Tea at the Rectory

IT WAS Christmas Eve and, at four o’clock in the afternoon, almost dark. The Miss Whartons, at their gate, hesitated which way to go to the Rectory, whether by the field path or the road. Their grandnephew Richard waited for them to make up their minds, which always took time.

He sighed and was ashamed of himself. In the desert, in Italy, in Normandy, he had thought of his great-aunts with much affection. Since his parents had been killed and his home destroyed in the blitz, his thoughts had no one to turn to but his aunts. All the time he was in hospital he had longed to get home to them, remembering their kindness, their endearing oddity. Why then, now that he was with them, was he so often exasperated, and not only with them but with all of life, with everything, big and little? Why did going to tea at the Rectory seem the last straw, seem so unbearable? He told himself it must be because he wasn’t well yet, but he really felt that things would never be right again. Never. How could they be in this war-shattered world?

He waited, looking at his aunts. In the last wild light from the winter sky, or any light at all for that matter, they were an odd-looking pair only to be met with, surely, in the English countryside. Two maiden ladies in tweeds and felt hats, unfashionable, indefatigable in spite of their seventy-odd years, voluble, argumentative, and much given to erratic and frequently startling gestures. They were pointing vigorously with their stout sticks, now to the field, now to the road, and now for some unexplained reason to the whole sweep of the sky, arguing meanwhile.

Richard, listening, — he tried nowadays to listen closely to keep his mind from his dark thoughts, — wondered why so many people of his aunts’ class and generation had such difficulty with their r’s. Had it been a fashion in their youth, was it a pose, or was it a real speech defect? There was nothing else posey about the Miss Whartons, but to roll an r was beyond either.

“My dear,” one would say to the other, “I’m afwaid I shall have to wepwimand Wose.” Rose was the small maid, frequently in trouble, at Rambler Cottage. The aunts were now taking Wichard to tea with the dear Wector. “If only they would make up their minds which way to go!” he thought, standing there with his fists doubled on his hips, tall, thin, — far too thin, — and still, after the interminable years of war, only twenty-six.

The argument came to a sudden end. The sisters had decided upon the field path. They never went this way after nightfall, they explained, because of the darkness under the elms, but since Richard was with them, it would be all right. Everything seemed all right to the Miss Whartons when Richard was with them.

He helped them over the high stile; first Aunt Emmy, then Aunt Jemmy. Their baptismal names, Emmeline and Jemima, had very early in life been thus shortened. They hurried down the field path now, brandishing their sticks so wildly that Richard often flinched as if about to be hit. Once he would have called out “Hi!” in laughing protest, but now he said nothing.

Volubly, the Miss Whartons conjectured who would be at the Rectory for tea. Mrs. Ware, Mrs. Burton, Miss Pike were sure to be there, because they always were. They hoped Pamela Lane was home for Christmas; if so, she would also be there and she was such a dear girl, they assured Richard.

“But if Miss Pike awwives with a bag today,” cried Miss Emmy, raising her stick in a threatening manner, “you can expect twouble. Because I shall tell her what I think of her and her kettle-holders. There’s no social gathewing of any kind in this village any longer but Miss Pike is there to thwust her kettle-holders upon the guests. Well, I’ve had enough, and today I shall tell her so.”

“You have my full permission, dear,”said Miss Jemmy.

Hurrying over the rough path, they chattered on, but they were not so inconsequent and unobservant as Richard thought and hoped. Their chatter was partly designed to cover his silence, to enable him to be silent. The hearts of the two old ladies yearned over the war-torn boy. They wanted desperately to heal and help him, but feared they did not know how. They feared too that they had annoyed him by that foolish argument at the gate. At least, it appeared foolish in retrospect, because the Rectory was only a quarter of a mile away and what could it matter which way they went?

The Miss Whartons almost always came to this conclusion about their arguments, and would make the warmest amends and apologies to each other, each laughingly protesting that the other was right, or even if she wasn’t, it didn’t matter.

