“He gave me that.”
“Why you? What on earth for?” asked Miranda.
Sorrel was so frightfully pleased at having been given the little fish that she hardly noticed the rude way in which Miranda spoke.
“Just for luck.”
Miranda opened her mouth as if to say something, and then she shut it again. It was as if words were tumbling into her head and she was swallowing them. Then finally she blurted out, not in the lovely voice in which she spoke on the stage, but in the voice of a jealous schoolgirl.
“Well, I hope it does you good. If you’re going to be an actress I should think it would take a row of fishes to make you a success.”
CHAPTER X
NEWS
It was lucky in a way that the children had to work so hard, for really it was very peculiar living with Grandmother. Fortunately, it did not seem as peculiar to them as it would to most children, because they had got acclimatised in the holidays at the vicarage to a rather odd way of living. There had been Grandfather, much more interested in Bible animals than he was in them, so their holiday life had centred round Hannah. At Number 14 Ponsonby Square there was Grandmother living a quite separate life from the children. Quite a lot went on in Grandmother’s drawing-room—people came to call, the telephone rang—but none of it concerned the children. Their world was upstairs with Hannah, and with Alice when she could make time.
Next to Hannah and Alice the nicest thing about Ponsonby Square was the garden. Before the war, when there were railings round it, it had been a garden beautifully kept up at the expense of the people who lived in the Square. Even in wartime you could see somebody was trying about it. The grass was cut, there were Michaelmas daisies of all colours in the beds, crab-apple trees with crab-apples hanging all over them, and endless shrubs with gay leaves and berries. At one end of the garden vegetables were being grown, but right down the centre of the vegetable beds were some incredibly old mulberry trees, fairly dripping with mulberries. Two aged gardeners looked after the garden and they became great friends with the children. The head gardener told them that before the war dozens of children had belonged to the garden and played there regularly, but they were all evacuated now. He said he missed them very much and hoped that now that this there ’itler had stopped making a nuisance of himself they would come back.
“A garden ain’t rightly a garden,” he would say, shaking his head, “without children in it.”
The whole of one half of the garden was divided into allotments, most of which belonged to wardens. Every Sunday after church the children would walk round the allotments to see how everything was getting on, deciding which allotment they would give a prize to. Their choice always fell on the same allotments because the wardens who owned them had not only grown cabbages and things like that, but had put in a few flowers as well.
In the middle of the garden was the lawn and all over this, on Saturday afternoons and Sundays, which were, of course, the only days when the children saw the garden, people lay in deck-chairs asleep. Most of the people were very nice to the children and talked to them; but somehow, just being three in a garden full of grown-up people, they never felt they could be really noisy. Sometimes, of course, they made a mistake and shouted; usually when they did, an old lady woke up with a jump and dropped her knitting, or an old gentleman’s eyebrows shot up, and then they went back to playing quietly again. Fortunately, the lawn was not the only place. There was a shrubbery path all round the garden, which was very good for hide-and-seek, and when they felt energetic there was a low overhanging branch which made a bar for practising their dancing exercises.
In the house, Alice and Hannah had done everything that could be done to make their rooms look nice. They had bought some gay green paint and painted up both Mark’s room and the nursery. Alice had found some old curtains and she and Hannah washed them and cut them up and hung them in Mark’s room; and she had found a red table-cloth, and that made curtains for the nursery. Sorrel had been given a latchkey, which was hung on a piece of string round her neck so that they could always let themselves in, and save, as Alice said, “Somebody’s understandings on the old apples and pears.” But, in spite of a latchkey, either Hannah or Alice always managed to be about, looking pleased to see them when they came in.
Hannah, after a lot of searching, had found a church that she approved of in the neighbourhood, and the moment she found it, and got used to the times of the services, she began to feel at home. She considered the children ought to go to a children’s service in the afternoon on Sundays, but, as there were so few children in London, there did not seem to be any children’s services to go to. Instead, she took them to a morning service and managed to keep for each of them what she called “Sunday clothes.”
