The HOPEFUL TRAVELLER Page 9

  Kerren said that she was sorry about this, but she had always promised herself that during her first Easter in London she would go to hear Bach’s St. Matthew Passion sung in the church of St. Bartholomew the Great.

  ‘But it lasts about four hours,’ Cath protested.

  ‘There’s an interval for tea.’

  Cath reflected for a moment. She could hardly accuse Kerren of frivolity, so she said that in her opinion it was practical Christianity that was needed at the present time.

  ‘There’s always a place for the contemplative in religion,’ Kerren answered firmly. ‘The Irish have always been great contemplatives.’

  She had not, in fact, been contemplating a visit to St. Bartholomew the Great for as long as she made out to Cath. She had completely forgotten its existence until she heard Miss Nimmo discussing the Easter performance with Cudd. It was then she remembered that Adam had said that he hoped to go. She asked Miss Nimmo and Cudd whether she could accompany them to the church. Miss Nimmo was delighted and Cudd sulked for a week.

  Kerren told herself that it was Bach with whom she was concerned. It was Bach about whom she thought as she walked along the streets, watching the green shoots pierce the soil, seeing the green finger tips of trees gently exploring the more temperate air. She began to feel a certain greenness within herself, an inexplicable, restless hope. During the winter she had at times been deeply lonely. She wanted so desperately to communicate; what it was that she wanted to communicate she was never quite sure, there was a dancing light that threaded its way in and out of conversations and encounters and eventually eluded her. No one else seemed aware of it. People collected her in the same way that she had collected Miss Nimmo and Ian and Cudd, an interesting novelty. Gaiety was all and she could be very gay on occasions; she was good at parties, people were never sure what she would do or say next and this gave a kick to the evening’s entertainment. But when she tired of gaiety and abruptly withdrew there was no one to follow her into the stillness. People said she was too moody. She sometimes felt in these months that growing up was simply the gradual building of a wall of conventionality which at some stage would reach such a height that no escape was possible. The real person, the person with strange hopes and inexplicable longings, must be kept hidden away, locked somewhere in the east wing of personality. But now, with the coming of spring and the advent of Bach, she promised herself, ‘I shall cherish that part of myself; I shall keep all those impossible desires, those unquenchable thirsts, those longings that can never be satisfied. I shall keep them always. I’ll be a hopeful traveller.’

  Her spirits soared as the days passed and Easter drew nearer. She seemed to unfold with the spring; her skin was fresh, its milky pallor almost translucent, the eyes, always her best feature, were clear and seemed greatly enlarged; her hair had grown at last to a manageable length and now, drawn back from her eager face, she could feel its weight at the nape of her neck. It was as though the long frost had broken and some joyful event in the future cast a long shadow over her.

  And still she told herself that it was all Bach, this joy and this delight. It was of Bach whom she thought as she lay awake at night, smelling the green freshness of the earth borne on the wind from suburban gardens and parks into the sleeping city.

  ‘I had no idea music meant so much to you,’ Dilys said. She looked at Kerren obliquely as though this new brightness hurt her eyes.

  Jan said, with a hint of suspicion, ‘You can only enjoy music if you have a full sexual life. I assure you that this is so. You cannot get the deepest pleasure from music, or art, or poetry, without you have the full sexual life.’

  Kerren borrowed a copy of the score of the St. Matthew Passion from the music library and spent the evening before the performance studying it. On the great day, she was late leaving the house. There was so much to do at the last moment. Her silk stockings had to be studied carefully, one being more suited to the left leg than to the right because the darns would show less. She ironed her navy dress and knotted the cerise scarf at just the right angle. The effect was quite pleasing, but something else seemed to be needed. At the last minute she decided to change her hair style. She undid the black bow at the nape of her neck and plaited the hair, coiling the plaits into a halo circling the back of her head. She was rather startled by her image in the mirror which had some quality she had never recognized in herself before; but it was too late to revert to her more familiar style.

