The Ugly Sister

by Winston Graham

  My mother was equally satisfied at the outcome – not for her small legacy but for the future dispositions of our lives. So the family party broke up. Samuel returned to his ship in Portsmouth. Anna Maria and her husband and two children left for London. The Admiral’s brother – granted a legacy of £500 – returned to his home near Truro; as did the two cousins – who had been entirely ignored (Uncle Davey never liked them). Always depending on the continuing goodwill of Samuel, Claudine might consider she had been left as undisputed mistress. She had unfailingly been tactful with her nephews and nieces, and she knew she could manage Desmond and Mary. Anna Maria, with whom she did not get on so well, was safely busy childbearing and usually in London. The rest were servants.

  Before he left she had had a detailed discussion with Samuel and had agreed which servants should leave. Fetch’s position was under threat but I had insisted to Mama that she should be one who must stay, even if I had to pay her wages out of my new-found legacy.

  Meanwhile Desmond’s courtship of Tamsin continued. One night I asked her about it.

  ‘Oh.’ She shrugged. ‘He is passably nice. I sometimes think he is more interested in ornithology.’

  ‘Oh, Tamsin, you cannot say that! He comes at every crook of your little finger.’

  She sighed. ‘Mama would like it, I believe. It would suit her in many ways. But I am only just twenty-two. There are plenty of other fish in the sea.’

  ‘Such as Mr Abraham Fox?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because I know you have such a taking for him.’

  ‘Have? Had? Which is it? I am not sure if Mr Fox is not really a rattlesnake.’

  She was sitting on the end of the bed, her head up, regarding the fading daylight. The frills of her nightdress ringed her face like the cup of a daffodil, the skin of her neck and chin so pure, the profile so perfect.

  ‘You never told me,’ I said, ‘what happened when we were in Bank House greeting the Queen of Portugal.’

  ‘What happened? What could happen? I felt faint. That was what happened. You know I suffer severely when it is one of my monthlies.’

  I waited, but she said no more. ‘What has changed you, then? Are you pretending to yourself to dislike him just to please Mama?’

  ‘Emma, you are always very disagreeable with your probing questions. What are my feelings for Bram Fox? What are yours? What are Mama’s?’

  ‘Mama’s?’ I was startled. ‘She has made that clear.’

  ‘And yours,’ she said, ‘you have made yours clear, have you not? You are besotted with him!’

  This was a profound shock to me, that I had allowed any such feelings to show.

  ‘He – he has been kind to me,’ I stammered. ‘That’s all. It is rare for a man not to be put off by my disfigurement. Of course he means nothing, but I appreciate such courtesy.’

  ‘Have a care that you do not appreciate it too much.’

  V

  A FEW months before Uncle Davey’s death he had come back full of a concert he had been to in Plymouth, and of a musician who had made a great impression on him.

  ‘Black man; would you believe it? Black as a spade. But the way he handles that violin! You know I’m not a great one for music – at least not these cats’ concerts that they organize in Falmouth. But this was extraordinary. Made my hair stand up.’

  ‘What was his name?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, can’t remember that, my dear girl. Never can. Hemway or some such. But his story is still more extraordinary. Don’t know whether ’tis generally known, but Admiral Cawthorne told me, and he knows everything. It seems this feller was a slave taken as a boy by Portuguese traders, sold in Brazil and then brought back to Lisbon as a sort of slave servant – they are fashionable in Portugal among the aristocracy, and the blacker the better! Well, this slave-owner found his boy so highly musical that in a couple of years he was playing in the orchestra at the Lisbon opera! Is that that damned dog I hear?’

  ‘You know it’s not,’ said my mother impatiently. ‘ Parish is in his kennel as you instructed. So?’

  ‘So? …’ Uncle Davey blinked. ‘Oh, you mean about this slave feller. Well about this time, according to Cawthorne, the Indefatigable, under Edward Pellew – captain as he then was – ran aground when chasing an enemy and had to put in to Lisbon for repairs. He was there far too long for his own satisfaction, and one night he went to the Lisbon opera and spotted the black man, leading the violins by then; so a couple of weeks later, when he was ready to sail, he had this black man impressed as he came out of the opera and taken aboard the Indefatigable, and sailed away with him!’