“ It does matter, my dear,” one would say, and the other would say, “No, of course it doesn’t.” And they would both laugh heartily. Outsiders were frequently bewildered by this rapid change of front, but the sisters understood each other very well.

They felt, however, that Richard, since he had come home from the war, found them exasperating. They wanted to reform their ways, but they kept forgetting, and behaved as they had behaved for the last seventy years. They were remorseful now and hoped there would be a nice tea at the Rectory, that Miss Pike would not be too tiresome, that Pamela would be there, that the Rector would be able to do something for Richard. They didn’t know what, but something. That somebody would do something, since they couldn’t. If only they had a piano. It was a dreadful thing to be without a piano for Richard, who was so musical. But there was no room at Rambler Cottage that a piano could have been got into; they were all far too small. Everybody had been so kind, putting their pianos at Richard’s disposal, but he wouldn’t go and play on any of them. Poor boy — how long would it be before he was healed of the terrible years of war?

Richard strode beside his aunts. “Why am I going to this place?” he asked himself. “Why do I drag about like this? I’m crushed. Crushed. Ye gods, what am I doing — going to tea at the Rectory! ” He felt, like one about to be given an anesthetic, a fear of what he might say. He felt he might break out with all his savage, bitter thoughts this afternoon. He felt that the very mildness of the company might provoke an outburst that would hurt his aunts and do what he hated most: draw attention to himself and his suffering.

The bare branches of the elms reached up into the night sky. The little church lay at the foot of the grassy hill. Above it shone a single star. The star of Bethlehem, perhaps. How often he had thought, abroad, of Christmas in England. In the heat of the desert, tormented by dust and flies, he had kept himself sane by thinking of the Pastorale he would write for Christmas when he was home once more. But now that Christmas was here, and he was here, he couldn’t do it. He never would do it, he told himself.

They went through the wicket gate, through the churchyard where the old stones leaned peacefully under the yews. In the Rectory drive, Richard halted. He wanted to say, “I’m not coming in. You shouldn’t expect it of me. Damn it all, what do I want with tea at the Rectory?” But when his Aunt Jemmy said, “Come along, dear,” he went forward obediently.

2

MISS JEMMY rapped with the brass knocker on the white Georgian door. The ladies stood with their muzzles lifted like two dogs waiting to be let in, Richard as if he would bolt at any minute. An ancient maid, far too old ever to have been called up, admitted them to the paneled hall. The Miss Whartons surrendered their sticks as if entering a museum — and a museum this place probably was, reflected Richard, following his aunts up three shallow steps to the drawing room.

When the door was opened, such a rush of heat and noise was let out that he fell back. The room seemed to be full of women and shrieking birds. It was a second or two before he realized that the birds were on the wallpaper and quite silent. It must be the women who were shrieking. Certainly they seemed to be rising at him from all sides, taking him by the hand, saying how d’you do, lovely for you to be home for Christmas, it is so nice, arc you better, I’m so glad, you’re not quite well yet are you, sit here, nearer the fire, have some tea, sugar, muffin, or sandwich.

He answered at random and, sitting down at last, found himself almost at floor level on a plush chair without sides. Queer what a chair can do to you. This one gave him an inferiority complex. It also embarrassed him. When he stretched out his legs, he appeared to be lying at full length; so he drew them up and let his knees poke above his head, since that was the only alternative. His cup shuddered on its fluted saucer, betraying the trembling of his hands. He was annoyed; this wretched tea party had set his hands off again just when he had thought they were cured.

He bit into his muffin. It was cold and damp like a piece of felt left out all night. He put it down and looked round the lofty room. A period piece. Victorian, with the life of the prime mover of that age portrayed in huge engravings round the walls. The Coronation of Victoria, the Marriage of the Queen, the Christening of the Prince of Wales, the Marriage of the Prince of Wales. August, very tidy assemblies such as we shall not see again. Under them stood a full-sized grand piano. He dared bet, he told himself, that no one ever touched it.