  ‘You look very bright, dear,’ Miss Nimmo said as they greeted each other outside St. Paul’s station. Miss Nimmo was dressed in a brown coat and a brown felt hat with a brim which dipped over her right eye. The coat was shiny at the seat. Cudd was wearing a black raincoat with a black trilby with the brim turned down all round. They both looked very funereal. Cudd, for some inexplicable reason, was carrying several newspapers and a large brown envelope which he had obviously taken from the office. Kerren had no time to comment on these oddities as Miss Nimmo was already leading them at a brisk trot through the empty week-end streets.

  Kerren was tremendously moved by her first glimpse of St. Paul’s, majestic in the midst of desolation. ‘Look! Oh, you must look!’ She pointed up at the dome rising triumphantly in the blue sky. The figures on the pediment above the great west door raised their arms as though grateful for the last all clear, although one at least appeared to look down at the desert of rubble stretching below. But Miss Nimmo and Cudd were hurrying forward, scurrying heads bent as though in danger of the Great Fire, the Plague, the Blitz . . . They crossed to St. Martin-Le-Grand. They passed the G.P.O. building and Kerren was intrigued by the plaque outside which announced that this was the site of The Bull and Mouth Inn. She wondered why it merited a plaque. Miss Nimmo and Cudd turned into Little Britain. The wind whispered in the plane trees in St, Botolph’s churchyard, its breath dry and dusty; there was no other sound except their hurrying footsteps. Miss Nimmo said, ‘Oh dear, oh dear! We are late!’ and for the third time Cudd drew a giant watch from his pocket. It was like going for a walk with the White Rabbit. Miss Nimmo disappeared down an alley between a tea-shop and a bombed building; ahead was the porch of St. Bartholomew’s Church with a few people waiting outside, more impatient studying of watches. Kerren ducked her head, realizing that Adam might be here. Perhaps he would have a woman with him? Why had she not thought of this before?

  As it turned out, her chance of seeing Adam was diminished by the fact that thanks to their late arrival they had to sit in the south aisle, their view impeded by one of the massive Norman pillars. Kerren had a brief glimpse before she sat down of the high altar backed by a half-circle of pillars like huge, patient acolytes. The architecture had a tranquillity which she preferred to the thrusting aspiration of Gothic; it made God seem more accessible. In a pew to the left a woman knelt before taking her place. Kerren was too near the pillar to do the same, but she closed her eyes and bowed her head. When she sat back. Miss Nimmo whispered apologetically, ‘I’m afraid I am an agnostic, my dear. But I greatly enjoy the music.’ Cudd had taken off his hat and lain it brim upwards on the stone floor, the band was discoloured by sweat and the crown stained with grease; Cudd’s hair was plastered to his head and stuck out in a little frill at the extremities where the hat had not flattened it. His expression was if anything more despondent than ever.

  ‘Is Mr. Cudd an agnostic, too?’ Kerren asked.

  ‘Mr. Cudd does not examine ideas as I do.’ Miss Nimmo spoke gently, but for the first time Kerren detected a faint rebuke. In this respect, at least. Miss Nimmo was guilty of the sin of pride.

  There was a rustle of movement and Kerren saw the choir filing out from a door near the porch, followed after a proper interval by the soloists. One or two people produced scores and bent over them determined to ensure that each crotchet and quaver was accorded its true value. Kerren hoped that Adam was not studying the score. She suspected that she might be rather irritated by Adam’s approach to music; he had a good mind but he tended to be over- cr
itical. Perhaps she did not want to meet him again after all? For a time she worried about this. She looked at the part of the nave that was visible to her, trying to find hint; there was one man with something of his bearing, but when he turned his head slightly she saw that he was much older than Adam. On the rim of the bench in front of her light flickered; she watched the dancing movement, puzzled, until she saw that beyond a high slit window the branches of trees were swaying in the light spring breeze. Gradually, the music took over. The organ, the choir, the voice of the Evangelist, the rustling of hymn sheets, the occasional cough or shuffling of cramped feet, the flickering sunlight, the smell of dusty stone and incense, became part of a pattern held together by the music, framed within the great church. She experienced the sense of community, the feeling of belonging to something, that she had had in the services and lost since then.

