The Ugly Sister

by Winston Graham

  Somehow the day passed. I supped with the family. In the middle of the meal Desmond appeared suddenly, looking rather subdued, and saying he was glad to be back. After making a fuss of Tamsin, he asked her if she had enjoyed the concert. Tamsin said she did not go but Emma had. I tried to mutter an explanation while everyone else at the table sat stony-faced.

  Desmond was not slow to notice ‘atmosphere’, so he dropped the subject. Then he said:

  ‘Has Slade gone?’

  ‘Oh yes. A couple of weeks ago.’

  Slade had left muttering and ungracious, leaving my mother undisputed mistress of the house. He clearly blamed her for his dismissal, but in fact it was chiefly Anna Maria’s decision, though all the children disliked him. Anyway, he was Uncle Davey’s servant and now the Admiral was gone.

  He had left by sea, taking six large bags with him, and no one had dared to ask him to open them. After all, he was leaving after twenty years. I had been specially glad to see him go. He had never laid hands on me since that dark afternoon in the cellar, but he had tried to intimidate me in all sorts of ways.

  Just before he went he had said to me: ‘Turned away without so much as a “ thank you” after all these years. And a miserable pension. But you look out, Miss Clever Boots, you and your family, you ain’t finished with me yet. I’ll put you all in a hole afore I’ve done with you.’

  The following day Tamsin had said to me: ‘Come on.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Let’s have a look in that cellar.’

  ‘Oh, Tamsin, you can’t still be interested?’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes. Come to think of it. Yes.’

  We went down with a candle lamp to give us extra light. The wine cellar door was open, but the big one beyond was firmly locked. We went in search of the key. None of the servants had it. We sneaked into my uncle’s old bedroom. It smelt still of him, dangerously so, as if at any moment he would step out of a cupboard. A lot of his clothes had not yet been moved, but most of the drawers were empty. In one drawer there were three keys, but none of them was remotely big enough to fit the cellar door.

  In the end we asked my mother. She said she had no idea. ‘ Perhaps Slade took it with him.’

  ‘That would be a great liberty.’

  ‘He was a law unto himself,’ said my mother. ‘Or thought he was. Anyway, the place probably hasn’t been opened for years.’

  ‘That’s what we thought,’ said Tamsin.

  IV

  MY RELATIONSHIP with my sister had always been uneasy. The four-year difference had always given her an edge which had allowed her to treat me with semi-affectionate contempt.

  And I, for my part, often felt jealousy towards her for being everything that I was not, and never could be. But only since I grew into a woman and, after a long period of solitariness, had begun to show independence and initiative had Tamsin seemed to resent me, as if I were an impediment to her enjoyment, a nuisance, a spoilsport, someone with whom she was happier to be without. Always she was derogatory about my disfigurement, drawing my attention to it when sometimes for a short while I had been able to forget it.

  Fetch left the following week. I had tried my hardest to move my mother on this point, but she would not budge. It was a tearful parting. I pressed five sovereigns on Sally before she left; these she adamantly refused and I as adamantly insisted she take.

  ‘I shall be all right, miss. Reely. Thank you. I can stay with my mum till something else d’turn up. Thank you, reely.’

  ‘But with my mother refusing a reference … That is outrageous!’

  ‘Well, I got yours, miss. Though I reckon it do make my chances of a good post more harder to come by. But Sister June d’say maybe Mrs Elizabeth might find a vacancy for a scullery maid. Don’t you worry, miss. ’ Twill all come right in the end.’

  The end! I wondered what the upright and very proper Fetch would think if she knew what had happened to me. She would have been as horrified as my mother. And would blame herself most bitterly for having connived at this unimaginable event. Her young lady. In the first bloom of her youth and innocence …

  Ten days had now passed since the night of the concert. I had hardly stirred from the house, scarcely aware of what to expect of my own physical feelings, desperately hoping for some sign from Bram. Perhaps he would not want to write even in an innocent and formal way until he knew how I had fared. Perhaps he did not want to commit himself to a letter at all. Perhaps he thought any letters addressed to Tamsin or me would be opened. Obviously he had offended both my mother and Tamsin at the Queen’s reception, even though I could not guess what it had been about.

