. The woman herself was close to tears. In fact the two of them received a lot more comfort than I did.

And it was the first time I had worn it. It was ruined.

“Are you all right?” somebody asked me. “These little accidents
will
happen, won’t they?”

“Yes, thank you,” I replied. “I’m perfectly all right.” I added with a wryness she would plainly not appreciate: “I’ve had my little bit of fuss.”

I noticed that the vicar was carefully keeping his distance. How very typical! In times of joy some people had the Archbishop of Canterbury. In times of stress others didn’t even get the vicar of St. Michael’s.

So much, then, for the vicar. What about the victim? Oh, well, at any rate the victim didn’t cry until she had left the church hall, had walked at least three hundred yards and turned at least three corners. The victim didn’t cry until she had got maybe a quarter of the way home, with the damp cloth clammy against her legs and most of the passersby pretending very hard they hadn’t noticed. (But she heard one toddler say, “Has that lady done a poo and is that why she is looking sad?”) The lower half of the summer-blue sky now showed a spiky dark cloud the size of a Frisbee. You’d have thought it an experience not to be recovered from for days and days.

But here was the unexpected epilogue.

(It shouldn’t have felt unexpected.)

The tears stopped the very moment I reached home—literally, as soon as I had opened my front door. The cloud just shifted; blew off to the horizon.

For haven’t I said it before: this was a
kind
house, its presiding spirit so expert in the art of healing? How blest was I to have Horatio; how astonishing that, even momentarily, I could have forgotten him. Already as I hurried up the stairs I was humming. My tuneful reminder of God’s message.
Oh
,
you beautiful doll
,
you great big beautiful doll
...

Because, as you might expect with God, his message didn’t need to be limited to merely one melody.

Oh, no—good heavens, no!

The best thing about the Royal Wedding day, apart from my work on the book, was undoubtedly
The Sound of Music
. For the first time I was struck by the line: “like a lark who is learning to pray.” It seemed suddenly so applicable, was almost certainly a message. We all need such gentle nods of encouragement.

Afterwards, on ITV, there was another film. Normally I enjoyed the pictures starring Jean Arthur but this one was extremely feeble; I didn’t watch for long. Its title was about the only thing I liked.
The Lady Takes a Chance
.

Poor Miss Eversley, though. I felt a little shifty. I hadn’t phoned her. I hadn’t bought her any jigsaw. Of course it seemed she hadn’t particularly wanted these attentions. So perhaps it was all right. But whatever happened I must never become a person who didn’t keep her word. Larks who were learning to pray must always be straightforward, free of cant. Creatures to rely on.

Me, especially. Because the thing was, you see, I should never be short of inspiration. I had the perfect example right in front of me.

Over the fireplace.

So if
I
couldn’t win through...
well, then, who could? Sometimes I felt utterly convinced I had been singled out for glory.

But not always. Far more often I felt I simply didn’t stand a chance—even if nowadays I wouldn’t allow this thought to get me down. I was the mirror image of the Wandering Jew. I was that other poor lost soul, equally desperate and equally remorseful, lone voyager on board
The Flying Dutchman
.

A charmed life that carried a curse? Or a cursed life that carried a charm?

In short, I knew neither what sort of person I really was, nor how well I fitted in.

Nor, indeed, if I had any true hope of ever finding that place in heaven which, since my schooldays, I had always hankered for.

* * *

And all through the following weeks he
grew
...though not quite with that astounding fluidity which had been attendant on his birth; and at the same time, obviously, the novel grew.

It was clearly going to be a long one. Before I was done I should need to buy perhaps another
two
of those thick and impressive-looking volumes.

But this didn’t dismay me. Not at all. Indeed, I was so far from being in any hurry to finish I thought I might eventually have to ration myself. Even now, with “The End” still maybe
years
into the future, I didn’t know what I would do when it finally arrived.

