She did not seem at first to understand, for she said nothing for a moment, then, reverting to her childhood, she warded off injury by truculence.
“You can’t. It’s mine and I won’t have it let.”
He was patience itself. Little by little he got the picture of her finances to her. He said a clever thing.
“This place has been neglected during the war. It would take all you have merely to keep it up, and then you couldn’t treat it properly. You’d hate that.”
“Where am I going to live?”
“I want you to have a year in that school in Switzerland.”
“Because my French is so awful?”
“Partly, mostly because it’s time you got about a bit and mixed with people of your own age.”
“Where’s Fortesque to live?”
“What about your bungalow? You could give nurse notice and Miss Fogetty could take Fortesque there and you’d have it to go to in the holidays.”
She considered the suggestion.
“No. It would be more than I could bear to see other people in my house.”
“Where would you like to go?”
“If I can’t be here I don’t really want to be anywhere.”
“What about the seaside, it’s only for your holidays?”
She plainly did not care.
“All right. I suppose Miriam will be there, and cook and Bertha.”
“Miriam certainly. We’ll have to see about the other two.”
“Well, if that’s all and you don’t want me I’ll take Fortesque for a walk.”
That was the first time she sang to escape from her thoughts. It began on the river bank. She tried to think of what had been said and started to cry. Tears were not natural to her, besides, she knew that in some way she had expected this. Not only since her parents had been drowned, but always. That she had known that in loving the place as she did she was laying herself open to pain. It was pointless to cry. Stumbling and blind she shook her head to clear her vision. “Idiot!” she said out loud. “Idiot! What good will crying do?” Then she sang. Tonelessly and with no idea what tune, aimlessly wandering through “Tipperary” and “Pack up your troubles”, but it worked, it dulled the edge of thought, and with every second that passed, acceptance of what was to come settled in her mind. Still singing she came back to lunch, bemused, but quite calm.
That evening at dinner, Uncle John told Connie and Myra about the school. It overlooked a lake, and below it were vineyard terraces. He had received a very nice letter from the Directeur. The girls were mostly of Myra’s age, between sixteen and twenty. Now that the war was over the girls would be of all nationalities. There were ski-ing excursions every week. In the summer there would be charabanc trips to beauty spots, and by boat on the lake. For those who cared there would be mountain climbing. The Directeur had asked what subjects Myra especially wished to study, and he had written back and said French above everything, but that the Directeur would be hearing from Miss Fogetty.
Myra went on eating while he talked, not apparently interested. She broke in suddenly.
“When are you sending me?”
He felt a stab at the bitterness in her voice. He would have liked to have tried to tease her and say: “You make me feel like a gaoler,” but he did not dare, this hurt Myra was quite capable of snubbing him.
“Does she wear uniform?” Connie asked.
“No, but I’ve brought all the letters and the little book about it for you two to see.”
“She will need quite a lot of clothes,” Connie continued.
He was glad she had mentioned clothes. He had learnt from his sister and wife that clothes could distract a woman’s mind from almost anything.
“And she must have them. What about buying them in Paris? That’s the place, I believe. You two would enjoy a day or two in Paris, wouldn’t you?”
Connie and Myra gazed at him in silence. Then Myra giggled.
“I can’t see me and Foggy in Paris, and certainly not buying clothes. Foggy doesn’t like clothes.”
Connie knew that she must speak. She had known she would have to sooner or later.
“I’m no good at all at choosing clothes. I think she should get her clothes in London, her aunt would know what she should choose, wouldn’t she?”
It was as if Aunt Lilian came into the room. Myra had scarcely given her a thought before. Now the words about her came back. “How’s Lilian?” “Gay as ever I suppose.” “I don’t wonder, she’s so good-looking.” “Yes, isn’t she.” Connie almost nodded to her conjured shape as if to say, “There you are! You see, you can’t shirk your responsibilities for ever.” Uncle John fidgeted with a piece of bread, making it into a pellet. He raised his head as if to say something. Myra forestalled him.
“I could stay with you, couldn’t I? I’ve never seen your house and I haven’t ever seen Aunt Lilian.”
He went on making his pellet. He was hunched as if a weight of troubles was forcing his shoulders to the table cloth. He had to answer Myra but it was clear he did not like his words.
“I must have a talk with your aunt. She’s very busy, and perhaps there will not be room for you both.”
Connie was hot on Aunt Lilian’s heels. She was not going to escape like that.
“There’s no need for me to be there. Myra’s more than old enough to go visiting alone.”
“Besides,” Myra pointed out, “Foggy will be looking after Fortesque. If he’s going away from here, he must be with somebody all the time or he’ll get lost, and I’ll have to go to Switzerland by myself. Foggy can’t possibly take me.”
Uncle John gave a begging look to Connie. She had always been such a permanency and a prop, surely she was not going to fail him now. But Connie had never travelled, and since she must let Myra go she preferred it should be from this house.
“Couldn’t you find the time to take her? It would be nice for her, and if we’re to get this house packed I really shall have my hands full.”
