all, men don’t as a rule,’ said Belinda, ‘they just expect meals to appear on the table and they do.’
‘Of course Emily usually does cook,’ went on Harriet, ‘it’s only that she can’t manage foreign dishes.’ She took a liberal second helping of risotto. ‘This is really delicious.’
‘It was Ricardo’s recipe,’ said Belinda absently.
‘We really must go and get some more blackberries soon,’ said Harriet. ‘Although in October the devil will be in them. You know what the country people say.’
Belinda smiled.
‘Mr Donne is very fond of blackberry jelly,’ said Harriet. ‘Apparently he very much enjoyed the apple jelly I took him. He said he really preferred it for breakfast – instead of marmalade, you know.’
‘I wonder what it would be like to be turned into a pillar of salt?’ said Belinda surprisingly, in a far-away voice.
‘Belinda!’ Harriet exclaimed in astonishment. ‘Whatever made you think of that? Potiphar’s wife, wasn’t it, in the Old Testament somewhere?’
‘I think it was Lot’s wife,’ said Belinda, ‘but I can’t remember why. I should imagine it would be very restful,’ she went on, ‘to have no feelings or emotions. Or perhaps,’ she continued thoughtfully, ‘it would have been simpler to have been born like Milton’s first wife, an image of earth and phlegm.’
‘Oh, Belinda, don’t be disgusting!’ said Harriet briskly. ‘And do pass the cheese. You are hopelessly inattentive. When Mr Donne was here the other night you never passed him anything. If it hadn’t been for me he would have starved .’
Belinda came back to everyday life again. How many curates would starve and die were it not for the Harriets of this world, she thought. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said. ‘I must try not to be so absent-minded. Today has been rather trying, hasn’t it really – too much happening.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Harriet. ‘Agatha going and the Archdeacon coming. Who knows what he may be up to now that she’s gone?’
‘Oh, Harriet, I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,’ said Belinda. ‘It’s really most unsuitable. And besides,’ she went on, half to herself, ‘what could he be up to when you come to think of it?’ Her voice trailed off rather sadly, but she rose from the table briskly enough and spent the afternoon doing some useful work in the garden.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next day Belinda had a letter from Dr Nicholas Parnell, a friend of her undergraduate days and the Librarian of her old University Library. He wrote of the successful tour which Mr Mold, the deputy Librarian, had made in Africa. ‘He has penetrated the thickest jungles,’ wrote Dr Parnell, ‘where no white man, and certainly no deputy Librarian, has ever set foot before. The native chiefs have been remarkably generous with their gifts and Mold has collected some five thousand pounds, much of it in the form of precious stones and other rareties. I suspect that a great many of them have not the slightest idea to what they are contributing, but, where Ignorance is bliss…’
Belinda sighed. Dear Nicholas was really quite obsessed with the Library and its extensions. She wished he would remember that the two things which bound them together were the memory of their undergraduate days and our greater English poets. She turned to the end of the letter, where she found more cheering news. The Librarian thought he might be able to come and spend a few days with the Archdeacon while Agatha was away. Perhaps Mr Mold would come too. ‘The Library can safely be left in charge of old Mr Lydgate,’ he concluded. ‘He is a little wandering now and is continually worrying about the pronunciation of the Russian “l”. However, his duties will be light.’
How nice it would be to see dear Nicholas again, thought Belinda, eating her scrambled egg and feeling happy and proud that she, a middle-aged country spinster, should number famous librarians among her friends. At least, the
‘Of course Emily usually does cook,’ went on Harriet, ‘it’s only that she can’t manage foreign dishes.’ She took a liberal second helping of risotto. ‘This is really delicious.’
‘It was Ricardo’s recipe,’ said Belinda absently.
‘We really must go and get some more blackberries soon,’ said Harriet. ‘Although in October the devil will be in them. You know what the country people say.’
Belinda smiled.
‘Mr Donne is very fond of blackberry jelly,’ said Harriet. ‘Apparently he very much enjoyed the apple jelly I took him. He said he really preferred it for breakfast – instead of marmalade, you know.’
‘I wonder what it would be like to be turned into a pillar of salt?’ said Belinda surprisingly, in a far-away voice.
‘Belinda!’ Harriet exclaimed in astonishment. ‘Whatever made you think of that? Potiphar’s wife, wasn’t it, in the Old Testament somewhere?’
‘I think it was Lot’s wife,’ said Belinda, ‘but I can’t remember why. I should imagine it would be very restful,’ she went on, ‘to have no feelings or emotions. Or perhaps,’ she continued thoughtfully, ‘it would have been simpler to have been born like Milton’s first wife, an image of earth and phlegm.’
‘Oh, Belinda, don’t be disgusting!’ said Harriet briskly. ‘And do pass the cheese. You are hopelessly inattentive. When Mr Donne was here the other night you never passed him anything. If it hadn’t been for me he would have starved .’
Belinda came back to everyday life again. How many curates would starve and die were it not for the Harriets of this world, she thought. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said. ‘I must try not to be so absent-minded. Today has been rather trying, hasn’t it really – too much happening.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Harriet. ‘Agatha going and the Archdeacon coming. Who knows what he may be up to now that she’s gone?’
‘Oh, Harriet, I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,’ said Belinda. ‘It’s really most unsuitable. And besides,’ she went on, half to herself, ‘what could he be up to when you come to think of it?’ Her voice trailed off rather sadly, but she rose from the table briskly enough and spent the afternoon doing some useful work in the garden.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next day Belinda had a letter from Dr Nicholas Parnell, a friend of her undergraduate days and the Librarian of her old University Library. He wrote of the successful tour which Mr Mold, the deputy Librarian, had made in Africa. ‘He has penetrated the thickest jungles,’ wrote Dr Parnell, ‘where no white man, and certainly no deputy Librarian, has ever set foot before. The native chiefs have been remarkably generous with their gifts and Mold has collected some five thousand pounds, much of it in the form of precious stones and other rareties. I suspect that a great many of them have not the slightest idea to what they are contributing, but, where Ignorance is bliss…’
Belinda sighed. Dear Nicholas was really quite obsessed with the Library and its extensions. She wished he would remember that the two things which bound them together were the memory of their undergraduate days and our greater English poets. She turned to the end of the letter, where she found more cheering news. The Librarian thought he might be able to come and spend a few days with the Archdeacon while Agatha was away. Perhaps Mr Mold would come too. ‘The Library can safely be left in charge of old Mr Lydgate,’ he concluded. ‘He is a little wandering now and is continually worrying about the pronunciation of the Russian “l”. However, his duties will be light.’
How nice it would be to see dear Nicholas again, thought Belinda, eating her scrambled egg and feeling happy and proud that she, a middle-aged country spinster, should number famous librarians among her friends. At least, the
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