The Feast Read online

  Will she remember all this in church to-day? I shall.

  2. It Takes Two to Make a Bed

  Miss Ellis heard footsteps coming along the passage and hastily put Mr. Paley’s diary back where she had found it. She did not want, in any case, to read much more of it. Diaries worth reading were seldom, in her experience, left lying about and Mr. Paley’s was no exception to this general rule.

  Nancibel came in. Mrs. Siddal had ultimately capitulated to Miss Ellis’s argument that it takes two to make a bed, and had agreed that Nancibel should help with this part of the upstairs work before starting on the washing-up. But she was adamant about the slops.

  ‘You wouldn’t think,’ said Miss Ellis, ‘that these two had had a child, would you?’

  ‘I don’t know why not!’ said Nancibel, tugging at the heavy double mattress.

  ‘Well, they did. But it died.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Oh … I know a good bit about them.’

  Nancibel left off wrestling with the mattress and stood at the side of the bed looking at Miss Ellis. It was the same in all the rooms. She did the work while the housekeeper talked. But she had had enough of it.

  ‘It was quite a tragedy,’ continued Miss Ellis. ‘Her people were wealthy and he was quite poor, and they didn’t want her to marry him. So she made a runaway match. But he couldn’t get over it that they didn’t think him good enough. Couldn’t forgive the scornful things they’d said. He made her cut herself off completely; wouldn’t let her write or anything.

  Well, they had an awful time. Poor as rats. And she wasn’t used to that, of course. Go on, can’t you? What are you waiting for?’

  ‘I’m ready when you are, Miss Ellis.’

  Miss Ellis laid reluctant hold on her side of the mattress and gave it a mild tug, complaining:

  ‘She’s no right to have these heavy things. If I get ruptured I shall sue her for compensation. Let’s leave it, shall we? It’s Sunday. Well … they had this little girl and she got ill. T.B. And they hadn’t the cash for a sanatorium, and he wouldn’t let her write to her people. And she said if the child died she’d never forgive him. And the child did die and she never has.’

  ‘In her shoes,’ said Nancibel, picking up a sheet, ‘I’d have written all the same. Yes, I would. And got the money and carted the kid off to a sanatorium, when his back was turned, and refused to tell him where it was. Oh, I’d have been deedy, in her shoes.’

  ‘She isn’t the sort that sticks up for themselves. Not that he doesn’t blame himself. He does. He knows it’s his fault that child isn’t alive to-day. And he’s got plenty of money now too. He began to get on after that, and got an Art Gallery or something to build.’

  ‘Poor things,’ said Nancibel. ‘No wonder they look so sad.’

  Voices in the garden below drew Miss Ellis to the window. Nancibel, determined to make no more beds alone, stood still with the sheet in her hand.

  ‘Do for goodness’ sake come and look,’ exclaimed Miss Ellis. ‘What on earth will those children be up to next?’

  Nancibel joined her in time to see the little Coves undergoing the first of seven tests imposed by the rules of the Noble Covenant of Spartans. They were walking blindfold along a stone parapet at the end of the terrace, where the rocks fell steeply away to the beach. The Giffords ran along the path beside them, shouting exhortations:

  ‘Go on! Go on! You’re nearly half way! We’ll tell you when you’re there. Don’t stop. You’re disqualified if you stop.’

  In single file they staggered and wavered, their arms stretched out, their bare feet clinging to the rough stone. But they never stopped until they reached the end of the parapet and Hebe pulled them down, one after another, to safety.

  ‘It’s that Hebe! She put them up to it,’ cried Miss Ellis. ‘If ever a child needed her bottom smacking, she’s one. But come along; come along, Nancibel! Mrs Siddal doesn’t pay you to stand gaping out of the window. No wonder the beds take such a long time!’

  3. Good People Come and Pray

  Pendizack Church Town stands in the bare upland fields on the top of the cliff. It consists of seven cottages, a post office, and a public house, crouching in a fuzz of trees beneath an enormous church—the Church of St. Sody, who came long ago out of Ireland, in a stone boat, with ten thousand other saints.

