Lucy Carmichael

by Margaret Kennedy

  She squeezed his arm, and when he had recovered a little, she said:

  “I’ve been very much distressed since you went. And puzzled. May I tell you? Will you advise me?”

  “Yes, my dear girl, yes….”

  She collected her thoughts and told him everything, starting with her luncheon at Cyre Abbey. She touched on her conversation with Hayter, repeating, as accurately as she could, all that had passed between them. Finally, she described her quarrel with Owen Rees.

  “All these things, taken together, worry me,” she finished. “If it wasn’t for those events last term, I shouldn’t pay any attention to Owen. But it’s made me very unhappy. Mr. Thornley — I don’t want to enquire into your affairs, I know it’s rather impertinent, but was there … was anything wrong … anything you didn’t quite like … in the circumstances … the reason why you left us?”

  He did not answer. He had been listening attentively and without comment. After a while he got up and put a hand under her elbow, telling her that she would catch cold if she sat there any longer. They must go and have a cup of tea somewhere. But not at the Crown, protested Lucy, getting up; the whole choir and orchestra would be there. He said that he knew of a nice quiet little place just outside the Close where they could talk in peace. As he led her out of the cloisters he pressed her arm affectionately.

  “I’m very glad I met you, Lucy my dear. Very glad indeed. I never could believe that you had anything to do with it.”

  “Did anybody say I had?” cried Lucy.

  “It was … hinted to me….”

  “Who hinted it? Mr. Hayter?”

  “Oh dear, no. Certainly not!”

  “Then who? Just tell me and I’ll …”

  “No, no…. Wait now and listen to me.”

  They found his little tea-shop and were soon sitting cosily over a fire, china tea and muffins. He seemed to be embarrassed and unwilling to say more, but at last he broke out with:

  “One must be just! One mustn’t jump to the conclusion that it was a put-up job.”

  “Please, what happened?”

  Staring sadly at the fire he tried to tell her what had happened. The whole thing was still such a grief, such a shock, to him that he could not put his story together very connectedly. It was constantly interrupted by interjections of amazement. He could not understand how Lady Frances had come to treat him so badly after so long-standing a friendship. Why should she suddenly command him to relinquish all his outside work? It might be allowed that he should not have gone abroad without leave; he was ready to admit himself in fault over that. Perhaps he deserved reproof. But she had spoken to him, he said, as though he had been one of the students caught staying out after hours. He could not submit to so peremptory a tone.

  Sometimes he declared that she had been turned against him, and that their misunderstanding had been deliberately engineered. And then he would pull himself together and warn Lucy that suspicions of that kind may be very unjust. He had no evidence which gave him the right to accuse anybody. He had behaved foolishly, and had only himself to blame.

  It appeared that he had had an angry scene with Lady Frances just before he departed on his December lecture tour. She had been incensed by his complete disregard of all that she had already said. She forbade him to go on his tour and commanded him to drop all his outside work forthwith. He had been tempted to tender his immediate and unqualified resignation. But his great attachment, both to her and to Ravonsbridge, had restrained him. He did not commit himself, on that occasion, either by resigning or by promising to obey her.

  He then consulted his old friend Mr. Garstang, who agreed that he could not possibly submit to such dictatorial treatment, but was very anxious to keep him on the Council. Between them they thought of a compromise. Why, Mr. Garstang had suggested, should Thornley not hold the post as part-time director, as Dr. Pidgeon did? It would mean a reduction of salary, but it would enable him to combine the Ravonsbridge duties with other work and keep him on the Council.

  “The idea,” he said, “appealed to me. It appealed to me very much. And I felt it was fair to Lady Frances, since I gathered that she thought I should not receive a full-time salary unless I did full-time work. I hoped it would mean promotion for you, which you quite deserved. You could have rehearsed productions and I could have come and helped you with the finishing touches. And you could have consulted me at any time. I decided I would do that. Since I couldn’t be at the Council meeting I wrote them a letter, resigning immediately on account of the pressure of my other work, and offering my services to the Institute as a part-time director. I … I never dreamt … I thought they would jump at it. So did Garstang. He took it for granted they would. So did Hayter. I saw him, and explained my idea, and he seemed to think it was a very good one. I didn’t mention to Hayter, of course, that I had had this distressing scene with Lady Frances.”

