The New Moon With the Old

by Dodie Smith

  ‘How brilliant of you,’ said Clare. ‘I just fill vases and wander round finding homes for them. What bliss it’ll be to look at flowers I haven’t arranged.’

  After breakfast Clare and Merry made the beds so that Edith could help with the sandwich cutting. Jane went round with the girls, dusting. She was fascinated to see how the young Carringtons’ bedrooms reflected their personalities, and looked forward to a closer inspection when planning the flowers; only Richard’s room was without any. She asked if he did not care to have them.

  ‘Well, he does if they’re absolutely fresh,’ said Clare. ‘He must have chucked his out yesterday because they weren’t. That reminds me, he needs some in his music room – in the big jar on the floor; never on his piano or his work table.’

  ‘Won’t he mind my going in?’

  ‘Only when he’s there. He hates being disturbed.’

  The last room they came to was Clare’s own. Jane saw water-colour paints set out and a half-finished drawing pinned to a drawing-board. She went towards it but Clare whisked the board away and turned its face to a wall. ‘Not now, please,’ she said, flushing. ‘There isn’t time. Would you mind getting ready? Merry and I want to show you the village before we meet the others at the Swan.’

  ‘Oh, do let her see, Clare,’ said Merry. ‘It won’t take a minute.’

  But Jane, having noticed Clare’s flush, was already on her way to her room.

  The girls were waiting for her when she went downstairs. ‘Look at her lovely suede gloves,’ said Merry. ‘You don’t really need them in the village but they’ll increase our prestige. Are they your best?’

  ‘Well, I do have a longer pair.’

  ‘You must show me some time. I’m passionate about long gloves.’

  Jane enjoyed the walk to the village, which seemed even prettier than those she had driven through. She had seen them at their dullest, veiled by rain. She was seeing this one in autumn sunshine – and could it, even in spring, look better? Autumn seemed the ideal season for these mellow houses tightly packed along a curving street. Tudor, Queen Anne, Georgian … even the row of Victorian cottages was attractive. And the council houses, though not exactly handsome, were all on their own in a pleasant little close.

  ‘I like the Queen Anne houses best,’ Jane finally decided.

  ‘All inhabited by Drew’s old ladies,’ Merry told her. ‘Don’t exagerate, he only knows three,’ said Clare. ‘But it’s certainly an elderly village. So many retired people.’

  Jane was surprised at the number of shops, three of which sold the same things: groceries combined with green groceries, hardware, stationery and even cosmetics.

  ‘But no baker,’ said Clare sadly. ‘We had one who baked the most lovely bread, but he got bought up by the Co-op.’

  Jane’s new dark lipstick was bought.

  ‘Let me put it on for you,’said Merry. ‘I want to make your mouth a bit wider.’

  ‘Oh, not here!’ Jane protested.

  ‘Well, I’ll do it when we show you the church. That’ll be nice and private.’

  Jane found the ancient church very beautiful.

  ‘Yes, it’s all right when it’s empty,’ said Clare. ‘I just can’t stand services. Oh, dear, perhaps you go to church?’

  Jane shook her head. She had given up church-going when it became difficult to leave her invalid mother and had never renewed the habit.

  ‘Oh, good,’ said Clare. ‘I’m afraid we’re a very irreligious family.’

  ‘But look, Merry’s praying,’ Jane whispered.

  ‘She always does, before she leaves. There’s a notice in the porch asking one to. She says it’s a courtesy, like clapping after a play even if you haven’t much liked it.’

  ‘I’ll follow her example,’ said Jane.

  ‘I just couldn’t. I’d feel a hypocrite.’

  Decidedly not an ordinary old-fashioned girl …

  It was now time to go to the Swan, which they reached as Cook, Edith and Burly were being helped out of the car. Edith was in blue; Cook in green. Both of them were hatted and gloved. Jane had already decided against gloves in the village and put hers in her handbag.

  ‘Doesn’t Burly look gorgeous?’ said Merry.

  As his red-gold hair, white round the muzzle, matched Cook’s, so his collar now matched her emerald hat.

