Whatever religion it is, the big leather book seems to be a central feature of it. Maurice asked her if he could have a closer look at it, but she wouldn’t let him—”I know, Father Dulcimer, that it is lawful for me to read in your Book, but it is forbidden for you to read in mine.” He thinks it’s probably part of her fortune-telling paraphernalia — there’s a very old form of prophecy, he says, where you open a book and point to a line at random and it tells you what you want to know. It has to be a very important and serious book, of course — the Bible or Virgil’s
She’d ended by saying that though she and Maurice were destined to be adversaries, they were adversaries who respected each other and could perhaps be friends. Poor man, no wonder he needed gin.
“Ragwort,” said Julia, pausing in her reading, “we look to you for enlightenment on questions of a religious nature. Why should a clergyman object to being called a true priest and told he had great spiritual authority?”
“He would have felt, I imagine,” said Ragwort, “that such expressions savoured of the charismatic — happy- clappy music and the Toronto Blessing. People don’t much care for that sort of thing in Sussex — not in West Sussex, at any rate.”
“And would that also be his objection to the comparison with St. Dominic?”
“Not exactly. St. Dominic, one would have to say, went to rather different extremes.”
You’ll have gathered, I expect, that neither Maurice nor I was much taken with Isabella, and even if she’d been a perfect angel Griselda wouldn’t have forgiven her for destroying the garden. So we were all a little surprised when Ricky began to be quite friendly with her. They’d apparently known each other in London some years ago — she invited him round for drinks soon after she moved in and since then he’s been a regular visitor.
Well, of course, Ricky’s old enough to choose his friends for himself, and if he enjoys Isabella’s company that’s no one’s business but his own — one just finds it slightly odd, that’s all. Apart from anything else, he’s always been rather an enthusiast for comfort and good cooking, and I wouldn’t imagine there’s much of either to be had at the Rectory these days. So presumably there’s some other attraction — there are men, I know, who like women who don’t wash much.
Still, as I say, that’s no one else’s business. The only tiresome thing, as far as I’m concerned, is that he put her up for membership of our little boating and tennis club, and she seems to spend half her time there. It’s just a small clubhouse and bar overlooking the river, with a couple of tennis courts, but it used to be a convenient place to meet friends if none of us felt like entertaining at home. Now one can only go there if one’s in the mood for running into Isabella, which in my case isn’t often.
But I suppose it’s rather unkind of me to resent her being there so much — without it, so far as I can see, she’d have no social life at all. Since neither she nor Daphne can drive a car, and public transport is beneath her dignity, she doesn’t get about much outside the village. She hasn’t made many friends since she arrived here, and if she had any before then, they evidently aren’t close enough to come and visit her. The fortune-telling business seems to be done mostly by correspondence — Mrs. Makepeace at the Post Office says she gets quite a lot of letters.
There is one exception, which I have to admit we’re all very curious about. Every four or five weeks or so, at about seven in the evening, a large black Mercedes car with tinted windows drives rather fast into Parsons Haver and straight to the Rectory, where it parks in the part of the drive that is hidden from view by the shrubbery — this could be pure chance, but no one in the village believes that. The man who gets out of it rings at the front door and is let in. After two or three hours, he comes out and drives off again equally fast, heading towards London.
And what everyone wants to know is — who is he? We all agree he must be rich or he wouldn’t have a Mercedes. And famous, or he wouldn’t need tinted windows. But is he a famous footballer? Or a television personality? Or a member of the Royal Family? These are the main possibilities put forward in the bar of the Newt and Ninepence — in some circles he’s thought to be something far more sinister.
The only person who’s actually seen him is Maurice. His study window is the one place in Haver with a clear view of the Rectory doorway, and he’s seen the man quite plainly several times. But that’s no use to anyone, because Maurice is almost as unobservant as you are — is it something that happens to people who read Classics at Oxford? All he can find to say about the man is that he’s an ordinary, middle-aged man, in a City suit.
