CHAPTER 35

Hilary returned to Frank and Dorrie in Chenham for Christmas, because she had nowhere else to go.  But she refused to visit Water Langley, even when Caroline invited her to the Bryants’ usual Boxing Day drinks.  “I'll make sure the person whose name we don’t mention isn't there,” Caroline offered.

“How?”

“I'll tell him not to come.”

“There’s no point.  I'm never going back.”

In fact, Hilary returned to London on Boxing Day evening and was one of just two staff working at the library between Christmas and New Year, the other person being Evelyn, the Children’s Librarian, who, in her free time, ran something called the “Sidney and Beatrice Webb Reading Group”.  Evelyn was catching up on reading for the next meeting, which she was able to do, because the library had few visitors at this time, only the Westminster Abbey choirboys who were required to stay at school, not only for Christmas services but for St Edward’s day on 28 December.  They were at a loose end but Hilary was used to choir children.  She treated them as she had treated the junior choir at St Catherine's, Water Langley.  “Take your feet off the chairs, James…  Henry, if you’re going to read that book, read it, but otherwise let's put it back, shall we?... Now what time is it you have to be in Song School?”  The choirboys all called her “Miss Bowles” and she rather liked that.

Evelyn watched the boys with a curled lip, muttering, “Privileged.”

Hilary was also reading, at home and at work, the whole of Dickens.  While she was reading “Martin Chuzzlewhit” (who also had bought property, although not quite what he had wanted), she looked in estate agent windows, only to realise that being able to afford her own flat was a long way off.  She would save up for a car instead, she decided, as Southern Region, unless you happened to want to go into London and back again - if you wanted to go Kingston to visit Bryony, for instance – was awkward and inconvenient.  During “Dombey and Son”, Caroline announced that she would had resolved to stop going out, in view of her approaching MBA exams.  Hilary didn’t believe her at the time, but she managed it.

Evelyn, meanwhile, was taking a lot of time off, as all was not well at the “Sidney and Beatrice Webb Reading Group”.  There was name-calling - “Fascist”, “Stalinist”, “Neo-Stalinist”, “Neo-Fascist” - and this was causing Evelyn “stress”.  Hilary spent more and more time deputising for her in the Children’s Section, and started reading Trollope.  Hilary was just finishing “Can You Forgive Her?” when Evelyn announced her retirement “on health grounds”.  During “The Eustace Diamonds”, Hilary was promoted to Children’s Librarian and her salary increased by almost £500. 

“In the right place at the right time!” exclaimed Bryony.  Hilary thought she was just lucky.  She deserved some luck.

Caroline, having attained her MBA, got her job at Conservative Party Central Office at last.  The Lib-Lab Pact was wearing thin now and a General Election was expected any moment now.  The Tories had been put on red alert when Prime Minister Jim Callaghan had sung “Waiting at the Church” at the TUC Conference early in September, but nothing happened.  Hilary, often confusing Caroline's political talk with what was happening currently in the Palliser family, bought a second-hand car.

“What we lack now,” said Caroline, as Hilary drove her around Surrey, “are blokes.”

“What?” cried Hilary, who had been anticipating a political comment.

“We’re not getting any, are we?”

“What?”

“We’re twenty-three.  And we’re unattached, both of us.”

“Caroline, I can't buy you a bloke - like I bought this car.”

“No-o,” said Caroline, a note of disappointment creeping into her voice. 

“My grandmother says that love always happens when you’re not looking for it.”

“That’s very old fashioned.  But I suppose grandmothers are entitled to be old fashioned.  How is your granny, by the way?”

“She’s still in Australia.  She writes to me.  You know my aunt had breast cancer?  Well, she’s in remission now.  But my cousin’s getting married in February, so Granny’s staying for his wedding.”

“Do you think she’ll ever come home?”

“I hope so.  I mean, she’s still got the house in Water Langley.  But... I don’t know, Caroline.”

“Why don’t you go out and see her?”

“Because I've just spent all my money on this car, tax and insurance.”

“Suppose,” said Caroline, then, adopting her head girl’s tone, “But let’s get back to blokes.  We should join a dating agency.”

“Oh no!”