  ‘The smartest dog in Suffolk,’ said the manager, coming forward to welcome the party.

  The Swan Inn – no inn now but a flourishing hotel – had presented many faces to the world during its four hundred years. Recently it had been returned to its Tudor period, so thoroughly that it looked a fake – and largely was, as regards its façade; but the interior still retained its beams and some panelling, and the Victorian furniture in the dining-room had not yet been replaced by Tudor reproductions. The Carrington party was escorted to a table for seven where an elderly waitress, who had been to school with Cook and Edith, gave advice about ordering lunch. Everyone drank sherry except Burly, who lapped water and then went to the kitchen for a meal of stewed steak.

  ‘A proper helping, none of your scraps,’ Cook insisted.

  Jane, as hungry as if she had missed breakfast, greatly enjoyed the meal. But, even more, she enjoyed the company; she found the relationship between the Carringtons and their maids so pleasant to watch. Cook and Edith, while still retaining their slightly bossy Nanny status, had been turned into honoured guests.

  Lunch ended and Drew persuaded them to join him in a liqueur. Jane refused one but was quite glad when it got ordered for her by accident. This outing was going to cost Rupert Carrington a pretty penny, she reflected, as Richard signed the bill.

  ‘And don’t forget the tip,’ Merry reminded him.

  ‘See you again next week,’ said the elderly waitress, as the party filed out.

  After the car containing Richard, Clare, the maids and Burly had driven off, Drew remembered Jane had no key to Dome House and gave her his.

  ‘We’ll all be home soon after six,’ Merry told her. ‘You won’t be nervous, will you, alone in the house?’

  Jane reassured her and started her walk back feeling cheerful. She was looking forward to exploring Dome House and thinking about the Carringtons. Still, as she entered the drive, she did wish some of them would be in for tea. Absurd, but she was already missing them – she who, as a rule, was so grateful for a few hours to herself. She heard the church clock strike three. Well, the afternoon would soon pass.

  Having let herself in, she tested her knowledge of the house’s geography. As she faced the stairs, the dining-room was on her right, with the kitchen at the back of it. The drawing-room, no doubt, would be on her left. She opened a door and found a formal, tidy room – neglected, she guessed, in favour of the hall. At the back, a door led into a study, presumably Rupert Carrington’s. The vast desk did not look as if much work was done at it; the housekeeping books and various bills were on a smaller desk, with her typewriter beside it. Sitting for a moment at the big desk, wondering what flowers she would put on it, she noticed the photograph of a beautiful, dark young woman. This must be the late Mrs Rupert Carrington; her eyes resembled Richard’s and her mouth, delicately sensuous, was very like Clare’s. Sad that she had known her children so little.

  Returning to the hall, Jane investigated a room at the back of it which had French windows on to the garden. To judge by the pictures and books, this had been a cross between a nursery and a schoolroom; she visualized those long wet afternoons when, according to Drew, the older Mrs Carrington had fostered a belief in her grandchildren’s talents. A family photograph showed her as a heavy, intellectual-looking woman who managed to combine a resemblance to her handsome son with personal plainness. This room seemed as little used as the drawing-room, except as a store for garden furniture.

  Now for the bedrooms. Rupert Carrington’s, she knew, was over the drawing-room; Clare had shown it to her that morning but allowed no time for inspection. She went in now but found little to
inspect – nothing suggesting the vital personality of the man who had engaged her. This felt like a spare room.

  Next door was a bathroom and, next to that, Drew’s room – extremely like him, combining tidiness with cosiness. Many photographs, pictures, books … that long row of little red ones would be ‘Nelson’s Sevenpennys’. She studied the faded spines; some of the author’s names were vaguely familiar but she had read none of the books. A strange collection for a present-day young man to cherish. On his desk a bound volume of Punch for the year 1905 lay open, with a pile of neatly written notes beside it. He was obviously doing the most careful research as to clothes, furniture and the idiom of the period. What flower arrangement would suit Drew’s interest in Edwardiana? She must think about it.

