my disciple.
4
“Did you know she was going to be here?” demanded Grace as soon as we were alone in the bedroom which had been assigned to us, but my stupefaction was so obviously genuine that she never doubted my denial. Moving to the window, I saw that the room was placed at the back of the house and overlooked a formal garden which unfolded upwards in a series of terraces before rolling out of sight over the summit of the hill. On the lowest lawn twin rows of classical statues eyed each other across a sward dotted with croquet-hoops. The sun was still shining radiantly, reminding me that I felt much too hot.
“She should have told me,” I said as I automatically took advantage of the opportunity to remove my clerical collar. “Why on earth didn’t she mention it in her last letter?”
“I suppose she thought it would be fun to surprise you.” Grace was already unpacking her darned underwear before a servant could materialise, like the genie of the lamp, between her and the open suitcase.
“I don’t like those sort of surprises.” I began to roam around the room. The brass bedstead gleamed. Lifting the counterpane I absent-mindedly fingered the very white sheets.
“I suppose they’re real linen,” said Grace. “And look at those towels by the washstand! Can they possibly be linen too?”
“Must be pre-war. But expensive things always look new for years.” I stared around at the room’s luxury, so subtly sumptuous, so tastefully extravagant, and before I could stop myself I was saying: “I suppose you’re still wishing you hadn’t come.”
“Oh no!” said Grace at once. “Now that the adventure’s begun I’m enjoying myself—in fact I’m sure you were right and it’s all going to be great fun!”
I did realise that Grace was belatedly exercising her intelligence, but I found I had no desire to consider the implications of this new canny behaviour. I merely smiled, gave her a grateful kiss and began to unpack my bag.
5
Everyone was very kind to Grace, who despite her tortuous self-doubts was as capable as I was of being socially adept in unfamiliar circumstances. Certainly no one was kinder than Dido, who lavished attention on her to such an extent that I was almost ignored. More than once I told myself conscientiously how relieved I was that my disciple was on her best behaviour; it seemed all I now had to do, in order to survive the weekend with my clerical self-esteem intact, was to stick close to my wife and keep my eyes off Dido’s legs, which seemed to shimmer like erotic beacons whenever I glanced in her direction. I even thought in a burst of optimism that I might soon be able to write off my embarrassingly carnal preoccupation with Dido as an example of that well-known phenomenon, the middle-aged man’s vulnerability to the charms of youth. However, although I was keen to reduce my feelings to a trivial inconvenience, I suspected I was still too young to be in the grip of a middle-aged malaise. Or was I? If my diagnosis was correct I could only shudder. If I was like this at forty, what would I be like at fifty? I had a fleeting picture of myself at sixty, an elderly lecher surrounded by young girls, and it was not at all a cheering vision for a churchman who had always been anxious to Get On and Travel Far.
The weekend gathering at Starmouth Court was hardly “smart” in society’s sense of the word, although Lady Starmouth ensured that the atmosphere was friendly and cultivated. In addition to my disciple, who was on a seventy-two-hour leave, the guests consisted of a residentiary canon of Radbury Cathedral and his wife; a contemporary of the Earl’s from the House of Lords; a bossy lady of uncertain age who worked in London for Jewish refugees and who talked of Bishop Bell with the enthusiasm women usually reserve for film stars; an etiolated civil servant from the Ministry of Information; and the Starmouths’ youngest daughter, Rosalind, who had been a debutante
4
“Did you know she was going to be here?” demanded Grace as soon as we were alone in the bedroom which had been assigned to us, but my stupefaction was so obviously genuine that she never doubted my denial. Moving to the window, I saw that the room was placed at the back of the house and overlooked a formal garden which unfolded upwards in a series of terraces before rolling out of sight over the summit of the hill. On the lowest lawn twin rows of classical statues eyed each other across a sward dotted with croquet-hoops. The sun was still shining radiantly, reminding me that I felt much too hot.
“She should have told me,” I said as I automatically took advantage of the opportunity to remove my clerical collar. “Why on earth didn’t she mention it in her last letter?”
“I suppose she thought it would be fun to surprise you.” Grace was already unpacking her darned underwear before a servant could materialise, like the genie of the lamp, between her and the open suitcase.
“I don’t like those sort of surprises.” I began to roam around the room. The brass bedstead gleamed. Lifting the counterpane I absent-mindedly fingered the very white sheets.
“I suppose they’re real linen,” said Grace. “And look at those towels by the washstand! Can they possibly be linen too?”
“Must be pre-war. But expensive things always look new for years.” I stared around at the room’s luxury, so subtly sumptuous, so tastefully extravagant, and before I could stop myself I was saying: “I suppose you’re still wishing you hadn’t come.”
“Oh no!” said Grace at once. “Now that the adventure’s begun I’m enjoying myself—in fact I’m sure you were right and it’s all going to be great fun!”
I did realise that Grace was belatedly exercising her intelligence, but I found I had no desire to consider the implications of this new canny behaviour. I merely smiled, gave her a grateful kiss and began to unpack my bag.
5
Everyone was very kind to Grace, who despite her tortuous self-doubts was as capable as I was of being socially adept in unfamiliar circumstances. Certainly no one was kinder than Dido, who lavished attention on her to such an extent that I was almost ignored. More than once I told myself conscientiously how relieved I was that my disciple was on her best behaviour; it seemed all I now had to do, in order to survive the weekend with my clerical self-esteem intact, was to stick close to my wife and keep my eyes off Dido’s legs, which seemed to shimmer like erotic beacons whenever I glanced in her direction. I even thought in a burst of optimism that I might soon be able to write off my embarrassingly carnal preoccupation with Dido as an example of that well-known phenomenon, the middle-aged man’s vulnerability to the charms of youth. However, although I was keen to reduce my feelings to a trivial inconvenience, I suspected I was still too young to be in the grip of a middle-aged malaise. Or was I? If my diagnosis was correct I could only shudder. If I was like this at forty, what would I be like at fifty? I had a fleeting picture of myself at sixty, an elderly lecher surrounded by young girls, and it was not at all a cheering vision for a churchman who had always been anxious to Get On and Travel Far.
The weekend gathering at Starmouth Court was hardly “smart” in society’s sense of the word, although Lady Starmouth ensured that the atmosphere was friendly and cultivated. In addition to my disciple, who was on a seventy-two-hour leave, the guests consisted of a residentiary canon of Radbury Cathedral and his wife; a contemporary of the Earl’s from the House of Lords; a bossy lady of uncertain age who worked in London for Jewish refugees and who talked of Bishop Bell with the enthusiasm women usually reserve for film stars; an etiolated civil servant from the Ministry of Information; and the Starmouths’ youngest daughter, Rosalind, who had been a debutante
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