  For the best part of the year the services are poorly attended, for most of the cottagers go to Chapel and the better-off parishioners dislike the Anglo-Catholicism of Father Bott. But in the summer season the beauty of the cliff walk, the fame of the choir, and rumours of fantastic ritual, bring a trickle of visitors from Porthmerryn. Mass at St. Sody’s is attended by people from the Marine Parade Hotel who do not generally go to church at all.

  Bruce, however, did not climb that steep hill for love of Plain Song, or for the sake of coastal scenery, or to see a man who was said to bring a donkey into the chancel on Palm Sunday. He went because he was told to do so. His mistress had a fancy to see the place and had ordered him to escort her. So he was waiting, rather sulkily, in the hotel lounge, conscious of critical glances from the other residents.

  Presently she appeared at the top of the stairs. The cruel light of the morning sun, blazing down upon her from the staircase window, so emphasized her age, her bulk and her dowdiness that he felt considerably reassured. None but the nastiest mind, he thought, could suppose him to be more than a secretary-chauffeur to so ripe an employer.

  ‘Don’t you have to wear a hat?’ he asked, as they went out of the hotel.

  ‘My God!’ said Mrs. Lechene. ‘I hope not! D’you think they’ll throw me out of church? I haven’t got a hat.’

  She couldn’t get a hat if she tried, thought Bruce. No hat ever made would go on that head. I ought to be thankful her hair is up and not down.

  For Anna Lechene was very proud of her hair which was true gold, very thick, quite straight, and hung to her knees. She missed no occasion for letting it so hang. But when obliged to put it up she braided it in thick cables and wound it round her head. The effect was striking though top-heavy.

  ‘At least I’m not wearing slacks,’ she said. ‘I’ve put on a dress, haven’t I?’

  Yes, but what a dress! All right for a kid of thirteen. Nobody over twenty ought to wear these dirndls. Oh, all right! I know all the grandmas do in Macedonia or wherever it is you got it from. But this isn’t Macedonia.

  He stared venomously at Anna’s broad back as he followed her along Fore Street. He was a changeable young man. Not long ago he had admired Anna’s golden head and peasant embroideries. But now he was glad when he had got her out of the crowded street on to a flight of steps which led up the hill.

  ‘Where is this church we’re going to?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s on the cliffs, half way to Pendizack. You must have seen the tower.’

  ‘Oh? Oh yes…. I have.’

  His spirits rose. For that tower was quite near Nancibel’s cottage. He had noticed it last night, standing up against the evening sky. He might see her again. She might be in church.

  Mrs. Lechene, panting slightly for the steps were steep, was talking about Father Bott. She had heard that he was a remarkable man.

  ‘A celibate,’ she added meditatively.

  Lucky So-and-so, thought Bruce, and made vague noises of assent while Anna speculated upon the causes and effects of celibacy in Father Bott.

  At the top of the hill they passed an ugly little building called Bethesda whence the first hymn of the morning already resounded:

  Oh that will be

  Glory for me!

  Glory for me!

  Glory for me!

  And he reflected that he ought to be grateful to Anna for not taking him there, unaware that Nancibel was inside it, with all her family. She got time off from Pendizack on Sunday mornings to go to Chapel. But he still hoped to find her among the flock at St. Sody’s, and pressed on towards that tall square tower.

  What will she think,
he pondered, as the great pure curve of the sea came once more into view. What will she think about me and Anna? Nothing. Why should she think anything? If I meet her again, and she asks me, I shall tell her: That’s Mrs. Lechene. My boss. She’s a writer. A very well-known writer. No. You wouldn’t care for her books. She’s been very kind to me. She got a publisher to take my novel. She’s very kind to young writers. Yes, I know she looks peculiar. So do most lady writers. If you’d met as many of them as I have, Nancibel, you wouldn’t think this one looks so queer. Yes, Mrs. Lechene. No … well … I believe she’s divorced him. I type her novels and drive her car. Secretary-chauffeur.

  ‘Pretty up here,’ he said craftily. ‘I think I’ll take a stroll round after church and look at the cliffs.’

  Anna turned and said sharply:

  ‘I don’t think so. After church you’ll get back to the hotel and type out those three chapters of the B.B. I can’t think why you didn’t get them done last night.’

