Free The Feast by Margaret Kennedy

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 goneround 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