  After Fetch had left, I began to go out more, on the lawns, and I would loiter a few minutes each day on the little stone quay. The storm of last Thursday week had broken the spell of fine weather, and I had stared out from one window or another of the house at scuttling clouds and curtains of hard-driven rain. As the weather at last cleared, we had a couple of days of sea fog which cloaked Falmouth entirely but only just reached our headland and creek. Being right on the edge of the fog, you could watch it coming and going, moving like engine smoke. One minute the sun would be blazing, burning hot, then it would pale and glow like a new penny trying to break through the shifting mists.

  It was on the second of these days when I had come from a walk exercising Parish that the second parlourmaid, an elderly woman called Vennor, told me that there was a letter for me.

  ‘Letter? Where? Who brought it? …’

  ‘Young Gunnel. Him what brings the papers and the magazines. He’s just gone. You just missed ’im.’

  I ran into the entrance hall and looked round. On a silver tray, such as one uses for visiting cards, was a small package addressed to Miss Emma Spry. My mother and sister were out, so no one had seen it who would want to know its contents. I tore it open. A small cardboard box. Inside the box was a brooch in the form of a starfish. Pinkish in colour, the stones looked like coral, or imitation coral. Something you might find in an antique shop. With a little gold pin at the back. But the message? I peered into the box and could find nothing. I pulled at the wrapping and the tissue paper in which the brooch had been wrapped. Nothing.

  He had sent this without comment, without greeting, without suggesting that we might meet. Of course, it was infinitely certain whom it was from. Certain only to me. Was he being as cautious as that? He did not have the reputation for such caution. So had he sent it as a joke, a promise, a reminder? I could hear his laugh, see the narrowed eyes, full of predatory fun. Laugh, my little starfish, he was saying. Wear the badge because now you belong to me. My flesh crept. I did belong to him. I felt like a chattel, ready to do what I was told. Did he have many women like me, accepting his favours, waiting for his favours? In what way was I unusual? Just another scalp?

  Part of me seethed with anger, part of me prickled with something like pride. I thought, I shall destroy myself – otherwise he will destroy me. Why was I born, mutilated, weak as a kitten yet militantly angry?

  There was a step in the hall. I crushed the brooch back into the box and dropped it in a drawer. Tamsin.

  ‘Where’s Desmond?’ she said.

  ‘I haven’t seen him.’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Walking Parish. Is Mama here?’

  ‘She’s been out but has a headache, so has gone to lie down.’

  ‘I see.’

  Tamsin looked me up and down curiously.

  ‘What were you up to that night?’

  ‘What night?’

  ‘You know very well. Did you really stay at Blundstone’s Hotel?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘On your own? You know you’ve broken all the rules of decent behaviour? Why did you not call on Mrs Elizabeth Fox or the Millets? They would have given you a bed for the night.’

  ‘You’ve no idea what the storm was like,’ I said. ‘I went down to the boat: you know I was determined to g
et home; but that took me right to the wrong end of the town; I was soaked and nearly blown away. What else could I have done? I was sorry to offend the Mrs Grundys of the town, but I didn’t expect my sister to be one!’

  It was strange how that wonderfully pretty face could close up and become mean. I was quite used to the change, but very few other people were shown it.

  ‘Call me what you like, but I’m right: you’ve created a lot of talk; this is only a little local community though it may think otherwise. I’m always embarrassed by having a sister who looks so peculiar, but I don’t want to be associated with someone who brings a bad name on the family.’

  ‘Maybe you won’t have to be embarrassed by me much longer!’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Suddenly the prospect of going somewhere to earn my living had become not so much a threat as an opportunity.

