Free A Glass of Blessings by Barbara Pym Page B

Greenhill had which we are now using as a storeroom.’
    I wondered what they would be storing.
    ‘Then upstairs there is my study and bedroom, the oratory, Father Bode’s two rooms, a bathroom, Mr Bason’s room, and a spare bedroom—very poky—for visiting clergy. We are really very cramped! And ,’ he paused impressively, ‘this will surprise you—there is no basement! Now, would you have believed that?’
    ‘All these old houses do have basements,’ said Mrs Beamish, as if Father Thames were deliberately concealing that of the clergy house.
    ‘But the house is not so old—that is another surprise! It was built in 1911 and was never intended as a clergy house at all. Its first occupant had five children!’
    None of us seemed able to comment suitably on this.
    ‘Things are very different today,’ said Father Bode at last, his rosy little face beaming. ‘No kiddies about the place now! I can see Mrs Greenhill at the urn. Now we can get on to the main object of this gathering, eh, Ransome?’ he added jokingly.
    Not the most felicitous of remarks, I thought, wondering how Father Ransome would take his badinage.
    ‘I’m sure everyone will be glad of a cup of tea,’ he said, in a curious, almost ironical tone. It occurred to me that he must be very tired of being introduced to people; perhaps even his flow of clerical small talk was beginning to dry up.
    ‘Ah, Mrs Greenhill!’ Father Bode stood rubbing his hands as she approached, attended by a kind of acolyte bearing cups of tea on a tray. The cups that cheer! I hope you’ve made mine extra strong with plenty of sugar.’
    ‘I think it will be just as you like it, Father,’ said Mrs Greenhill comfortably. Her rather pinched-looking features relaxed into a smile. ‘I know you like these iced buns.’
    I stood back listening to the cosy parish talk, wondering whether Mr Bason with his Earl Grey and sole véronique wouldn’t really be wasted on Father Bode. I tasted my own tea and put the cup down again quickly, for it was not at all to my liking, nor did I feel I could tackle one of the large brightly iced cakes which were offered. I noticed that Father Thames was not eating or drinking either.
    ‘Do you know,’ he said in a low tone, ‘I have been a priest for over forty years and I have never been able to take Indian tea. That will surprise you! It just doesn’t agree with me. Of course these evening gatherings take place at difficult times, gastronomically speaking, but tea has become the tradition and most people seem to enjoy it. I shall have something later.’
    ‘I hope Mr Bason is settling down well?’ I asked.
    ‘My dear, Mrs—er—so it was you who found him? Yes, of course, I remember that it was. Have I thanked you enough, I wonder? Do you know,’ he lowered his tone, ‘he has promised us a coq au vin!’
    ‘I’m so glad,’ I said.
    ‘I’m just going over to have a word with Mother Beatrice and the sisters,’ whispered Mary Beamish, coming up to me. ‘Do you know Mrs Pollard and Miss Dove and Susan?’ She indicated the group of chinless aristocratic looking ladies I had noticed when I came in. I had a quick foretaste of the sort of conversation we should be making and said hastily that I must be going home now. And indeed I felt that I had had enough. I moved as unobtrusively as I could towards the door, glancing back as I did so to see whether anybody else was leaving so early.
    As I did so I happened to catch Father Ransome’s eye. He gave a quick upward glance of mock suffering and half smiled. I was a little surprised that he should show his feelings in this intimate way, and wondered if anybody else had noticed. Poor young man, how tired he must be of the whole business! I supposed I could ask him in to have a drink one evening or even a meal. It was now even more galling to think of him living at the Beamishes. No doubt Mary would adopt a kind of proprietary attitude towards him.
    Outside it was beginning to rain and