  Richard’s room was as tidy as Drew’s but very far from cosy. Like the whole house it was comfortably, if unbeautifully, furnished. But its owner had added no personal touches at all. And it was as cold as it was bare, with the central heating turned off and the window wide open. Flowers would cheer things up; she remembered Richard was said to like them very fresh. Typical, no doubt – but of what? She found him so much less forthcoming than the others.

  At the back of the house there was a spare room, a box room and her own room. She skipped these and turned the corner of the gallery. Passing the bathroom she shared with the girls she went into Merry’s room, the walls of which were hung with portraits of dramatists, actors and actresses. Jane inspected these only cursorily, deciding that she’d ask Merry to take her on a guided tour. Really, the child’s collection of plays was impressive – one wouldn’t have expected her to understand some of them; indeed, as regards a few of the very modem ones, Jane hadn’t understood them herself.

  Now only Clare’s room remained, the large front one that corresponded to Rupert Carrington’s on the far side of the gallery. Entering, Jane wondered if she could permit herself to look at the flower painting that had been whisked away from her. One had every right, as a housekeeper and flower arranger, to enter rooms and look at pictures and books, but one would never, never read anyone’s letter or even a postcard; that would be spying. Would inspection of Clare’s work come into the same category? She was arguing this out with herself when she noticed that the drawing-board was back on the workable again. One could hardly avoid seeing it.

  What she saw was a watercolour drawing of roses, painstakingly careful but nothing more. No wonder Clare had said she didn’t really paint! Sending her to an art school must just be a way of launching her into the world. Jane tried to detect even the faintest hint of talent but the more one looked, the more feeble the drawing seemed. Well, never now would she question poor Clare about her work. And she should be given a very special flower arrangement: something formal and in keeping with the pictures, which were mainly Watteau reproductions and small portraits of historical personages. Obviously the girl was extremely romantic – except that she hadn’t yet struck Jane as extremely anything.

  Well, that concluded the tour of the bedrooms; except for the maids’ rooms, no doubt up a back staircase. One wouldn’t dream of invading any maid’s room. That – though she didn’t quite know why – would definitely be spying.

  A clock below chimed four. She would gather some flowers now. As she went downstairs she thought the hall, in spite of its white paint, bright chintzes and colourful Turkey carpet, looked cheerless now the sun was off it and the fire unlit. She looked up at the dome and decided she didn’t really like it. Somehow it was … too unintimate for a private house; it suggested an institution. And the daylight it admitted absurd, but it didn’t seem like present-day daylight.

  After she’d gathered some flowers she’d make herself some tea. That would be cheering – though it was idiotic that one should need cheering.

  She found scissors in the kitchen and went out. The sun was now on the back garden and it was very pleasant strolling along beside a still-brilliant herbaceous border, though autumn gardens were always a little melancholy. She remembered this from her girlhood when her father had retired to the country and, so shortly, died; and soon her mother had begun her long illness … Jane sighed, and then concentrated on the flowers. Michaelmas daisies, such lovely colours, some of them new to her … and, yes, that was nicotiana. Surely that used to close up in the daytime? This variety was wide open and starry-eyed, and there were so many shades; she particularly liked the yellow that was almost green. There were still some summer flowers but they were a little ragged. She would concentrate on tall flowers now and take them along to Richard’s music room, which she had not yet seen. How indescribable the scent of autumn flowers was – barely a scent at all, really; just a faint, strange smell, pleasant but sad. Could a smell be sad or was it just the association with the dying summer?

  She had now reached the end of the garden and was close to the barn. She carried her armful of flowers up the outside staircase and opened the door of the music room.

  Later she decided it was then that her vague sadness changed to a premonition of disaster, though at the moment she merely felt the room was extremely depressing. The lofty roof, with all its timbers revealed, sloped down to within a few feet of the floor, and the window in the gable-end which faced the house was overhung by a tree. It was as if she had walked from mid-afternoon into late twilight.

  Now she understood why there were no personal possessions in Richard’s bedroom: they were all here. Books, scores, gramophone records, musical instruments – she found it odd that personal possessions could look so impersonal. His work in hand was set out with the most formal precision, each pile of manuscript under a glass paper-weight. Nowhere could she see so much as a book out of place and the large grand piano looked as if it was never even opened.

