The next afternoon I was helping Winifred to sort out things for the jumble sale.
‘Oh, I think it’s dreadful when people send their relations to jumble sales,’ she said. ‘How can they do it?’ She held up a tarnished silver frame from which the head and shoulders of a woman dressed in Edwardian style looked out. ‘And here’s another, a clergyman, too.’
‘A very young curate, just out of the egg, I should think,’ I said, looking over her shoulder at the smooth beardless face above the high collar.
‘It might almost be somebody we know,’ lamented Winifred. ‘Imagine if it were and one saw it lying on the stall! What a shock it would be! I really think I must take the photographs out—it’s the frames people will want to buy.’
‘I don’t suppose their own relatives send them,’ I said comfortingly. ‘I expect the photographs have been in the boxroom for years and nobody knows who they are now.’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s it. But it’s the idea of being unwanted, it’s like sending a person to a jumble sale—do you see? You feel it more as you get older, of course. Young people would only laugh and think what a silly idea.’
I could see very well what she meant, for unmarried women with no ties could very well become unwanted. I should feel it even more than Winifred, for who was there really to grieve for me when I was gone? Dora, the Malorys, one or two people in my old village might be sorry, but I was not really first in anybody’s life. I could so very easily be replaced. . . . I thought it better not to go into this too deeply with Winifred, for she was of a romantic, melancholy nature, apt to imagine herself in situations. She kept by her bed a volume of Christina Rossetti’s poems bound in limp green suède, though she had not, as far as I knew, had the experience to make those much-quoted poems appropriate. I feel sure that she would have told me if there had been someone of whom she could think when she read
Better by far you should forget and smile,
Than that you should remember and be sad . . .
‘Well, you’ll never be unwanted,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Goodness knows what Julian would do without you.’
‘Oh, my goodness!’ She laughed as if she had suddenly remembered something. ‘You should just see him now! He had the idea that he’d distemper the rooms we’re going to let and he’s got into such a mess. I started to help, but then I remembered I had to do these things, so Miss Statham and Miss Enders and Sister Blatt are up there giving helpful advice.’
‘Oh, dear, I should think he needs more practical help than that,’ I said. ‘May I go up and see?’
‘Yes, do. I’ll go on sorting out these things. You know, I think I shall buy this skirt for myself,’ I heard her murmuring; ‘there’s a lot of wear in it yet.’
The sound of women’s voices raised in what seemed to be a lamentation led me to a large room on the top floor, where I found Julian Malory sitting on top of a step-ladder, holding a brush and wearing an old cassock streaked with yellow distemper. Standing round him were Miss Statham and Miss Enders, two birdlike little women whom I tended to confuse, and Sister Blatt, stout and rosy in her grey uniform, with a blunt no-nonsense manner.
They were all staring at a wall which Julian had apparently just finished.
‘Well, I hope it’s going to dry a different colour,’ said Sister Blatt; ‘the one it is now would drive anyone mad.’
‘It said Old Gold on the tin,’ said Julian unhappily. ‘Perhaps I mixed it too thickly.’
‘Of the consistency of thin cream,’ said Miss Enders, reading from the tin. ‘That’s how it should be.’
‘Of course it’s difficult to remember what cream was like,’ said Miss Statham. ‘I suppose thin cream might be like the top of the milk.’
‘Oh, Mildred,’ Julian waved his brush towards me in a despairing gesture, showering everybody with drops of distemper, ‘do come to the rescue!’
‘What can I do?’
‘Nothing,’ said Sister Blatt, almost with satisfaction. ‘I’m afraid Father Malory has done the wall the wrong colour. The only thing will be to wait till it’s dry and then do it over again with a lighter shade. And it looks so streaky, too,’ she bent down and peered closely at the wall. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, I’m afraid I shouldn’t care to live with walls that colour.’
‘I believe it does dry lighter,’ I said hopefully.