“Lots of people do!”

“Not me, Caroline!  Dating agencies are full of… boring people, who can't find anyone any other way.”

“Like us?”

“Caroline, I'm not joining a dating agency!”

On Sunday, Hilary drove Bryony out to Hindhead.  “I've met somebody,” said Bryony, as they walked through the Devil’s Punchbowl.

“Oh?” exclaimed Hilary.  Bryony had never had a boyfriend throughout all the time Hilary had known her.

“His name’s Pete.  He’s a surveyor and lives in Sutton.”

“Oh, great!  How did you meet him?”

“I joined a dating agency.”

“Oh,” said Hilary again.  They walked on over wet, brown bracken.  “How do you know he’s… OK?”

“We’re getting to know each other.  We’re not madly in love, like you and Andy were – not yet, anyway.”

“Andy?  Who’s Andy?” 

“Well done, Hil!  I love hearing you say that!”

They walked out of the Devil’s Punchbowl, shivered in the autumn wind, commented on the light fading and started walking back towards Hilary's car.  “Back to work tomorrow!” said Bryony, heaving a sigh.  “Did you hear on the radio that militants have stormed the British Embassy in Teheran?  I'm glad I'm not at the Foreign Office!”

“I did,” said Hilary - on her car radio.  “They’re going to get rid of the Shah, aren't they?”

“Looks like it.”

“A friend of my mum’s is in Teheran,” Hilary added.

“I think the FCO’s unequivocal advice right now would be to get out.”

“She might’ve done so already.  She came to Mum’s funeral in 1976 but I haven't been in contact with her since.”

“A lot of Westerners have left.”

Hilary returned to work, as best she could, because the signalmen were on strike and, two days running, she didn’t arrive at the library until after ten o’clock.  Everyone was used to strikes by now, to what the Americans, sneeringly, called “The British Disease”.  Prime Minister Jim Callaghan ran off to an economic summit in Guadeloupe, from where, it seemed, things didn’t look so bad.  “Crisis?  What crisis?” he asked, on his return, having acquired a nice tan.  Hilary could have told him, still at Lorning Station at 8.45 and due in at work at nine, trying to read “Framley Parsonage” and pretending she wasn’t frozen.  On Saturday, threatened with a strike by deliverymen, she and Alice, along with everybody else in Lorning, loaded what remained on the shelves of the local supermarket into their trolley, and then had to queue for ages at the checkout.  Already, some shelves were empty - milk, for instance.  “Granddad Newton says this country’s getting like Eastern Europe,” said Alice.  “Not that he’s ever been there!”

On Sunday morning, Alice left for a flight, leaving Hilary to go out in her car to try and buy milk in Wheaton, the next village.  Margaret had not approved of Sunday shopping, Hilary remembered, as she approached the counter with her carton of milk, but this was different.  On the way home, she was sitting at the Wheaton traffic lights, listening to the church bells and watching the people, in their “Sunday Best”, walking into Wheaton church, when she got the whim to join them.  She herself was wearing jeans and an old jumper, and someone who wasn’t used to church would have used this as a reason for not going, but Hilary had attended St Catherine’s, Water Langley, wearing almost every kind of clothing, including, one particularly hot Sunday, a bathing costume, as Margaret had taken the view that choir robes covered all sartorial sins.  She parked her car at the side of the road and walked inside. The service was very traditional, with a robed choir and well-known Anglican church music, the sort of service they used to have at Water Langley.  Although the church was well-attended, Hilary knew that her sudden appearance would be noted and that she would be swooped upon at the end.  Nothing else planned for the day, she allowed it to happen, to be pressed into drinking “tea after the service”.  She had to explain that her name was Hilary, she lived in Lorning, and, yes, all the strikes were terrible, to three well-meaning, church ladies, who were clearly wondering whether she could be persuaded to run the Youth Fellowship, the Sunday School or the Christian Aid leaflet drop.

She was walking out, having sidestepped all these things, when she heard footsteps behind her and her name being called.  “Hilary, Hilary!”

A plump, well-dressed, middle-aged woman with fluffy fair hair was rushing towards her.  “Hilary, Hilary!  You remember me?  Patty.”