special church in London?’ I asked.
‘I go where it suits me, and when.’
I was a little chilled by the unfriendliness of his answer. ‘I don’t even know where you live,’ I said at last.
‘Holland Park, vaguely, though perhaps a little nearer to the Goldhawk Road than the address might suggest.’
‘That seems rather vague, but you must be somewhere near where I live.’
‘Not really, Wilmet. The dividing line between elegance and squalor may be a narrow one in London, but the distinction is very rigid.’
‘I hope you don’t live in squalor. Have you a flat or rooms, or what?’ I asked, driven on by curiosity and intrigued by the hint of squalor.
‘Well, a kind of flat.’
‘And you live by yourself?’
He seemed to hesitate, so I said quickly, ‘I imagine you sharing with a colleague, perhaps.’
‘Yes, that’s about it.’
I supposed I could hardly probe further, though I couldn’t help wondering if he lived with a woman and what he would have answered if I had asked him outright.
‘Are you going back this evening?’ I went on.
‘Yes, I must be at the press at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’
He seemed tired and dispirited, and we drove the rest of the way in silence. As we got out of the car he said, ‘At least there’ll be the Sunday morning gins.’
After lunch we dozed over the Sunday papers. When it was teatime Rowena went to the window to pull the long yellow curtains.
‘The evenings are drawing in,’ she said. ‘I hate November, and after tea on Sunday, too. I suppose it’s because people begin to feel the oppression of Monday morning and another week upon them, and it’s infectious, even if one doesn’t work in an office oneself. Piers, what exactly do you do at the press?’
‘Oh, just correct proofs. Menial work, really.’
‘But you have your evening classes.’
‘Yes, I have those.’
‘Teaching is creative work in a way, I always think. You must feel that you are moulding people.’
‘You should see what I have to mould,’ said Piers gloomily.
‘And teaching takes it out of you, of course,’ Rowena laughed. ‘You are giving of yourself, or should be.’
‘I doubt if people would want my kind of self,’ said Piers in a dry tone, ‘so I’m not all that generous.’
In the morning, when we were waiting for the Green Line bus, Rowena took my hand and said earnestly, ‘Wilmet, darling, do try and see something of Piers if you can. I’m sure it would be so good for him to have a nice female friend—if you could bear it, that is.’
‘I expect he has lots,’ I said. ‘After all he’s very attractive.’
‘I don’t know, really. He tends not to speak of his friends here, and I do sometimes wonder if they’re the right kind.’ Rowena frowned and then burst into laughter. ‘Oh dear, that makes you sound dreary, being so very much the right kind yourself, but you know what I mean. Do give my love to Rodney, won’t you?’
When Rodney came home in the evening he asked, ‘How was old Harry Grinners?’ which had been our joking nickname for Harry before we really knew him. We spent some time reminiscing about our time in Italy—long evening drives in curious army vehicles with now forgotten names, the headlights picking out an urn or a coat of arms on the gateway to some villa, or illuminating a crowd of people in the square of a little town—the rococo dining-room of a particular officers’ club where the Asti Spumante was wann and flat, and there were too many drunken majors … remembered now after ten years this life had a fantastic dreamlike quality about it.
‘By the way,’ said Rodney suddenly, ‘I meant to tell you, Bason has apparently got that job as housekeeper at the clergy house. I gather he’s moving in immediately. I hope he’ll turn out all right. In a way I feel responsible for his good behaviour.’
At that moment the telephone rang. It was Mary Beamish. I wondered rather apprehensively what she could be
‘I go where it suits me, and when.’
I was a little chilled by the unfriendliness of his answer. ‘I don’t even know where you live,’ I said at last.
‘Holland Park, vaguely, though perhaps a little nearer to the Goldhawk Road than the address might suggest.’
‘That seems rather vague, but you must be somewhere near where I live.’
‘Not really, Wilmet. The dividing line between elegance and squalor may be a narrow one in London, but the distinction is very rigid.’
‘I hope you don’t live in squalor. Have you a flat or rooms, or what?’ I asked, driven on by curiosity and intrigued by the hint of squalor.
‘Well, a kind of flat.’
‘And you live by yourself?’
He seemed to hesitate, so I said quickly, ‘I imagine you sharing with a colleague, perhaps.’
‘Yes, that’s about it.’
I supposed I could hardly probe further, though I couldn’t help wondering if he lived with a woman and what he would have answered if I had asked him outright.
‘Are you going back this evening?’ I went on.
‘Yes, I must be at the press at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’
He seemed tired and dispirited, and we drove the rest of the way in silence. As we got out of the car he said, ‘At least there’ll be the Sunday morning gins.’
After lunch we dozed over the Sunday papers. When it was teatime Rowena went to the window to pull the long yellow curtains.
‘The evenings are drawing in,’ she said. ‘I hate November, and after tea on Sunday, too. I suppose it’s because people begin to feel the oppression of Monday morning and another week upon them, and it’s infectious, even if one doesn’t work in an office oneself. Piers, what exactly do you do at the press?’
‘Oh, just correct proofs. Menial work, really.’
‘But you have your evening classes.’
‘Yes, I have those.’
‘Teaching is creative work in a way, I always think. You must feel that you are moulding people.’
‘You should see what I have to mould,’ said Piers gloomily.
‘And teaching takes it out of you, of course,’ Rowena laughed. ‘You are giving of yourself, or should be.’
‘I doubt if people would want my kind of self,’ said Piers in a dry tone, ‘so I’m not all that generous.’
In the morning, when we were waiting for the Green Line bus, Rowena took my hand and said earnestly, ‘Wilmet, darling, do try and see something of Piers if you can. I’m sure it would be so good for him to have a nice female friend—if you could bear it, that is.’
‘I expect he has lots,’ I said. ‘After all he’s very attractive.’
‘I don’t know, really. He tends not to speak of his friends here, and I do sometimes wonder if they’re the right kind.’ Rowena frowned and then burst into laughter. ‘Oh dear, that makes you sound dreary, being so very much the right kind yourself, but you know what I mean. Do give my love to Rodney, won’t you?’
When Rodney came home in the evening he asked, ‘How was old Harry Grinners?’ which had been our joking nickname for Harry before we really knew him. We spent some time reminiscing about our time in Italy—long evening drives in curious army vehicles with now forgotten names, the headlights picking out an urn or a coat of arms on the gateway to some villa, or illuminating a crowd of people in the square of a little town—the rococo dining-room of a particular officers’ club where the Asti Spumante was wann and flat, and there were too many drunken majors … remembered now after ten years this life had a fantastic dreamlike quality about it.
‘By the way,’ said Rodney suddenly, ‘I meant to tell you, Bason has apparently got that job as housekeeper at the clergy house. I gather he’s moving in immediately. I hope he’ll turn out all right. In a way I feel responsible for his good behaviour.’
At that moment the telephone rang. It was Mary Beamish. I wondered rather apprehensively what she could be
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