  ‘From one slavery to a worse,’ said Mary.

  ‘Well, yes, in a way I suppose so. They kept him aboard for years – would not let him go ashore when they were in port or he would have run for it. It wasn’t until Pellew was promoted years later to take over a ship of the line and his crew was disbanded that they gave Hemway, or whatever his name is, his freedom and set him ashore in Falmouth.’

  ‘Falmouth?’

  ‘Yes. He has lived in Cornwall ever since.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Mary. ‘I haven’t ever seen him but his name is sometimes in the paper. By the way, his name is Emidy, not Hemway.’

  ‘Well, if he gives a concert round here we must certainly go to see him,’ said Uncle Davey. ‘You know I was never a great friend of the sonatas, but he almost cured me of my distaste for ’em. You could even hear the tunes.’

  This was in the May before he died. A year later, the following June I heard about a concert – I think it was first from Mary – which was to be held at the Town Hall, Falmouth on Thursday week. An orchestra was coming from Bath, and would be led by the well-known violinist, Joseph Emidy, who would play various solo pieces and a concerto of his own composition.

  Desmond was away and not expected back for at least a month, Mary expressed herself uninterested – she was not fond of musical concerts – but to my great joy and relief my mother said, yes, she would go and take Tamsin and me with her.

  During the last few years I had heard little music – except what my mother and I had sometimes made ourselves singing duets in our sitting room. I had never heard a professional orchestra, nor really an orchestra of any sort, save the military and naval bands that played when the Navy was in port. Last year I had persuaded Uncle Davey to have the harp moved to our wing of the house, and this had given me the greatest pleasure, except when Tamsin complained of the noise. (And one could always defy one’s sister.)

  But a professional orchestra. Not a group of part-gifted amateurs whose efforts Uncle Davey had dubbed ‘cats’ concerts’. And Joseph Emidy, a performer who had even impressed the Admiral. I would count the days.

  On the Thursday, a week before the concert, my mother, after reading the weekly paper at breakfast, suddenly announced that she had changed her mind and we should not go after all. She offered no explanation and no apology. I had rarely seen her so emphatic. Perhaps I should have suspected the newspaper but foolishly did not until much later. The suggestion that Tamsin and I should be allowed to go on our own was instantly rejected. Tamsin in fact was not too upset. There was to be a midsummer ball in Truro the next month, and she would greatly prefer to attend that. I was the one so deeply upset. I said, might I not be allowed to go alone? Fetch could come to chaperone me and need not attend the concert.

  A blank wall. The subject was taboo. All through the weekend I sulked and took Parish for long walks and went off my food. No one took the slightest notice. I began to regret the absence of friends of my own age. My mother would certainly not have refused me if I had been going with a Boscawen or Trefusis daughter.

  Sunday was Sally Fetch’s half day off, and when she came back about nine in the evening she said to me: ‘When I was visiting my sister this afternoon, miss, I chanced to meet – er – him – you know who, miss.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Mr Abraham Fox. He was com
ing out of Mrs Robert’s house and he recognized me and …’

  As she hesitated I said casually: ‘So? Did he speak to you? Why was he there?’

  ‘I dunno, Miss Emma. Yes, he did … Oh, Miss Emma, I dunno whether ’tis right and proper to pass on what he give me … Because you d’know I think him hardly the gentleman—’

  ‘What did he give you? Something for Miss Tamsin?’

  ‘No, miss. For you.’

  My heart missed a beat. ‘Well, what is it? Pray give it to me.’

  ‘Look, miss, I don’t know if I done right, but when he spoke to me he says, how is Miss Emma, and I says very well, sur, and he says, are they coming to the concert next Thursday? And I says, I b’lieve not, sur, though t’was talked about. I b’lieve they aren’t going. Ah, he says, I can guess why not. It is because they have found out that I am one of the organizing committee. I am in bad repute with your family, Carry. (He always d’call me Carry, miss, for some little joke of his own.) So I wish you to take this message to your mistress, he says. Hold hard, while I go and get pen and ink, he says, stop just there, he says, don’t move a muscle until I come out again.’

