by Dodie Smith
He went back to the divan, lay down, and listened intently, more analytically than emotionally. But soon analysis and emotion fused for him. The music simply was, and while it was, nothing else was, not even himself.
He was brought back to earth, shortly before the end of the first movement, by a voice saying: ‘Richard!’ He looked quickly towards the door. A tall, red-haired young woman was standing there. ‘Richard!’ she said again. ‘Oh, darling Richard!’
‘Merry! My God!’ He sprang up and dashed to her.
They hugged ecstatically.
‘Merry, darling! Are you all right?’ He hastily switched off the record-player.
‘Well, I’m still a virgin, if that’s what you want to know.’
‘Of course you are,’ he said heartily.
‘There’s no “of course” about it. Lots of girls my age aren’t. And I needn’t have stayed one – anyway, not much longer. If I hadn’t run away last night I’d soon have been married – to an earl.’
He laughed appreciatively, so thankful to have her back that her nonsense amused him. Still, he hoped she wasn’t going to be at her most inventive.
‘That happens to be true,” she said, coldly. ‘And it wasn’t at all funny. I’ll tell you about it later. Where are the others? I couldn’t find anyone in the house. And what about Father? Any news of him?’
‘Not a word.’ Richard gave her a sketchy outline of what had happened during her absence but did not reach the arrival of Violet; mention of Aunt Winifred provoked an interrupting wail.
‘Richard, how frightful! Aunt Winifred here – and Clare and Drew gone! And poor me come crawling home needing to be comforted!’
‘Well, Jane will comfort you and so will Cook and Edith. And I’ll do my best. What happened? Couldn’t you get a job?’
She sat down, sighed heavily and pushed back her preposterous copper hair. He asked if the dye would wash off.
‘No, never. I could have my hair dyed back to its natural shade but I’m not sure I want to. Don’t you like it as it is?’
‘I do not,’ said Richard. ‘And it makes you look years older.”
‘That’s not only my hair. It’s what I’ve been through. I’d better tell you.’
‘Take your time,” he said, kindly. ‘And Merry, darling, let it be reasonably true – much as I always enjoy your inventions.’
‘This time, truth is stranger than fiction.’
She gave him a world-weary look which struck him as slightly histrionic; but almost from the beginning he believed her story. Had she been inventing she would have told it much more dramatically, and also more coherently. As it was, he had some difficulty in following her. But she did gradually convey an impression of her life at Crestover (he had driven through the village once and seen the house across the park) and painted fairly vivid portraits of Lady Crestover and her brother. (The names, Donna and Desmond Deane, seemed familiar; had he seen them on one of Drew’s old musical-comedy scores?) The blank in Merry’s canvas was Lord Crestover. She did little more than state his age, say he had been very kind, had proposed and been accepted.
‘Then were you in love with him? Richard asked.
‘Of course – or I wouldn’t have accepted him.’ She went on to describe her two days’ engagement, her trip to London, what she had overheard in the library and her discovery that she couldn’t legally marry until she was sixteen. ‘After that, I just had to run away, hadn’t I?’
‘I think you should have told them the truth,’ said Richard.
‘You mean, to their faces? Yes, I thought that but only when it was too late. Anyway, I told it to them in my farewell letter. At least, it was the truth when I wrote it. Oh, Richard, such an awful thing happened. The bus I caught was just a local bus, and I needed one that would take me to some station where I could get a train to London. So I got off at the next village but one. The bus I needed wasn’t due for twenty minutes so I went into the inn and had a drink – beer, quite beastly, I only like champagne – but there was some pork pie that wasn’t bad; I was jolly hungry as I’d run away before dinner. Well, I was sitting there at the bar, wondering if I’d get to London that night and where I’d sleep if I did, and how long my money would last – of course I never got paid any of my hundred-gainea fee so all I had was six pounds, and I’d left my diamond brooch at Crestover to repay them a bit. Suddenly I heard Claude’s voice, out in the passage. He’d driven after me and was asking which road my bus had taken. It was a marvellous moment. I thought: “He’ll forgive me and wait till I’m sixteen – everything’s going to come right, after all.” I couldn’t see him, the open door was in my way, so leaned a bit forward and then I could. He was standing just under a glaring electric light and, oh, Richard, it was as if I really saw him for the very first time. He had practically no chin, and his expression! He’s exactly like a codfish – a caricature of a nobleman. I fell instantaneously out of love with him. It was ghastly.’
