Excellent Women by Barbara Pym Page B

Mrs. Gray’s voice was quiet and Sister Blatt was upon me. I was glad that I should have her help at the clothing stall, always the most popular. Each garment had been carefully priced, but even so there would be arguments and struggles among the buyers and the usual appeals for one of us to arbitrate.
    The sale was being held in the parish hall, a bare room with green painted walls, from which an oil painting of Father Busby, the first vicar, looked down to bless our activities. At least, we liked to think of him as doing that, though if one examined the portrait carefully it appeared rather as if he were admiring his long bushy beard which one hand seemed to be stroking. A billiard table, a darts board and the other harmless amusements of the boys’ club stood at one end of the hall. Behind the hatch near the door Miss Enders, Miss Statham and my Mrs. Morris, apparently no longer troubled about birettas and Popes toes, were busy with the tea urns. Julian Malory, in flannels and sports jacket, supported by Teddy Lemon and a few strong ‘lads’ waited near the doors to stem the rush when they should be opened. Father Greatorex, wearing a cassock and an old navy blue overcoat of the kind worn by Civil Defence workers during the war, stood uncertainly in the middle of the room.
    Sister Blatt looked at me and clicked her teeth with irritation. ‘Oh, that man! How he gets on my nerves!’
    ‘He certainly is rather useless at jumble sales,’ I agreed, ‘but then he’s so good, saintly almost,’ I faltered, for I really had no evidence to support my statement apart from the fact that his habitual dress of cassock and old overcoat seemed to indicate a disregard for the conventions of this world which implied a preoccupation with higher things.
    ‘Saintly!’ snorted Sister Blatt. ‘I don’t know what’s given you that idea. Just because a man takes Orders in middle age and goes about looking like an old tramp! He was no good in business so he went into the Church—that’s not what we want.’
    ‘Oh, come now,’ I protested, ‘surely you’re being rather hard? After all, he is a good man….’
    ‘And Mr. Mallett and Mr. Conybeare, just look at them,’ she went on in a voice loud enough for our two churchwardens to hear. ‘It wouldn’t do them any harm to soil their hands with a little honest toil. Teddy Lemon and the boys put up all the trestles and carried the urns.’
    ‘Yes, Sister, we found everything had been done when we put in an appearance,’ said Mr. Mallett, a round jolly little man. ‘It was quite a blow, I can tell you. We had hoped to be able to help you ladies. But they also serve who only stand and wait, as the poet says.’
    ‘You certainly came early enough,’ said Sister Blatt with heavy sarcasm.
    ‘The early bird catches the worm,’ said Mr. Conybeare, a tall stringy man with pince-nez.
    ‘Now, Mr. Conybeare, I hope you’re not suggesting that they’re any worms here,’ giggled Miss Statham from behind the hatch. ‘You’ll catch something else if you don’t get out of the way. And don’t think I’m going to give you a cup of tea till you’ve earned it….’
    But at that moment, Julian, watch in hand, ordered the doors to be opened. The surging crowd outside was kept in check by Teddy Lemon and his supporters, while Julian took the threepences for admission; but once past him they rushed for the stalls.
    ‘Talk about landing on the Normandy beaches,’ said Sister Blatt, ‘some of our jumble sale crowd would make splendid Commandos.’
    The next few minutes needed great concentration and firmness. I collected money, gave change and tried at the same time to rearrange the tumbled garments, settle arguments and prevent the elderly from being injured in the crush.
    Sister Blatt was free with advice and criticism. ‘You’ll never get into that, Mrs. Ryan,’ she called out derisively to a stout Irishwoman, a Roman Catholic incidentally, who was always in the front of the