‘But of course! My father – being a self-made man – was most anxious that his children should have all the social advantages he never had!’
‘How amusing for you – and does the Church rank above or below Henley, Ascot and Wimbledon as a place where a successful society girl should take care to be seen?’
She laughed. ‘I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?’
‘No, fortunately for you I have a sense of humour. Do you ever actually go to church at all?’
‘How dare you imply I’m a heathen! Of course I go to church – I’m devoted to the Church – why, I go every Christmas, and I never miss any of the vital weddings and christenings in between!’
I at once spotted the omission. ‘What about the funerals?’
The vivacity was extinguished. Her plain, impertinent little face was shadowed and still. After a pause she said flatly: ‘The last funeral I attended was the funeral of my favourite sister. She died in 1939. After that I vowed I’d never go to another funeral again.’
I saw her wait for me to make some banal religious response, but when I remained silent she added unevenly, ‘She died after childbirth. The baby died too. Afterwards I felt as if someone had chopped me to pieces. I’m still trying to stitch myself together again.’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘Yes, sometimes I think I’ll never get over it. At first I thought that the war would be a ghastly sort of blessing as it would give my life a purpose – I saw myself as a noble heroine, sacrificing my comfortable life in order to join the navy and fight Hitler – but of course I was just being stupid. I’m not required to be noble. I’m just a chauffeuse at the naval base. I have a wonderful social life, heaps of friends – and every day I despair because life seems so pointless and unheroic.’
‘Heroism comes in many shapes and forms. Your heroism may lie in the fact that you’re struggling on, day after day, even though you’re bored and miserable. I think you’re being very brave – and I also think that if you keep struggling you’ll eventually break through into a more rewarding life.’
She stared at me. Her bright eyes were now opaque, suggesting endless layers of mystery beneath the artless candour of her conversation. All she said in the end was: ‘I wish I’d met you after Laura died.’
Recognizing the oblique appeal I said at once: ‘You must tell me about Laura,’ but at that moment we were interrupted by Alex, who was keen to lure Miss Tallent back into the general conversation, and her opportunity to confide in me was lost.
At last the stewed plums and the extraordinary custard were either consumed or abandoned, the ladies withdrew and the gentlemen, with the exception of General Calthrop-Ponsonby who had been mercifully reduced to silence by the legendary St Estèphe, began to talk in a desultory manner about current affairs. I was afraid the Dean would start talking about the Baedeker raids again, but instead he showed signs of wanting to resume our earlier theological discussion. I wondered if I ought to warn the Bishop that the Dean was drifting dangerously towards neo-orthodoxy. In my experience conversions to Crisis Theology – or indeed even to the more moderate forms of neo-orthodox thought – inevitably meant fire-and-brimstone threats from the pulpit and much embarrassing talk about sin, not at all the sort of clerical behaviour which would be welcomed by the visitors who attended services in the Cathedral.
‘… of course Niebuhr’s modifying Barth’s theology in important ways … If Hoskyns were alive today …’
I broke my rule about allowing myself only one glass of port, and reached for the decanter to drown my irritation.
By the time the Bishop led his flock to the drawing-room I was sagging beneath the impact of the Dean’s enthusiasm, but as I crossed the threshold my spirits revived. Miss Tallent pounced on me. My pulse-rate rocketed. I was aware of a reckless urge to take risks.
‘Will you think me terribly fast,’ said this dangerous creature whom I knew very well I had a duty to avoid, ‘if I invite you to walk with me to the bottom of the garden and gaze at the river? I feel I need a calm beautiful memory to soothe me during the next air-raid on Starmouth.’
‘What a splendid idea!’ I said. ‘Take me away at once before the Dean begins a new attempt to convert me to Crisis Theology!’
Could any response have been more inappropriate for a dedicated archdeacon?
‘What’s Crisis Theology?’ demanded Miss Tallent as we drifted discreetly outside on to the terrace. ‘It sounds thrilling!’
‘Do I look thrilled?’
‘No, you look wonderfully serene and austere – in fact I was thinking just now in the drawing-room how simply miraculous it is to stumble across a man who’s not utterly beastly. Speaking confidentially, Archdeacon dear, I’ll confess to you that the main reason why I’m not married is because men are in general so utterly beastly to women …’
By this time we had left the terrace and were wandering across the unkempt lawn towards the river which glittered beyond the willows. The moonlight was very bright. I thought of the Baedeker raids, and for a split second I prayed for Starbridge, perhaps under sentence of death for the crime of being beautiful, for the sin of earning two stars in a famous travel guide.
‘… and in fact I wouldn’t mind not marrying at all, but of course a woman has to be married if she wants to be a success in life, and I burn to be a success. So what am I to do? I’m twenty-seven years old. I’ve got to take action soon or I’ll wind up a spinster, and one can’t be a successful spinster, it’s a contradiction in terms. I did think of being a successful nun, but they keep such peculiar hours and I’m sure I’d hate being deprived of my silk underwear –’
‘I agree it does sound as if you’re not called to celibacy in the cloister –’ I somehow managed not to dwell on the image of Miss Tallent in her silk underwear – ‘but plenty of women are called to celibacy in the world and manage to live happy, successful, productive lives. The big question here is not, as you seem to think: how will society judge me if I don’t marry, but: what kind of life does God require me to lead?’
‘As far as I can make out, God just wants me to loaf around Starmouth fending off passes from drunken sailors.’
‘Fine. Keep loafing and fending and I’m sure the way ahead will eventually become dear.’
‘But dearest Archdeacon –’
Despite the drunken sailors I can’t quite understand why you’re so convinced most men are beastly to women.’
‘Well, it’s all that pawing and pouncing, isn’t it? Heavens, why I haven’t been pounded into dust years ago I really can’t imagine, and it’s entirely because most men can think of nothing but sex – sex, sex, sex, sex, sex – and it ruins everything, simply ruins it, and sometimes it all seems so sad I want to cry. But I’ll tell you this, Archdeacon dear: if I ever do marry it’ll be to someone high-minded who won’t just look at me and think: “What a nice pair of legs!” I can’t possibly settle for a man who isn’t high-minded, not possibly, anyone low-minded is quite unthinkable.’
‘If a man loves you he’ll see far beyond your legs. I mean – good heavens, what am I saying –’
‘But how do I know if a man loves me, Stephen? You don’t mind if I call you Stephen, do you, it’s such a good pure noble high-minded name –’
‘Miss Tallent, I hate to say this, but I think you’d be bored to death by someone high-minded. Think of that prig Arabin in Barchester Towers! Everyone agrees he’s quite the most tedious hero in Victorian literature.’
‘But if it’s a question of choosing between someone high-minded and someone who’s sex-mad –’
‘Why