‘I wish I’d got the boys’ club to do it,’ said Julian. ‘I’m afraid I’m no good at practical things. I always think it must be such a satisfying feeling, to do good work with one’s hands. I’m sure I’ve preached about it often enough.’
‘Ah, well, we aren’t meant to be satisfied in this world,’ said Sister Blatt; ‘perhaps that’s what it is.’
Julian smiled. ‘It seems a little hard that I shouldn’t be allowed even this small satisfaction, but I’ve certainly learnt humility this afternoon, so the exercise will have served some purpose. It looked so easy, too,’ he added sadly.
‘Oh, well, things are never as easy as they seem to be,’ said Miss Statham complacently.
‘No, they certainly are not,’ agreed Miss Enders, who was a dressmaker. ‘People often say to me that they’re just going to run up a cotton dress or a straight skirt, but then they find it isn’t as easy as it looks and they come running to me to put it right.’
‘I wish you could put this right, Miss Enders,’ said Julian, drooping on the top of his ladder.
‘Look,’ I called out, ‘it is drying lighter, and quite evenly too. I suppose it would naturally be darker when it was wet.’
‘Why, so it is,’ said Sister Blatt. ‘It’s quite a nice colour now.’
‘Mildred, how clever of you,’ said Julian gratefully. ‘I knew you would help.’
‘Well, well, now that we’ve seen you on your way we may as well be going on ours,’ said Sister Blatt good-humouredly.
‘Thank you for your help and advice,’ said Julian with a touch of irony.
‘Is Father Malory going to attempt the ceiling?’ asked Miss Statham in a low voice.
‘That’s the most difficult part,’ said Miss Enders.
‘Oh, well, as a clergyman he will naturally wish to make the attempt,’ said Sister Blatt, with a jolly laugh. ‘Perhaps Miss Lathbury will help him. I’m afraid the ladder would hardly bear my weight,’ she added comfortably, looking down at her grey-clad bulk. ‘In any case, I believe the ceiling should have been done before the walls. If you do the ceiling now, Father, the walls will get splashed with white.’
‘So they will,’ said Julian patiently. ‘Excellent women,’ he sighed, when they had gone. ‘I think we will knock off for tea now, don’t you?’
‘You could ask for volunteers from the choir or the boys’ club to finish it,’ I suggested. ‘I’m sure Teddy Lemon would be good at that kind of thing. Men love messing about with paint and distemper.’
‘I suppose I am not to be considered as a normal man,’ said Julian, taking off his yellow-streaked cassock and draping it over the step-ladder, ‘and yet I do have these manly feelings.’
We found Winifred in the hall with a case of stuffed birds.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘from Mrs. Noad—the usual.’
‘The house must be quite bare of birds considering that she sends some to every sale,’ I remarked.
‘Oh, there are plenty more,’ said Julian. ‘I believe these come from the lumber-room. There are even finer specimens in the hall, some quite menacing with raised wings. These are very small ones, almost like sparrows.’
‘Oh, they’ll go like hot cakes,’ said Winifred; ‘there’s always competition to buy them. Let’s go and have tea.’
Tea at the vicarage was a safer meal than most and today there was even a rather plain-looking cake.
‘I must ask the Napiers if they have any jumble,’ I said. ‘He may have some old civilian suit that he doesn’t want or even a uniform with the buttons and braid removed.’
‘One hears that so many husbands coming back from the war find that their civilian clothes have been devoured by moth,’ said Winifred seriously. ‘That must be a dreadful shock.’
‘Oh, the women should look after that sort of thing,’ said Julian. ‘Mothballs, camphor and so on,’ he added vaguely. ‘I believe it’s perfectly possible to keep the moth at bay. Do you think Mrs. Napier has done her duty in that respect?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly, for it occurred to me that perhaps she had not. I could not imagine her doing these methodical wifely things.
‘Have you met him yet?’ Winifred asked.
‘Oh, yes, he’s charming. Good-looking, amusing and so easy to talk to. I’m very much taken with him.’
