Balefanio - tmp0

There was Mr. Ramsbotham. Whatever was he doing here? Lily didn't know whether she felt pleased or not that Mr. Ramsbotham had seen them and was edging his way up. No, she was not pleased, she felt—looking at his ruddy, veined face, with its cropped moustache, hairy lobes to the ears and rather bald forehead. He jarred upon her mood, so neatly dressed in dark blue, with a black tie. And, as usual, he was wearing spats.

"Good morning, Mrs. Vernon. Good morning, sir. May I help you find a seat?"

He disregarded Mr. Hardwick completely; but Lily didn't, after all, dislike him. Evidently he

knew how to behave. She had never seen him sobered down like this before. On that day he had shown them over the mill she had been shocked but rather intrigued by his naive vulgarity. "Well, Mrs. Vernon, I'm afraid this is rather an awkward step up. I won't look, I promise." Or his gallantry, asking her to advise him about some samples of coloured string: "We always have to ask the ladies, you know, when it's a question of taste." And then, when he came over to see the Hall, there were his jokes about the "Leather Bottel." And of course he had discovered that embarrassing circular hole in the seat of the porter's chair, under the cushion. All the same, thinking of these things, she couldn't help smiling at him slightly.

In silence, with heavy scraping of footsteps on the stone, the crowd passed into the church, where the organ was booming. Mr. Ramsbotham had taken control of Papa. They moved into the first of the pitch-pine pews. The crowd in front was so thick that there was no glimpse to be had of the Bishop. The service was just going to begin.

Lily looked round for Mary and could not see her. Was it possible that Mary hadn't come? Surely not. But with Mary anything was possible. She was so casual. Lily felt herself turn cold and hard with resentment towards her sister-in-law. She hated Mary for the feeling that was coming over herself, at this moment, in this place, when she wanted to be pure and free from any thoughts

except of Richard. Reminding herself of how she had felt scarcely half an hour ago, of her newly discovered calm and strength, she knelt down and closed her eyes. Her brain muttered words. In her heart she was praying: O God, make me happy. Let me be happy a little longer. But her brain did not know any prayer-words about happiness. It only repeated what it knew, tags about repentance, humility, goodness, mercy. Lily looked up towards God and saw the incredible blue roof of the chancel decorated with golden stars. And now the whole congregation was on its knees, repeating the correct version of the prayer she had imperfectly remem­bered. The mid-Victorian ugliness of the church, so gorgeous and solemn, with its ruby and emerald green and sapphire windows, bathroom marble tablets, scrollwork gas-brackets, check pavement and fancy organ-pipes, soothed Lily's mind. She felt a tenderness towards it, if only because Richard and she had laughed at it so often. She turned her eyes and saw Papa sitting bowed in prayer. He couldn't kneel. Eric's sleeves moved half-way to his elbows when he bent his arms. And why couldn't he tie his tie better? Her straightening had only made it worse. She would be sorry if Mary saw it. And this made her glad in a way that Mary wasn't there. But her heart was pure, now. She suddenly noticed Mr. Ramsbotham's striped cuffs.

They all rose to their feet for the hymn. For all

the saints. The draped flags showed against the altar for a moment down a long lane between the heads. Lily's voice sailed up. Who Thee by faith before the world confess'd. She sang beautifully, her eyes full of tears. Thou wast their Rock. Mr. Vernon's crazy tenor sounded in her ear. Mr. Ramsbotham was just audible. O blest communion! fellowship Divine! She couldn't hear Eric. She tried to see Richard's face before her in the air. The organ dwindled to vox humana for the Golden Evening. People round her were sobbing. Lily was in ecstasy. The last verse roared out in triumph. And it was their triumph—all theirs. They stood to attention while the Vicar read the names of the Fallen.

