Myra Carrol

by Noel Streatfeild

  “Splendid,” she boomed at Lord Carrol. “Just the steadying influence the girl needs.”

  To which Lord Carrol, who enjoyed enormously the teasing he received at his club about his lovely daughter-in-law, replied that he hoped she would be all right, and did his wife know of anything the little thing wanted.

  Andrew wished to call his daughter Prunella. Myra managed to look as if she were seriously considering it, but when the bedroom door was shut she and the nurse roared. It was the period of Belindas, Susans, Anns and Marys, and it was also the period of loudly laughing about everything, whether it was funny or not. Myra had not even considered having the same monthly nurse who brought John into the world; she had a nurse who had been with a friend, and was reputed to have a wider knowledge of who had been operated on illegally and what name they had given to the operation, than any other nurse in London. As soon as she could get round her doctor, Myra sent out an S O S to her friends and the house was full of laughter, and Bertha, goggling but entertained, was stumping up the stairs with full cocktail shakers and down again with empty ones. Andrew would come into the bedroom as soon as he got back from work and would be thrown a few wispy jokes, and sometimes he was asked questions about his shipping office. The jokes were the sort that have point only to a special set of people. Andrew’s polite answers about shipping, no matter how short or intelligent, produced hoots of laughter. As soon as he decently could he would slip either up to the nursery or down to his study. But for all his discomfort in Myra’s world, Andrew saw something during the time Myra was in bed which was to him like a wood anemone in an icebound winter wood. Jane had been brought down to visit her mother; Nannie was with John and the monthly nurse out of the room; Andrew, coming in suddenly, caught Jane and her mother alone. No baby was ever looked at with more adoration. Myra glanced up.

  “Hullo! Shockingly plain girl our daughter.”

  But Andrew had seen how she looked at her baby and he did not forget it.

  With the coming of Jane, Miriam became entirely attached to the nursery. Andrew had risen in his shipping office and so Myra acquired an expensive French maid. Miriam’s departure up the nursery stairs, and the coming of Lucille, who was disliked at sight by cook, Bertha, Miriam and Nannie, set Myra, if possible, more apart from the household than before. She had apparently as little stability as a leaf blown about by the wind; she drifted in and out of her home without even seeming to want to go or to come. She was sometimes away for days together staying with friends, she lived so rushed an existence that she began to look brittle and tired, but she was young enough for it not to matter and her beauty was undimmed. Now and again she made rushed attacks at her nursery. She would run up the stairs, pull back the bolt on the little gate, and run into the night nursery to kiss the children, or into the day nursery with beads for Jane or a new toy for John. Sometimes she would suggest taking John out with her, but she seldom succeeded; Nannie invariably had her reasons why not: he was too small and would not enjoy it, he would get overtired, he had a cold coming. Just once in a way there were family occasions, at Christmas and birthdays and occasionally without warning when Nannie was out; Miriam had no idea of keeping the children from their mother; she loved to hear her quick light step on the stairs, and the click of the bolt as it slid back, then she would call out:

  “Run to the door, John; there’s Mummy.”

  Perhaps Andrew would be playing on the floor with Jane, or perhaps he would be building a house for John; whatever was going on, quite suddenly Myra was not the lady visitor but at home and part of her nursery. Special games came by custom to belong to these occasional visits on Nannie’s day out. There was a ludicrous bear game when Myra, in an old fur coat, would roar round the day nursery and up the passage and into the night nursery, while Andrew armed with a walking stick and John with a bat would chase after her, and Miriam with Jane would assist with noise and excitement. There was another game in which Myra visited the nursery once more in the old fur coat, but this time as a wolf, and Andrew and Miriam were geese, and John and Jane goslings defending the nursery against her wiles.