‘It sounds almost as if you have fallen in love with him,’ said Julian teasingly, ‘if he has made such a favourable first impression.’
‘Oh, that’s ridiculous!’ I protested. ‘I’ve only met him once and he’s probably younger than I am. Besides, he’s a married man.’
‘I’m very glad to hear you say that, Mildred,’ said Julian more seriously. ‘So many people nowadays seem to forget that it should be a barrier.’
‘Now, Julian, we don’t want a sermon,’ said Winifred. ‘You know Mildred would never do anything wrong or foolish.’
I reflected a little sadly that this was only too true and hoped I did not appear too much that kind of person to others. Virtue is an excellent thing and we should all strive after it, but it can sometimes be a little depressing.
‘Pass Mildred something to eat,’ said Winifred.
‘I hope she knows us well enough to help herself without being asked,’ said Julian, ‘otherwise I’m afraid she would get very little.’
I took another piece of cake and there was a short lull in the conversation, during which I considered Julian’s suggestion that I might have fallen in love with Rockingham Napier. It was of course quite impossible, but I certainly felt the power of his charm, and I should often have to remind myself of the awkward Wren officers and how he had made them feel at ease in the Admiral’s villa. But I have never been very much given to falling in love and have often felt sorry that I have so far missed not only the experience of marriage, but the perhaps even greater and more ennobling one of having loved and lost. Of course there had been a curate or two in my schooldays and later a bank-clerk who read the Lessons, but none of these passions had gone very deep.
‘And now,’ said Julian, taking advantage of the silence, ‘I have an announcement to make.’
‘Oh, what is it?’ we both exclaimed.
‘I believe I have found a tenant for our flat.’
‘Oh, Julian, how exciting!’ Winifred waved her hands in an impulsive movement and knocked over the hot-water jug. ‘Do tell us who it is!’
‘Is it somebody really suitable?’ I asked.
‘Most suitable, I think,’ said Julian. ‘She is a Mrs. Gray, a widow.’
‘That sounds excellent. A Mrs. Gray, a widow,’ I repeated. ‘I can just imagine her.’
‘Oh, so can I!’ said Winifred enthusiastically. ‘A neat little person of about sixty, rather nicely dressed.’
‘Well, I’m afraid you’re quite wrong,’ said Julian. ‘I should think she is very little older than Mildred. And she is tall, but nicely dressed, I dare say; you know I don’t really notice such things.’
‘But where did you find her?’ I asked. ‘Did you advertise in the Church Times?’
‘No, that was not necessary. She is actually living in this parish, in furnished rooms at the moment. You may have seen her in church, though she told me she always sat at the back.’
‘Oh, really? I wonder . . .’ Winifred began to enumerate all the strangers she had noticed lately, but somehow we did not seem to be able to identify Mrs. Gray. Julian’s description was vague enough to fit any of two or three women we could remember having noticed as strangers.
‘How did she know about the flat?’ I asked.
‘She went to Miss Enders to have a dress altered and I suppose they got talking. Then she mentioned the matter to Father Greatorex and he told me. She felt she did not like to approach me directly. She is a clergyman’s widow, you see,’ Julian added, as if this would explain a delicacy not usually displayed by people engaged in the desperate business of flat-hunting.
‘Oh, good,’ I exclaimed involuntarily, for I had an inexplicable distrust of widows, who seem to be of two distinct kinds, one of which may be dangerous. I felt that Mrs. Gray sounded very definitely of the safer kind.
‘I gather that she hasn’t much money,’ said Julian, ‘so I hardly know what would be a fair rent to ask. I found I couldn’t bring myself to mention it, and neither, apparently, could she.’
‘Well, really, I should have thought that would have been her first question,’ I said, thinking what a remarkable delicate conversation they must have had. ‘She can hardly expect to get three rooms for nothing. You must be careful she doesn’t try to do you down.’