  She waited for me to say more, and then evidently concluded I was just being emotional and self-pitying. ‘ Well don’t ever forget that Mama is an actress, and that suggests to the Mrs Grundys of this world a rather brassy woman with loose morals. If you go off the rails it won’t do my reputation any good, and I can’t afford to have my life ruined by your pranks. I have to live here.’

  I stared through one of the hall windows at the slanting sunshine outside. I was thinking of the brooch in the drawer and only half attending. Then it soaked in. ‘Why should you have to live here?’

  She said: ‘Desmond has just asked me to marry him.’

  Chapter Six

  I

  IT WAS a reasonable solution, as I had part foreseen, as far as my mother was concerned; though she had had much higher hopes for her pretty daughter. Tamsin was still very young and becoming no less beautiful, and even though the prospect of a Boscawen had fallen through, there were others to look for. A Molesworth, a Lemon, a Courtney Vyvyan, would do very well; but either no sons of suitable age seemed to be about or there were evidences that an actress’s daughter, and penniless at that, did not quite come up to snuff.

  Time would tell. A little farther afield in the county were many other families, such as the Prideaux-Brunes and the Pole Carews, as yet virtually unknown and therefore unplumbed. But now a decision was on her.

  Desmond as a ‘ second son’ might never inherit Place House, though he seemed to be the only one of the four children who wanted to live here. Nor since his father died had Desmond seemed short of money, and he already had some men repairing the church. They could live a comfortable life in one of the most delightful situations in the county. Apart from our mother, who was often away, and our aunt muttering in the mad house, she would be the only Mrs Spry. She would certainly be entertained as such. Even if Samuel survived the Navy, Place House was not an ideal position from which to pursue a parliamentary career, and if he suddenly changed his mind and decided to marry and be a country gentleman, there was room aplenty for two families in the house. Samuel had always been fond of his younger brother and would probably be unwilling to displace him.

  Of course it all depended on Tamsin. Though much influenced by her mother, she had a decided will of her own and would make her own choice on such an important matter as a husband.

  A few weeks passed. My mother was not yet on full speaking terms with me: Tamsin never referred to Desmond’s proposal again, so I did not know whether she had accepted him or not; but I thought not. I had my period but concluded that it would stop next time. Desperate for news of Bram, I went over to St Mawes a couple of times, accompanied by a formidable housemaid who had none of Fetch’s compliant companionship; but there was no sign of him there, and Falmouth was strictly out of bounds. I didn’t even know where he lived. He seemed to spend his time in and out of people’s houses and have no fixed address. I could, I suppose, write to him care of Mrs Elizabeth Fox, but so far could not summon the courage to do so. I began three times, thanking him formally for the gift of the starfish brooch, but each attempt ended in the kitchen fire.

  It was not a time for ordinary fires. The weather had set fair – as often happened after fog; the creek was like a blue plate split once in a while by seine boats leaving or returning. (Pilchards were scarce this year.) Water in the Roads was never wholly still, there being too much traffic plying up and down; but the shallow trembling of its blue depths was broken only by the greater ripples of the shipping. As lack of wind reduced all movement to a crawl, half the town of Falmouth and its farther bank were obscured by the masses of sails raised to catch the slightest breeze.

  Desmond came to sit beside me on the edge of the quay. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘what a shearwater is?’

  ‘What? Is it a bird?’

  ‘I spotted a pair near the St Anthony lookout. The first I have ever seen. Quite big birds – wings a foot across. It must be the great shearwater.’ Desmond plucked at his lip. ‘ It is a surprise to see them close inland. They usually stay well out to sea.’

  ‘What colour are they?’ I asked.

  ‘Palish brown – bit mottled, I should think. I only saw them for a few minutes as they whirled about the rocks.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Just now. Half an hour ago.’ He looked at me quizzically. ‘You are interested?’

  ‘Of course. Though I know little about the subject.’

