WHEN THE DAY CAME for Agatha to go away, Belinda and Harriet watched her departure out of Belinda’s bedroom window. From here there was an excellent view of the vicarage drive and gate. Belinda had brought some brass with her to clean and in the intervals when she stopped her vigorous rubbing to look out of the window, was careful to display the duster in her hand. Harriet stared out quite unashamedly, with nothing in her hand to excuse her presence there. She even had a pair of binoculars, which she was now trying to focus.
The sisters had said goodbye to Agatha the day before. Belinda was sure that she would rather be alone on her last morning to say goodbye to her husband, and there were always so many last-minute things to see to that the presence of strangers could be nothing but a hindrance, she thought. She really felt quite unhappy to think of Agatha and the Archdeacon being parted, for the cosy domestic scene which she had witnessed on her last visit to the vicarage had made a deep impression, and she felt that she ought to keep reminding herself of it. Of course they did have their little differences, there was no denying that, but it was equally certain that they were devoted to each other and that Agatha was an admirable wife.
Belinda and Harriet had been at their posts by the window for about ten minutes before there was any sign of life at the vicarage. Harriet had suggested that they should be there early, as, according to her calculations, Agatha would have to start for the station at least twenty minutes before the train went at half-past eleven. To watch anyone coming or going in the village was a real delight to them, so that they had looked forward to this morning with an almost childish excitement. And yet it was understandable, for there were so many interesting things about a departure, if one could watch it without any feeling of sorrow or regret. What would Agatha wear? Would she have a great deal of luggage or just a suitcase and a hat-box? Would the Archdeacon go with her to the station in the taxi, or would he be too busy to spare the time? If he did not go to the station would he kiss Agatha goodbye before she got into the taxi, or would he already have done that in the house? Belinda and Harriet were busy discussing these interesting questions when Harriet gave a little cry of pleasure and amusement.
‘Oh, look,’ she exclaimed, ‘the curate in his shirt-sleeves!’
Belinda looked. It was indeed the curate, wearing no coat and carrying a large round hat-box. As far as she could see he looked flushed and dishevelled.
‘I do hope they didn’t make him carry the trunk downstairs,’ she said, peering anxiously through the field-glasses. ‘He looks rather tired.’
The next person to appear in the drive was the Archdeacon. He was carrying a suitcase and looking round him uncertainly, as if he did not know what to do with it. But at this moment a taxi appeared, so he advanced towards it with a threatening air.
‘That old car of Palmer’s!’ exclaimed Harriet in disgust. ‘All the stuffing’s coming out of the seats! I suppose the Archdeacon was too mean to order Haines.’
‘Oh, Harriet, I’m sure it wasn’t that,’ said Belinda loyally. ‘Probably Haines was engaged for this morning, and anyway, I don’t think Palmer is any cheaper.’
‘They’ve got plenty of time,’ said Harriet, looking at her watch, ‘but I expect the Archdeacon wants to make quite sure she doesn’t miss the train. I expect they’ll be glad to get away from each other for a bit,’ she added.
Belinda was about to contradict her sister and remind her of what a devoted couple the Hoccleves were, when Agatha herself appeared, carrying a fur coat over her arm and a small dressing-case.
‘Oh, that’s the case with gold fittings, isn’t it?’ said Harriet. ‘I always think it must be so heavy, though. I don’t like her hat very much, it makes her face look too sharp.’
Belinda suddenly felt that there was something indecent about their curiosity and turned away to clean the brass candlesticks on the mantelpiece. But nothing would move Harriet from the window. She kept up a flow of comments on Agatha’s clothes, the behaviour of the Archdeacon and the curate. Belinda only hoped nobody could see her, with the field-glasses glued to her eyes. It would look so bad, somehow, though she did not doubt that others in the village were doing exactly the same thing.
Belinda went downstairs, humming God moves in a mysterious way, and telling herself that it was not right that she should feel relieved because Agatha was going away. Of course she was glad that Agatha was to have a well-deserved holiday and the waters would undoubtedly help her rheumatism, so there was room for gladness, but she ought not to have to tell herself this after the first thought that came into her mind had been how nice it would be to be able to ask Henry in to tea or supper without having to ask Agatha as well.
She went into the kitchen with a rather firmer step than usual and quite startled Emily, who was reading the Daily Minor over her mid-morning cup of tea.
