It was certainly unfortunate that Helena Napier should be out when the telegram came. Wives ought to be waiting for their husbands to come back from the wars, I felt, though perhaps unreasonably, when a few hours by aeroplane can transport a husband from Italy to England.
I heard her bell being rung and then mine, and when I opened the door and saw the boy standing there with the telegram I knew at once as if by instinct what its news must be. The question was, when would he arrive? It sounded as if it might be that very evening and I had heard Mrs. Napier go out about six o’clock. She was probably meeting Everard Bone somewhere. Ought I to try to find out where she was and let her know? I felt that I ought to make an attempt and began searching through the telephone directory to see if I could find his number. If I couldn’t, so much the better—I should be saved from interfering in something which didn’t really concern me. But there it was, a Chelsea address—there would hardly be two Everard Bones. I dialled the number fearfully and heard it ring. ‘Hello, hello, who is that?’ a querulous elderly woman’s voice answered. I was completely taken aback, but before I could speak the voice went on, ‘If it’s Miss Jessop I can only hope you are ringing up to apologise.’ I stammered out an explanation. I was not Miss Jessop. Was Mr. Everard Bone there? ‘My son is at a meeting of the Prehistoric Society,’ said the voice. ‘Oh, I see. I’m so sorry to have bothered you,’ I said. ‘People are always bothering me—I never wanted to have the telephone put in at all.’
After a further apology I hung up the receiver, shaken and mystified but at the same time relieved. Everard Bone was at a meeting of the Prehistoric Society. It sounded like a joke. I could hardly be expected to pursue my enquiries any further, so I decided that I was an interfering busybody and went upstairs to get my supper. I opened a tin of baked beans, thinking that it would be easy and quick, for I could not rid myself of the feeling that Rockingham Napier might arrive at any moment and that I might have to go down and open the door. He would certainly have no latch-key and he might not have had supper. I now began to feel almost agitated; I hurried about the kitchen, eating the baked beans in ten minutes or less, quite without dignity, and then washing up. I had made a cup of coffee and taken it into the sitting-room when I heard a taxi draw up and then Mrs. Napier’s bell ringing.
I hesitated at the top of the stairs, feeling nervous and stupid, for this was a situation I had not experienced before, and my training did not seem to be quite equal to it. Also, I suddenly thought of the parrot in a cage and that was distracting.
I opened the door rather timidly, hoping that he would not be too disappointed when he saw that I was not his wife.
‘I’m afraid Mrs. Napier is out,’ I said, ‘but I heard the bell and came down.’
It was a good thing he began talking, for I am not used to meeting handsome men and I am afraid that I must have been staring at him rather rudely. And yet it was his manner that charmed me rather than his looks, though he was dark and elegant and had all those attributes that are usually considered to make a man handsome.
‘How very nice of you to come down,’ he said, and I could see, though it is impossible to put into words, exactly what Helena had meant when she talked about him putting the awkward Wren officers at their ease. ‘It’s lucky for me you were in. I think you must be Miss Lathbury.’
‘Yes, I am,’ I said, surprised. ‘But how did you know?’
‘Helena mentioned you in a letter.’
I could not help wondering how she had described me. ‘Yes, we have met once or twice,’ I said, ‘I live in the flat above you.’
We were going upstairs now, I leading the way and he following with his suitcases. Fortunately the doors of their flat were unlocked and I showed him into the sitting-room.
‘Oh, my things, how good it is to be with them again!’ he exclaimed, going over to the bookcase and picking up one of the paper-weights which were arranged on the top. ‘And my chairs, too. Don’t you think they’re beautiful?’
‘Yes, they are lovely,’ I said, hovering in the doorway. ‘Do let me know if there’s anything I can do, won’t you?’
‘Oh, please don’t go, unless you have to, that is . . . ?’ He turned his charming smile full on me and I felt a little dazed.
‘Have you had anything to eat?’ I asked.
‘Yes, thank you. I had dinner on the train. It isn’t wise to drop in on Helena and expect to find a meal ready or even anything in the larder. I’m afraid we don’t always agree about the importance of civilised eating.’ He looked round the room. ‘Quite pleasing, isn’t it? I rather feared the worst when Helena told me where we were going to live.’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t one of the best parts of London,’ I said, ‘but I’m fond of it.’