  ‘I’ll lend you some books.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Silence fell. Then he suddenly said: ‘Emma, do you know that I have asked Tamsin to marry me?’

  ‘I had a feeling … Has she said yes?’

  ‘Not yet. Not in so many words. But I believe she will.’ There was another pause. ‘ Has she said anything to you?’

  ‘You know I’m rather in disgrace with my family at present.’

  ‘Oh, you’re not in disgrace with me,’ he said. ‘You – er – kicked over the traces a little, but it was in a good cause. I’m as starved of music as you are. When – if – we marry, I shall take her once a year to London to all the concerts.’

  I forbore to say that Tamsin might not enjoy this.

  ‘I want you to know,’ he said and stopped.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want you to know that if we marry, Tamsin and I, her sister need not feel it necessary to leave and find employment elsewhere. She will always be welcome in the house.’

  So he had heard something; they had been talking about it; my mother was still considering her threat.

  ‘Why, thank you, Desmond. That is – very generous and kind. I really have not considered my future very much since Uncle Davey died. Clearly I shall never marry.’ The last sentence came out abruptly, and I thought: it may not be true – it still may not be true! But what has happened? Perhaps Bram is disgusted with me. Perhaps even disgusted with himself. Not a sign, not a note. Only a starfish brooch. ‘Has my mother mentioned it to you?’

  ‘Mentioned? … Well, not in so many words … She did say …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘But that was in her moments of worst anger. I am sure that things have cooled down a great deal since then. Don’t you feel it?’

  ‘Desmond, what did she say?’

  He made a little gesture of impatience. ‘She and I have, of course, discussed my proposal of marriage to Tamsin; I mean when Tamsin has not been there. And my aunt did say once that if we did marry it would not be suitable if you stayed on here. She wishes to go back to London herself, and she thinks as a young married couple we should be left alone together. I was simply assuring you that it is not my thinking. There is ample room if you wish to stay.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, touching his hand. ‘ Thank you, Desmond.’

  ‘Of course,’ he went on, ‘it will not be all plain sailing just yet. I’m not sure about Samuel, and Anna Maria does not favour the match.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘I think she has taken her opinion from Edward Carlyon who does not approve of the marriage of first cousins.’

  ‘I had not thought of it.’


  ‘Also, to be blunt, Anna Maria thinks I could have done better for myself. Oh,’ he hurried on as I was about to speak, ‘she has not been as explicit as that. But she appears to feel quite strongly that a younger son should have looked elsewhere.’

  ‘Samuel is the head of the family. That is if your mother does not come round. But shall you take any notice of what they say?’

  ‘I have to take notice,’ he said gently, ‘we are a close-knit family and care for each other, and I shall not wish to offend. But I believe persuasion may make them think different. If I can only get Samuel on my side …’

  ‘And Mary?’

  ‘Mary I think is not well. It is not a complaint of the body. But she looks inward so much and has so few opinions on anything. I have a superstitious fear that she may in a few years go like our mother.’

  II

  THAT NIGHT I said to my mother: ‘Is it true that if Tamsin marries Desmond you will go back to London?’

  She still had beautiful eyes, and in the dusk the lines scarcely showed. Over the years her mouth had grown tighter, thinner.

  ‘Not permanently. This is my home. But if they marry they should be left to themselves for a while; it will be better for all concerned. I shall return more often to the stage: there are still plenty of opportunities for the not-so-young, and I have recently had an offer to play the Nurse in Romeo and Juliet at Drury Lane in the autumn, and people there remember my name.’

  There was a pause. I took the bull by the horns. ‘ So I can stay here?’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘I believe by your escapade you have forfeited that right. But in any event it would be much preferable that you should move away and earn your living.’

  ‘I cannot act,’ I said. ‘I can sing.’

  ‘They would not have you. You must know that.’

  ‘Do you expect me to become some child’s governess? No mother would employ me.’

  ‘They might. It is a disfigurement that makes you quite unsuitable for the stage, but in a house one gets used to it.’