Men and Angels

by Elizabeth Cadell

  “Are your people all right?”

  “Who? Oh, them. They’re all right,” said Judy, staring straight ahead.

  “Is it the job?” asked Rae. “Too much temperament among the artists?”

  “No.”

  “Then what? You’d better tell me, Judy—that is, if it’s anything I’ve got to know eventually. What’s bothering you?”

  Judy edged the car to the side of the road and, bringing it to an abrupt stop, switched off the engine. They were in a wood, and the sun was making a lace pattern on the ground. A little stream went by with agitated whispers. The silence made Rae feel oppressed, and she turned to face her companion. To her horror, she saw one, two, and then an unceasing flow of tears coursing down Judy’s face.

  “Oh, Rae,” she said, between a gulp and a sob, “I don’t know how to tell you!”

  Rae had to steady herself for a moment. She had never seen Judy cry—Judy stormed when she was angry, and was sullen when she felt sad. Rae had seen tears of rage in her eyes, but they had never fallen.

  “Don’t cry, Judy darling,” she urged gently. “Talk.”

  Judy gave a wail that made Rae realise that the tears were the result of a long period of pressure. With the wail came a fresh torrent, and Judy, feeling in vain for a handkerchief, groped in the cubby-hole of the car and brought out a square that might have once been a handkerchief but was now an oily rag.

  “Wait a bit,” said Rae.

  She slipped out of the car, opened her suitcase, and extracted two of the most serviceable handkerchiefs she could find. With these, she returned to her seat.

  “Here,” she said.

  Judy took them, wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and pushed the damp hair off her face.

  “I’m a silly damn fool,” she said shakily. “Crying’s a lot of use, but I had to cry or burst. Or do murder. I knew I had a foul temper, but I’ve never wanted to kill anybody before.”

  “Who?” asked Rae.

  “R-Richard. He—he isn’t here.”

  “Isn’t here?” repeated Rae, uncomprehending. “Then—”

  “He hasn’t come,” said Judy. “He hasn’t come, and he isn’t coming.”

  “I—I see,” said Rae, quietly.

  “You don’t—you don’t see,” cried Judy. “You don’t see anything. Oh, Rae, I hate him so much at this moment that if I heard that—”

  “Don’t be silly, Judy,” broke in Rae. “You mean he—he changed his mind about—”

  “Let me tell it to you, Rae. And then you can see why I—” Judy stopped and began in a steadier tone. “He was coming down on Saturday, as you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he didn’t come. He rang Mother up and just said he wouldn’t be down—just like that. No explanation. He said, ‘Tell Judy not to be angry.’ I turned up on Saturday, and Mother told me, and I tried to ring him up—I tried everywhere, but I couldn’t get him. Well, I waited all Sunday—nothing. I tried him again on Sunday evening— nothing. His hotel just said ‘Out, out, out’—Had he had my message? Oh yes, they’d given him all my messages—but he’d done nothing about them. Then Monday came—today, and I felt desperate. There you were, arriving—at his invitation, and he’d just—vanished. Mother thought nothing of it—we often say we’re coming and then we don’t, but this was different. I didn’t tell her why it was important, but I went on worrying. Then I suddenly decided I’d go up and see what had happened.”

  “Go up to—”

  “To his hotel.”

  “How did you know he wasn’t with—with me?”

  “If he’d been with you,” said Judy, “why would he have said I wasn’t to be angry? He knew I’d be glad, and that I wouldn’t have cared—in that case—whether he came or whether he stayed with you. It was that that worried me. Well, this morning I couldn’t bear it any more, and so I drove up to Town and I found Richard at his hotel. He wasn’t surprised at all—he said, ‘Ah, I thought you’d be here,’ and then I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing and—and he—he told me—”

  “Well?”

  There was a long pause, and Judy spoke in an unsteady voice.

  “It’s—it’s Rosanna,” she said.

  “Rosanna?”

  “Yes. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, Rae—you’re thinking that no man could look at Rosanna after looking at you. Well, they can. Men can do anything. Men can—”

  “But he doesn’t know her!”