  There were the occasions when Andrew had a play produced. This was always in one of the outlying theatres. Myra would go with him to the first night. She looked upon the plays rather as she had looked upon Uncle John’s strange enthusiasm for the bungalow. She could see it would be enormous fun to write real plays that were produced in the West End that everybody went to see, but to go on slaving at queer plays that never got further than their one week at awkwardly placed theatres seemed to her an odd hobby for a grown man. Shining as she did as a figure wherever she appeared, she felt it must be humiliating to be a nobody, and Andrew was a nobody in the theatre. To her it would be better to give up trying and take to something else; but she was at her most charming on these first nights. Andrew was so nervous and vulnerable she felt protective towards him. She put up with the way he was sitting beside her one minute and flying off back stage, or to speak to somebody, the next. She was careful of her words and when he said that a scene had been badly played, which spoilt the act, she said of course you could guess that. She whipped up an appearance of belief when he said a critic had said the play was bound to be seen again. She discussed solemnly the question if, should the play move, this actor or that was good enough to move with it. She went round behind with him afterwards and was perfectly delightful to every member of the cast. If there was anything on earth she could have done to give Andrew a theatrical success she would have gone to any labour to have obtained it. During the whole week of these runs she tried very hard to be nice and to remember to ask if there was any news. There never was. Poor Andrew, it was a shame!

  Lady Carrol was increasingly dissatisfied with Myra. Not that Myra was the only cause of her dissatisfaction. There was Nannie, who stubbornly resisted all her efforts to rule the nursery. In vain did she suggest this, or bring that, she could never be sure what she suggested or provided would be carried out or used. Nannie had Andrew exactly where she wanted him; she had only to say, “Her Ladyship thinks that John should have a tonic, but I don’t hold with too much dosing,” for Andrew to agree with her without question. She was the oracle; he believed that his children’s health and happiness lay in her hands, and he would not have her interfered with. But Lady Carrol was equally convinced that she was an oracle where children were concerned, and she never gave up the struggle. She acquired the technique of a travelling salesman, keeping always, as it were, a foot in the door so that it could never shut her out. She felt the nursery party was far too small. A nurse with only two children to look after, and the undivided service of a treasure like Miriam, could obviously be possessive about her charges; what she needed was four or five and then she would be only too thankful for help and advice. This was where Myra was so unsatisfactory. There was not a sign that she was contemplating even a third let alone a fourth or fifth. Lady Carrol was doubtful if conditions were such that there could be a third, for she discovered that Andrew and Myra no longer shared a room. She spoke to Myra about this, and Myra made supper parties rock with laughter repeating and exaggerating the conversation.

  The bedroom arrangement had come about naturally enough. Andrew had influenza and was moved in there, and when he was convalescing he had not wanted to be wakened up by Myra’s late returns. As a matter of fact Myra was worried when he made no sign of coming back to her room. She was so conscious of how light was her hold on her family that she did not like his staying away though she was glad to sleep alone. It was yet one more way in which she failed. As usual she was too proud to say anything but went singing about the house, and lived more than ever in the world outside. There she was a success, and there she was wanted. Her pride had another hard slash at that time. John had a fourth birthday celebrated by a party. Myra shopped for her children as the mood took her. She had bought John’s party suit, which was a white crêpe-de-Chine shirt and scarlet knickers, and with it there were sc
arlet buckled shoes. He was darker than his mother, but with some of her beauty, and she could see how handsome he would look and she was full of well-disguised pleasure at the thought of showing him off. Jane at not yet two was a plain but amusing-looking child; she could not be shown off in blue organdie, for almost any other baby would become it better, so Myra dressed her in cream and crimson too, a cream frock, crimson shoes and crimson beads. The children would look sweet dressed alike. The birthday had been for John a continual shower of excitement. The parcels on his bed, the parcels by post, the special midday dinner in the dining-room with both Mummy and Daddy, with food chosen by himself, and then there was to be the party. He came up from his midday meal quite above himself and very noisy, so Nannie told Miriam to read him something quiet and perhaps he would go to sleep. He did sleep and when he awoke Jane was dressed and, with her skirts spread round her, sitting on the rug by the electric fire in the day nursery. John woke up cross and fidgeted as he was washed and dressed, and then Nannie said:

  “Sit down and let me put on your shoes.”