  From time to time as they rose to sing the chorales, she looked round for Adam, and once she remained standing a little longer than anyone else so that she could study the people to the right of the pillar. But she did not see Adam until they filed out at the interval; then he appeared at her elbow, saying:

  ‘Testing your musical stamina?’

  Irritation momentarily ousted pleasure and she flashed back, ‘How condescending! You haven’t a monopoly interest in Bach.’

  People had bunched together and he was close on top of her so that as she looked round she had a clearer view of his companion than of him. A strong, square young man, fair-haired, grinning as though he appreciated this thrust at Adam. She was aware that she had in some way allied herself with him without meaning to do so.

  ‘It’s a sign of age,’ Adam said. ‘You must forgive me.’

  When he was nettled he tended to refer to the difference in their ages.

  Miss Nimmo whispered tactfully, ‘Mr. Cudd and I will go on, dear.’ As they were all wedged together in the nave this remark was as audible to Adam and his companion as to Kerren. The young man said, ‘Oh no, let’s join forces. I’ll forge ahead and grab a table.’

  They reached the porch and Adam put his arm on Kerren’s elbow as the crowd surged into the open, making for the cafe at the end of the alley.

  ‘I didn’t recognize you at first standing by that pillar when everyone else was reverently seated. The hair style fooled me.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘I don’t know. It makes me feel a little in awe of you.’ He looked down at her ruefully as though he was indeed at a loss. ‘I suppose you had to grow up.’

  The young man who had forged ahead would probably have said outright that she looked stunning.

  They had been borne along to the entrance to the cafe. The young man had got a table and Miss Nimmo and Cudd were already seated at it. At the next table, the Evangelist was studying the menu while Jesus ordered cod and chips.

  Kerren had not visualized sharing her meeting with Adam with three other people. She introduced Miss Nimmo and Cudd and Adam introduced the young man, who was called John Hughes. Miss Nimmo felt that she had intruded and Cudd felt that everyone else had intruded; neither of them did anything to help the conversation along. Kerren was ashamed of them. The young man, who was obviously a complete extrovert, took charge of things without seeming to realize that he was doing so; his manner was direct and natural, he seemed confident that other people were as nice and straightforward as he himself.

  ‘I expect you have heard this before?’ he said to Miss Nimmo. She murmured, ‘Indeed, yes,’ and he went on, ‘This is the first time for me, although I know bits and pieces, of course. It’s tremendous, isn’t it?’

  Miss Nimmo went pink with the strain of disagreeing with such a personable young man, but she could not sacrifice honesty. ‘I’ve heard it better sung,’ she said with the utmost gentleness. She cast an agonized glance at the next table where Jesus and the Evangelist were consuming fish and chips imperturbably.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ John Hughes answered unabashed. ‘I’m no judge of performance. But the thing itself is so miraculous.’ Miss Nimmo looked nonplussed, as though he had congratulated God on the creation. ‘It must be terribly difficult to avoid monotony, don’t you think? It could so easily be all gloom and agony.’ He talked as though Bach was a contemporary. Kerren thought that a little of him would go a long way. She wished that she could think of something to say that would indicate a more mature judgement, but was distracted by the waitress placing fish and chips in front of her.

  Cudd stretched across to grab the vinegar. ‘Only got quarter of an hour,’ he said as though announcing the start of a race. He drew a grey handkerchief from his pocket, tucked it beneath his chin and grasped knife and fork.

  Kerren said to Adam, ‘I’m so delighted with the flat. I expect Mrs. Neilson told you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous. There’s a lilac in the garden. I can’t wait for it to come out. But then you know all this.’

  ‘On the contrary, I’m a townsman. When do lilacs bloom?’

  ‘I meant that you know the house.’

  John Hughes leant across and said cheerfully, ‘We shall have to hustle. The Evangelist has finished.’

  Adam said, ‘Jesus is having another cup of tea, we’re all right.’

  Cudd put his knife and fork down. Kerren was surprised to see that he had left a portion of fish. He looked round at the other plates, his eyes glinting. Adam said to Kerren:

  ‘I’m so glad you came.’ He gave her one of his rare, sweet smiles. ‘I was hoping you would.’