  She had just located the big jar Clare had mentioned when she heard the sound of a car drawing up in the lane at the back of the garden. Some tradesman, perhaps. She stepped out onto the staircase in time to see a man get out of the car and hurry towards the garden gate.

  She stared in astonishment. Surely the man was Rupert Carrington? But why was he approaching his house from the back, where the gate was not wide enough to admit a car? And why had he come mid-week and without warning?

  He was opening the gate now. She saw him give a swift glance up and down the lane before entering. Then he came towards the barn, reached the foot of the stairs and looked up at her – with astonishment followed by dismay. She gazed down on him across her armful of flowers. Recognition dawned in his eyes.

  ‘Miss Minton, isn’t it? I’d forgotten … Is my son up there?’

  ‘He’s out – they all are,’ said Jane. ‘I’m expecting them back about six.’

  ‘Six? I can’t wait that long. Good lord …’ He broke off, frowning worriedly.

  Jane said: ‘Drew and Merry are with friends in the village. Perhaps you could find them.’

  He dismissed the idea. ‘No. I must think. I’ll come up.’ She went back into the room as he ran up the stairs. At the top he gave another glance up and down the lane, then followed her in and closed the door. With it shut, the room became so dim that she looked round for a light-switch but he said quickly: ‘Don’t put the lights on. Excuse me for a moment,’ then sank onto the divan and sat staring in front of him.

  Something must be very wrong. Shaken by apprehension, she watched him silently. He was very pale and his eyes, almost as blue as Clare’s, showed extreme tiredness.

  After a few seconds, he ran a hand through his greying fair hair and said: ‘Sit down, please. I can’t think why it never occurred to me Richard might be out. Are the maids in?’

  ‘It’s their day off. There’s no one – not even a gardener seems to be about.’

  ‘We’re without one, I think – if so, it’s just as well. You’ll have guessed from my furtive behaviour that I don’t want to be seen.’

  ‘Is there anything in the world I can do?’

  He looked at her closely. ‘Forgive me – I have to relearn you. I like
d you so much when you came to my office but, frankly, I’d forgotten your existence. When was it I saw you?’

  ‘Just over a month ago. I had to work out my notice.’

  ‘This trouble’s boiled up in the last couple of weeks – and believe me, I’d never have engaged you if I’d known it was ahead. I’m so very sorry to involve you.’

  She said steadily: ‘I don’t mind being involved if I can help – even in the smallest way.’

  ‘Does the word “police” terrify you?’

  It did, but her tone remained steady. ‘Not particularly. Anyway, I promise not to panic whatever you tell me.”

  He was silent so long that she gently urged him. ‘Please, Mr Carrington …’

  ‘Oh, I’m going to take you at your word – I must; I can’t go without leaving some message for my children. I was wondering what’s the minimum I can tell you – for your own sake. You may find yourself in a difficult position.’ He rose and walked away from her; then turned and spoke with impersonal deliberation. ‘I am about to leave England, possibly for good – that is, I hope I am about to leave; if I’m prevented I’m likely to spend an unpleasantly long period in jail, for fraud. How admirable of you not to say anything, not even to gasp!’

  The last words were said with a touch of grim humour. Then he went on almost casually, moving restlessly round the room. ‘Of course I should have foreseen this disaster and made better arrangements than I’ve been able to – for myself as well as for my family. I’m a very inadequate crook, completely amateur. Are you stunned or merely exerting extreme self-control?’

  ‘I’m just waiting to hear how I can help,’ said Jane.

  ‘Thank you.’ His tone acknowledged the sincerity of hers. ‘Well, now: will you break the news to my children and give them my love and abject apologies – and this?’ He took a bulging envelope from his pocket. ‘It contains three hundred pounds – a ludicrously small amount to leave them, but it may tide them over until some of them can start earning. I’d like Cook and Edith to have two months’ salary. Not much of a reward for all their years of service but please tell them I’ve treated them generously in my will; I shall leave nothing but debts but they’ll appreciate the gesture. You, of course, must have a month’s salary.’