  There was a long pause. Mr. Thornley did not seem able to go on. At last, in a stifled voice, he muttered:

  “They simply accepted my resignation and never offered me the visiting post. I couldn’t believe it when I got their letter. But that’s what they did.”

  “Do you know at all what happened at the meeting?”

  “Oh, yes. Garstang was there. I saw him when I came back to Ravonsbridge at Christmas to collect all my goods and chattels. He was greatly distressed. He said … he told me … that, when my letter had been read, Lady Frances said at once that she liked the idea of a visiting director but that she thought they ought to get someone more … more distinguished than I am.”

  No comment on this occurred to Lucy. She made a little commiserating noise and presently he said:

  “Perhaps she was right. Perhaps they can.”

  “But didn’t Mr. Garstang speak up for you?”

  “Oh, yes, I think so. Oh, yes, I’m sure he tried to explain. He told me he was just going to say he doubted if I should have resigned at all, if I hadn’t expected to remain with the Institute in some capacity, when Hayter said the same thing, and told them he’d talked to me and that I’d written the letter quite taking for granted that I’d get the visiting directorship. But that seemed to annoy Lady Frances very much. She said: We can’t be governed by what Mr. Thornley may take for granted. Or something like that.”

  “I expect Mr. Hayter put it in a way that annoyed her.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Garstang said he might have put it more tactfully. But he voted for me, you know. Hayter did. They put it to the vote, but it was five against Garstang and Hayter. Pidgeon and Coppard weren’t there, of course.”

  “If I’d been Mr. Garstang I’d have resigned from the Council,” declared Lucy warmly.

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I felt that a little myself at first. I thought: if I’d been in his shoes I’d have resigned; but then I remembered that I didn’t resign over poor Grier, Haverstock’s predecessor. I thought we treated him most unjustly over the music directorship. I said so. But I didn’t resign. So why should Garstang resign over me?”

  “But still … why didn’t you try to see Lady Frances?”

  “Perhaps I ought. But you know I was so hurt, so mortified, after all these years; I thought if she could treat me like that I’d better go. I collected my bits and pieces and left Ravonsbridge without seeing anyone.”

  When old friends quarrel, thought Lucy, there is not much to be done. The shock of finding that they can hurt one another destroys confidence. But she wished that these two had met. Something might have emerged which incriminated Hayter, who was, she believed, at the bottom of it.

  “And who,” she asked, “hinted that I had anything to do with it? You say you saw nobody?”

  “Nobody except Garstang,” admitted Thornley, looking flustered.

  “But surely he didn’t … why … he doesn’t know me! I’ve never spoken to Mr. Garstang. I know him by sight, of course.”

  “No. He doesn’t know you, and I told him so. If he did, he’d see it was nonsense.” />
  “But what did he say? That I’d intrigued …”

  “Oh, no, no, no! He merely thought you had friends who … I might well have been mistaken as to what he said. I was so confused and wretched that day, I may not have understood him. He merely thought you are such a favourite at Cyre Abbey … with the whole family … he thought pressure might have been brought to get you promotion. It was an impression that he got at the Christmas party.”

  That damned waltz again! Charles loves Lucy. Was she never to be forgiven for that one small lapse? She asked no more about Mr. Garstang and returned to the main issue.

  “But don’t you see what is happening, Mr. Thornley? The old resident Staff are all going and are replaced by people who don’t live in Ravonsbridge, or really know much about the Institute. And the resident Staff are all very young and inexperienced and aren’t on the Council.”

  He looked startled.

  “I hadn’t thought of it,” he said. “But now you put it that way … of course, Angera ought to be on the Council. But I doubt if they’ll ever have him.”

  “I think it’s all a plan. I think it’s all Mr. Hayter’s doing.”