He took up his muffin again, since he had to. If he didn’t dispose of it, it would hold everything up. With this piece of muffin, he could prolong tea indefinitely. He thought of doing it, in revenge for having come. But he took another bite and looked round at the company.

Among the collection of felt hats, bobbing in animated conversation, his host’s bald head was conspicuous and his hostess’s snow-white hair. Also the scarlet cap of a girl at the other side of the room. Not a bad-looking girl either, though he felt no interest in her. He supposed he must have been introduced, but hadn’t noticed it.

He located his aunts. Miss Emmy was at some distance. Beside her was a middle-aged woman at whose feet, leaning trustfully like a dog, was a large American-cloth bag, stuffed to capacity. In every pause of the conversation, Miss Pike laid a hand tentatively on this bag, but under Miss Emmy’s threatening eye she withdrew it.

In the circle of chairs, Miss Jemmy was next but one to her nephew. Mrs. Ware was between them. Richard, having disposed of his muffin and refused all else, now became aware that she was telling him how much money she had made for the Red Cross from the sale of her raffia baskets.

He murmured in congratulation. “This room,”he thought, “is frightfully hot,” and wrenched at his collar. Miss Jemmy glanced at him with anxiety.

“That is one of my wastepaper baskets,”said Mrs. Ware, indicating a sort of Leaning Tower of Pisa in straw beside the mantelpiece. It was ornamented, though that is not the word, by the usual female figure in a crinoline and poke bonnet. The bonnet hid the face, which was convenient because Mrs. Ware was not good at faces. “I sometimes put a row of delphiniums instead of hollyhocks,” said Mrs. Ware, “and I sometimes put my lady the other way round.”

“Really?” said Richard, looking wild.

“Of course, I don’t only make wastepaper baskets. I make shopping and garden baskets. In fact, every conceivable kind of basket, and I do so enjoy it. It is my way of expressing myself, you know. The Rector and dear Mrs. Kenworthy have always been so encouraging. They have one of my baskets in every room, and since there are twenty-four rooms in the Rectory — a William and Mary house, you know — you will understand that they have been very good customers of mine. Of course, you know,” said Mrs. Ware confidentially, “I made them one for nothing. One for the Rector’s study. I left the lady out on that one — just put extra flahs. I thought it was more suitable.”

“Wichard!” cried Miss Jemmy, making everybody jump. “Piano! Play something while you have the chance, dear boy. Play. Play.”

“Please do,” invited the hostess, rising at once to open the piano. “I’m afraid no one has played on this piano for quite some time. But we keep it tuned, you know. Mr. Wharton, do give us the pleasure of some music.”

3

RICHARD, looking hunted, went to the piano. He wasn’t fond of performing in public, but anything would be better than sitting on that chair, by that furnace of a fire, at the mercy of Mrs. Ware and her raffia baskets. He sat down and touched the keys. The piano was all right. What of the audience? The faces, all turned towards him from the circle round the fire, irritated him. “I wish I liked the human race,” he thought, his hands tentatively on the keys. “I wish I liked its silly face. Bah!” he thought, crashing out a few of Henry Cowell’s cluster chords. The felt hats jumped perceptibly. “Yes, that makes them sit up,” he thought. But he hadn’t made up his mind what to play, so he let them off for a few minutes, playing quietly.

One by one the hats turned inwards to the circle. They didn’t know what he was playing. Something modern, they supposed. They tried to look as if they were listening, but they couldn’t keep it up. Sitting silent, talk was collecting inside them. Talk is like love; the more it is suppressed, the more it must come out. It gathers force from hindrance. From nods and becks and an occasional whisper, they began to lean one towards the other and a hum arose.

Richard, hesitating, without ceasing to play, between Ornstein and Sorabji, crashed into more Henry Cowell. But they were beyond surprise. They were well away now, he noted, and had given up all pretense of listening.

Except the girl, Pamela Lane. She was directly opposite Richard at the piano and could watch him. “These young men,” she thought. He wasn’t much older than she was, but what he had gone through! He looked savage and bitter, and he played as if he meant to get his own back — possibly on the world. She saw him glance sideways at the company and burst into fresh discords. “Why must they talk when he’s playing?” she wondered. It was so rude. If they couldn’t understand, at least they could keep quiet.

