Mrs. Charles Ashworth, was the icy companion who had run the Jardines’ household so efficiently before her unwelcome defection to the state of matrimony in 1937.
“She probably won’t want to see me,” Alex was saying as he idly applied marmalade to his toast, “but I thought it would be too ridiculous if I left the diocese without calling on her. I intend to arrive on her doorstep waving the olive branch of peace.”
“Better late than never, but why not phone her first? Your olive branch will be wasted if you arrive on her doorstep and find she’s gone out for the day!”
“I’ll take the risk. If I ring she might simply slam down the receiver—I can’t tell you what a tangle we all got into back in 1937—”
“I always thought it sounded the most grotesque storm in a tea-cup and I can’t believe Lyle won’t welcome the chance to end the estrangement. Do you want a lift to the station?”
He accepted the lift. I noted with compassion that he had bought expensive presents for Lyle’s two sons. Evidently he was anxious that his olive branch should be substantial.
“Remember me to Lyle, won’t you?” I said. “As it happens I’ll be coming her way soon. An incensed churchwarden at Starvale St. James is complaining that the new font looks like a urinal.”
“Oh yes?” said Alex vaguely, and when he failed to smile I knew his thoughts were far away.
Leaving him at the station I called at the diocesan office on Eternity Street to collect my special allowance of extra petrol coupons, suffered myself to be cornered by various officials who saw me as a channel to the Bishop, escaped into the High Street to buy cigarettes and finally parked my car in the old vicarage stables behind Butchers’ Alley just as the clock of St. Martin’s chimed the half hour. I was fractionally late for the morning conference with my curates, but to my relief I saw no bicycles parked outside the vicarage gate. I disliked my curates arriving ahead of me and looking insufferably virtuous as I walked into the room. Much better that they should arrive panting and apologetic while I was sitting coolly behind my desk.
I opened the front door. I withdrew my key from the lock. And I paused, paralysed with shock, as my hand remained on the latch. I had heard a laugh in the morning-room where we received the parishioners who called on us, but this laugh belonged to no one who lived within the parish of St. Martin’s-in-Cripplegate. Automatically, without stopping to think, I blundered forward into the hall.
Grace was saying: “That’ll be Neville. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just tell him you’re here.”
I plunged across the morning-room threshold. Grace, who had almost reached the door, hastily recoiled. As our visitor sprang to her feet, I saw us all as three puppets jerking on the ends of some exceedingly erratic strings.
“Hullo, Stephen!” said Dido, whose memory I had, of course, been conscientiously suppressing all morning, and gave me a bold, bright, impudent smile.
“Good morning, Miss Tallent,” I said, rigid with rage behind my clerical collar. I was acutely aware that Grace was wearing her oldest dress, the one she wore only around the house, and that she looked faded, fatigued and unfashionable. In contrast, Dido, seemingly poured into her sleek Naval uniform, looked saucy, sexy and scintillating. I could have slapped her.
Suddenly I became aware of Sandy’s presence. In the profound silence which followed the formal exchange of greetings he staggered across the floor and offered me one of his toy bricks.
“Thank you, Sandy.” I took the brick and gripped it so hard that my fingers ached. Then in a passable attempt to achieve a smooth social manner I said to Dido: “How kind of you to call, but I’m afraid you must excuse me. I have an urgent meeting now with my curates.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of troubling you when you’re so busy!” exclaimed Dido with that wide-eyed candour which I
“She probably won’t want to see me,” Alex was saying as he idly applied marmalade to his toast, “but I thought it would be too ridiculous if I left the diocese without calling on her. I intend to arrive on her doorstep waving the olive branch of peace.”
“Better late than never, but why not phone her first? Your olive branch will be wasted if you arrive on her doorstep and find she’s gone out for the day!”
“I’ll take the risk. If I ring she might simply slam down the receiver—I can’t tell you what a tangle we all got into back in 1937—”
“I always thought it sounded the most grotesque storm in a tea-cup and I can’t believe Lyle won’t welcome the chance to end the estrangement. Do you want a lift to the station?”
He accepted the lift. I noted with compassion that he had bought expensive presents for Lyle’s two sons. Evidently he was anxious that his olive branch should be substantial.
“Remember me to Lyle, won’t you?” I said. “As it happens I’ll be coming her way soon. An incensed churchwarden at Starvale St. James is complaining that the new font looks like a urinal.”
“Oh yes?” said Alex vaguely, and when he failed to smile I knew his thoughts were far away.
Leaving him at the station I called at the diocesan office on Eternity Street to collect my special allowance of extra petrol coupons, suffered myself to be cornered by various officials who saw me as a channel to the Bishop, escaped into the High Street to buy cigarettes and finally parked my car in the old vicarage stables behind Butchers’ Alley just as the clock of St. Martin’s chimed the half hour. I was fractionally late for the morning conference with my curates, but to my relief I saw no bicycles parked outside the vicarage gate. I disliked my curates arriving ahead of me and looking insufferably virtuous as I walked into the room. Much better that they should arrive panting and apologetic while I was sitting coolly behind my desk.
I opened the front door. I withdrew my key from the lock. And I paused, paralysed with shock, as my hand remained on the latch. I had heard a laugh in the morning-room where we received the parishioners who called on us, but this laugh belonged to no one who lived within the parish of St. Martin’s-in-Cripplegate. Automatically, without stopping to think, I blundered forward into the hall.
Grace was saying: “That’ll be Neville. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just tell him you’re here.”
I plunged across the morning-room threshold. Grace, who had almost reached the door, hastily recoiled. As our visitor sprang to her feet, I saw us all as three puppets jerking on the ends of some exceedingly erratic strings.
“Hullo, Stephen!” said Dido, whose memory I had, of course, been conscientiously suppressing all morning, and gave me a bold, bright, impudent smile.
“Good morning, Miss Tallent,” I said, rigid with rage behind my clerical collar. I was acutely aware that Grace was wearing her oldest dress, the one she wore only around the house, and that she looked faded, fatigued and unfashionable. In contrast, Dido, seemingly poured into her sleek Naval uniform, looked saucy, sexy and scintillating. I could have slapped her.
Suddenly I became aware of Sandy’s presence. In the profound silence which followed the formal exchange of greetings he staggered across the floor and offered me one of his toy bricks.
“Thank you, Sandy.” I took the brick and gripped it so hard that my fingers ached. Then in a passable attempt to achieve a smooth social manner I said to Dido: “How kind of you to call, but I’m afraid you must excuse me. I have an urgent meeting now with my curates.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of troubling you when you’re so busy!” exclaimed Dido with that wide-eyed candour which I
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