‘Poor Merry! But isn’t it just as well?’
‘I suppose so, but it’s heart-breaking, too. You see, while I was in love with him I could be miserable in an interesting sort of way. Now I’m miserable in a deadly dreary way. And it upsets me to think I let him kiss me. I can’t even like him now, though I’m very sorry for him. His mother never let him have a dog, and his cat got in a trap – though that is a long time ago. Oh, dear! Anyway, after that awful moment – you could call it the moment of truth, really – I dodged back out of sight and heard him say good night, and drive off. I felt sick, Richard. I never finished my piece of pie. And I was in no spirits to arrive in London late at night so I asked if they’d a bed at the inn, and they had, if you could call it a bed; it felt like a gate with a sheet spread on it. I scarcely slept at all. And this morning I was a beaten woman – no courage left to conquer London. So here I am. Richard, he couldn’t find me, could he?’
‘You put no address on your letter?’
‘Of course not. And he doesn’t know my real name.’
‘Then you should be safe enough. But … Merry, did you tell him you were only fourteen?’
‘Fourteen and nearly seven months. Yes, I told him that.’
‘Then he must be very anxious about you. Let me write to him and say you’re with your family again.’
She looked horrified. ‘No, Richard! He might come after me. Even if you put no address, there’d be a postmark.’
‘We could get the letter posted somewhere else.’
‘I’d have to think out what you could say. Leave it for now – please, Richard!’
‘It’s pretty callous, Merry. Still …’ He could see that the very thought of poor Lord Crestover was seriously distressing her. ‘The thing we’ve got to decide now is what to do about you.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to go back to being a child and go to some dreary school – and face life with Aunt Winifred.’
And with Violet too, he thought. Not that Merry would mind that, but he would mind it for her and even more on his own account. He’d told Drew and Clare about Violet after his first meeting with her but they’d all agreed Merry shouldn’t be told. He hated the thought of explaining Violet to her, and he positively loathed the thought that Merry would quickly spot Violet’s interest in him – not to mention his in her. God, how awful! Desperation led to inspiration.
He said: ‘Merry, I’ve had a wonderful idea. Don’t ask me what it is yet. I must go in and telephone.’
‘Telephone who? If it’s about me—’
‘Please, Merry. I’ll discuss it with you the minute I know if my plan will work. Now you stay here till I come back. I want to be sure no one sees you yet.’
‘Oh, all right. But … Richard, you’re not going to telephone the Crestovers?’
‘No, I swear it. Just wait.’
He dashed out and ran into the house. Drew’s letter contained the telephone number of Miss Whitecliff’s solicitor, to be used in case of emergency as there was no telephone at White Turrets. But could
one reach Drew quickly? Well, it was worth trying.
He got the number after only a short delay, gave his name and asked for Mr Cyril Severn, who was soon apologizing for keeping him waiting, and proving remarkably quick on the uptake.
‘Drew’s brother? Nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘No, no,’ said Richard. ‘But could Drew telephone me – quickly?’
‘If he’s at home I could get him down here within half an hour. But he may be out shopping. Can I be of any help?’
Drew’s letter had made it dear that Mr Severn’s decisions governed the Whitecliff household. Richard plunged straight in. ‘It’s my younger sister. She’s been away and now she’s come home.’
‘What, the missing teenager?’ Mr Severn obviously knew about her. ‘Is she all right?’
‘Yes, quite. But I particularly want to get her away from here. Drew did mention he could have asked her to stay—’
‘Of course he can,’ said Mr Severn heartily. ‘When do you want to send her?’
‘Would this afternoon be too soon?’
‘Not at all. There’s a good train from London at 4.30. I’ll arrange for Drew to meet her.’
‘Drew’s employer won’t mind?’
‘She’ll be delighted. So am I. It’ll help keep Drew amused. He’s a saint but he might get bored by being one – in which case my life would fall in ruins. Anything else?’
‘Well, no, if you’re sure … You did say 4.30?’
‘That’s right. She’ll have to change trains but that won’t worry her if she’s been on her own all this time. Hope she is all right. Girls, nowadays …! Anyway, we’ll take care of her.’
‘I’m most awfully grateful to you,’ said Richard.
‘Be a pleasure. Why not come and see us yourself?’
‘I only wish I could,’ said Richard, and meant it.
‘Well, do when you can. Goodbye now, or you’ll run into another three minutes.’
God, I wish that man was my solicitor, thought Richard, hanging up. He sat still for a moment, slightly dazed by Mr Severn’s briskness; then he looked up the morning trains to London.
Now to break the news to Merry. As he hurried through the garden he heard the gramophone. She had started it again.
‘This is the Third Rasoumovsky, isn’t it?’ she said, when he opened the door. ‘Do you remember the lovely story I made up about the second movement? Oh, I know you don’t approve of making music programmatic but you did like that story.’
‘Did I?’ He silenced the gramophone. ‘Wonderful news, darling – it’s all arranged! You’re going straight to Drew.’
She looked dismayed. ‘But I don’t want to. You said he was working for a dreary old lady.’
‘I didn’t say she was dreary. According to Drew she’s sweet. And you and he can have a marvellous time together.’
‘No, Richard! I want to stay here and sleep in my own room and write all my sorrows in my journal.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘I’m pretty miserable, Richard.’ She began to gulp, loudly and painfully.
‘Stop dramatizing yourself,’ said Richard, firmly.
She gave him an outraged stare. ‘Those were genuine tears, Richard.’
‘They were, but the gulps weren’t. The tears got impressed with themselves. Now listen: you can write your journal at Whitesea. And you may not have to go to school at once there, as you certainly would here. What’s more, life here isn’t what it used to be, with Cook and Edith out all day and Aunt Winifred in.’
Merry looked thoughiful. ‘And we’re a bit too close to the Crestovers. They sometimes drive past this house. Oh, Richard, it was awful that evening I drove past. I didn’t tell you—
‘Tell me in the car,’ said Richard.
‘You can’t want me to start at once. I’ll have to re-pack, take some different clothes … and I’m hungry.’
‘Well, you can have twenty minutes for packing and I’ll bring you some food. I’ve got to get you to the station before I pick up Aunt Winifred at the hairdresser’s. Which reminds me: you’ll have some time in London as your train doesn’t leave till 4.30. Could you get your hair put right?’
‘I might. But it would cost quite a bit.’
He took out his notecase. ‘I’ll give you five pounds – if you’ll promise to go straight to Drew and not run away again.’
‘All tight. I haven’t the spirit to run away now.’
He handed her the notes, then hurried her out and through the garden. ‘Not much peace for a girl’ she said as they reached the house.
‘You’ll get plenty of peace at Whitesea.’
He carried her suitcase up for her and then went to make her some very thick sandwiches out of the cold meat intended for lunch. When he took them, with a glass of milk, up to her room he found her wearing a schoolgirlish flannel suit which made her look years younger.
‘Terribly juvenile,’ she said gloomily. ‘But Clare’s coat will hide it. Could I call on her while I’m in London?’
‘There won’t be time if you’re to get your hair done.’
She looked at herself in the glass and nodded resignedly. ‘It is a bit much – for here. It looked all right at Crestover. I think it needs spacious surroundings.’
Somehow he got her to finish packing. She was still munching a sandwich when he hurried her into the car. ‘Keep your head down while we drive through the village,’ he told her. ‘If you’re seen I shall be asked awkward questions.’