‘Yes, I believe it may have a certain Stimmung. If you live in an unfashionable district you have to find at least that to make it tolerable.’
I was not quite sure what he meant. ‘I like to think of it when it was a marsh and wild boars roamed over it,’ I ventured, remembering something I had read in the local weekly paper. ‘And Aubrey Beardsley lived here once, you know. There is a plaque marking his house.’
‘Oh, perfect!’ He seemed pleased. ‘That does make things rather better. Those exquisite drawings.’
Personally I thought them disgusting, but I made a noncommittal reply.
‘It’s going to be very cold after Italy, though.’ He shivered and rubbed his hands together.
‘I don’t know whether you would like to come up to my flat for a while?’ I suggested. “I have a fire and was just going to make some coffee. But perhaps you’d rather unpack?’
‘No, I should love some coffee.’
‘What a charming room,’ he said when we were in it. ‘You are obviously a person of taste.’
I could not help being pleased at the implied compliment but felt bound to explain that most of the furniture had come from my old home.
‘Ah, yes,’ he paused, as if remembering something, ‘from the old rectory. Helena told me that, too.’
I went into the kitchen and busied myself making more coffee.
‘I hope you’ve had your meal?’ he said, coming in and watching me. ‘I’ve arrived at rather an awkward time.’
I explained that I had just finished supper and added that I found it rather a bother cooking just for myself. ‘I like food,’ I said, ‘but I suppose on the whole women don’t make such a business of living as men do.’ I thought of my half-used tin of baked beans; no doubt I should be seeing that again tomorrow.
‘No, and women don’t really appreciate wine either. I suppose you wouldn’t dream of drinking a bottle of wine by yourself, would you?’
‘Of course not,’ I said, rather primly, I am afraid.
‘That’s what’s so wonderful about living out of England,’ he said, pacing round the small kitchen, ‘such a glorious feeling of well-being, sitting at a table in the sun with a bottle of whatever it happens to be—there’s nothing to equal that, is there?’
‘Yes, I like sitting at a table in the sun,’ I agreed, ‘but I’m afraid I’m one of those typical English tourists who always wants a cup of tea.’
‘And when it comes, it’s a pale straw-coloured liquid . . .’
‘And the tea’s in a funny little bag . . .’
‘And they may even bring hot milk with it . . .’
We both began laughing.
‘But even that has its own kind of charm,’ I said stubbornly; ‘it’s all part of the foreign atmosphere.’
‘The English tourists certainly are,’ he said, ‘though there weren’t any in Italy, of course. I think that was what was lacking, what made life so unnatural. The sightseers were all in uniform, there were no English gentlewomen with Baedekers and large straw hats. I missed that.’
We went on talking about Italy and then somehow I was telling him about the neighbourhood, Julian Malory and his sister and the church.
‘High Mass—with music and incense? Oh, I should like that,’ he said. ‘I hope it is the best quality incense? I believe it varies.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen advertisements,’ I admitted, ‘and they have different names. Lambeth is very expensive, but Pax is quite cheap. It seems as if it ought to be the other way round.’
‘And have you dozens of glamorous acolytes?’
‘Well . . .’ I hesitated, remembering Teddy Lemon, our Master of Ceremonies, with his rough curly hair and anxious face, and his troop of well-drilled, tough-looking little boys, ‘they are very nice good boys, but perhaps you should go to a Kensington church if you want to see glamorous acolytes. I hope you will come to our church sometimes,’ I added more seriously, for I felt that Julian would expect me to ‘say a word’ here.
‘Oh, yes, I shall look in. I’m very fond of going to church, but I don’t like doing anything before breakfast, you know. That’s always seemed to me to be the great snag about religion, don’t you agree?’
‘Well, one feels that a thing is more worth doing if it’s something of an effort,’ I attempted.
‘You mean virtue goes out of you? Ah, yes, how it does, or rather how it would if there was any to go out of me,’ he sighed. ‘I’m sure you have so much.’