‘Oh, Emily, I hoped you would have got on to the silver by now,’ she said. ‘Miss Harriet and I have done the bedrooms’—she paused guiltily—‘and I think I will see to the lunch myself. I am going to make a risotto out of the chicken that was left over.’
‘Yes, Miss Bede.’ Emily began to assemble the materials for silver cleaning. ‘I see Mrs. Hoccleve’s gone,’ she remarked.
‘Oh, yes, it was today she was going,’ said Belinda casually.
‘I hope she won’t come to any harm, you never know with foreigners, do you?’ said Emily.
‘An English gentlewoman can never come to any harm,’ said Belinda, more to herself than to Emily.
‘But you do hear of people having nasty things happen to them,’ persisted Emily. ‘I’ve read it in the papers. But of course Mrs. Hoccleve’s elderly, really, isn’t she, so it’s different?’
Belinda was silent. She felt she could hardly agree that Agatha was elderly when she herself was a year older and thought of herself as only middle-aged. And yet, middle-aged or elderly, what was the difference really? Calm of mind, all passion spent … she had known that before she was thirty. ‘Don’t waste the Silvo like that, Emily,’ she said with unaccustomed sharpness, ‘you won’t get a better polish. It’s the rubbing that does it.’
The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs told Belinda that Harriet had finished her business there, and as the kettle was boiling, she made a pot of tea and took it into the dining-room.
‘I think I shall see if I can alter my black coat and make the sleeves like Agatha’s,’ Harriet was saying, half to herself. ‘Do you think there is anything to let out on the seams?’
‘Your coat is so nice as it is,’ said Belinda doubtfully, for she had had experience of Harriet’s attempts at alteration. ‘Altering a coat is so much more difficult than a dress.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Harriet gravely, ‘I think you’re right. I might buy some of that leopard-skin trimming though and put it on the cuffs and pockets. That would be a change, and sleeves are going to be important this winter, I believe.’
‘Have they got Agatha away safely?’ asked Belinda casually.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Harriet, in a more cheerful tone of voice. ‘Mr. Donne went in the taxi with her. I suppose he would see her off at the station. And do you know,’ she leaned forward eagerly, ‘the Archdeacon didn’t even kiss her. He just waved his hand, like this.’ Harriet gave a rather improbable imitation of how the Archdeacon had said goodbye to his wife.
‘I expect they said their real goodbyes in the house,’ said Belinda. ‘After all it’s rather upsetting, isn’t it, a parting like that?’
‘The Archdeacon didn’t look in the least bit upset,’ said Harriet. ‘After the taxi had gone he stood in the drive grinning and rubbing his hands, looking as pleased as Punch.’
‘Oh, no, Harriet, I can’t believe that,’ said Belinda, and so, comfortably arguing, they drank their tea and were just finishing it when there was a cry from Harriet, who pointed in the direction of the window.
‘Look,’ she cried, for she had been so absorbed in her task of ‘strengthening’ a pair of corsets with elastic thread that she had not noticed the Archdeacon creeping up the drive. Neither had Belinda, but she was less observant and sharp.
‘I thought I would take you by surprise,’ he said. ‘I am glad to find you both engaged in the trivial round, the common task.’
Belinda was too agitated to think of any clever reply, while Harriet was bundling the corsets under a cushion in one of the armchairs. Belinda noticed to her horror that they were imperfectly hidden and planted herself firmly in front of the chair. It was too bad of Harriet to make these little embarrassments. The two cats were curled up in the basket-chair on the other side of the fire, so it was quite a problem to know where to seat the Archdeacon. But Harriet recovered her composure more quickly than Belinda, turned out the cats with a quick movement and offered him the chair.
‘I’m afraid we have annoyed them,’ said the Archdeacon, ‘they are looking positively baleful. And yet I feel that I need rest more than they do.’ He sighed and stretched out his hands to the warmth of the fire.
‘We always call them the brethren dwelling in unity,’ said Harriet. ‘Behold how good and joyful a thing it is, brethren, to dwell together in unity,’ she quoted, as if by way of explanation. ‘The psalm, you know.…’
‘Of course he knows,’ said Belinda rather sharply, and yet it was odd how one sometimes felt that he might not. She began to wonder why he had come; it was unusual for him to call in the morning.
‘I expect you know Agatha has just gone,’ said the Archdeacon, in answer to her thoughts. ‘Such a business getting her to the station, I really feel quite exhausted. These departures are always more tiring for those who are left behind.’