And I wasn’t after critical or popular acclaim. If it were given, that would be pleasant of course—and not simply on my own account either. But we weren’t impatient for it. Even unpublished the three volumes would still be there as testaments to our existence, would still look immensely distinguished on our mantelshelf, would still provide a constant and a concrete proof of how things were. A proof for posterity. I thought posterity should hear of why I had been placed upon this earth and of the paragon I had been placed here for.

In any case the journey was what counted. Always. I knew for sure that now and forever my life was his—and
his
, mine—as inextricably entwined as Boswell’s and Dr. Johnson’s.

Only more so.

Consequently, when he went swimming naked in the creek with other boys his own age, I was there as well, enjoying it just as much as they. And when he scrapped, his hurts were my hurts, his victories
my
victories. (I wondered if he heard my voice, a faint and distant echo calling out to him across the centuries, loyally supporting him?) My tears fell like his when he saw beggars dying in the streets or heard about the injustice of the lawcourts or the misery inflicted by the press gangs. My entreaties were added to his when he pleaded with his father for money, with his mother for items of clothing, with Nancy for articles of food: to pass on to the homeless, the crippled, the drunk, the desperate. I had a headache to match his own when he worried over his Latin verbs or his algebraic formulas, or when the sad wife-ridden Mr. Tole got one of his periodic bouts of choler and none of his pupils could ever do anything right. But then also my joy was surely as great as his when he first heard Mr. Handel’s music and his heart leapt up in exultation; the experience just as revelatory—for I on my own had never much enjoyed “good” music. This was now incomprehensible. I wondered at my blindness or, more properly, my deafness (one of our silly little jokes; we were gathering quite a store of them) and more especially, more guiltily, at my monumental selfishness. From the beginning it should have
occurred
to me to play the music of Handel and Mozart and Gluck and Haydn...
these last two names hadn’t come to me immediately, any more than those of earlier composers like Purcell, Byrd and Scarlatti. Even stating it at its lowest it would have seemed a sensible thing to do when one thought about creating the right atmosphere. (Unnecessary, unnecessary.) While from every other point of view...

For the first time in my life I felt ashamed to own no classical music. I couldn’t afford to
buy
all the records I now wanted, for although I wasn’t worried by the state of my finances I was at least being sensible, but fortunately the main public library included an excellent record section. And no sooner
had
it occurred to me, so belatedly, than I rushed straight over, breathless, without even my scarf or gloves, and brought away as many records as I was allowed. (They almost sent me home for my stylus; I said a little prayer; for this occasion they waived the rule.) And, from then on, the eighteenth-century house was filled with eighteenth-century music. Or earlier.

* * *

But not exclusively.

“I am coming more and more to appreciate
your
music,” I would say, “and I realize that a great deal of this present century’s is rubbish; but all the same it won’t do you any harm to get to hear some of the best of it...
”

And playfully hectoring him in this fashion (oh, how I nagged the poor fellow!—“I feel sure that Mr. Tole would sympathize with you!”) I would then put on Jack Buchanan or
Gypsy
or just for old times’ sake (a tribute, I had thought when I sent off for it, a tribute both to an over-painted maiden aunt and to an undervalued piece of childhood) a selection from
Bitter Sweet
.

“I believe...

The more you love a man,

The more you give your trust,

The more you’re bound to lose...
”

Or even (but not from
Bitter Sweet
):

“I really must go...

But, baby, it’s cold outside.

This evening has been

So very nice...”

And although I half expected it I never once saw him wince. I was pleased. Education should always be a two-way process. We had so many lovely things to impart to one another.

I would often dance a little, too—despite my initial self-consciousness. Usually to the strains of some slow and dreamy waltz. (I could never have done this if I’d kept even a quarter of Aunt Alicia’s furniture.) But before long I grew relaxed and then could easily imagine I was being propelled around the floor by a partner who had a strong arm half-encompassing my waist and a cool hand tenderly enclosing my own. I could imagine that on each occasion he held me just a little more closely.

There were times when afterwards I wasn’t so completely sure I
had
imagined it.