I did not altogether like his frivolous attitude, but I could not help liking him. He was so easy to talk to and I could see him at any social gathering, using his charm to make people feel at home, or rather not consciously using it, for the exercise of it seemed natural to him as if he could not help being charming.
We were still talking about churches when we heard voices on the stairs.
‘Do excuse me,’ he said, ‘that must be Helena. Thank you so much for being so kind to me. I hope we shall be meeting often.’ He ran out on to the landing and down the stairs.
I put the coffee cups on to a tray and took them into the kitchen. It was a pity, I felt, that Everard Bone should intrude on the Napiers’ reunion. Still, Helena would no doubt be capable of managing the two of them and it was to be hoped that Everard Bone would have the tact to go away quickly and leave them alone. I was just starting to wash the cups when there was a knock at the door. Rockingham stood there with a straw-covered flask of wine in his hand.
‘We feel this is an occasion,’ he said, ‘and should like you to join us. That is, if you approve of drinking wine at this hour.’
‘Oh, but surely you’d rather be by yourselves . . .’
‘Well, the anthropologist is with us, so it seemed a good idea to make it a party,’ he explained.
I began taking off my apron and tidying my hair, apologising as I did so, in what I felt was a stupid, fussy way, for my appearance. As if anyone would care how I looked or even notice me, I told myself scornfully.
‘You look very nice,’ said Rockingham, smiling in such a way that he could almost have meant it.
Helena and Everard Bone were in the sitting-room, she putting glasses out and he standing over by the window. I was able to study his profile with its sharp-pointed nose and decide that I disliked it, until he turned towards me and stared with what seemed to be disapproval.
‘Good evening,’ I said, feeling very silly.
‘You do know each other, don’t you?’ said Helena.
‘Yes, at least I’ve seen Mr. Bone on the stairs,’ I explained.
‘Oh, yes, I do remember meeting somebody on the stairs once or twice,’ he said indifferently. ‘Was it you?’
‘Yes.’
‘How marvellous that you were here when Rocky arrived,’ said Helena in a quick nervous tone, ‘too awful for him, coming home to an empty house, but he said you were marvellous and I don’t believe he’s missed me at all, have you, darling?’
She did not wait for him to answer but ran back into the kitchen to fetch something. Rockingham was pouring the wine, so that I was left standing awkwardly with Everard.
‘I believe you’re an anthropologist,’ I said, making what I felt was a brave attempt at conversation. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t know anything about anthropology.’
‘Why should you?’ he asked, half smiling.
‘It must be fun,’ I floundered, ‘I mean, going round Africa and doing all that.’
‘“Fun” is hardly the word,’ he said. ‘It’s very hard work, learning an impossibly difficult language, then endless questionings and statistics, writing up notes and all the rest of it.’
‘No, I suppose it isn’t,’ I said soberly, for he had certainly not made it sound fun. ‘But there must be something satisfying in having done it, a sort of feeling of achievement?’
‘Achievement?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘But what has one done really? I sometimes wonder if it isn’t all a waste of time.’
‘It depends what you set out to do,’ I said rather crossly, feeling like Alice in Wonderland. I was doing very badly here and was grateful when Rockingham came to the rescue.
‘Oh, they hate you to think they get any enjoyment out of it,’ he said rather spitefully.
‘But I do enjoy it,’ said Helena; ‘we aren’t all as dreary as Everard. I simply loved it. And now we’ve got to do all the writing up; that’s what we’ve been discussing this evening. We’re to give a paper before one of the learned societies. Miss Lathbury,’ she turned to me with unnatural animation, ‘you simply must come and hear it.’
‘Yes, Miss Lathbury, you and I will sit at the back and observe the anthropologists,’ said Rockingham. ‘They study mankind and we will study them.’
‘Well, the society is in many ways a primitive community,’ said Everard, ‘and offers the same opportunities for fieldwork.’
‘When is it to be?’ I asked.
‘Oh, quite soon, next month even,’ said Helena.
‘We must get on,’ said Everard in an irritable tone. ‘The thing will never be ready if we don’t hurry.’