  “He met her. There was a party and—”

  “On Friday?”

  “Yes, on Friday. Richard gave a party to a crowd of his Kenya cronies, all here on leave, and they went to the Waterside, and there was Rosanna doing a turn. Richard remembered she’d been with us at Madame Soublin’s, and he got her over to his table and told her he was my brother—and I suppose they went on from there. She said she was having a party, and Richard promised to stay in Town for it. Since Friday, they’ve been tucked in each other’s shirt-fronts. They were out for the day on Saturday and went back for the show. All day Sunday and, for all I know, all night too. . . . I’m sorry, Rae, but you can’t really take a close look at Rosanna and imagine she’d stick to Madame Soublin’s rules of behaviour, can you?”

  “I’ve never taken a close look,” said Rae.

  “Well, I have. Rae, I wish I’d cut off my right ear—both my ears—before I got you into this. But how could I know that my own brother was just another man? How could I know that a Rose Lewis could get hold of him? If I’d known that he was going to the Waterside that night, I wouldn’t even have worried—I wouldn’t have imagined for a moment that he could look twice at her. I asked Richard what she’d done to attract him, but I couldn’t get him to talk. And I suppose I didn’t give him much chance—I was busy putting all my thoughts into words, and they were pretty ugly thoughts. Then he told me to go away, and I wouldn’t, so he locked me in his bathroom and told the management to let me out. And I—I came back here to— to tell you.”

  There was a long silence. There was a good deal to think of, but Rae found it difficult to think at all. She sat for some time turning the same thought over and over, and then spoke quietly.

  “Hadn’t we better be going on?”

  “Do you want to go on?” asked Judy. “I mean, you’ll have to stay tonight, but if you like, I won’t go back to the school—I’ll ring up and make an excuse, and then wait here till the morning and drive you back to the train.”

  “Can’t I get a—”

  “You can’t get a bus, if that’s what you’re going to say. And there’s no transport of any kind at home—but you don’t have to stay down here, Rae. I mean, Mother and the other two know nothing about anything—they just think you’re coming down for the air or something, but I got you into this and I’d like to stay and get you out.”

  Out where? wondered Rae. She would not go back to the flat; let the aunts have their pleasant little dreams about the imaginary young man. Where else could she go?

  “If your mother doesn’t mind,” she began, “I’ll stay.”

  “Mother? She won’t know whether you’re there or not. But what’ll you do, Rae? You don’t know what it’s like here —and you’ve no car and—”

  “Let’s go on,” said Rae. “You just drop me and go off, Judy—it’s a lovely bit of country and I’ll eat and grow fat and—”

  “Not at my home you won’t,” prophesied Judy.

  “Well, at least I’ll eat.—Let’s go.”

  Judy started the car and drove for another mile or two. A large iron gateway came into view, and Judy turned into it. She drove a few hundred yards, turned a corner, and Rae saw before them a large, square, ugly building.

  “This is it,” said Judy.

  She seized the suitcase from Rae and led her up the wide steps to the front door. Throwing it open, she stepped into a shabby hall.

  “Mummy!” she called.

  There was no response.

  “Probably in the kitchen,” said Ju
dy, putting the suitcase down. “Come on—we’ll look.”

  She led Rae towards one of the doors opening off the hall and greeted a grey-haired woman coming towards them.

  “Oh Miss Beckwith, where’s Mummy? This is Rae.”

  “How do you do?” said Miss Beckwith, extending a hand. “Did you have a pleasant journey?”

  “Yes thank you,” said Rae.

  “Your Mother’s in the library, I think,” went on Miss Beckwith.

  “Oh—this way, Rae,” said Judy.

  She pushed open the door of the library, and a tall elderly man turned from one of the long windows.

  “Hello Uncle Bertram. This is Rae. Rae, this is my—”

  “How do you do?” said the General, extending a hand. “Did you have a pleasant journey?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Rae.

  “Your mother’s upstairs, Judy,” said the General. “I expect you’ll find her in Rae’s room.”

