Sunday Best by Bernice Rubens

insignificant piece of information is important. I have every intention of getting to thebottom of this matter.’
    He was blissfully unaware of the aptness of his metaphor. I allowed myself a little giggle. I was entitled to that after all, and felt no need to excuse myself for it. He was closing the meeting and thanking us for our attendance, as if we had any other choice, and as he rose, he called, ‘Mr Verrey Smith. A word with you, if I may.’
    I trembled. Was it possible I was not completely in the clear, that out of deference to my feelings, he had chosen privacy for my private prosecution. I hung about, fiddling in my brief-case to give the others time to get out. Miss Price, the eternal aide-de-camp, made no show of making herself scarce, and I was obliged to present myself to both of them.
    â€˜Mr Verrey Smith,’ he started. ‘I find your overall behaviour at this meeting hardly creditable.’ A nod from Miss Price put her squarely in my opposition. ‘Your laughter, which, I take your word for it, was possibly hysterical, is one thing. But your questioning of my sense of justice is quite another. I shall handle the Parsons affair in my own way, and let me be absolutely honest with you, Mr Verrey Smith. Perhaps I am doing you a favour in telling you this. It casts no savoury reflection on your own character if you are bent on defending a man like Parsons and his practices.’ Again I found his phrasing apt, and I smiled a little.
    â€˜I am sorry if you find this a trivial offence, and one wonders what, if anything in your eyes, would appear criminal. When, in the year 1927, in the case of Brown versus Jones Jnr the learned barrister Charles L. Johns defended Brown in the case of sodomy, there was a body of opinion that felt that in his vociferous protest Johns was defending himself. Remember that, Verrey Smith,’ he roared at me. ‘A man is known by the company he defends.’ He opened the door for me on this last remark, and gave me no opportunity for reply, even if I had been able to think of one. And as I walked down the corridor back to the staff-room, my confidence waned considerably. I didn’t believe his story. The Reverend Richard Baines was not the kind of man to have such information at his fingertips. I was convinced that he had made up the story as he went along. He had no confidence in his own argument, and had perforce to avail himself of evidence from better minds than his own, invented or otherwise. Even so, this thought made me feel no better. I had a sudden urge to gohome and get into my Sundays. The Reverend Richard Baines had unnerved me completely. He had made me feel guilty, and again, I did not know of what charge. I decided to by-pass the common-room, not wanting to face the gossip that surely must be simmering, gossip about myself as well as poor Mr Parsons, and I went straightaway to the cloakroom to get my coat. As I crossed the playground I made an elaborate detour to avoid the maintenance shed. I felt that the Reverend Richard Baines was spying on me through his window.

Chapter Five
    Over the years, I have inevitably thought of my father whenever I have indulged in Sunday dressing. In the intention, the art itself, and the after-taste, thoughts of my father persist. And though such thoughts are a curse, my appetite for my hobby is overpowering, and I would not dream of forfeiting such pleasure even if it meant that I could discard my father from my mind. I knew as I left the headmaster’s study that my only escape route into peace of mind was through my wardrobe, and I hurried home, through the back lanes, avoiding the Johnson door. I tried to think of Parsons and what would happen to him. What was indefensible was not his perversion but his stupidity. At least I had involved no one else in my aberrations, and I had to fight down a strong feeling of self-righteousness. My father would have killed a man like Parsons. He had a pathological