‘It must take a lot of work putting it all together,’ I said. ‘I should be very nervous at the thought of it.’
‘Oh, well, it isn’t that. Our stuff is quite new but one wants it to be good.’
‘Oh, certainly,’ I agreed.
‘Well, darling . . .’ Helena looked at her husband and raised her glass. ‘Isn’t it lovely to have him back again?’ she said to nobody in particular.
Everard said nothing but raised his glass politely, so I did the same.
‘More to drink!’ said Rockingham with rather forced gaiety. He came towards me with the straw-covered flask and I let him refill my glass, although it was by no means empty. I began to see how people could need drink to cover up embarrassments, and I remembered many sticky church functions which might have been improved if somebody had happened to open a bottle of wine. But people like us had to rely on the tea-urn and I felt that some credit was due to us for doing as well as we did on that harmless stimulant. This party, if such it could be called, was not going well and I did not feel socially equal to the situation. My experience, which had admittedly been a little narrow, had not so far included anything in the least like it. I wished that Everard Bone would go, but he was talking seriously to Helena about some aspect of their paper, ignoring or not noticing the awkwardness. At last, however, he said he must be going, and said good-night quite pleasantly to Rockingham and me and rather more coldly to Helena, mentioning that he would be ringing her up within the next few days about the kinship diagrams.
‘We must get on,’ he repeated.
‘I shall look forward to hearing your paper,’ I said, feeling that some effort was required and that it was up to me to make it.
‘Oh, you will find it deadly dull,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t expect too much.’
I forebore to remark that women like me really expected very little—nothing, almost.
‘Well, well,’ said Rockingham as we heard the front door close, ‘so that is the great Everard Bone.’
‘Great?’ said Helena, surprised. ‘I’m afraid he was at his worst tonight. Don’t you think he’s intolerably pompous and boring, Miss Lathbury?’ She turned to me, her eyes shining.
‘He seems very nice and he’s certainly rather good-looking.’
‘Oh, do you think so? I don’t find fair men at all attractive.’
It seemed pointless to follow up that line, so I admitted that I had found him difficult to talk to, but that that was not surprising since I was not used to meeting intellectuals.
‘Oh, he’s impossible!’ she burst out.
‘Never mind, wait till you see what I’ve brought for you,’ said Rockingham in a soothing tone as if speaking to a child. ‘I’ve got some majolica and a pottery breakfast set packed up with my other luggage, and the usual trifles here.’ He opened one of his suitcases and took out a bottle of perfume, several pairs of silk stockings and some small pottery objects. ‘And you mustn’t go yet, Miss Lathbury,’ he called, seeing me moving uncertainly towards the door. ‘I should like you to have something.’
He put a little china goat into my hand. ‘There, let it go among the bearded archdeacons and suchlike.’
‘Oh, it’s charming—thank you so much. . . .’
I went upstairs and put it on the table by my bed. Had he been a little drunk? I wondered. I believed the wine had made me feel a little unsteady too, but then I was not used to it and the whole evening had a fantastic air about it, as if it couldn’t really have happened.
I lay awake feeling thirsty and obscurely worried about something. Well, there was really no need for me to see very much of the Napiers. Circumstances had thrown us together this evening but tomorrow we should all be keeping to ourselves. I did not suppose that Helena would remember her invitation to me to hear their paper at the learned society, so I would not expect it. I would ask Dora to stay in the Easter holidays. I couldn’t see her getting on very well with Rockingham, or Rocky as I now thought of him. He was not at all the sort of person either of us had been used to meeting, yet I seemed to have found it quite easy to talk to him, I thought smugly. But then I remembered the Wren officers and I knew what it was that was worrying me. It was part of his charm that he could make people like that feel at ease. He must be rather a shallow sort of person really. Not nearly so worthwhile as Julian Malory, or Mr. Mallett and Mr. Conybeare our churchwardens, or even Teddy Lemon, who had no social graces . . . as I dozed off I remembered that I had forgotten to say my prayers. There came into my mind a picture of Mr. Mallett, with raised finger and roguish voice, saying, ‘Tut, tut, Miss Lathbury . . .’