  The B.B. was The Bleeding Bush, a novel based on the life of Emily Brontë upon which Anna was engaged.

  ‘I’m out of carbons,’ said Bruce.

  ‘My God! You’re always out of carbons. I never knew such a boy. Get some more.’

  ‘I can’t on Sunday. Shops shut.’

  A full peal of bells rang out from the tower, over the fields and over the flat blue floor of the sea. In the distance a long procession of people was coming by a narrow path through a cornfield. Strung out, in single file, it seemed endless. Gerry Siddal led it and after him came Duff, Robin, Canon Wraxton, Evangeline Wraxton, Mrs. Cove, Maud, Beatrix, Blanche, Michael, Luke, Hebe, Sir Henry Gifford, Caroline, a considerable gap, Mr. Paley, Mrs. Paley.

  ‘Could it be a Butlin’s Camp?’ speculated Bruce.

  ‘No,’ said Anna. ‘There’s a little hotel down there in the cove. I hear it’s most attractive and comfortable. I was thinking of going there when we leave the Marine Parade. But I’m not sure I like the look of the inmates, if these are they.’

  ‘Pretty little girl,’ said Bruce.

  She thought he meant Evangeline Wraxton, and exclaimed:

  ‘What? That skeleton in tweeds?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘The little kid in green. Talking to her father.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Anna, slightly mollified. ‘You mean Miss Bobby Sox?’

  She scrutinized Hebe who was skipping along and turning to laugh at Sir Henry, and added:

  ‘Making eyes at her father, I should say.’

  ‘Good People come and pray,’ cried the bells.

  The Pendizack party climbed a stile into the churchyard. Each in turn was outlined against the sky for a moment, at the top of the stone wall, and then disappeared from view. When Anna and Bruce reached the building they were all inside. The Siddal boys had gone round to the vestry, for Duff and Robin sang in the choir and Gerry was serving at the Mass. The rest found seats in the great empty nave. As is customary among churchgoers they sat rather to the back, leaving the foremost rows of pews vacant. An old man dealt out prayer books to summer visitors who had not got any. The chimes ceased. There was a great tramping as the eight bell-ringers came down from the tower; in that small parish everyone did double duty, and six of them were needed in the choir.

  Anna and Bruce took seats in a pew just behind the Wraxtons. A faint smell of decaying wood mingled with a reek of incense. The great church was rapidly falling to pieces, and poor Father Bott could not even collect enough money to repair the pews.

  ‘A bit niffy,’ commented Anna, loudly.

  Every child in the congregation turned its head to see who had said this.

  ‘Who on earth is that supposed to be?’ she continued, pointing to a banner of St. Sody, used in processions.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ muttered Bruce.

  ‘It’s rather good,’ she declared. ‘A bit epicene … I expect one of the artists in Porthmerryn designed it for them.’

  At this point she became aware of the inflamed countenance of Canon Wraxton, who had turned round and was glaring at her.

  ‘Will you kindly make less noise?’ he barked.

  Anna gaped at him. She disliked parsons and was habitually rude to them. But it was not often that they were rude to her.

  ‘Well …’ she said at last, ‘you quite startled me.’

  ‘I mean it,’ thundered the Canon. ‘If you can’t behave decently I shall have you turned out.’

  ‘You’re making a terrible noise yourself,’ retorted Anna.

  ‘Hush!’ whispered Bruce, scandalized in spite of himself.

  ‘Why should I hush? This isn’t his church. Or if it is, I can well understand why it’s so empty.’

  The Canon was now surveying Bruce.

  ‘If you’ve any decency,’ he said, ‘you’ll go and induce your mother to go with you.’

  Nothing could have silenced Anna more effectively. She could, for some seconds, think of no retort. And the appearance of Gerry in the chancel, carrying a taper, created a diversion. Candle after candle was lit. The Canon, looking like a bull in a field, turned to survey this fresh enormity. Anna giggled but did not venture to speak again. The congregation had left off staring before the cross preceding the choir appeared, and Father Bott, surrounded by servers and acolytes, emerged from the vestry.