  Sally Fetch gave a little twitch of the shoulders, which betrayed that she was not immune to Bram’s vitality and zest.

  ‘I dunno whether I should’ve stayed, but I did, and in a few minutes he comes out shaking a letter to dry the ink on the address. Give this to your mistress, Carry, he says, and you shall have a groat. I dunno what he mean but that’s what he d’say. But I don’t think ’tis proper of me to – to carry letters, like. I dunno what your Mama would think of me, miss …’

  I held out my hand. ‘ It is – addressed to me?’ She fumbled in her bag and nervously extended an envelope with its sealing wax unbroken. I broke it and inserted a finger. Then, aware that the finger was unsteady, I said: ‘Thank you, Fetch. I’ll call you when I want you.’

  She said as she left: ‘I hope I done right.’

  Dear Miss Emma, This concert is organized by the Society of Friends, and, although I belong to no society, friendly or otherwise, I have been helping in the seating and the organization. Therefore to this end I offer you a seat in the fifth row, surrounded by persons of eminent respectability, not me, not I, not Bram, but many other Foxes of unimpeachable reputation. I understand your family is not coming, but if you can take flight in some way on Thursday evening and flutter down in Arwenack Street, I believe the music will be worth hearing.

  Respectfully,

  Bram

  And enclosed was a printed ticket marked E 7.

  Did he know I was fascinated by music? Why did he write in this way to me, an eighteen-year-old, with a permanently drawn-down eye? Why had he not written – if he wrote at all – to Tamsin? Did he really feel something for me? Was it some heartless charade he was indulging in? And if so, in what way did it profit him? I didn’t understand, but with a growing wilful maturity I knew I would get to the concert somehow, even if it killed me – which in the event it might well have done.

  I developed a light fever on Thursday morning, and after dinner said I would spend the rest of the day in bed and Fetch could look after me. My mother was never assiduous in her care for me, and I knew Tamsin would not come near for fear of catching the infection. Fetch came with me as far as Polvarth. She was very reluctant to be sent back, but I insisted she must go, for her absence would be more noticeable than mine. Fetch had a touch of religion in her, so I assured her she must not lie on my behalf, simply say that when she looked in on me I was sleeping. (I had built a bolster figure on my bed which would pass for a casual glance.)

  In St Mawes I hired a small boat, about the size Bram had first appeared in, that is, with oars and a single sail. Young Mr Coode, who owned it, had rented it out to members of the Spry family from time to time when our own boats were in other use, and saw no particular objection to renting it to me. Money spoke, and the blessed Uncle Davey had provided me with some.

  It was a pleasant July afternoon; a hot sun which waxed and waned with the stirring of a low drifting cloud. Far away in the west, in the brilliant sky, other great clouds towered away thousands of feet up, white and biscuit-coloured. There was so little surface wind that within the shelter of the St Mawes creek I thought I should have to row all the way; but once in the mouth of the river it breathed gently towards the land and took me at unhurried speed towards the town.

  Dressing had been difficult, but I carried shoes and blouse in a bag, trusting to luck where I should change them. My skirt I tucked into baggy canvas breeches, and an old pair of rubber boots made up the ensemble. With my scarred face and haggard eye I must have looked like a French pirate.

  There was a fair amount of shipping in the Roads, and I had to luff and tack several times before I gently laid the little cutter alongside the stone jetty of Custom House Quay, shipped the oars and jumped ashore and made her fast.

  I remembered the hotel opposite and I carried my little bag in there and ordered a cordial. When it came I asked if there was a bedroom or ladies’ withdrawing room where I might change for the concert, and this was willingly provided. The little maid who took me upstairs looked fearfully at my disfigurement but, I thought, seemed to recognize it. At least the name Miss Spry came easily to her lips. Possibly in eighteen years, because of my scarred face, I had become known in the town.