‘Oh, dear, we should have offered you some tea,’ said Belinda reflecting that it was in fact Mr. Donne who had gone to the station with Agatha. ‘We had ours some time ago so it won’t be very nice. I’ll get Emily to make you some more.’
‘Well, that is kind of you, but I had some refreshment at the vicarage,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘I really felt justified in having something.’
Belinda nodded sympathetically, but she could see Harriet looking scornful and so began talking quickly about the Harvest Festival and the decorations which were to be done the next day.
‘We must have more corn this year,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘Corn is an essential part of harvest, perhaps the most important part of all.’
‘Ah, yes, bread is the staff of life,’ said Harriet solemnly. ‘But we mustn’t forget the other fruits of the earth. Ricardo Bianco has some very fine marrows and pumpkins, and bigger things really show up better.’
‘The church always looks very nice,’ said Belinda, fearing they were going to have an argument.
‘Yes, there are always plenty of willing helpers,’ said the Archdeacon complacently.
‘I do hope there won’t be any unpleasantness this year.’ said Belinda, her face clouding. ‘Last year there was the embarrassment of Miss Prior, if you remember.’
‘The Embarrassment of Miss Prior,’ said the Archdeacon, savouring the words. ‘It sounds almost naughty, but I fear it was not. I cannot recall the circumstances.’
‘Oh, I remember,’ said Harriet. ‘When Miss Prior came to decorate it was found that somebody else had already done the lectern and she’s always done it for the last twenty years or more.’
‘Yes, poor little soul,’ said Belinda reminiscently, ‘she was rather late. She had been finishing some curtains for Lady Clara Boulding—you know, those heavy maroon velvet ones in her morning-room—and she was nearly crying. She does so enjoy doing the lectern and making a bunch of grapes hang down from the bird’s mouth. Of course the only disadvantage is that they do distract the Sunday School children’s attention so; last year they were very much inclined to giggle—Miss Jenner and Miss Smiley had a very difficult time with them.’
‘If only they would try to teach them that it is perfectly right and fitting that we should bring the fruits of the earth into God’s House at Harvest Time,’ said the Archdeacon rather peevishly.
‘But children don’t understand things like that,’ said Belinda, ‘and in any case young people are so prone to giggle. I can remember I was.’
Harriet chortled reminiscently at some schoolgirl joke, but would not reveal it when asked.
Eventually the Archdeacon stood up to go and Belinda was about to hurry to the kitchen to start preparing the risotto, when Harriet pointed towards the Archdeacon’s left foot and exclaimed loudly, ‘Oh, you’ve got a hole in your sock!’
‘Damn,’ said the Archdeacon firmly and unmistakably. ‘I suppose it was too much to hope that my clothes would be left in order.’
‘I expect Agatha doesn’t like darning,’ said Harriet tactlessly. ‘I’m not at all fond of it myself, so I can sympathize.’
‘Oh, but a sock is liable to go into a hole at any time,’ said Belinda hastily. ‘It doesn’t look a very big one. Perhaps it could be cobbled together …’ she was already rummaging in her work basket for some wool of the right shade. ‘I’m afraid this grey is rather too light,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think it will show very much.’
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ said the Archdeacon impatiently. ‘What a fuss it all is over such a trifling matter.’
Belinda smiled as she threaded her needle. Dear Henry, he was so inconsistent, but perhaps a hole in a sock was hardly as important as moths in a suit. ‘I think it would be best if you put your foot up on this little chair,’ she said, ‘then I can get at your heel to mend the sock.’
The Archdeacon submitted himself to her ministrations with rather an ill will, and there was one anxious moment when Belinda inadvertently pricked him with the needle and it seemed as if he would lose his temper.
Harriet did her best to divert him with conversation and eventually he recovered his good humour and began to ask her the origin of her elusive quotation about the Apes of Brazil. He thought that it might be Elizabethan, it reminded him of that poem with the lines about making Tullia’s ape a marmoset and Leda’s goose a swan.
‘I don’t remember anything about the Apes of Brazil,’ said Belinda anxiously, for the darning of the sock was an all-engrossing occupation.
‘Do you mean what I said that afternoon we met in the village?’ asked Harriet. ‘That’s not a quotation, that’s natural history.’ She laughed delightedly.
The Archdeacon seemed surprised and Harriet began to explain.