“You may laugh, Alice,” she said when Alice was amused at these efforts, “but I know what’s right and proper for Mr. Bill’s children, and I’m going to see it carried out.”
From the moment that Hannah found her church and got the children’s church-going settled, she became much more herself. All day long the sound of hymn-singing was heard on the top floor:
“The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate.
What have I done with my thimble?
And ordered their estate.”
And when Harvest Festival time arrived:
“We plough the fields and scatter
The good seed on the land.
What an awful hole Mark’s made
In thi-is sock.”
Every day or two, one or all of the children were sent for to visit Grandmother. It was a queer kind of visiting of Grandmother, the children thought, because it was like going out to pay a call. A message would come to say that they were to be received, and then a lot of tidying and brushing-up went on by Hannah before they were passed over to Alice, who escorted them downstairs just as if they did not know their way, and announced them like proper visitors.
“Here’s Sorrel, Miss Shaw dear,” or
“Here’s the children to see you, Miss Shaw dear.”
Thanks to Miriam, the children were beginning to learn about their family. Miriam’s mother, the children’s Aunt Lindsey, was the eldest of Grandmother’s daughters and she had not married very young, and before she married, Grandmother had come to depend on her being about the house to see to things and to talk to. Then one day she had brought home Mose Cohen, the comedian, and said she was going to marry him. Grandmother had not been able properly to disapprove of Mose Cohen, because he was a very great star on the music halls; but she was rather jealous of him because he had taken away her Lindsey, and so, because she was not always very polite, the Cohens got out of the way of calling on Grandmother, and only came when they had a proper invitation. Sometimes, Miriam said, Grandmother forgot she was angry with her father and then they were round seeing her every day or so; but just at present they were not on very good terms.
“It’s like that with Aunt Marguerite, too,” Miriam explained, “only it’s worse for Aunt Marguerite because she thinks Uncle Francis the most marvellous actor in the world and Grandmother doesn’t think he can act at all and always says so. You wait till Grandmother imitates Uncle Francis, and then you’ll see. As a matter of fact, I expect Grandmother will see more of them soon because of Miranda. Everybody, even Uncle Henry Warren in Hollywood, is pretty excited about Miranda. Somebody to carry on the tradition, you know.”
Mark had puzzled about this.
“But when Miranda goes on the stage she’ll be Miranda Brain, so I shouldn’t think anyone would know or care about that old tradition.”
Miriam was amazed at his stupidity.
“Of course everybody knows. Who married who and what happened to everybody. When Sorrel’s old enough for a licence, you’ll see. It doesn’t matter that she’s called Sorrel Forbes; all the critics and most of the public will know she is Aunt Addie’s daughter. Just like me, when I’m old enough they’ll know, of course, that I’m Mos
e Cohen’s daughter; but they’ll know at the same time that my mother was a Warren.”
Everybody had to talk to Miriam as though she was a great deal older than she was. She was an only child and had been brought up mostly with grown-up people, and everything to do with the theatre was in her blood. Masses of theatrical people came to her parents’ flat and they talked theatrical business in front of her, so that on that particular subject she was much older than her age. When it was anything to do with the theatre, Sorrel always asked Miriam’s advice, as though she were a grown-up person.
“If,” she said anxiously, “everybody knows we’re great-grandchildren of Sir Joshua, doesn’t it mean that people will expect us to be fairly good?”
Miriam nodded soberly.
“You bet it does. As a matter of fact, we won’t be allowed to go on with it if we aren’t. My mother didn’t do much; she started off with a bang when she was about eighteen and then she got some bad notices and then she got smaller parts, and then she gave it up. Mum says it was simply awful; she knew she couldn’t do it. There were just two that were any good in the family, Uncle Henry, of course, and your mother. It’s the most awful blow to Grandmother that Uncle Henry’s gone on the pictures and lives always in Hollywood. He was pretty terrific on the stage, Mum says. I was too little, I never saw him. He came over just before the war, but I never spoke to him much; there was always a howling mob round his hotel wanting his autograph.”
