Sarah Caudwell - The Sibyl in Her Grave

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 in, attended by Daphne to do the carrying. She doesn’t usually do her own shopping, of course, but the wine merchant counts as grand enough to deserve a personal visit.

I didn’t want to stay and make conversation, so when we’d exchanged good-mornings I gave my usual order and told the young man serving me that the claret was really too expensive. And Isabella smiled at me, in that infuriating way she has, as if she knew something you didn’t want her to know, and said, “Ah — what a pity Giddly Gadgets didn’t do better.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” I said, and walked out of the shop feeling absolutely furious.

As I say, if Ricky chooses to be friends with Isabella that’s entirely his own business, but he must have known that she’s the last person on earth whom Griselda or Maurice or I would want to know any details of our financial affairs. And he was absolutely the only person who could possibly have told her about us investing in Giddly Gadgets — anyway, I rang him to say how surprised I was, and he didn’t deny it.

So you’ll understand, if you don’t mind very much, and think it too ungrateful of me, that I’d rather not ask him where he got his information from.

Yours with much love,

Reg

Few of the tables in the Corkscrew were still occupied: it was thought time for the proceedings of the Restoration Committee to be adjourned. Even Julia could not be persuaded to linger for another glass of wine: fearing that the interview with the young man from the Revenue might for some reason have proceeded less smoothly than it should have done, she was anxious to telephone again to find out what had happened.

When she finally succeeded, however, in speaking to her aunt, she found her too preoccupied to discuss income tax: Mrs. Sheldon had a funeral to arrange.

4

MY DUTY TO HISTORICALtruth does not, I think, require me to bewilder my readers with the version of the day’s events in Parsons Haver which we received from Julia on the basis of her telephone conversation. A more complete and orderly account is contained in the letter which she read to us when we gathered once more in the Corkscrew on the Thursday evening.

24 High Street

Parsons Haver

West Sussex

Tuesday, 22nd June

Dear Julia,

Do forgive me if I was slightly distrait when you rang earlier — I’d had a rather trying day. I suppose, if I’m going to tell you properly about it, that I ought to start with yesterday evening.

I’d had a most satisfactory interview with the income tax man and it occurred to me, as I was beginning to get supper ready for Maurice and Griselda, that we had a first-rate excuse for champagne. So I ran down to the wine merchant’s and bought a couple of bottles, and on my way back I saw poor Daphne, sitting all by herself on a bench outside the Newt and Ninepence.

I was rather surprised to see her there. The black Mercedes had been seen here less than a week ago, and there’s usually at least a month between its visits. I didn’t feel I had time, though, to stop and talk to her, so I waved and went on my way.

But a moment or two later she came running after me and seized hold of my shopping basket, saying it looked much too heavy for me and I must let her carry it. I could hardly take it back from her by physical force — which it almost seemed I’d have to, she was so determined — so I let her go on carrying it, and she came trotting home beside me.

It seemed churlish, when we got back, simply to say thank you and shut the door in her face, so I invited her in for a sherry. It struck me, as I was giving it to her, that she looked even more miserable than usual — I mean, not just as if she might be going to cry, but as if she’d been crying a good deal already. So I asked her whether anything was the matter.

“Nothing — I don’t know — everything,” said Daphne, and did indeed burst into tears.

It wasn’t easy, between the sobs and the stammers, to make out exactly what she was upset about. In the end, it seemed simply to come down to this — that Isabella was giving her second “Personal Reading” in the space of a week, and Daphne thought she was dangerously overtaxing her strength. I’m afraid I may have looked rather sceptical.

With more sobs and stammers, Daphne said that I didn’t understand. No one understood. No one understood what Isabella put into a Personal Reading. No one knew how exhausted she was for days afterwards. She ought to be still resting after the last one. And Isabella wouldn’t admit to physical weakness, and said she just had a cold, but Daphne knew there was something badly wrong with her. She didn’t know how, she just knew. And something awful was going to happen, and she didn’t know what to do about it. More tears.

Well, what could I do? I thought she was talking nonsense, of course, but I didn’t have the heart to pack her off to sit on her own in the Newt. So I told her that if she’d stop crying, I’d lend her a comb and facecloth to tidy herself up with, and she was welcome to stay for supper. I didn’t think Maurice or Griselda would mind — I had quite enough food for four, and I knew they both felt sorry for her.

It was a beautiful evening, and the garden’s at its best at the moment, so we ate out of doors. It was a very simple meal, just a salmon mousse with salad and new potatoes, and some strawberries afterwards, but it went quite well with the champagne, and everyone seemed to enjoy it.

Daphne had two helpings of everything, and said it was the best meal she’d ever had. Which, without unduly flattering myself, I could all too easily believe, poor girl.

The conversation, I have to admit, didn’t exactly sparkle, though I’m sure that Daphne was doing her best — like a little girl at a grown-up party, trying hard to do the proper thing but not quite knowing what it is. She didn’t seem to realise that people don’t always mean exactly what they say, not because they’re insincere but because they’re making a joke about something. And she evidently expected Maurice to keep talking about religion, which of course he wouldn’t dream of doing over dinner.

A minute or two after ten she said she had to go home, in case Isabella needed her for anything before she went to bed. Maurice said that he ought to be leaving too — he had to be up early to take morning service at a church ten miles away — and suggested that they should keep each other company across the churchyard. Dear Maurice — he’d normally have stayed much later, morning service or no morning service, but he wouldn’t have liked to let Daphne go home in the dark by herself.

He rang a few minutes later, to say they were both safely home — he’d waited at the gate of the Rectory to make sure she got in all right, and he’d heard Isabella shout out to Daphne that she wasn’t needed and telling her to go to bed. The visitor had evidently left — Maurice said he’d seen no sign of the black Mercedes.