  He did not find it easy to make the first move and Kerren was filled with warm gratitude.

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ she responded.

  This very special moment was spoilt by Cudd who unwrapped the old newspapers and spread them out in the centre of the table. Conversation stopped; even John Hughes was disconcerted, although he looked hopeful, like a puppy anticipating a new game. Miss Nimmo came to the rescue.

  ‘It’s so difficult to get pet food now,’ she explained. She put her fork in the piece of fish that she had pushed to one side of her plate and lifted it delicately into the newspaper. Cudd busily scraped the contents of his own plate.

  Miss Nimmo said to Adam, ‘It’s easier for dog owners. But shopkeepers are most unsympathetic to cats.’

  Adam contributed his portion. John Hughes was plainly delighted with the whole episode and offered to collect from nearby tables. Kerren was very embarrassed.

  ‘It seems quite out of proportion when people are starving in Europe.’

  ‘You don’t have to give if you don’t want to, dear,’ Miss Nimmo said gently. ‘I’m sure Mr. Cudd respects other people’s principles.’ There was a pause. Cudd sat with bowed head and folded hands in a travesty of meek supplication. The Evangelist and Jesus got to their feet, Jesus tipped the waitress while the Evangelist made his way to the door. Adam picked up Kerren’s plate. ‘Allow me to relieve you of the burden of decision,’ he murmured. His face was impassive, but she guessed that he was going to dine out on this story. Cudd rolled up his noxious bundle and stuffed it in the large brown envelope.

  As they walked back to the church, Adam said to Kerren, ‘Can you come back to mine afterwards?’

  Kerren accepted the invitation with muted enthusiasm. When she took her seat, Cudd had laid his hat on the floor and placed the envelope inside it; a greasy stain was already spreading over the centre of the paper and there was a strong smell of vinegar. For a time Kerren fretted over this unsavoury bundle until the singing of ‘Golgotha’ with its ineffable sadness at last claimed her complete attention. John Hughes had been right, although of course he had expressed it so brashly. It was miraculous, the way in which at the end one was left not with gloom and agony, but with that wonderful last chorus in which all human emotion, love and grief, anguish, despair and hope, is contained and transformed. If God leaves signposts for man, surely music such as this is one of them, she thought.

  She moved slowly down the nave wi
th the feeling that this was one of the great moments in her life. She had had this experience before and had been disillusioned, but she kept hoping. Adam would be waiting outside. Miss Nimmo was talking about him now.

  ‘I hope your friend didn’t mind about the fish.’

  ‘He enjoyed it,’ Kerren said. She suspected that he had at any rate enjoyed her discomfort. She thanked Cudd and Miss Nimmo for allowing her to join them, and then she went to meet Adam and John Hughes who were waiting on the corner of Cloth Fair.

  ‘Cloth Fair!’ she repeated. ‘How I wish I’d lived when all these markets were thriving.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have liked it,’ Adam said drily. ‘At least, not judging by your reaction to fish and chips wrapped in newspaper.’

  ‘It would be nice if one could go back just for a day,’ John Hughes said, and wondered, ‘Shall we ever be able to play about with time?’ The idea, rather than the event, fascinated him.

  It was annoying that he had to be with them; but perhaps he would help to smooth over any cracks in composure when they arrived at Adam’s flat. She was sure that this was going to be a very emotional experience; she would be so conscious of his past life, of his wife and children, and she was not sure that she would handle it well on her own. This evening must be regarded as a rehearsal for the time when he would confide everything in her.

  Adam seemed to have no qualms. He led them at an even brisker pace than Miss Nimmo’s down Aldersgate, past St. Paul’s, into Ludgate Hill. She exclaimed at the incongruity of St. Martin’s in Ludgate, sandwiched between office buildings; she wanted to have a drink at The King Lud but this seemed pointless to Adam who had drink to offer in the comfort of his flat. His flat was off High Holborn.

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ Kerren said. ‘Right in the heart of things.’

  ‘Not very comfortable in the Blitz,’ he said, pouring drinks. He had lived here on and off all his adult life and took it for granted; friends complained of the noise during the day and the quiet at night, neither of which he noticed.