Free A Glass of Blessings by Barbara Pym Page A

myself.’
    ‘That rather surprises me. I feel that women don’t really understand the finer points of cooking or appreciate rare things,’ he went on, quite unabashed. ‘All the greatest chefs have been men.’
    ‘What do you think about this knotty problem?’ I asked, turning to Mr Coleman, feeling like the chairman of a discussion. ‘Mr Bason maintains that women don’t really understand the finer points of cooking.’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, rather confused. ‘I think some ladies cook very well. In some ways it’s funny to see a man cooking.’
    Mr Bason turned away, perhaps offended, and as my conversation with Mr Coleman seemed to have come to an end I found myself temporarily with nobody to talk to. I glanced round the room to see what was happening, and began to wonder when the refreshments would be served. At this moment I caught Mary Beamish’s eye and she came over to me.
    ‘Why, Wilmet, standing there all alone,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see you’d arrived. I’m so sorry.’
    ‘I’ve been having a most interesting conversation with Mr Coleman and Mr Bason,’ I said, irritated at the way she was making it appear that I had been waiting for somebody to notice me. ‘It was really through Rodney that Mr Bason came to the clergy house so I felt I ought to have a word with him,’ I added.
    ‘Father Thames is delighted with him, I know,’ said Mary warmly. ‘Now do come over and talk to us. Miss Prideaux has been telling us about her experiences in Vienna when she was a governess to the royal family.’
    I allowed myself to be led over to the little group. Miss Prideaux was certainly talking in her dry precise voice, but not now of Vienna.
    ‘And he gets his own breakfast?’ I heard her ask.
    ‘Yes, there is a gas ring up there. He could cook sausages or eggs and bacon, or even kippers if he wanted to,’ said Mrs Beamish, dwelling on the various dishes appreciatively. She spoke with a kind of pride, and I knew that they must be talking of Father Ransome. ‘It will be quite like old times to have a priest in the house again,’ she added.
    Miss Prideaux took a small handkerchief from her bag and pressed it to her lips. I saw that it had a dove and the word ASSISI embroidered on it in cross stitch.
    ‘So handy for you,’ she said.
    I wanted to laugh, for it sounded so odd the way Miss Prideaux put it, as if Father Ransome might be useful for chasing burglars, mending fuses or other manly jobs.
    ‘But will he be about the house much?’ I asked. ‘I mean in the usual sense?’
    ‘Well no, he will be having his main meals at the clergy house,’ said Mary. ‘But I suppose we may give him a meal occasionally.’
    I was about to ask further questions when I saw that the moment had come. The group of priests was approaching us, and Father Thames was soon introducing Father Ransome.
    His christian names—Marius Lovejoy—and the first glimpse of him earlier in the evening had led me to expect somebody handsome, but even so the impact of his good looks was quite startling. He was certainly very handsome indeed, with his dark wavy hair and large brown eyes. The bones in his face were well defined and his expression serious. I remembered that he had been in the East End and in the worst part of Kensington, and I wondered whether the suffering and poverty he had seen there had left their mark on him, until I realized that it probably wouldn’t be like that in these days of the welfare state. I had been thinking of Father Lowder and a hundred years ago.
    ‘How do you do,’ I murmured as he was introduced to me.
    Father Thames was holding forth about the accommodation problem at the clergy house. ‘I wonder how many people realize that we haven’t as many rooms as you might think,’ he said. ‘On the ground floor is the dining-room, a room we use for meetings, and a small cloakroom with a washbasin—cold water tap only ; also the kitchen, of course, and the little room Mrs