The visits of the black Mercedes are at irregular intervals, but one can always tell when it’s expected. Poor Daphne is banished from the Rectory at about six o’clock, with just enough money to buy herself a sandwich and a glass of wine, and sits hunched up all evening in a corner of the Newt and Ninepence, looking like a puppy that’s been turned outdoors in disgrace and doesn’t understand why.
If I see her in there, of course, I say “Good evening” and buy her another glass of wine. She used to be very hesitant about accepting — she was obviously embarrassed, poor girl, that she couldn’t buy me one back — but now she seems used to the idea. And she always tells me that she has to stay out all evening, because Aunt Isabella is giving a Personal Reading — one can hear the capital letters — and anyone else in the house would disturb the vibrations. So it looks as if the visits are professional, rather than personal.
It’s really too mean of Isabella — if she wants the girl out of the house, she might at least give her enough to go into Brighton to enjoy herself a bit. She doesn’t seem even to give her pocket money, let alone any proper wages. I suppose one would say that she pays for Daphne’s keep, but she certainly doesn’t buy her any clothes — or if she does, it must be at jumble sales. I’ve never seen Daphne in a pretty dress — really, some of her things look as if she’d got them from someone’s dustbin, and not a very clean one either.
I don’t say Isabella physically ill treats her — though Griselda’s sure she does — but her feet are always rubbed sore from going without stockings in badly fitting shoes, and she often has quite painful-looking peck marks on her face.
Griselda gets very upset and indignant about it all, and says that we ought to do something. But what? One can’t ring the RSPCA or the cruelty-to-children people — Daphne’s not a child or an animal, she’s a grown-up human being, not all that much younger than you are.
And she’s not a prisoner — she could leave Isabella tomorrow if she chose. But if she did, where would she go, and what would she do? She isn’t qualified for anything — Isabella’s brought her up to think that “what they teach you in school isn’t true knowledge” and exams aren’t important, so of course she’s never passed any. And she certainly wouldn’t get a job on the strength of her looks or personality.
In any case, she doesn’t want to leave. If one asks her what she wants to do with her life, she looks very round-eyed and earnest and says, “I just want to feel I’m caring for someone who needs me.” And she seems to believe that Isabella does. Why a grown woman in the prime of life and possession of all her faculties should need a full-time personal attendant I can’t very well imagine, but she’s somehow persuaded Daphne—”brainwashed” says Griselda — that she’s not merely an invalid but practically a saint, who’s sacrificed her health in the cause of helping others, and it’s an honour and privilege to serve her.
Personally, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with Isabella’s health that a little fresh air and exercise wouldn’t put right, and I feel there are probably more effective ways of helping people than telling them to avoid travel when the sun’s in Capricorn and distrust dark-haired strangers when Mercury’s in the ascendant or whatever it is she does. One can’t say that to Daphne though — any criticism of Isabella almost reduces her to tears.
Which does make talking to her rather a strain on one’s patience. Her conversation consists almost entirely of quotes from the same source—”Aunt Isabella always says this” and “Aunt Isabella always says that”—as solemnly pronounced as if she were citing Scripture. Someone has evidently told her that it’s polite to talk to people about things they’re interested in, but she hasn’t quite grasped how it works in practice. So her idea of conversing politely with me is to tell me Isabella’s views about art—“Aunt Isabella says real artists don’t need to go to art school, they’re born knowing how to paint”—and with Griselda Isabella’s views about gardens—”Aunt Isabella says it’s cruel to shut flowers up in flower beds, they ought to be allowed to grow naturally.” Even if I liked Isabella I’d be getting heartily sick of her.
Blast the woman — I’ve talked as much about her as if I found her almost as interesting as she thinks she is, and still not explained why I’m not pleased with Ricky.
Well, as I think I told you, the last company that Ricky advised us to invest in was one called Giddly Gadgets. Just after we sold our shares in it, and while we were wondering whether or not to reinvest the proceeds, I happened to be in the wine merchant’s, being tempted by a rather delicious claret they had in, much more expensive than I usually buy. I was trying to make up my mind if I could afford half a case of it when Isabella came