The music, though unheeded, was nevertheless having an effect, on the company. The louder Richard played, the louder they talked. Pamela sat up straight on her chair, her lips parted in alarm. Richard looked across at her and smiled. He saw that she was in on the game. He burst into Rubinstein’s Octave Study, and almost burst into laughter.

The talkers jerked like marionettes. The Rector so far forgot himself as to get up and shovel a lot of coal on the fire. The room and its occupants seemed bewitched. Richard wondered what on earth all the talk could be about. Fragments reached him. “That girl of Swinton’s.” “What — again?” “Dear Mrs. Burton, are you sure of your facts?” “Those wretched goats — completely eaten the hedge —” “They say, though of course I don’t know—” And the tones of his Aunt Emmy, alas, as strident as anybody’s. He looked at her. She had a hand on Miss Pike’s bag. “No, Miss Pike,” she was saying. “No kettle-holders. I won’t buy any of your kettle-holders and no one else wants to. You make a nuisance of yourself at evewy social gathewing, Miss Pike. Now do be sensible and give it up. Or make something else. Move with the times. Kettle-holders have gone out. All kettles have heat-pwoof handles nowadays.”

But Miss Pike, struggling indignantly, freed her bag and, in spite of Miss Emmy, brought out a bundle of velveteen squares. These she passed round the circle. But the company took no more notice of Miss Pike’s kettle-holders than of Richard’s music. Absently, talking hard, they passed the bundle on. Until, when it reached Miss Emmy, it remained on her knee, whether from malice or preoccupation Richard did not know. He caught Pamela’s eye and laughed outright. Their young faces lit with laughter, they rocked in their places. Everything seemed deliciously funny. She was so glad he could laugh, and he thought she was lovely. That swinging hair, those dark eyes — were they blue? — and that lovely laughing mouth! Why hadn’t he noticed when he came in that he was in the presence of a most beautiful girl?

And now an end to all this tomfoolery. “This is what I wanted to play,” he told her mutely across the piano, beginning the Pastorale. “This is what I wanted to write as soon as I came home. It’s for Christmas. It was like this,” he thought, playing. The winter silence, the Mother and Child, the trustfulness of the animals, the star and the following men. It’s old and always new. Simple and still a mystery, holy, homely. “It was like this,” he thought, playing, listening both to himself and to what was beyond.

It’s like this,”he said to the girl, using no words, feeling his way on the keys. “Listen. I only half hear it yet, but do you? Can you hear? It’s like this,” he played. His face was happy. He looked at her and smiled.

He played as far as he heard. More would come. More would come, now that some strange terrible obstruction in his spirit had gone. His hands fell from the keys. He looked at the company. Everybody was quiet. The faces were all turned towards him, smiling. He smiled too, and getting up from the piano, he went over to Pamela and sat down beside her.

“It needed somebody of his own age,” thought Miss Emmy gratefully.

“Miss Pike,” she cried, startling that aggrieved lady. “Give me some of your kettle-holders. I’ll buy some after all. I’ll stuff them and they’ll do for the shoes. Now that is a good idea, Miss Pike. Stuff the things and sell them as shoe-polishers. They’ll go like hot cakes.”

“I believe they would,” said Miss Pike, beaming happily. “I’ll take your excellent advice, Miss Emmy. You see,” she said confidentially, moving closer, “I had only my old dining-room curtains that I could use for the N.S.P.C.C. and I simply didn’t know what I could make from them but kettleholders.”

“And your windows are huge. No wonder you made so many,” said Miss Emmy, now all sympathy. “Well, I think you’ll find shoe-polishers —”

“It feels like Christmas, doesn’t it?” said Richard, lighting Pamela’s cigarette with a steady hand. “ My first at home for five years.”

“I hope it will be a happy one,” she said.

“It is,” he said, smiling at her.