  The concert was to start at six, and I arrived at fifteen minutes before the hour and at once saw Bram. He picked his way among the crowd of people assembled on the Town Hall steps and smiled. ‘So … madame has spread her wings and come! Very pleased I am. Alas I cannot sit next to you, but I hope your company will be agreeable. No doubt you’ll spare a few words for me when the concert is over.’

  He was very handsome in a purple velvet smoking jacket with tight black braided trousers, and he looked slightly less predatory.

  My memory of that evening is in some respects unfortunately vague; (I lost my programme in the confusion of the following day). An attendant led me to a seat in the fifth row, where I sat between strangers. I had an uninterrupted view of the stage, on which the orchestra was already seated – twelve in all – and the sound of the instruments being adjusted to their proper pitch was infinitely exciting. The hall was full.

  There was a rustle of applause and a small black man with curly grey hair, in a creased dinner suit, came from the wings carrying a violin. When he too had plucked a string or two, a tall portly man, balding, with a trim grey beard, stood up with an air of authority at the side of the stage and welcomed the Bath Ensemble to Falmouth on their first visit. Tonight they were to be led by Mr Joseph Emidy, to whom Falmouth bade a special welcome on his return to the town.

  When the music began, the resonance of the strings, the reedy tenors and baritones, spoke of a world I did not know before. They moved me. I had not heard anything like this. Mozart, Cherubini, Haydn, Marcello. In all these one watched and listened to Joseph Emidy and marvelled at his extra dexterity, the singing tone of his instrument.

  Then came his own concerto, in which all this skill was deployed afresh. It was a very popular jolly piece, and seemed to incorporate sea shanties and other well-known tunes. When it was finished the audience rose to him; it was entirely to their liking; and nothing would satisfy them except that he should play two encores.

  Two hours passed in a daze. I could not believe it when suddenly it was over, and the tall bald man got up to make a speech of thanks and appreciation. Satisfied, excited, warm and content, I looked out of a window of the hall, and saw that darkness was just falling. People seemed reluctant to disperse, but I knew I must go.

  A hand grasped my arm.

  ‘Good?’

  It was Bram, eyes narrowed, slightly laughing. His hand was like an electric charge.

  ‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘It was – so very good. Thank you for inviting me. Wonderful.’

  ‘Take tea now. Tea and cakes are always served after these events.’

  ‘Oh, I canno
t, Bram. I am already later than I ought to be.’

  ‘You would meet Mr Joseph Emidy.’

  I hesitated. It was a great temptation. But …

  ‘How did you – how did you know I was so fond of music?’

  ‘Thomasine told me.’

  ‘Why did you not invite her, then?’

  ‘You are musical. She is not. How did you come?’

  ‘Today? By sea.’

  ‘In a small boat?’

  ‘Smallish, yes.’

  ‘Who brought you?’

  ‘I came myself.’

  He drew in a breath and laughed. ‘You mean just on your own?’

  ‘I hired the boat in St Mawes. It was no trouble.’

  ‘But will you find trouble when you return?’

  ‘Maybe. Yes, maybe.’

  ‘For you must not return tonight.’

  ‘Of course I must!’

  ‘Take tea first.’

  ‘Bram, I cannot. I shall probably be in the greatest trouble already. More than you can imagine. Though if I am quick now and very lucky …’

  While talking I had been sidling up the aisle and he following. People were standing talking, not moving to go at all. So we reached the big doors, where more people were standing, looking out at the day.

  The thunderous clouds had moved in from the west and were now overhead. It was just light enough to see their edges twisting and curling.

  ‘Our climate is well known for its changes of mood,’ he observed in my ear.

  ‘Well, I have to go, I have no choice. It will be all right. I shall be across in half an hour.’

  ‘Have you yet properly observed the weather?’

  We had come down the steps. Suddenly we were in the wind, and there was rain falling diagonally, shining in the lamplight. It fell on my face like fine spray, with a suggestion of salt in it.

  ‘You cannot go in this, my dearest Emma. You would surely drown, and even facing your mother’s wrath is to be preferred to that!’

  I looked about, angrily up at the sky, frowned towards the harbour, which was not yet visible because of the houses.