The Sweet Dove Died by Barbara Pym Page A

anywhere else.’
    ‘Oh, this is fabulous,’ said Phoebe with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. ‘Shall we sit in the window?’
    There were a few other people in the cafe, some looking rather uneasy, as if regretting that they had not entered the Trust House.
    At least it looked fairly clean, James thought. Was this Phoebe’s setting – plastic tablecloths, artificial flowers and bottles of sauce? he wondered, for she seemed happy and relaxed. Certainly it could never be Leonora’s.
    When the tea came it was of a strength and darkness that reminded one more of meat extract than of some delicate infusion of leaves from India or Ceylon. James sipped his cautiously as if afraid that it might poison him.
    ‘I suppose we could have had fish and chips, like those people at the table in the corner,’ Phoebe whispered, passing him the plate of thick bread and butter.
    ‘Would you have liked that?’ he asked, not quite sure if she was joking.
    ‘No, of course not. Won’t you try one of these op art cakes?’
    James declined and felt as if he were being prim and fussy, seeing her apparent enjoyment. He felt almost resentful towards her, for while in a way she was ‘sending him up’ she also seemed to be dragging him down by her easy acceptance of the place. In a way he was enjoying it too but it was the sort of thing that only seemed to be fun at the time. Afterwards he would be ashamed of having had tea with her in the Leopard Dining Rooms.
    ‘Are you happy?’ she asked with disconcerting suddenness when they were driving back to the cottage.
    ‘What a question!’ he said, hoping that she would interpret his answer in the way that pleased her most.
    ‘I’ll go and get out the drinks,’ she said, running ahead of him.
    ‘You’ve got some new cushions,’ said James, following her into the room. They were bright and garish, not at all the sort of thing anyone one knew would choose, yet Phoebe looked almost exotic reclining among them, like a vamp in an old film with her heavily made-up eyes and inviting expression. Making love to her was like an amusing unreal game, so far removed from his everyday life that he could not feel his usual guilt.
    When after some time Phoebe sat up and said with a rather distressing lack of purpose, ‘I suppose we ought to have something to eat,’ the image of Leonora returned, and even more of the delicious ‘little something’, always ready or made in a moment, that she invariably produced whenever one called on her.
    James noticed a cold joint standing on the table by the open window, very much exposed to wandering animals, and he had seen a cat prowling around outside. There was also a bowl of lettuce from which he surreptitiously removed a few inedible-looking leaves which seemed to have earth adhering to them. Phoebe was obviously not at her best in the kitchen. It was a mistake to assume that all women were. The kitchen itself was not very clean either. There was the washing-up from lunch or breakfast or both, two unrinsed milk bottles, eggshells not thrown away, paw marks on the sink and cats’ hairs floating in the atmosphere. James began to feel that he was not so hungry after all.
    All the same, he managed to eat what was provided – Phoebe’s rough red wine helped it down – and afterwards lay happily with her among the bright cushions. He wondered whether he should stay the night, then he remembered the encounter with the Murrays at the sale and a feeling of uneasiness came over him. Waking up next morning in the Bohemian discomfort of the cottage would certainly not be agreeable, he decided.
    Going back into the room after he had gone, Phoebe made ineffectual attempts to tidy it and even to clean up the kitchen, for she had sensed his disapproval,” but in the end she became bored. One of the village cats had come into the room and jumped up on top of the big old-fashioned radio set which Phoebe turned on, making music for herself and warmth for the animal. A