Myra saw the journey improving. If she and Connie travelled together it would be hard work; she had no illusions what Connie would be like in foreign parts, it would be the equivalent of stalling her car on a market day. With Uncle John it would not be fun, nothing would ever be fun again now she was leaving Devonshire, but at least it would be nicer.
“Oh, do take me! It would be convenient. I could stay with you and get my clothes and then we’d go straight on.”
Myra’s departure from Devonshire happened in such a hurry that she had not time for farewelling. It had been dimly understood that Uncle John was arranging things with Aunt Lilian about her visit and the shopping, and it had been clearly understood that he was going to manage to take her to Switzerland himself, in fact it was obvious that the very thought he became a schoolboy with an unexpected leave. Then Connie was taken ill with appendicitis. She had been saying for a few days that she had a chill and must be careful what she ate. Then one morning she could eat no breakfast and sat under the angel, her face streaked and yellow. She got up.
“I feel very sick. I’m afraid you must manage by yourself this morning.”
An ambulance fetched Connie away. Myra’s things were packed, she stood at the schoolroom window watching for the car to fetch her to the station. She had Fortesque in her arms, she kissed the top of his head.
“You’ll look after him, Miriam, especially when you move; after all, he’s not a travelled dog and will easily get fussed.”
“You can trust me, Miss Myra dear. Look, there’s the car.”
Myra took one last look round. Not at the view, the climbing car spoilt that. At her books, the map on the wall. Her chair. Connie’s chair.
Myra was back in the barn. The agony of that memory had been so strong that the frame of the picture was cutting into her hands. She looked at the picture with her forty-one year
old eyes. How things hurt at sixteen! How she had believed as she climbed into that car on her way to London that she was experiencing the depths of suffering. She considered the angel. She certainly would not give her away. She might not have looked at her for years, but she was too much part of her life for giving. Perhaps she would lend her. She would be nice in a wartime nursery. She leant the picture against the fire-guard and smiled at the angel. Then she shivered; she was no longer sixteen with all her life before her. She gave herself a shake, idiotic and maudlin to think like that. She hummed “Here we go round the mulberry bush.” Then put words to it. “The picture and fire-guard stand side by side, side by side, side by side.”
What junk collected in boxes! The London house had been packed in a hurry and there had been no sorting and throwing away. Myra stacked against the picture and the fire-guard a selection of furniture which she had no idea she possessed, but which might be useful. Then she opened a suitcase. A grey ostrich feather fan, four travelling clocks, some cookery books, two London telephone directories, and, wrapped in a sarong brought from the East by goodness knew whom, goodness knew when, a doll. An expensive creature dressed as a Spanish dancer, with a lace mantilla and tiny castanets stitched on to her felt hands. With toys the price they now were it seemed incredible that such a doll was once given away on a gala night at a night club. Myra lifted her taffeta skirt and looked at the frilled petticoats beneath and the barn was full of scent, tired nerves, smoke, artificiality and Aunt Lilian.
The drawing-room of the London house was on the first floor. Walls and ceiling were a grey blue, lit by colour in carefully thought-out patches, a picture, all flames and yellows, some cushions, a table of expensive odds and ends placed where they would catch the light and massed arrangements of forced spring flowers. It was a room which was so thoughtfully precise that, as if it had a tongue, it said, “You are not meant to relax here.”
Aunt Lilian. It was hard across the years to recapture her as Myra first saw her. She was the first completely beautiful person she had ever seen. She had her own expression for the effect she had on her, “She’s like sucking a peppermint in a cold wind.” The small head was set on a long neck. The dark hair was waved and dressed yet worn so flat it looked like a black skull cap. The eyes were the colour of amber. She wore a dress of black and white, smart, and yet with something out of period about it, which made it arresting and was so perfect for her that it seemed part of her. Uncle John had met Myra at the station but had gone straight back to his chambers, so she was alone at that first meeting. Aunt Lilian was playing bridge with two women and a man. Myra, in her tweed coat with her hat in her hand, standing uncertainly in the doorway, had the impression that she had stepped into Sleeping Beauty’s castle, so oddly stuck in one position were the four. Aunt Lilian had turned her head and had been going to smile, but the smile had settled before it was fully formed. The man, thin and with a little beard, had risen to his feet, he might have been coming to meet her and then something had stopped him. He had an intent look. “He only needs that thing in his eye to be like a jeweller,” Myra thought. Lady Griss, the fat woman in the silly hat, had completed her smile before she slept, it was a chop-licking sort of smile. Myra wondered what she had been pleased about. Helen Perning, the very smart fourth, had the look on her face of somebody who is in the stalls waiting for the curtain to go up on a play they know they will enjoy. Myra, selecting her aunt because she was not wearing a hat, crossed the room.
“How d’you do. I’m Myra.”
It was as if her words were the kiss that woke the sleeping castle. Aunt Lilian introduced her. The man, who was called Sir Felix, took Myra’s hand and kissed it. She wanted to giggle.
“I should think you’d catch something; they’re fearfully dirty after the train.”
It was as if the three guests drew their chairs from Aunt Lilian and sat as audience watching her. They said things to Myra but which seemed meant for Aunt Lilian. Helen Perning had a deep voice.