“What about Aunt Marguerite?” Sorrel asked. “Didn’t she act?”
Miriam lowered her voice.
“Well, that is one of those things that makes Grandmother angry. Grandmother never thought she could act, and nor did Grandfather when he was alive, but she went on the stage and she didn’t do so badly; and then she married Uncle Francis. Well, he made her his leading lady, mostly in Shakespeare. Sometimes Grandmother goes to see them act; and then on Christmas Day, and times like that, she shows Aunt Marguerite how she looked when she was being Lady Macbeth, or whatever it is.” She giggled. “It’s awfully funny. Dad adores it and leads Grandmother on to do it, though Mum always tells him not to. But then Dad’s in a special position. Grandmother can’t imitate Dad, and though she’d die rather than say it, she thinks he’s awfully funny. I’ve sat in boxes with her and I’ve seen her laugh so much that all the paint comes off her eyelashes.”
Ever since she had been living with Grandmother, Sorrel puzzled why, with one son who was a film star and a son-in-law who was a very successful comedian and another son-in-law who was Sir Francis Brain, the well-known Shakespearean actor, Grandmother should be so poor. It was again Miriam who explained.
“Grandmother simply doesn’t understand money; she never has, Mum says. Of course, it’s better now because there aren’t so many things she can buy; but even now she spends all the money that she has, mostly on things she doesn’t want. I don’t exactly know, but I think that now Mum and Aunt Marguerite give money for Grandmother to Alice, but Uncle Henry still sends it to her. Mum says he’s just like her and spends every penny he has himself, so he never has much to give away, however much he earns. But I think it’s Aunt Marguerite and Mum that see that Grandmother’s all right.”
Sorrel, Mark and Holly heard this in silence. It was clear from the way that Miriam was dressed and all the things she had, like a good leather attaché case, there was lots of money in her home; and it was equally clear that Miranda was so used to money that she took it for granted that she could, as far as the war allowed, have everything she wanted. So it seemed a bit odd that if Aunt Lindsey and Aunt Marguerite were really giving Alice money for Grandmother, that they gave her so little. Alice had been quite right when she said bees and honey were words they would often hear her say. It was clear there was very little bees and honey in the house; but, of course, they did not say this to Miriam, they hardly could suggest her own mother was mean.
Grandmother’s favourite of the three children was Mark. She saw him at least twice to Sorrel’s and Holly’s once.
“Give me boys,” she said. “I always preferred them. I blamed Fate for giving me only two sons, and one of those died when he was a baby.” She would talk to Mark about his Uncle Henry. “I should like you to meet your uncle. There’s a man! Can say more with his little finger than that ham actor, your Uncle Francis, can say with all the breath in his body. We must turn you into an actor like your Uncle Henry.”
Mark was not at all afraid of Grandmother.
“I’ve told you hundreds of times I’m not going to be an actor. I’m going to be a sailor. In fact, I’m going to be an admiral.”
Grandmother swept him on one side, leapt off her chaise-longue scattering her shawl and cushions all over the floor, and putting on a deep voice like a boatswain, quoted from “The Tempest”:
“Down with the topmast! Yare! Lower, lower. Bring her to try with main course. A plague upon this howling! They are louder than the weather or our office.”
Mark hated Shakespeare—and, particularly, he hated him when Grandmother recited him.
“They don’t say things like that in the Navy now, whatever they did in that old Tempest.” He picked up the cushions and said hopefully, “Can I tuck you up again, Grandmother?”
Grandmother saw why Mark was being so polite, and it made her laugh.
“Getting your own way? Come on, then. You shall amuse me. Tell me how Miriam’s getting on. I don’t care for Jewish humour myself, but he’s a clever fellow, her father. Needs to be, for your Aunt Lindsey was always a stick. ‘Never give that girl a part that wants any warmth,’ your Grandfather used to say. Still, the child might have talent. Pity she’s so plain.”
