Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [115]
The curate's sermon was on dress. 'Are the fair sex empty vessels,' intoned Cadwaladyr gloomily, 'that they must make such a fuss of their outsides?'
Mrs. Halfpenny had woken up now. Beside her, plumes twitching in annoyance, sat the stately Mrs. Morris of Chepstow, who owed five guineas at the Joneses and God knows what elsewhere.
'The waste of time and money on mere attire will surely reduce this nation to beggary,' complained the curate. 'Unless—' his reddened finger moved along their pews—'the ladies turn of their own will from proud vanity to sober economy.'
There were rustles and creaks all around. 'And this from a seller of spirituous liquors!' hissed Mrs. Halfpenny.
'The fellow is trying to ruin our trade,' murmured Mrs. Jones mischievously in Mary's ear. She'd never heard ladies rebuked to their faces before.
But Cadwaladyr must have realised by now that he'd gone too far. Midstream, his sermon changed direction. Neatness without could signify neatness within; he went so far as to admit that the Creator was gratified by beauty in his creatures. 'But above all, what He demands is transparency of heart,' the curate went on, his voice rising: 'that His people should be what they appear to be.'
Beside Mrs. Jones her maid sat with her jaw jutting out. She seemed to have taken against the man. What an unpredictable girl Su Rhys's daughter was. Not that Su had been entirely free from moods and megrims herself, good woman that she was.
St. Mary's was as hot as an oven by the time the sermon was over. Under the weight of incense and pomade, Mrs. Jones registered the sweat of outrage. And another smell she didn't recognise, dark and vegetative. Only on the way out, shuffling to the back of the church behind the vast arcs of skirts and the odd dress sword, did she remember what it must be. Behind the pews the church was floored with the gravestones of the great families. In one corner the pavement had been dug up, and earth piled high, smothered in flowers and leaves. It must have been a winter burial; the greenery had rotted to the slime of February, and it all smelled rampantly alive.
'Sometimes,' Daffy said dreamily, 'when I have a whole day off, I walk right down the Vale to the old abbey at Tintern. There's never a soul there. I like to stretch out in the long grass and count the windows. I never end up with the same number twice!'
Mary lay with her face six inches from his, in Chippenham Meadow at eight in the evening of the mildest day of April. She could feel Daffy's hot breath on her cheek. He was one of those people who gave off a sort of cloud of heat in every direction, even through his double-layered winter jacket.
'The sky is so blue through those old stone pillars, Mary. It looks as if a giant wandered by and lifted off the roof to see what was inside. Maybe I'll take you down to Tintern someday, in the summer?' he suggested. 'It's a long enough walk, but you're stronger than you know.'
She nodded, not listening. Her head was propped on her fist; she glanced down at the tops of her breasts, creamy as fresh butter.
Now he was rambling on about the crows, pointing as they wheeled from tree to tree at the darkening horizon. 'They each go off to search for food alone, at twilight,' he said eagerly, 'but then the leader calls them home. They chase each other, for sport, but they all end up asleep together in one great roost. Strength in numbers, you see.'
Mary yawned and stretched, inched a fraction closer, as if she didn't know what she was doing. She could see the front of Daffy's breeches tautening. Power pulsed in her like water in a spring. She told herself that she could make this man stand up like an