  4. Typescript Notes for a Sermon preached by the Rev. S. Bott. Sunday, August 17, 1947

  —“deLIVER JS FORM EVIL”

  q1 Fear. insecurty. Atom bomb.£Heplessness

  2 Nothingnew abt Eveil. Causes old as Adam. Effects merely more spe ctacular. Sin.

  e 3 Sin isolates the soul z(@) frim God. (b) from fellowmen. Mutual generosity, willingness to give and accet, essential condition of Salvation.

  4 Teaching of Church. 7 deadly froms of spiritual isolation. Vices which destroy gratutude and generosity.

  prIDE accepts nothing.

  E

  ENVY guves nothing.

  sloTH accidie especially insidious to the intellectual.

  xxxxxxxxxx substitues speculation for action. xxxxx24@5£ WRATH lust for power.

  S LECHERY Sexual expliotation. “Hardensall with-in and petrifies the feelins”

  X GLN. GLOT/. GLUTTONY Their God is in ther belly.

  7 GOVETOUSNESS Financial exploitation.

  These sins the most deadly weapons of the Enemy. We should fear them more than any waepons of man. Grace is our only protection.

  £Hence importance of last petition in the Lord’s Prayer.

  5. The Canon Testifies

  Yes, thought Sir Henry Gifford, as he got to his feet for the Offertory hymn. But where do I come in? I’m a sinner, I suppose. We all are. But which of this little list is mine, and what do I do about it? Number 4. I know this. A nice easy tune. I really don’t think I’m proud. I know I’m not envious.

  New every morning is the love

  Our wakening and uprising prove;

  I’m not slothful. I work very hard. And I’ve plenty of practice in keeping my temper.

  Through sleep and darkness safely brought,

  Restored to life and power, and thought.

  Nor am I particularly covetous, lecherous or gluttonous.

  New mercies each returning day …

  If I were covetous I’d go to the Channel Isles and dodge income tax. But I’m standing out about that. And if I do, if she wears me down, it won’t be because of pride or envy or any of the list. It’ll be sheer exhaustion. Here comes the plate. Good Lord! Michael’s going to drop it! No … all safe. Hebe needn’t have pushed him like that. She’s unbearably bossy. Do I hand it back or pass it to the Coves? A pound seems a lot, but I have no change. Must get some to-morrow. My sin is weakness. And I believe that goes for most of us here. We don’t do evil, but we consent … we let ourselves be pushed about.

  The trivial round, the common task,

  Will furnish all we need to ask,

  Room to deny ourselves, a road …

  It was years before I noticed the com
ma there. Thought it was Room to deny ourselves a road … a sort of contortionist’s feat. Yes, sheer spinelessness. Very few entirely evil people in the world really; but we let them run us. Eirene … do I really think she’s evil?

  And help us, this and every day,

  To live more nearly as we pray. Amen.

  Yes, I do. Sometimes I do.

  The Giffords had expected the service to end after the Offertory. But it went on. Everybody knelt down, and Father Bott prayed for the Church Militant. Then, turning to the congregation, he muttered an Invocation unfamiliar to many of them. All the little Giffords began to rustle the pages of their prayer books. So did Beatrix, Blanche and Maud, who were eager to do everything the Giffords did, until their mother took her face out of her black gloved hands and scowled at them. Whereat the three Coves became immobile, their foreheads pressed against the ledge of the pew in front, and the tender infantile backs of their necks exposed to the world.

  ‘It’s the Communion Service,’ whispered Sir Henry.

  Hebe looked shocked and protested:

  ‘We oughtn’t to be here. We aren’t confirmed.’

  ‘I know. But you must just stay and kneel quietly.’

  He felt more than a little embarrassed himself, since it was years since he had heard this Service. He was not much of a church-goer, but he considered that children should be brought up with a religious background and if no one else was available to take them he accompanied them himself. He, too, had merely expected Matins, at which a decorous demeanour would be all that he need offer. He tried to remember the details of the coming ritual, and then he tried to compose his wandering thoughts to some mood of sincere gravity, as he did at funerals. For it would be indecent, he felt, to dwell upon trivial subjects at a moment which was, to his neighbours, of the highest importance.