  “Oh, no, Lucy. You’ve no right to say that.”

  “I can’t help thinking it. I’m beginning to see what he was after when he talked to me, that day, asking if I’d like to stay on if you fell under a bus. Because he’d have been in the soup if all the Drama School staff went. If only I’d tumbled to it, I’d have said: If Mr. Thornley goes, I go, and so will …”

  She broke off, shaken by a sudden doubt. Would Miss Frogmore and Miss Payne have gone? How much had they foreseen? Had they really been very much surprised when they came back to Ravonsbridge after Christmas and found no Mr. Thornley? She remembered that Miss Frogmore had been short and dry about it. Perhaps she believed that Lucy’s amazed regret was all humbug.

  “Might I talk about this to some of the others?” she asked.

  He was emphatic that she might not. Not a word. Not for the world. The chief fault had been his; he had managed the matter badly. He loved the dear old place and he could not bear to leave bitterness or strife behind him, after so many happy years. That, he confessed, was why he had decamped in such a hurry. He could not help feeling bitter himself, and until he had got over it he did not want to meet anyone from Ravonsbridge. Nor must she allow this business to interfere with her own advancement. She must not quarrel with anyone on his account. He would reproach himself for selfishness if these confidences were allowed to affect her interests in any way. After all, her prospects were so bright … so bright…. Lucy could not help smiling slightly. The poor old man seemed to think that the Senior Directorship must be the supreme goal of any girl’s ambitions.

  His next sentence enlightened her. The bright prospects were not entirely professional. He looked almost coy as he added:

  “I wish I’d seen you at the party, Lucy. Garstang said you were quite the belle of the evening!”

  “Yes, I was,” she said quickly. “I even danced twice with Mr. Millwood! Nobody can get over it.”

  “A very fine young man,” said Thornley emphatically. “I’ve always thought him a very fine young man.”

  She declared that she did not like him much, at which Mr. Thornley smiled so complacently that she saw she had said the wrong thing. By his standards it was what a nice girl, a lady, ought to say if she were very much in love.

  Her tea interval was nearly up. He paid the bill, took her to the Cathedral, kissed her and shuffled off into the night.

  None of the others had come back yet; the Cathedral was dark and empty. A few lights were burning up by the chancel screen, where the choir and orchestra were to sit. In the nave the Norman pillars soared up into night. Lucy slipped into a chair and tried to arrange her ideas.

  Mr. Hayter was getting the Institute into his pocket. Of that she was perfectly sure, though she could not guess his motive.

  But why did she see all this so clearly when none of her colleagues did?

  I, thought Lucy, might have seen nothing if I had not been outside it all for a time. I was almost outside life, that first year. Because of that I noticed a lot of things which would not have struck me otherwise. I got to know something of the lower town because I went to read to Mr. Meeker, so as to get through those unbearable evenings. If I had come to Ravonsbridge in normal spirits I should not have seen these things. I should have gone with the crowd. I should have liked Mr. Hayter as much as most people do, and disliked Emil as much as most people do. That year has made a difference to me after all.

  More lights came on. The choir was trooping in. She went up the nave and took her place beside Bess. Tuning strings hummed and echoed among the aisles and arches. The audience, emerging from the foggy night, shuffled and scuffled in chairs which squeaked unpleasantly when shifted on the stone pavement. Bess whispered that she had been a duffer not to come to the Crown.

  “Why?”

  “Because we all went.”

  This did not sound a very good reason, but Bess insisted that it had been a huge rag. She retailed the jocund antics at the Crown until a cleric appeared in the pulpit and began to pray. When that was over Dr. Pidgeon came in with the soloists and the concert began with a Brandenburg Concerto.

  String music in a stone building is too piercing and vibrant; its delicacy is lost in a confusion of echoes. Lucy was soon wishing for the impersonality of an organ. She watched Dr. Pidgeon, who made faces of frantic disgust and managed to get ten times more out of the orchestra than poor Rickie ever did. His eye was everywhere at once. He would certainly know it if she or Bess or anyone in the choir missed an entry. She must concentrate.

