Rotting Hill Read Free Page B

pounds.
        He began making out a cheque, saying as he did so, “May I take it away with me?” There was no objection of course, and shortly he handed me that cheque and received the drawing wrapped in brown paper, with an arrow to show where it should be held. I pushed cigarettes over; he took a horrific pipe from his pocket and asked if he might be allowed to smoke. We neither of us wished to terminate the interview with the production of the cheque (I was quite prepared to find that it bounced). We talked for a short while about pictures—my hours of work, my training in Paris—the disadvantages of the naked overhead sky as a source of light. Then he had pipe-trouble, and when we were able to converse again I asked him about himself. What manner of life did he live at Bagwick Rectory and if he came up to London?
        No, he did not come to London often. He could not afford to: and very quickly I found we had passed into astonishingly uninhibited intercourse. Yielding to my discreet invitations he opened up, and I looked in, as if into a woman’s handbag. I must confess that what I saw there in the matter of hard cash embarrassed me for a moment. The thirty pounds in my pocket (in the form of a cheque) had left about tuppence three farthings; all mixed up with the bus-tickets and hair-pins and little girlish secrets. And far from being averse, I found, from laying bare economic secrets, he relished exposing them. Somewhat abashed, as I have said, by his unexpected exhibitions, I steered off on to more general subjects. I attempted to distract him with racontars and perhaps a few caustic indiscretions. In these early hours of our friendship, I recall, Rymer played the parson a little. For instance, in response to one of my exposures of a colleague’s vanity he exclaimed “You wicked man!” as parsons had in England in the heyday of the Cloth, over muffins and seed cake—the parsons the inimitable du Maurier, and Trollope, too, of course, were acquainted with.
        While these pleasantries were occurring I had time to think. My new patron’s annual income as Rector of Bagwick was, he disclosed, theoretically six pounds a week, but naturally it was not tax-free and neither he nor his wife had any means of their own. The pound sterling slides downhill all the time, but there is one thing that is stationary as a rock in England, namely the clergyman’s stipend. That does not rise correspondingly. Clergymen cannot strike so their wages are not adjustable to meet rises in the cost of living. Had I unaware got a dustman for a patron I should have been amused: as it was I said a little crossly, “So you are paying me a month’s salary?” “Yes,” with firm relish he assented—it amused him as much as if he had been a ragpicker: “Yes—about.”
        I privately examined the likelihood of his being a phoney. Of course I could have given him the thing. If he was really so poor a clergyman I would do that. I decided to be cautious. Then I enquired, “Why are you indulging, Mr. Rymer, in this absurd extravagance?” and something like the following dialogue ensued:
         Myself. “You have about five shillings a week pocket money?”
         Rev. Rymer. “Sometimes!”
         Myself. “Is not this drawing an absurd extravagance?”
         Rev. Rymer. “That’s what my daughter says!” (In a classy rhetorical whine—apt to terminate in a comic wail—to which he was sometimes addicted.)
         Myself. “You’re a wicked man!”
         Rev. Rymer. “Yes,” with unabated promptitude, “I’m a miserable sinner!”
         Myself ( kindly ). “Does not your conscience prick you?”
         Rev. Rymer. “Ought it to?” (Parsonically quizzical.)
         Myself. “I know mine ought to, if I accept money for that drawing, now I know your circumstances.”
         Rev. Rymer. “That is absurd. It was generous of you to let me have it so cheaply. I make a little money