  “Come on, Rae.”

  They went up a flight of stairs and walked along a long corridor. Judy threw open the door of a room at the end.

  “Oh, here you are, Mummy,” she said. “Here’s Rae.”

  A white-haired woman came towards them, a hand out-stretched.

  “How nice to see you, Rae,” she said. “Did you have a—”

  “Yes, Mother,” said Judy. “She did.”

  Chapter 5

  Later that evening, Rae stood in the hall to see Judy off.

  “Good-bye,” she said. “When will you be back?”

  “Friday, I hope, but Saturday for sure, said Judy. “Look, Rae, if you can’t stick it, ring me up and I’ll come out.”

  “I shall be all right,” said Rae.

  “You don’t know, Rae—you’ve never lived in this house. It was all very well when we were young and things were— were alive, but now—”

  “Thanks for worrying,” said Rae steadily, “but there’s really nothing to worry about.”

  “Honest?”

  “Honest.”

  “Bless you,” said Judy unexpectedly, and was gone.

  The front door closed, and Rae stood in the silent hall and let her misery close in on her. She was here for almost three weeks—twenty-one days. She was in this large, bare house with the woman with white hair and the woman with grey hair and the old man with the reddish whiskers. There was nothing to go out in, nothing to stay in for. She was here at Richard Ashton’s invitation, and Richard was enjoying himself in London with Rosanna Lee.

  At the thought of them together, Rae’s misery almost overcame her. It was one thing to tell Judy she didn’t care— it was quite another to hold her head up and behave, for the next three weeks, as though she found everything in this house that she had hoped to find. She looked desperately towards the stairs, seized by an irresistible impulse to rush up to her bedroom, pack her suitcase and make her escape.

  A door behind her opened, and Rae, pulling herself together, turned to see Judy’s mother coming towards her. She wondered how so plain a woman could have produced children as good-looking as Richard and Judy.

  Lady Ashton was not a plain woman, but Rae was not a student of bone structure or skin texture. She saw merely the wrinkled cheeks, the white hair, the neat but uninteresting clothes.

  “There you are, Rae my dear. Have you been seeing Judy off?”

  “Yes.”

  “What a pity she couldn’t stay, but we must try to look after you. Would you like me to show you the house, so that you can find your own way about?”

  “Thank you.”

  They began a slow progress from room to room, and Rae did her best to appear interested. The house was not a showplace—the rooms were lofty and well-proportioned, but they were shabby and sparsely furnished. The two walked along corridors and looked into bedrooms with old-fashioned brass bedsteads; they walked in and out of unused sitting-rooms and playrooms; they skirted a landing which, Lady Ashton explained, led to the General’s suite. They inspected a vast bathroom—“It’s the only one in the house,” Lady Ashton explained regretfully. Rae, staring wide-eyed at the huge boarded-in bath and the geyser evidently of Heath Robinson design—decided that it was the only one of its kind anywhere.

  “There’s far too much room for us now, of course,” said Lady Ashton, “but it was a very good house in which to bring up children, and that’s why I came here. All four children were brought up here—they were born abroad, you know, but I came home with them when they were very young. There was plenty of growing room, both in the house and in the garden.”

  The placid voice went on, and Rae made a polite pretence of listening. She was deeply relieved when Lady Ashton at length opened a door and ushered her in.

  “I’m going to leave you here,” she said. “This is the drawing-room—you can see that the children weren’t allowed in here—it has scarcely any battle scars. Sit down, my dear, and rest after your journey. If you would like a book, you’ll find a good many on that bookshelf, or on the little one near that window. I have to leave you to see to the dinner, because I do all the cooking myself.”

  “Can’t I help?” offered Rae, anxious to escape being left in the drawing-room with a book.

  Lady Ashton smiled.

  “That’s very kind of you,” she said, “but I really find it better to manage alone—I’ve done it for nearly five years, and I’m quite in a little rut, so I go on quietly. We have dinner at eight, and the General likes to change. You’ll hear a gong at a quarter-past seven and another at five minutes to eight, and the General likes us to be punctual.—Now, is there anything you’d like? You’d like a peep at the garden before dinner, I expect; when you’ve rested a little, you can get through that door on to the terrace and look round.”