  John gazed at the shoes with loathing; he had not worn coloured shoes for the last year and he considered he was being insulted.

  “Those are girl’s shoes.”

  Nannie thought so too; she liked a boy to look a boy. A nice pair of well-cut little shorts and a proper tailor-made shirt with a tie was what she liked to see. She did not hold with these frilled cuffs and collars; she had not really thought about the shoes until John mentioned them, but as soon as he did she was on his side. However, the guests would soon be arriving; it was not time for a fuss. She seized his foot.

  “Girls’ shoes indeed! What next! Why, in Russia grown-up gentlemen wear red boots.”

  “These aren’t boots, they’re girls’ shoes.” He kicked.

  Nannie prided herself on her children being free of that sort of naughtiness and she was annoyed. She did not only blame John, she blamed his mother. So foolish to go buying things without thinking. If she had asked she would have told her a proper little man like John would not like wearing red shoes. However, she would have obedience; she gripped first one foot and then the other and put the shoes on. John howled. When Nannie had got her way she sat him on her knee.

  “Now listen, you stop crying and I’ll tell what we’ll do. Daddy will be here at five and when he comes you shall ask him if you need wear them. If he says you needn’t then we’ll run up to the nursery and put on your black patents.”

  Miriam was kneeling by Jane brushing the child’s straight fair hair over her finger in a vain attempt to make the ends curl. She looked at Nannie.

  “Couldn’t I go and ask his mother? She’d understand.”

  Nannie managed never to criticise Myra to Miriam. She was fond of Miriam and did not want any trouble, but of course Miriam knew how things were and was grieved. She saw the two sides of the picture clearly. Mr. Carrol was all that a father should be, and of course, Mrs. Carrol was out a lot, but what could you expect with her so beautiful and everybody running after her; Nannie did not understand Mrs. Carrol; it was a pity, because she could often help in little ways, which she never did. She took sides backing Mr. Carrol and that was a mistake, for things were not all they should be, you could tell that.

  “No, I’ve told him five o’clock and he must wait for Daddy, so we must stick to that.”

  Miriam said no more, but she was not sure that it was not a moment when she should stick to her point. But the training of her grandmother that she should be both heard and seen as little as possible was built into the fabric of her, and she could not tear it out.

  Myra saw that John looked cross, and had been crying, but there were thirty children with parents and nurses to attend to, and she was not on those terms with her son that she automatically heard his confidences, so she said nothing to him; she remembered her own loathing of prying and questioning and supposed all children felt as she had. Other mothers seemed to see nothing wrong with him or, if they did, they kept it to themselves. “My dear, what a divine looking child!” “How you could bear to part with his curls I can’t think, but I must say he does look too handsome for words even without them.” “Of course it’s too maddening to think that those eyelashes are wasted on a boy.” Myra sucked in this praise as if she were a sponge. “How enchanting they look dressed alike.” “So clever of you to choose scarlet, they stand out so.”

  There were games before tea and Myra, out of the corner of her eye, saw a fuss being made of John. “We’ll have John for nuts in May.” “Now Elizabeth, hold John’s hand. Pull, John. Oh, well done, John!” “Now let John be he. Come here and let me blindfold you.”

  The children were streaming back after tea to watch the conjurer when Andrew arrived. He stood in the doorway smiling a shy host’s all-embracing smile. John was at the other end of the room. He saw his father and dashed across.

  “Daddy! Daddy!” Andrew caught him under the armpits and lifted him up to kiss him. “Need I wear these shoes? They’re girl’s shoes.”

  Lady Carrol was standing by her son; she had dressed her family in distinctly male garments at a very early age. She did not approve of dressing boys up, still less did she approve of the fact that she had not known what the children were going to wear.