‘Oh, Mildred,’ Julian looked grieved, ‘you wouldn’t say that if you had seen her. She has such sad eyes.’
‘No; I’m sorry,’ I mumbled, for I had been forgetting that she was a clergyman’s widow.
‘Of course we don’t want to make any profit out of it,’ said Winifred, ‘so I’m sure we can come to some friendly arrangement. Perhaps I could discuss it with her; it might be less embarrassing with a woman.’
Julian looked at his sister doubtfully and then at me. ‘Of course Mildred would be the ideal person,’ he said.
‘You mean because I’m used to dealing with impoverished gentlewomen?’ I asked. ‘But I’m afraid it’s made me develop a rather suspicious attitude. You see, we sometimes get people who aren’t genuine and every case has to be carefully investigated.’
‘Really, how distressing! I had no idea people would try that sort of thing.’
‘How terrible!’ said Winifred. ‘It always saddens me when I hear of wickedness like that. Especially among gentlewomen.’
‘Yes, perhaps one does expect rather more of them,’ I agreed, ‘but I can assure you it does sometimes happen.’ The Malorys often gave me a feeling that I knew more of the wickedness of the world than they did, especially as I had learned much of the weaknesses of human nature in my Censorship work, but so much of my knowledge was at second hand that I doubted whether there was much to choose between us in worldly wisdom. But I did feel that they were simpler and more trusting by nature than I was.
‘Oh, I expect I shall be able to manage it quite satisfactorily,’ said Julian. ‘It would hardly be fair to expect Mildred to deal with something that doesn’t concern her at all.’
‘I will if you like,’ I said doubtfully, ‘but of course it’s not really my business.’ I did not then know to the extent I do now that practically anything may be the business of an unattached woman with no troubles of her own, who takes a kindly interest in those of her friends.
‘We must look out for Mrs. Gray in church,’ said Winifred. ‘I think I know who she is. I believe she sometimes wears a silver fox fur.’
‘I thought Julian said she hadn’t much money,’ I said, ‘though of course the fur might have been left over from more prosperous days.’
‘It’s a rather bushy fur,’ said Winifred. ‘Perhaps it isn’t silver fox at all. I don’t know much about these things.’
‘I don’t think she was wearing a fur when I saw her,’ said Julian, ‘but she did appear to be nicely dressed.’
‘I hope she won’t distract you from writing your sermons, Julian,’ I said jokingly. ‘We shall probably notice a marked falling off in your preaching when Mrs. Gray moves in.’
Julian laughed and got up from the table. ‘I must go back to my distempering,’ he said, ‘or the place won’t be habitable. I shall enjoy it now that I know the colour dries lighter. I have certainly learnt something this afternoon.’
Winifred smiled affectionately after him as he left the room. ‘Men are just children, really, aren’t they. He’s as happy as a sandboy when he’s doing something messy. Now, Mildred, perhaps we could get on with pricing these things for the sale?’
We spent a contented half hour going through the jumble and speculating about Mrs. Gray.
‘Julian didn’t really tell us what she was like,’ lamented Winifred.
‘No, but I suppose women of my sort and age are difficult to describe, unless they’re strikingly beautiful, of course.’
‘Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely,’ Winifred pushed back her untidy grey hair, ‘if she were strikingly beautiful!’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it would if she could be nice as well, but one feels that beautiful people aren’t always.’
‘But she’s a clergyman’s widow. . . .’
‘Oh, dear,’ I laughed, ‘I’d forgotten that.’ It seemed like a kind of magic formula. ‘So she’s to be beautiful as well as good. That sounds almost too much. We don’t know how her husband died, do we? She may have driven him to his grave.’
Winifred looked rather shocked, so I stopped my foolish imaginings and went on pricing the worn garments, stuffed birds, old shoes, golf clubs, theological books, popular dance tunes of the ’thirties, fenders and photograph frames—jumble in all its glory.
‘I wonder . . .’ said Winifred thoughtfully, ‘I wonder what her Christian name is?’