Mark lay on his face on the floor and dug little holes in the carpet with his finger.
“Miriam can dance. Winifred thinks that Madame’s going to teach her next term.”
“Doesn’t she teach all of you?” said Grandmother, surprised. “I thought that was what she started the school for, because she wanted to teach dancing.”
Mark had been a pupil at the Academy sufficiently long to be appalled at such ignorance.
“Of course she doesn’t. Hardly anyone. You’ve got to be absolutely outstanding for her to teach you by yourself. Of course, she comes to classes and looks at all of us, but she doesn’t teach.”
“Stupid waste of time, too much dancing; but good for deportment. I always said to Fidolia that she’d end by having a school for the theatre, that it’s all-round training that we want; and I was right. Hope she doesn’t waste too much of Miriam’s time. Dancing’s all very well in its proper place, but I’ve hopes for Miriam. We don’t want anyone making a dancer of her.”
Mark scooped amongst the wool of the carpet with his fingernail. He knew that Miriam considered that she was going to be a dancer, but it was never actually mentioned because her family wanted her to be an actress. But he was beginning to have ideas about Grandmother. It seemed to him that everybody treated Grandmother all wrong, and it was because they treated her wrongly that she was so stupid about things like money, and not seeing that her grandchildren had proper furniture in their rooms. He was not absolutely decided, but he was beginning to think that perhaps he ought to be the person to start making Grandmother sensible. He made a first effort in this direction.
“If Miriam can dance and can’t act, wouldn’t it be a good thing if she was a dancer?”
Grandmother sat up. She had on that day a dress of grey with blue on the falling sleeves. She took a deep breath and threw out an arm, and said in a very grand voice:
“A Warren and not act! Never!”
Mark hurriedly got up off the floor and tucked Grandmother in again in case, having started to get up, she would get right up and recite some more Shakespeare. Having tucked her in, he was not going to relinquish his point.
“But just supposing, I said. After all, just because your grandfather and your great-grandfather and all the rest of it were actors, you needn’t be one. Somebody must start somewhere being
something else.”
Grandmother smiled.
“Are you arguing with me?”
Mark was annoyed and scowled at her.
“If an interesting discussion has to be called an argument, just because I’m a child and you’re grown-up, then I am.”
Grandmother leant down and pulled his face up to look into hers.
“Warrens act, my dear grandson. They live to act. Get that into your head. They act, not dance, nor do they become sailors.”
Mark shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ve heard what you’ve said, but you can’t stop me thinking what I do think, and what I think is that it’s silly to talk like that, and I shall go on thinking it whatever anybody says.”
Grandmother looked as though she was going to shake him. Then all of a sudden she laughed.
“Run away, my dear grandson. I’m glad that you are not a manager whom I have to see about a salary, for I feel you’d be a very hard nut to crack. Be off, now.”
Sorrel’s visits to Grandmother were usually spent in Grandmother asking questions about Miranda. Grandmother would lie back against her jade cushion, pull her Spanish shawl up round her and throw out gentle little questions to Sorrel, and when Sorrel answered she would find Grandmother’s sparkling dark eyes glued on her face.
“How did my eldest granddaughter do to-day?”
Sorrel was nothing like as unafraid of Grandmother as Mark was. Grandmother’s polish and finish made her feel all elbows and hands, and she was shy of Grandmother’s quick, vivid way of talking. She always had a feeling that Grandmother was wondering how on earth, in a brilliant family like the Warrens, they had managed to produce a person as dull as herself.
“We did ‘As You Like It’ after tea. Miranda was Rosalind to-day; she was lovely. I was just being a forester.”
Grandmother was looking at her hands.
“How do you mean, lovely? Like a girl who had fallen in love, or like a schoolgirl reciting?”
Sorrel glanced up to catch Grandmother’s twinkling eyes fixed on her.
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