‘It’s quite simple, really,’ she said. ‘When the Apes of Brazil beat their chests with their hands or paws, or whatever apes have, you can hear the sound two miles away.’
‘Oh, Harriet,’ said Belinda, as if reproving a child, ‘surely not two miles? You must be mistaken.’
‘Two miles,’ said Harriet firmly. ‘Father Plowman told me.’
The Archdeacon laughed scornfully at this.
‘It was at Lady Clara Boulding’s house,’ said Harriet indignantly. ‘We were having a most interesting conversation, I can’t remember now what it was about.’
‘I cannot imagine what the subject of it can have been,’ said the Archdeacon, ‘and I did not know that Plowman had ever been in Brazil.’
‘You said something about sentiments to which every bosom returns an echo,’ said Harriet, ‘so I naturally thought of the Apes of Brazil.’
‘I think the minds of the metaphysical poets must have worked something like that,’ said Belinda thoughtfully. ‘Donne and Abraham Cowley, perhaps.’
‘Cowley was a very stupid man,’ said the Archdeacon shortly. ‘I cannot understand the revival of interest in his works.’
‘I think the hole is mended now,’ said Belinda. ‘It doesn’t look so bad now; of course the wool is just a little too light.’
‘My dear Belinda, you have done it quite exquisitely,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘I must take care to be passing your house every time I have a hole in my sock.’
Belinda smiled and went quite pink with pleasure and confusion. She went with him to the front door and then returned to the dining-room where Harriet had collapsed heavily into a chair and was fanning herself with the parish magazine.
‘Thank goodness, he’s gone,’ she said. ‘I really don’t know how Agatha manages to put up with him all the time. No wonder she’s gone away.’
‘Harriet, do speak more quietly,’ said Belinda in an agitated whisper, for Emily had just come into the room to lay the table. ‘I must go and start the risotto,’ she said and went into the kitchen, where she walked aimlessly about in circles trying to assemble all the ingredients she needed. For somehow it was difficult to concentrate. The mending of the sock had been an upsetting and unnerving experience, and even when she had made the risotto she did not feel any pleasure at the thought of eating it.
‘Nearly twenty-past one!’ said Harriet, as they sat down to their meal. ‘The Archdeacon has delayed everything. I suppose he imagined Emily would be cooking.’
‘I don’t suppose he thought about it at all, men don’t as a rule,’ said Belinda, ‘they just expect meals to appear on the table and they do.’
‘Of course Emily usually does cook,’ went on Harriet, ‘it’s only that she can’t manage foreign dishes.’ She took a liberal second helping of risotto. ‘This is really delicious.’
‘It was Ricardo’s recipe,’ said Belinda absently.
‘We really must go and get some more blackberries soon,’ said Harriet. ‘Although in October the devil will be in them. You know what the country people say.’
Belinda smiled.
‘Mr. Donne is very fond of blackberry jelly,’ said Harriet. ‘Apparently he very much enjoyed the apple jelly I took him. He said he really preferred it for breakfast—instead of marmalade, you know.’
‘I wonder what it would be like to be turned into a pillar of salt?’ said Belinda surprisingly, in a far-away voice.
‘Belinda!’ Harriet exclaimed in astonishment. ‘Whatever made you think of that? Potiphar’s wife, wasn’t it, in the Old Testament somewhere?’
‘I think it was Lot’s wife,’ said Belinda, ‘but I can’t remember why. I should imagine it would be very restful,’ she went on, ‘to have no feelings or emotions. Or perhaps,’ she continued thoughtfully, ‘it would have been simpler to have been born like Milton’s first wife, an image of earth and phlegm.’
‘Oh, Belinda, don’t be disgusting!’ said Harriet briskly. ‘And do pass the cheese. You are hopelessly inattentive. When Mr. Donne was here the other night you never passed him anything. If it hadn’t been for me he would have starved.’
Belinda came back to everyday life again. How many curates would starve and die were it not for the Harriets of this world, she thought. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said. ‘I must try not to be so absent-minded. Today has been rather trying, hasn’t it really—too much happening.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Harriet. ‘Agatha going and the Archdeacon coming. Who knows what he may be up to now that she’s gone?’
‘Oh, Harriet, I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,’ said Belinda. ‘It’s really most unsuitable. And besides,’ she went on, half to herself, ‘what could he be up to when you come to think of it?’ Her voice trailed off rather sadly, but she rose from the table briskly enough and spent the afternoon doing some useful work in the garden.