This part of the service had a strange effect upon Lily. The reading of the names, so crudely re­corded, alphabetically, without any preface or title, seemed ugly and brutal to her. She had been simi­larly struck, though not so strongly, by a call-over she had heard on a Speech Day at Eric's school. It had seemed to her that this was a glimpse of the real man's world, so hard and formal and cold. She had hardly thought of Richard, as one had to think of him, of course, turned forth over there, on the Other Side, with Frank Prewitt, Harold Stanley Peck, George Henry Swindells— all so naked and lost, clinging together, learning the new rules and ways, dazed and unfamiliar.

"Ernest Trapp," read the Vicar.

"Richard John Vernon."

"Timothy Dennis Watts."

His name had sounded quite strange to her. She thought: I don't care—I don't see why it should be different from over here. Why couldn't they have read out the officers' names first? She'd heard that the names on the Memorial were put in the same way. That was really disgraceful, because, in fifty years' time, nobody would know who anybody was.

The organ began to play, and the choir sang "Onward, Christian Soldiers" as the congregation filed out into the churchyard for the dedication. Mary appeared at the door and touched Lily's elbow. They smiled faintly at each other. Anne was with Mary. And behind them was Edward Blake.

The Memorial Cross had been erected on the spur of land at the back of the church, overlooking the valley. The dark edge of the hill rose behind it, and everybody agreed that the site could not have been better chosen, although it was unfortunately not visible from the road. Kent, who had been wait­ing in the porch, came forward and gruffly whis­pered to Lily that the boy had brought up the wreath from Dobson's. Apparently it was hidden away in one of the sheds at the back of the vestry, where the sexton kept his wheelbarrow and spades. Was it to be brought now, or later?

Lily wondered what other people were doing. They must have made some arrangement. If the

wreath was fetched out now, who would hold it during the dedication? They mustn't stand still either, or they would be left behind by the people on their way down to the Cross. On the impulse, Lily explained to Mr. Ramsbotham. He was un­expectedly helpful. He would go round with Kent and see about it at once; and then he would bring it to them, ready to be laid on the Cross. Lily thanked him with her eyes. Mr. Hardwick, not dashed by his earlier snub, appeared ready to give Papa his arm. People were very kind. Lily, emo­tional after the singing, felt a rush of kindness towards everybody, including Mary and Anne. In order to say something to her sister-in-law, for the pleasure of speaking to her, she asked where Maurice was.

"He couldn't come," said Mary.

Lily said "Oh," and smiled; for no particular reason, except that she wanted to show Mary that she was feeling quite differently towards her to­day. Perhaps they might see more of each other, Lily thought, impulsively. But Mary was so diffi­cult to understand. She smiled too. But her smile was somehow baffling. To Lily she seemed always to be keeping her distance, rather ironically.

And there was Edward Blake. Well, of course, it was to be expected that he'd be there. Richard's great friend. And now Mary's friend. Lily had tried so hard, in the old days, to like him—for every­thing in any way connected with Richard must be

likeable and nice—but she'd failed. Perhaps she'd just been jealous. That was natural. For he'd known Richard years and years longer than she had. Well, I needn't be jealous now, Lily thought. And he looked so tired and ill—no wonder, after the terrible things he'd been through in the War. After his flying accident, when for months, she'd heard, he'd been quite insane. Even now he'd a strange way of looking at you that was sometimes a little frightening. Lily felt glad that she hadn't to entertain him at the Hall. But poor Edward Blake, she told herself, forcing down her dislike of his presence, how terribly he must have suffered. The Bishop and the choir came out of the vestry door and filed in procession amongst the grave­stones towards the Cross. The orderly procession of surplices converged towards the dark straggling body of the congregation, from which detached themselves, forming into line, the ex-Service men, the buglers, the Boy Scout Troop. The order of the service must have been rehearsed, of course, but on the uneven, sloping ground the movements of the different parties were uncertain and tenta­tive. They shuffled into their places, forming three sides of a rough square. It was very hot and still, and various everyday sounds—the crowing of cocks on a farm, the wail of a train in the valley—were disconcertingly prominent. Lily was unpleasantly aware of the nearness of all these people. Of the stuffy smell of their mourning and of their Sunday