He combed out his girlish hair with his fingers and returned to John Robert who had sat down. Father Bernard settled in the pew in front of him, curled himself up with a swirl of skirts, and turned to face the philosopher.
‘I’d like to say “welcome back”, but then you have scarcely been away. Is it for me to say “welcome back”? At any rate, welcome to my church.’
This slightly complex speech seemed to interest Rozanov. He thought about it for a moment and seemed pleased.
‘Thank you.’
‘You never worshipped here, I think?’
‘No, I was brought up as a Methodist.’
‘Are you still a believer?’
‘No.’
There was silence for a moment. Father Bernard began to feel a burning anxiety. What did this strange creature want, and how could he, somehow, keep him? This was an odd thought. Odder still was the image which next came to the priest of Rozanov, large and quietly captive, sitting in a cage. He smiled and said, ‘If I can assist you in any way I shall be very glad to. You have only to speak.’ Father Bernard found himself adopting this rather stilted style in addressing Rozanov, as if he were talking in a foreign language.
The philosopher seemed in no hurry to do as he was bidden. He looked about the church with curiosity, chewing his large lower lip.
‘May I show you round the church? Would you like that? There are points of interest.’
‘No, thank you. Another time perhaps.’
After another silence Rozanov, still gazing about him, said, ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Yes - what about?’
‘About anything.’
‘About - anything?’
‘Yes,’ said Rozanov. ‘You see, I have only lately ceased to teach, returned from America, and for the first time I have no one to talk to.’
Father Bernard felt a little giddy. He said, ‘But surely there are plenty of people— ’
‘No.’
‘You mean -just talk?’
‘I should explain. I have always, over very many years, had pupils and colleagues with whom I could talk philosophy.’
‘I am not a philosopher,’ said Father Bernard.
‘Yes, and that is certainly a pity,’ said Rozanov. He sighed. ‘You don’t happen to know of any philosophers in Ennistone? Not of course that any philosopher would do — ’
Father Bernard hesitated. ‘Well, there’s George McCaffrey, but of course you know him.’
‘Not McCaffrey. Do you know of any —?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Then you will have to do.’ The words had an authoritative finality.
‘I shall certainly do my best,’ said Father Bernard humbly, rather dazed, ‘but I’m still not quite clear about what you want.’
‘Simply someone to talk to. Someone entirely serious. I am accustomed to clarifying my thoughts in the medium of conversation.’
‘Suppose I don’t understand?’ said Father Bernard.
John Robert suddenly smiled, turning towards the priest.
‘Oh that doesn’t matter. So long as you say what you think.’
‘But I — ’ Father Bernard felt it would be graceless to protest. Besides he was now in a fever lest his preposterous vistor should change his mind.
He said, ‘You want someone to, sort of, hit the ball back?’
‘Yes. An image which - yes.’
‘Not that I am in any way a match for you, to pursue the metaphor.’
‘That is unimportant.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good for you!’ said John Robert. ‘When can we start? Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow’s Sunday,’ said Father Bernard faintly.
‘Well then Monday, Tuesday?’
‘Tuesday - but look, what sort of - how often —?’
‘Could you manage every two or three days? As it suits you of course, I don’t want to interfere with your parish work.’
‘No, that’s all right - would you like to come to the Clergy House?’
‘No, I like to talk when I’m walking.’
Father Bernard detested walking, but he was already himself captured and caged.
‘Yes, fine.’
‘Could you call for me at my place, you know, 16 Hare Lane in Burkestown, about ten?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Thank you, I’m most obliged.’
Rozanov got up and marched off. Father Bernard rose too. The church door scraped and creaked and clanked shut again. Father Bernard sat down. He felt amazed, flattered, appalled, alarmed, touched. He sat still with his luminous eyes shinier than ever. Then he began, like Alex, quietly helplessly to laugh.
Hattie Meynell was sitting on her bed in the dormitory at school. Girls were not supposed to be in their dormitories during the day except to change before and after games. Games were over and Hattie had changed and had tea and ought to have been at prep. However, since she was so senior and this was her last term she felt, although she had always had a great respect for the school rules which were ever so rational, that she might, just now for a bit, do as she pleased. Younger at school, when she had yearned for oblivion even more than she did now, she had regarded her bed as her home, and something of this sense of refuge still remained. There were two other beds in the room, with white coverlets like the one which Hattie was rumpling by sitting on (which ought never to be happening). The big Victorian windows showed outside, in a clear soft evening light, a lawn with coniferous trees, then tennis courts whose wire cages made a silvery geometrical fuzz, then the mild green hills of the English countryside. Two girls were playing tennis, but not ‘officially’ since this was not a tennis term (they were allowed to play of course, but there was no coach). Hattie was wearing her changed-for-supper uniform, a silky light brown blouse with an embroidered collar and a round-necked dark brown pinafore dress of very fine corduroy. She had kicked off her shoes and was holding, lifted up on to her knee, one of her brown-stockinged feet. The girls were not allowed to wear tights, which were deemed bad for their health. Hattie was the ‘little waif’ referred to earlier, John Robert Rozanov’s grand-daughter. She was seventeen.
The school was a very expensive rather progressive rather old-fashioned boarding school. It was progressive in its political and social ideas, old-fashioned in its discipline and academic standards. Hattie had been a pupil there for five years, during which time her American accent had been overlaid by a very different English one. She had crossed the Atlantic more times than she could remember. She had wanted a pony, then ceased to want one. She had worn a gold band on her teeth, then ceased to wear it. She had plaited her hair in a pigtail, then put it up. She had passed a number of exams. At night she slept curled up with her hands crossed over her breasts. She was very unhappy but she did not recognize what ailed her as unhappiness.
Tomorrow she would have her hair washed by Miss Adkin, who came on Saturdays to wash the girls’ hair. This hair-washing was a ‘funny time’, which Hattie could not decide about; many things at school were like that. Miss Adkin established herself in one of the bathrooms, and the girls, dressed in their pretty dressing-gowns, queued, always laughing a lot; for some reason hair-washing was ridiculous and somehow thrilling. Miss Adkin was a rather jokey lady but looked like a priestess, as if she might suddenly have produced a pair of shears and cut off all the girls’ hair instead of washing it. Her customers sat in turn with their heads over the bath, and Miss Adkin sprayed on hot water, soaped, sprayed, soaped and sprayed and soaped again, while the semi- Inaudible client complained that the water was too hot and the soap was getting in her eyes. Most of the girls had long hair, and there was something strange and shocking in the sudden transformation of dry fluffy tresses into long dark snakes swirling about in the water that kept rising in the bath, while Miss Adkin’s strong claw-like fingers searched each bowed and suppliant scalp. Then a warm white furry towel was wrapped around each damp head and the turbaned victim ran red-faced and giggling away. Hattie disliked having her hair washed, but it excited her.