Read Online The Wedding Group by Elizabeth Taylor - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Taylor
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about.’ Alexia picked up a rag from a chair. ‘But I wouldn’t say anything. I’d rather go round afterwards. And if only she didn’t cry so much. I’m afraid customers may think we’re cruel to her.’
‘Customers
wouldn’t
think that. One glance at you and Mr Moorhead would suffice. They would surmise that she had private troubles, which is the fact of the matter.’
‘Otherwise, she’s so willing…’
‘She’s a good girl, worth double those others, with their niminy-piminy ways. Butter wouldn’t melt, etcetera, etcetera. She’s the only one of that bunch I’ve any time for. Barring that poor old priest. He’s always been very pleasant, apart from his dirty habits.
Personal
habits, I should say.’
Alexia wondered what other kind of habits could be dirty.
‘It’s as clear as daylight to me what’s going on up there – call it witch-hunt, or what you will. Poor girl! No, what I meant to say was he drops his food down his front – a nasty eater. Egg-stains, the lot. You name it, he’s got it. But he’s good at heart. It’s nice to meet a religious man like that. Of course, your father,’ she said hastily, ‘
he
was out of this world. One in a hundred. A saintly man. He was a byword, and that goes without saying. I’m sure I never heard one thing said against him at any time, and believe you me I get about this village, and have for more years than I care to think about.’
Alexia believed her. I wonder what she’s really come about, she thought.
‘But that poor old sod up there,’ Mrs Brindle went on, ‘although he’s not in the same class as your dear father, and never could be, all the same he wouldn’t harm a fly. It restores your faith in human nature, doesn’t it? Maybe there’s a bit toomuch of this’ – she lifted her bent elbow – ‘but who’s to cast the first stone, after all? I always say that, I say, “Who’s to cast the first stone?”’
‘I sometimes say that too,’ Alexia remarked gravely.
Mrs Brindle swept on. ‘Sometimes he quite confides in me, knowing it won’t go any further. “Mrs Brindle,” he said the other day. “I’m a terrified old man this morning.” Some Monsignor was coming to lunch. “Monsignor” – is that the right word? I’m C. of E. myself, like you. He said, “There’ll be such intellectual arguments, I won’t dare to open my poor bloody mouth for fear of showing my ignorance. They speak French, you know,” he said. It emerged that he can’t. That’s the only time they buy shop wine at Quayne. It seems the Monsignors or what-have-you only drink claret. He enjoys that, but it makes him nod off. “They look down on me, Mrs Brindle,” he said. “They smell the turf on my poor old hands.” Where he comes from, they call peat that, you know. Just for the moment, I thought he was talking about his horse-racing. “They masticate their little ideas,” he said, “and I’m left out in the cold – my proper place.” “Proper place!” I said. I was beginning to boil. Yes, I can tell you, I was really beginning to boil.’ She seemed to rise up, and then simmer down. ‘He’s so human,’ she said, ‘You can’t help liking him.’ She glanced again, thoughtfully, at the brass oil-lamp, and then added, ‘No, if you had some little attic. It wouldn’t matter how small. I know it would seem like heaven to her.’
CHAPTER SIX
David and his friend Jack Ballard, the photographer, had had their success with the series on living painters, and now were sent off to explore the literary shrines of England – a rather duller assignment, they considered.
Midge was at this time living in the future, as she lived most of her life, and the present, with David away, went very slowly for her. He came home only at week-ends, and the days between formed a pattern of slowly rising spirits from the despair of Monday onwards.
David and Jack Ballard went motoring up and down England in search of the scenes of its past glories –
‘Customers
wouldn’t
think that. One glance at you and Mr Moorhead would suffice. They would surmise that she had private troubles, which is the fact of the matter.’
‘Otherwise, she’s so willing…’
‘She’s a good girl, worth double those others, with their niminy-piminy ways. Butter wouldn’t melt, etcetera, etcetera. She’s the only one of that bunch I’ve any time for. Barring that poor old priest. He’s always been very pleasant, apart from his dirty habits.
Personal
habits, I should say.’
Alexia wondered what other kind of habits could be dirty.
‘It’s as clear as daylight to me what’s going on up there – call it witch-hunt, or what you will. Poor girl! No, what I meant to say was he drops his food down his front – a nasty eater. Egg-stains, the lot. You name it, he’s got it. But he’s good at heart. It’s nice to meet a religious man like that. Of course, your father,’ she said hastily, ‘
he
was out of this world. One in a hundred. A saintly man. He was a byword, and that goes without saying. I’m sure I never heard one thing said against him at any time, and believe you me I get about this village, and have for more years than I care to think about.’
Alexia believed her. I wonder what she’s really come about, she thought.
‘But that poor old sod up there,’ Mrs Brindle went on, ‘although he’s not in the same class as your dear father, and never could be, all the same he wouldn’t harm a fly. It restores your faith in human nature, doesn’t it? Maybe there’s a bit toomuch of this’ – she lifted her bent elbow – ‘but who’s to cast the first stone, after all? I always say that, I say, “Who’s to cast the first stone?”’
‘I sometimes say that too,’ Alexia remarked gravely.
Mrs Brindle swept on. ‘Sometimes he quite confides in me, knowing it won’t go any further. “Mrs Brindle,” he said the other day. “I’m a terrified old man this morning.” Some Monsignor was coming to lunch. “Monsignor” – is that the right word? I’m C. of E. myself, like you. He said, “There’ll be such intellectual arguments, I won’t dare to open my poor bloody mouth for fear of showing my ignorance. They speak French, you know,” he said. It emerged that he can’t. That’s the only time they buy shop wine at Quayne. It seems the Monsignors or what-have-you only drink claret. He enjoys that, but it makes him nod off. “They look down on me, Mrs Brindle,” he said. “They smell the turf on my poor old hands.” Where he comes from, they call peat that, you know. Just for the moment, I thought he was talking about his horse-racing. “They masticate their little ideas,” he said, “and I’m left out in the cold – my proper place.” “Proper place!” I said. I was beginning to boil. Yes, I can tell you, I was really beginning to boil.’ She seemed to rise up, and then simmer down. ‘He’s so human,’ she said, ‘You can’t help liking him.’ She glanced again, thoughtfully, at the brass oil-lamp, and then added, ‘No, if you had some little attic. It wouldn’t matter how small. I know it would seem like heaven to her.’
CHAPTER SIX
David and his friend Jack Ballard, the photographer, had had their success with the series on living painters, and now were sent off to explore the literary shrines of England – a rather duller assignment, they considered.
Midge was at this time living in the future, as she lived most of her life, and the present, with David away, went very slowly for her. He came home only at week-ends, and the days between formed a pattern of slowly rising spirits from the despair of Monday onwards.
David and Jack Ballard went motoring up and down England in search of the scenes of its past glories –
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