  The Concerto was over. The choir was on its feet.

  She thrust all other thoughts from her and ceased to be Lucy — ceased to be anything save part of this majestic ship which was about to set sail. Raising her eyes to Pidgeon she left the world behind her and existed only for Fauré until she was in the coach, going home. Even there she was not quite on earth; the Requiem continued in her mind and any other reality seemed faint.

  Intense effort made her tired and sleepy. Tree after tree on the roadside flashed into vivid theatrical relief, as the headlights of the bus swept onward, and then slipped back into night. Their coach was not very full. She sat on a back bench with Bess who kept up a continual chatter, but she hardly heard it through the shifting veils of remembered music.

  “… Miss Tanner. You know! Does massage and electric treatment … has a place in Shotter Street … walked back to the Cathedral with her … great friend of the Plum’s … Ianthe’s latest….”

  Sanctus! Sanctus!

  The song of the blest floats on tranquilly for ever and ever, over the crystal sea, over the waves of harp music.

  “… Well, she did leave Ravonsbridge very suddenly last summer. That much is true….”

  Sanctus! Sanctus!

  “… Cagey about what happened. But the Plum is convinced she was going to have a baby and then got rid of it, whether by accident or on purpose, don’t ask. And that’s why she’s been looking so jolly ill….”

  “Oh, do shut up!”

  “I know. It’s pretty foul, isn’t it? I said to Miss Tanner: But you can’t ever believe a word Ianthe says. So she said Ianthe hasn’t said anything. It’s all the Plum’s idea….”

  Requiem aeternam….

  “… Simply no idea who the man is. Ianthe won’t say.”

  Et lux perpetua….

  “Don’t you, Lucy?”

  “I do wish you wouldn’t talk. I want to think about the Requiem.”

  “Mercy! Haven’t we all thought enough about it this last week?”

  “Not nearly enough. I’ve hardly begun to think about it.”

  “Wasn’t old Pidgeon a scream?”

  “Umph!”

  “When he glared at you I thought I’d have died. Well, but the Plum says he must be somebody in Ravonsbridge.”

  “Who?”

&
nbsp; “The man. The father of this baby which I don’t believe Ianthe ever had. I mean I don’t believe a single thing of any of it. But Plum says he’s a scoundrel and ought to be whipped. What do you think of that?”

  “Oh, do stop talking, you cackling creature.”

  “No need to be rude.”

  “For God’s sake stop.”

  “No need to be blasphemous either. O.K. I’ll stop.”

  “Thanks. Sorry.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Sanctus! Sanctus! … Sanctus! Sanctus! … Sanctus! Sanctus! …

  3

  LUCY’S amphitheatre in Slane forest was carpeted with wild daffodils. She picked a great bunch of them before returning to the high-road. The place was even lovelier than she had remembered and she was quite determined to put on Comus, if arrangements could be made for a car park.

  For this she must depend upon Hayter, but she was sure that he would manage it, if he took to the idea. Parking in the forest, and motoring on side tracks, was forbidden. She had found a large level tract of ground beside the high-road, only a few minutes’ walk away from the amphitheatre, which would hold a good many vehicles. This might be used as the main car park. But a great deal of the equipment, the loud-speaker apparatus, the vans with the spotlights, must be driven close up to the stage. Hayter would know whom to approach. He would pull strings. Somebody would get the concession for supplying deck-chairs and camp-stools, somebody else would run a refreshment tent; leave to park would be forthcoming.

  She wished, not for the first time, that she liked Hayter better, for he was an invaluable ally. A little artfulness, she supposed, is essential if anything is ever to be done. She was sure that Matt Millwood had been, on occasion, a little artful. But she was sure, too, that if Matt had been in Ravonsbridge there would have been no Hayter.

  She sat on a fallen log on the high-road, waiting for the bus back to Ravonsbridge and hugging her bunch of daffodils. Comus was going to be lovely; she could hardly wait till midsummer. As she sat she hummed idly: