Lucy Carmichael

by Margaret Kennedy

  What could L. Carmichael do with a Nativity Play? Such things might be bearable when staged by believers, but as a form of drama they stank. Could she make it Chinese and put Our Lady on a lotus? Or modern? A gypsy’s baby born in a stable? Was there no escape from those corny angels and Wendy in a blue mantle? But nothing would make it real, thought Lucy, when so few of us believe in it. In the Middle Ages, or even now in a church, it might have real beauty because it has truth both for audience and actors. In the Ravonsbridge theatre it can be nothing more than an orgy of sentimentality. It will have to be done very straightforwardly and simply, just for the sake of a few people, like Miss Foss and Lady Frances, to whom it does mean something. L. Carmichael mustn’t try to be clever.

  And the joke of it was that Lady Frances would probably also regard it as a most satisfactory amends. She and H. E. would sit nodding over it in perfect agreement. For Lucy had no more idea of the rod in pickle than he had. She had never had any reason to suppose that his absences from Ravonsbridge were regarded as unlawful. He had been going off during term-time for years, though never abroad before, and never for quite so long.

  At lunch-time she told her news to Miss Frogmore, who laughed over the Nativity Play but looked thoughtful when she learnt that their superior had been summoned to Cyre Abbey. Miss Payne, too, said: Oh! when she heard of it, in a very meaning way. There was a strange tension in the air. It flashed across Lucy’s mind that they had both been told of the changes which might some day take place, and had both been asked if they were willing to stay.

  In the middle of the afternoon Mr. Thornley returned, looking very crestfallen. He reported that Lady Frances seemed to him to be very ill indeed, and that it had been impossible to discuss anything with her.

  More he would not say to young Lucy, but he was angry and greatly distressed. Never, in all his years at the Institute, had he received such a dressing down. He would have resigned on the spot had he not ascribed the whole outrage to the effects of sciatica. Lady Frances was clearly not herself. So he did not take his scolding seriously or suppose, for a moment, that he need cancel his lecture tour in December. Long before that she would have recovered and apologised. But it had been a most disagreeable interview and he had not been offered lunch.

  A good many people looked in upon Mr. Thornley and Lucy before the end of the day. One errand or another brought Mr. Hayter, Miss Frogmore, Miss Payne and Mr. Poole. Perhaps they were expecting to hear that Ravonsbridge must now look for another Senior Drama Director. If so, they were disappointed. Mr. Thornley had felt the rod. But he had not resigned and he had no intention of resigning. He was not the man to quarrel with an old and valued friend over a few sharp words, spoken, obviously, in pain.

  5

  TRADITION had decreed that the Nativity Play should end with Adeste Fideles, sung by the cast and the audience in chorus. Applause, curtain calls or the King were felt to be unseemly.

  Lucy observed this custom but she introduced certain improvements. It had struck her, when she watched the performance a year ago, that the four verses took too long; the devotional poses of the crowd on the stage became constrained and stiff. And in front, the shuffling silence, unrelieved by applause when the curtain fell and the lights went up, gave a sense of anti-climax.

  She decided that Bethlehem and the Manger should fade more gradually from the sight. During the first verse she brought her stage lights down slowly, till all was darkness save for a spot on the raised platform where Wendy knelt beside the manger. The singing crowd on the dim stage below was thus merged with the singing crowd in the auditorium, until the curtains fell together at the end of the second verse. The third and fourth verses were sung only by the audience, as the house lights came up gradually. By this means she hoped to engineer a less abrupt return to the everyday world.

  The effect was successful and the audience, moved, continued to sing fervently beyond the fallen curtain, while on the stage a secular bustle had already broken out. Angels, kings and shepherds scrambled up from their knees. Wendy, kicking the manger out of her way, jumped down from her platform. A low buzz of conversation drowned the distant strain of pious song. Their spirits, depressed by the synthetic reverence of the performance, were inclined to rebound into noisy flippancy.

  On the last night, the night of the Institute party, they were particularly obstreperous. Lucy was afraid that they might be heard out in front. She emerged angrily from the wings to drive them to their dressing-rooms.

  “Get off!” she whispered to Robin, who was dancing a samba with Kitty. “Don’t make such a hell of a noise.”

  But Robin, for once, was intractable. He was leaving Ravonsbridge and had secured an engagement with a well-known Repertory Company. He did not have to obey Lucy any more. He snatched Melchior’s turban from his head and thrust it onto hers, exclaiming:

  “Last time I wear this corny old tile!”

  “Oh, you little brute. My hair was all tidy for the party.”

  “Darling! I can’t wait to see you all dressed up. Kitty says you’ve got a most marvellous dress.”

  “Ssh! Get off! They’re still singing out there.”

  “Aw! They’re nuts!”

  “Venite adoremus!”

  Penelope Millwood, singing in the stalls, gave a nudge to Tish and indicated the box where their mother was sitting.

  “Venite adoremus!”

  Tish looked up and saw to her astonishment that Charles was there between Lady Frances and Lady Anne.

  “Venite adoremu-us Do-ominum!”

  Rickie sawed the air majestically with his baton and frowned at the double basses, who were behind the beat.

  “I never knew Charles was coming,” said Tish, as soon as the last note died away. “White tie and tails! Is he coming to the party? Wonders will never cease!”

  Neither of them could remember when Charles had last deigned to attend either the play or the party.

  “There’s an attraction,” murmured Penelope.

  “No! Who?”

  “I shan’t tell you. Just keep your eyes open and see if you see what I see. Mamma insists I see what isn’t there…. No … we’re not to go yet. We’re to stay till Mamma comes down and then all go across to the hall together.”

  The theatre was already nearly empty. Tish sat down again with a sigh of relief, for her shoes hurt her. It was another tradition that everybody should dress up for the party. In former days all the men had come in white ties, but now very few of them possessed tail coats and only the senior staff wore the festive uniform. The women put on long dresses. Tish had driven over in the red lace which had done duty for ten Institute parties in succession. Lady Frances wore her equally famous black velvet. But Penelope had a comparatively new dress of taffetas in an aggressive shade of blue.

  “They never used to let the curtain down in the middle of Adeste,” complained Tish. “Was that on purpose or an accident?”

  “I expect it’s Miss Carmichael. She’s producing.”

  “I think Mr. Thornley did it better.”

  “He’s gone, you know.”

  “What? Gone where?”

  “Left Ravonsbridge. He’s resigned.”

  “Good heavens! I never knew that.”

  “Mamma only heard of it today.”

  Lady Frances came into the stalls, calling them to join her. Tish, as she limped in her tight shoes up the gangway, was still exclaiming over the resignation of Mr. Thornley, and Penelope was scolded for having gossiped.

  “Tish would have heard tomorrow at the Council meeting,” protested Penelope.

  “And it shouldn’t be discussed before then,” said Lady Frances. She turned to Tish and added: “Yes, it’s true, I’m sorry to say. Mr. Poole got the letter today. Mr. Thornley has written to the Council resigning immediately.”

  “I suppose he’ll tell us why, tomorrow.”

  “He won’t be there tomorrow. That’s the whole trouble. He’s away. He has gone off to give some lectures, in spite
of all I said to him when I got back. When I heard he really meant to go I came in, last week, and repeated what I’d said. I told him that I wouldn’t have it, and that he must choose. If he wants to stay here, he must give up all his outside work. He seemed to be utterly dumbfounded. But now he has made up his mind. He’s written resigning…. Oh! They’re turning off the lights. We must go. Come along. Where is Charles?”

  Charles had vanished. They called to him in vain, peering round the darkened house. And then he suddenly emerged from the pass door leading to the stage. Penelope again nudged Tish.

  “You’ve been on the stage?” marvelled Lady Frances. “What for?”

  “Thought I’d like to congratulate them,” muttered Charles.

  “How silly … they’re all changing. You can do it at the party. Come along, dear….”

  “Was there anybody on the stage?” asked Penelope as they came along.

  “No,” said Charles.

  The stage had been perfectly dark and he had barked his shins on the manger.

  “You’ve got dust on your trousers,” said Tish.

  They followed their mother out of the theatre into the quadrangle. It was a fine frosty night. Orion and the winter constellations spangled the sky. Voices and laughter echoed across the stone court. The hall windows glowed with festive light and little groups of people were going up the steps.

  Charles lingered for a moment to look up at the snapping stars. He was ashamed of the impulse which had driven him onto the stage in the hope of catching Lucy for a moment’s conversation. He would see her at the party. He must be content to see her there — and to dance with her in due course, for civility dictated that he should dance with the Institute girls. The hard hall lights would shine down on them, and the gambolling students would jostle them, but he would have her in his arms for a few minutes and with that he must slake his intolerable thirst.

  In the ladies’ cloakroom the Millwood women disposed of their sensible evening wraps. Lady Frances stumped off to the hall to greet her guests, but Penelope and Tish lingered before a glass to put a very little powder on their noses.

  “But Mr. Thornley will be coming back next term anyway?” suggested Tish.

  “No. I don’t think so. He says he isn’t prepared to give up some important engagements he’s got next term.”

  “But who will do his work?”

  Penelope gave her sister a push and indicated a row of doors. One was ominously shut, and, as the cubicles behind these doors had no ceilings, it was probable that every word they had said must have been overheard. Tish made a grimace of dismay. They hurried out of the cloakroom and paused in the corridor just outside to discuss their indiscretion.

  “It’ll be all over the Institute now!” lamented Penelope. “I never noticed anybody in there, did you?”

  “No,” said Tish, “or I’d have held my tongue. They were very quiet and we’d been in there some minutes. Perhaps it wasn’t anybody. Perhaps the door just happened to be shut.”

  The cloakroom door, opening suddenly, bumped Tish in the back. Ianthe swept into the corridor, nodded coolly to them both, and went into the hall.

  “Ianthe?” cried Penelope. “The very worst person. It would be her. She’ll tell everybody. She’s livid with Mr. Thornley because of Hamlet. Oh, Tish, what shall we do?”

  “Nobody listens to her, so it doesn’t really matter,” said Tish. “What a sight she looks in a strapless dress. Far too thin. Nothing to keep it up over. And black too! At her age!”

  They went into the hall which was already crowded. A small dance band was assembling on the platform, behind a hedge of holly. At the other end of the room was a long buffet-table loaded with tea, coffee, lemonade and an abundance of sausage rolls. A good many Millwood and Ravonsclere connections had come in from all over the county. Most of the Council were there, all the Staff, and a selection of Ravonsbridge worthies. Mr. Hayter, who was growing a little too fat for his dress clothes, was being tactful and active. He perceived that the eye of Lady Frances had lingered enquiringly upon a strange young man in a yellow pullover, and he immediately introduced the newcomer. The pullover was explained. Mr. Owen Rees was one of the Poor. Lady Frances received him very graciously and told him how sorry she was that she had never seen his performance in Hamlet. Her sciatica had imprisoned her at Cyre Abbey.

  Rees had dress clothes at home, but he had decided not to put them on for this party. He had been in two minds about coming. Though he had enjoyed acting at the Institute, he was anxious not to be too closely associated with the Millwoods, who were ‘the bosses’. But Lucy had sent a personal note with his invitation card, begging him to come and assuring him that all his colleagues in the Hamlet production would be very much disappointed if he did not. So he came, only half ready to be genial and on the lookout for patronage, which he intended to resent.

  He gave a taciturn reception to the graciousness of Lady Frances and eyed the elegant Charles, who was presently beckoned up to talk to him. They got on very badly. Owen could not endure Charles’ voice, and Charles, full of genuine admiration, felt himself rebuffed. The Class War lay between them, though they had much in common, were both extremely fond of poetry and both infatuated with the character of Hamlet. Actually each was meditating an imitation of the other, when he got home.

  Angera joined them, smiling a little at their obvious discomfort, and asked Owen if he was enjoying the party. Owen replied impatiently:

  “I came on account of Lussi. I thought she wass going to be here. She is the only person here I want to see.”

  Which was exactly the case with Charles.

  *

  Lucy was, all this while, in the girls’ dressing-room at the theatre, changing for the party, while the others removed their grease-paint. She threw off her smock, made up her face, and changed her shoes and stockings. Then she took from its hanger a sheeted dress which she had brought up with her before the performance. As she settled the skirt about her hips, a gasp went up from all her young companions.

  “OH, LUCY!”

  She had never worn it in Ravonsbridge, had never worn it anywhere, for it was intended for those very distinguished parties to which she might have gone as Patrick Reilly’s bride. It was made from a rich brocaded silk, given to her as a wedding present, in a pink so pale that only the rosy shadows of its folds proclaimed the hue. She had felt a sudden impulse to wear it, though it was far too good for such a party. No suitable occasion was ever likely to occur in her life now, and it was stupid to let the lovely thing rot, unworn and unadmired, year after year, in her wardrobe. Also she needed to free herself from the miasma of the Nativity Play by some daring gesture of this sort.

  The girls crowded round her, admiring and unenvious, since none of them could have carried it off.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “What’s it made of?”

  “I never saw anything so smashing.”

  “Is it an heirloom?”

  “No,” said Lucy. “It’s Chinese tribute silk. That’s what the person said who gave me the stuff. But don’t ask me what it means, for I don’t know.”

  “It makes you look like Royalty!”

  “Yes. It’s like one Princess Elizabeth has. The same neckline.”

  “Don’t dance with Rickie in it, for heaven’s sake.”

  Lucy smiled and sat down at a glass to rearrange her curls. That unreliable beauty, which could so completely desert her when her spirits were low, was in full strength. None of them could stop looking at her. Ravonsbridge had already experienced some of the surprises which Melissa had foreseen, should Lucy recover, but this was a new one.

  A pounding came at the door. Robin’s voice was heard bellowing a demand to see Lucy’s smashing dress. He was told that he could not come in, that he would see it in the hall, but he would not go away. He kept shouting through the door:

  “Wanna see it now!

  The other boys, who were waiting about in the passage to escort the girls
to the party, joined in:

  “Wanna see Lucy! Wanna see Lucy!”

  *

  The band struck up and a few bold couples took the floor. But the party hung fire until the contingent from the theatre arrived. Ianthe sat between her mother and her stepfather and refused to dance. She would have refused to come at all, if she could have been sure that her absence would be noticed, for she hated everybody in Ravonsbridge. But now she was not sorry that she had come. That little piece of news which she had overheard in the cloakroom had changed the evening for her. Mr. Thornley was going away!

  As long as I’m in Ravonsbridge, you’ll behave yourself.

  It was quite true. She was afraid of him, and of nobody else, in this abominable town. She turned to look at Angera, insolently at his ease among a group of his students, and smiled to herself.

  But then, in a fresh paroxysm of bitterness, she wondered whether anybody would believe that he had ever done more than paint her portrait. She had told so many stories and set so many people by the ears. They would merely laugh at her.

  A robust and cheerful voice broke in upon her reverie. Miss Plummer had stopped to speak to Mrs. Pillie and was now saying, with facetious dismay:

  “Ianthe not dancing! Dear, dear!”

  “She isn’t feeling up to it,” bleated Mrs. Pillie, who lived in terror of what Ianthe might do next.

  “Feeling seedy?”

  Miss Plummer’s tone invoked the cupboard full of laxatives which she kept at the hostel and pressed upon students who indulged in the vapours.

  “I’m a good deal better than I was,” said Ianthe gently. “I’m nearly well again. Only dancing makes me breathless.”

  As she spoke a vista of ideas opened before her.

  “Ought to see a doctor,” suggested Miss Plummer, running an experienced eye over the emaciated shoulders sticking up out of the strapless dress.

  She moved on and Ianthe’s sombre gaze followed her. The Plum was a joke among the Ravonsbridge students. She liked to say that she understood young things and was perpetually frustrated by being given so little to understand. Ruth, Wendy and Kitty would never ask for so much as an aspirin, far less for counsel in their love affairs. The poor old Plum was said to be starving for a heartbroken girl whom she might mother, or a nice rich scandal with which she could sensibly deal.