Passing On by Penelope Lively

Edward’s own mind was a charming array of creatures like a Noah’s Ark procession, from ant to man, that sprang from the illustration in a fatally misconceived nature book he had had himself as a child. An image of the Great Chain of Being was at the very heart of him; he often had considerable difficulty in marshalling the arguments for apostasy. It must be a bit like being a lapsed Catholic, he thought; you knew you were right but felt you were wrong. He waxed vehement about dinosaurs and extinction, about continental drift and the good old Galapagos finch. He concluded by saying that if you believe in God you have to find other ways to convince people that He exists, and that was not something to be discussed in this lesson.
    Sandra Willmot listened — or appeared to listen — with an icy stare. Several hands shot up.
    ‘Yes?’ said Edward unwarily.
    ‘Please, Mr Glover, don’t you believe in God, then?’
    ‘No,’ said Edward, after a moment. A rustle of interest ran around the classroom. One or two people announced that they didn’t either; others declared loudly that they did. Croxford House was given to morning prayers and all the outward
    trappings of Church of England belief; it even had a chapel. Now that he came to think of it, Edward was surprised this point had never cropped up before; Biology was obviously a dodgier area than English and History.
    ‘Anyway,’ he said firmly, ‘what I believe or don’t believe is neither here nor there. We were talking about feathers. I want you all to get out your exercise books and copy what is on the board . .
    The children subsided, more or less. Most of them applied themselves to their exercise books, their faces contorted with intellectual effort. Some continued to daydream. Sandra Willmot was whispering urgently to her neighbour, with occasional furtive glances in Edward’s direction. ‘Would you please get on with your work, Sandra,’ said Edward with unusual severity.
    She was a peculiarly unlikeable child, he thought; the sort of child — or person — who refuted any notion that homo sapiens is the pinnacle of creation. The Galapagos finch was a darn sight more valuable than Sandra Willmot.
    When Helen arrived at the hall in which the choir concert was to be held she could not at first see Giles Carnaby. There were a great many people milling around, the cream of Spaxton society, indeed, many of whom she knew or recognised. She was about to find herself a seat when she caught sight of him, in conversation with a rather pretty dark young woman, both of them laughing a lot. Looking at them, she experienced a curious sense of exclusion; she wondered who the woman was; she wondered how well Giles knew her. And then he looked in her direction, smiled and waved over the woman’s shoulder, continued to talk to her for a few moments, then laid a hand on her arm for an instant and moved towards Helen.
    Later, she saw the woman among the sopranos, and noted her.
    She noted everyone in the choir, indeed, as part of a determined effort not to gaze all the time at Giles Carnaby, who was in the back row, in the middle of the tenors, straight ahead of her, where she could consider him in detail — silvery hair, grey herring-bone tweed jacket, greenish shirt, paisley patterned silk tie (so much for not gazing…)
    And then there was the wine and cheese, in an adjoining room where tables were laid out and choir and audience enabled to mingle. Giles seemed to know everyone. Indeed he seemed to have to keep rushing off to have a word with this person and that; Helen found herself on her own a good deal of the time, glimpsing him across the room in spirited conversation. She saw a lot of his back, of his distinctive head moving from one group to another. She talked to various acquaintances. One woman asked curiously ‘Do you know Giles Carnaby well?’ Helen, faintly ruffled, replied that she didn’t — not all that well. ‘He’s very charming, of course,’