‘What a bore! I wanted to look at everything.’
‘You can come up for air now,’ he said at last.
‘Need I duck when we pass my dear old school? No, it’s too far from the road. Fancy Jane working for Weary Willy! That’s practically treason. Shall you tell her I’m back?’
‘Yes, and I shall tell Cook and Edith but ask them all to keep it from Aunt Winifred. Duck again, will you? Here comes the Vicar’s car.’
Later, she said: ‘Richard, how brisk and … well, managerial you’ve become. You used to be so vague and wrapped up in your work.’
He said he’d had to snap out of that.
‘But I admired you for it – for being so dedicated. Are you working at all?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s too much on my mind. And life’s not easy now. In some ways I’d like to leave home and try for a job, teaching in a school. Handling a school orchestra would do me a world of good.’
‘Well, why not do it?’
‘I can’t close the house, when Cook and Edith and Jane and Aunt Winifred want to live in it.’ To say nothing of Violet. ‘And you or Clare or Drew might want to come home.’
‘To hell with the lot of us,’ said Merry. ‘Nothing should come in front of your work, not even good deeds. You’ll get punished for it, Richard – just as I shall. Only in my case, it was bad deeds.’
‘Such as, darling?’
‘I stopped being dedicated. I thought I’d like to be a countess, and that it would help me to get parts without really working for them. That was blasphemy. I sinned against my own personal Holy Ghost.’
‘But not for long. And you did fall in love with the man.’
She shuddered. ‘I almost hate him now – and all the Crestovers. It’s unjust of me but they were my stumbling blocks. And one does feel like kicking stumbling blocks.’
‘Unwise, lovey. You just stub your toe a second time.’ She laughed and relaxed. He wondered if he should ask her again to let him write to Lord Crestover, then decided not to worry her. Let her remain childishly callous about that if she could. He suspected she had more than enough on her conscience. Dramatize herself she might, but he was quite sure she was already genuinely and even maturely dedicated.
They had only just enough time to catch her train. He found her a seat, repeated instructions for her journey to Whitesea, begged her to enjoy herself and to write fully.
‘Oh, I shall,’ she said. ‘And I shall nag you to stop sinning against your Holy Ghost.’
The other occupa
nts of the compartment looked startled. Only when he watched her train leaving the station did he fully realize how sorry he was to let her go.
2
The Noble Lord
As Aunt Winifred held herself aloof from all household matters and Violet merely helped assemble what food there was, he did not have to account for the cold meat eaten by Merry. He simply announced there would only be eggs for lunch.
‘How shall we have them?’ he asked Violet, as she followed him into the kitchen. ‘Not enough butter to scramble them and frying would mean cleaning the frying pan.’
‘And poaching is very tricky. They’ll be safest boiled.’
Even so, they cracked.
‘Clare would have made us a delicious omelette,’ said Aunt Winifred.
Richard doubted if Clare had ever even attempted to make an omelette. But no doubt Clare the good cook was now as real to the old lady as Clare the devoted niece.
After lunch and the subsequent washing-up, he decided to work, for the first time since catastrophe had struck; Merry had both stirred his conscience and stimulated him. But he made the mistake of telling Violet and she at once asked if she could come and listen. ‘Oh, please! I’ll keep very quiet. I do so want to hear some of your music.’
He told her he was working on a sextet which would not make sense to her if he attempted to play it on the piano. But as she still begged to come, he let her, the truth being that he wanted to.
He rather expected her to insist on talking but she settled herself on the divan and seemed genuinely anxious both to listen and to understand. So he did his best to give her an impression of his first movement, indicating such melody as there was and explaining about the various instruments. He found her most attentive, and several times she asked him to repeat a phrase and expressed admiration for it. But after a while she seemed less alert and he didn’t blame her. His music, whether good or bad, certainly wasn’t simple. He decided she needed a rest from it. Leaving the piano, he wandered around the room, talking of music generally.