  “Thank you. Can’t I—couldn’t I lay the table or something?” asked Rae desperately.

  “How kind of you—Judy never offers to do anything, the lazy little thing,” returned the sweet, soft voice. “But you see, we’re very fortunate—the gardener’s daughter makes herself useful, and Miss Beckwith helps a great deal, so there’s really nothing you can do. Now, are you sure you’ll be comfortable?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Rae.

  Yes, she would be comfortable, she mused, sitting on the arm of a chair and staring out at an expanse of moss- covered paving which was no doubt the terrace. Comfortable, bored, trapped. Judy’s mother was sweet, but if she had to listen to that well-bred monotone for three weeks, she’d…

  The door opened and Rae, turning, saw Miss Beckwith coming in with some flowers.

  “Oh, there you are, my dear,” she said. “You’ve been seeing Judy off, I expect.”

  “Yes.”

  “We miss her when she goes—she’s such a lively little thing that she stirs us all up. Would you like to see the house, and then you’ll be able to find your own way about?”

  “Well, no—thank you. Lady Ashton took me round.”

  “Oh, good. It’s a pity there’s only the one bathroom, but we manage very well on the whole. The General likes to have it to himself in the mornings at half-past seven, but he’s very punctual, and he goes in exactly at half-past and he’s out by ten minutes to eight, so we arrange our baths before or after, as we please. I expect you like getting up early and getting a little breather before breakfast?”

  “Oh no—I mean, yes. Well, sometimes I—”

  “You’ll have to see how you feel,” said Miss Beckwith in her quiet, kind way. “I expect you’ll be glad of a rest after your journey.”

  “No—yes. I mean, it wasn’t really very far—the journey. I mean.”

  ‘‘No, not far, but train journeys are so full of bustle and confusion, don’t you find? And so dirty. Of course, I’m forgetting how young you are—you can probably take these things in your stride, as it were.—Has Lady Ashton told you about meals?”

  “Dinner at eight, she said.”

  “Yes, and the General likes to change. We have breakfast at eight, but we don�
�t come down—I get the trays ready overnight, and the gardener’s daughter makes the toast and leaves our trays outside our rooms. Sometimes, of course, people prefer a very large breakfast, and so Lady Ashton comes down to prepare it. Do you take a large one, or just an ordinary one?”

  Thus cornered, Rae said that she took an ordinary one.

  “In that case, you’ll find your tray outside at eight o’clock,” proceeded Miss Beckwith. “Lunch is at one, but I expect you’ll want to take sandwiches and go for nice long tramps. If you’ll just let me know when you come down in the morning, I’ll tell the gardener’s daughter and she’ll prepare you a nice little packet. Do you care for fish paste?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Rae automatically.

  “I must tell her. Tea in here at four, if you’re back by then, and remember, if you come back hungry, you mustn’t hesitate—you must ask for a boiled egg.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And now I think I must leave you and go upstairs to change—I always go up about this time, and then I can be out of the bathroom before the General comes up.—If you want a book, you’ll find—”

  “Oh yes, thank you—Lady Ashton showed me.”

  “I don’t know whether you care for sea stories,” said Miss Beckwith. “I’m just reading one—here it is—it’s called Under the Deep. It was written by a charming man who went down, unfortunately, on the Helena. We all knew him very well—it was quite sad. Do read his book if you care to—I’ll leave it for you.”

  The door closed; Rae sank on to the sofa and stared straight before her. Miss Beckwith’s soft footfall died away; there was nothing to be heard except the twitter of birds. Rae looked round wildly for a wireless and relapsed into hopelessness. None. Could people live nowadays, she wondered desperately, without a wireless? There must—there must be one. Judy wouldn’t sit here, shut away in a huge tomb, with nothing but birds and books—she would open the door and shout loudly until somebody came and supplied her with what she wanted. But she was the daughter of the house—and she was Judy.