  “So they are, John,” she agreed. “You don’t want to look like a girl, do you?”

  Andrew put John down and caught Nannie’s eye; he beckoned to her and she came over carrying Jane.

  “What’s the ruling about these shoes?”

  Nannie could not help being pleased. No other nurse in the room was consulted in the way she was. She picked her words carefully. Both to those listening and to Andrew it must sound as if Myra had been consulted.

  “It was left to Daddy, wasn’t it, John?”

  “I had to wear them till you said I needn’t,” John shrilled.

  Mothers and nurses smiled. Some mothers took note. The Carrol mènage could not be as rocky as people said. It was rather sweet really, Myra leaving the great decision of her son’s footwear to his father. Andrew, knowing eyes were on him, finished the discussion; he stammered more than usual for he was embarrassed.

  “Put something else on if he hates them.”

  Myra saw rather than heard what happened. She watched the way John flew to his father and it hurt. She thought she saw Andrew consult his mother; she did see his conference with Nannie. She saw the easy way that Nannie left Jane with her father, and she watched her lead John out of the room, John hopping in a pleased way, and Nannie smiling at him; she saw John come back, his red shoes replaced by black patent leather ones. She gave no sign at all that she took much interest in any of this, certainly no one could have guessed that she minded. A mother who was sitting near leant across and called:

  “Aren’t you long-suffering, Myra! I don’t think I could have had my colour scheme wrecked like that.”

  Myra, smiling, lit a cigarette.

  “Men will stick together.”

  How that little incident hurt! How wrongly Myra read it, supposing that the children disliked her. Being Myra, she could not struggle to put things right. She added her failure with the children to her failure with Andrew, and plunged deeper into the world outside her home, where everybody laughed a lot and believed in nothing. She very nearly persuaded herself that she was happy.

  Bertha had pneumonia at Christmas. She had to be sent away to recuperate and since she was plainly too ill to travel alone, cook went with her. Myra went round the agencies looking for temporaries, but there was nothing very hopeful on their books, and the situation seemed grim. Nannie stated her case.

  “I will release Miriam to help all I can, but I can’t promise much with a boy John’s age; the work is never done.”

  Myra suggested to Miriam that she should, if the worst came to the worst, take on the cooking, and she herself would look after John, but Miriam knew it woul
d not work.

  “I would do that for sure, madam dear, but Nannie has her ways.”

  She left what Nannie’s ways were unspecified but it was clear Myra in the nursery was not included.

  Lady Carrol waited for Myra to feel hopeless, and then she came round with her invitation. It was ludicrous for dear Myra to worry, they must all come to her. It would be such fun.

  Myra did not think it would be fun at all. She had not stayed with her in-laws since the early days of her marriage, and things had very much altered since then. However, there was no way of refusing; a hotel would be unattractive in winter, especially with children, and it was no good pretending she could grapple with the domestic work; she thought that if it proved too awful at her in-laws she would nip off and stay with friends. She told her friends that she was going into purdah, ordered the worst of them not to ring up and resigned herself to a grim Christmas.

  Lady Carrol was never happier. She had tried to get the children staying under her roof, but naturally, as they already had a home in London she had not succeeded. Christmas had been a particularly hard time for her since her boys had been killed. The season was filled with memories that hurt, and she dreaded it; John’s and Jane’s excitement would drive the ghosts away. Then, too, she had an especial reason for pleasure. John nearly six and day schools being talked of; Jane three; it was high time there was another baby. She was not going to have any nonsense.

  Myra discovered the large double bed while Andrew was at the office. She knew it was deliberate, the room given the children as night nursery was also a spare room and had twin beds. There was not even the alternative of the dressing-room, for Lady Carrol had run no risk of that and, in showing Myra her bedroom, had boomed:

  “Andrew won’t mind dressing in the bathroom. We have such roomy bathrooms in this house.”