“So you’ve been buried in Devonshire, and you’ve been brought up for your Aunt to choose clothes for her country niece.”
Sir Felix said:
“And your Aunt never saw you until this afternoon. So odd! I wonder why your Uncle never brought you up before.”
Lady Griss had a voice that was fat like her shape.
“Such fun for your Aunt.”
Aunt Lilian, when Myra first came in, had a skin pale as ivory, now a flame of colour lay on her cheekbones. She spoke softly but it was as if her voice was the cork over something explosive.
“Your room is on the next floor; call Skinner, my maid, she’ll show you. You better hurry, tea will be in any minute.”
As Myra left the room the guests leant across the table, each used the tone customarily reserved for poor relations who must not be allowed to feel their poverty is tiresome.
“Charming.”
“A lovely age.”
“Such fun for you, darling.”
Myra stood on the landing giving herself a breather before she looked for Skinner. She could not understand why but she wanted to take a deep breath and say “Phew,” just in the way she did when she came out from visiting one of the cottages in the village, in which cabbage or some other overpowering thing was being cooked. Then, because the simple answer was the one she naturally looked for, she gave herself a mental shake. It was London, she supposed, which made everybody seem queer. All the same, it was odd that manners were different in London; if staring was rude in Devonshire she would have thought it was rude in London, and goodness, how they had stared! Because her spirits were low and Devonshire, Fortesque, Miriam and all her world brought a lump into her throat, she turned to the one bright spot in this blackness. This was Uncle John’s house. He would be home soon.
Her room did nothing to lift Myra’s heart; the bedspread, curtains and chair covers were of organdie stretched over satin, and there was nothing on which to throw anything down, or even on which to sit without being very careful. Skinner, who had appeared at once on being called, had led the way to the room in what Myra found a chilling manner. She was not a bit like Bertha or Miriam. She wore a smart black dress like somebody’s mother’s at a party, and an apron no bigger than a handkerchief. She had been unpacking Myra’s things when she was called, and went straight back to her work, and to Myra, used to the friendly maids at home, the silence was so depressing, and she felt such a fool just standing waiting for her toilet things, that for almost the first time in her life she searched for a subject for conversation. In the end she ran three subjects together in a rush, as if a tap had been turned on.
“London’s awfully yellow, isn’t it? Of course this is a pretty room. Should you think I ought to change for tea?”
It had been dark in the passage. Skinner, looking up to answer, saw Myra clearly for the first time. She had a busy face with eyes that darted about as if looking for things she could pick up and use. Her eyes stayed on Myra.
“Yes, miss, I think you should change. Have you a velvet or anything like that?”
Myra felt thoroughly dressed up when she came back into the drawing-room. Connie had not allowed her to follow the fashion and have her hair cut short; it was kept tidy by two bows. Skinner had removed these and had brushed out her hair, and with a wet comb had set a wave across her forehead, and had twisted ends round her fingers to form tidy curls. She had selected what Myra considered a party frock and had stood back and examined her as if she were something she had made, and her eyes had looked as if they were laughing as she gave her a little dismissing nod.
“Go on down, miss, and give your aunt a nice surprise.”
It was almost impossible for Myra with her upbringing to accept that people were meaning to be anything but kind, that what was spoken was intended in any other way than the actual meaning of the words, that there were such things as under-currents or emotions. It was the sight of the tea w
hich put her world straight again. It was a splendid tea with innumerable sandwiches and fancy cakes, the sort of tea she could remember at parties before the war. She beamed at Aunt Lilian, convinced it was ordered in her honour.
“How gorgeous! I’m hungry, which is a good thing. I only had sandwiches for lunch. There was a dining-car on the train but as Foggy, that’s my governess who’s got an appendicitis, hadn’t said anything, cook and Bertha thought, as I was travelling by myself, it better be sandwiches. I was put in a ‘ladies only’ in charge of the Guard. He was a very nice guard, he kept coming to see I was all right.”
Quite unselfconscious and with her gaiety restored, for an aunt who ordered a grand welcoming tea was what she expected and gave even this strange London an understandable shape, Myra fetched a slender Chinese chair and brought it to the table. She was intent on what she was doing and so did not notice the sensation she had caused. Helen Perning brought her back to herself.
“You’re very grand.”
Myra looked at her inquiringly. A person as smart as this must know all the answers to do with clothes.
“Too smart? It’s Skinner’s fault, she chose it. I haven’t got much to choose from really. Foggy, my governess, doesn’t know anything about clothes and we had to make do in the war. Aunt Lilian and I are going to shop. I’m seventeen next year; I ought to have quite grown-up clothes, I suppose.”
Sir Felix leant over Myra, fussing around, putting her plate in front of her, passing her this and that. She thought he was a funny looking man, but he had his uses, he did at least understand that people expected to eat tea-time, but when at one moment he laid his hand on hers she almost snatched it away, it was so light and dry. “It’s as if he’s made of paper,” she thought, but she had no time to follow up the idea, for Aunt Lilian’s voice flew out, still soft but with a clang in it like a banjo string.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Felix, leave the child alone. I won’t have you pawing her.”
Myra Carrol Page 8