Lucy Carmichael

by Margaret Kennedy

  “Do you think Miss Foss really did it?”

  “What? Invented that story? Of course she didn’t.”

  “She would always look after baby. So I think I’ll take baby to Kidderminster. In case it gets too much for me, I mean.”

  “A change would be very good for you.”

  “Emil thinks it was her.”

  “Miss Foss? Nancy, it’s ridiculous. Who was it put such an idea into his head?”

  “I used to work in a café, only Emil doesn’t like it to be known. That’s how we met. He came in one day and I served him and we got talking. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like me marrying a foreigner. But she’s very fond of baby. She’ll look after baby. He ought to be looked after.”

  He certainly ought, thought Lucy, remembering his precarious slumber on the stairs.

  “But what I say is,” murmured Nancy, “they ought to put Ianthe’s name on the banners too.”

  “What banners?”

  “Only Emil doesn’t like me going there. They don’t get on. They never did. Not the first time I took him home, oh, must have been a week before we were married. Whatever d’you want to marry him for? she said. I said: I love him.”

  Nancy sighed and then looked up enquiringly, as if anxious to know that Lucy understood.

  “I know you do,” said Lucy gently.

  “That Ianthe, she’s been up to her tricks ever such a long time. Why, last summer she was. Tried to make up they’d done something when he was painting her. No, he never, I said. I know Emil. He never. I’ll go to Mr. Thornley, I said, and he’ll stop you saying such wicked lies. And he did. He sent her right away. But she came back … oh dear, oh dear! She came back. And it’s her they ought to show up, only she’s gone away again. It should be all written up on the banners, when they have the procession.”

  “Nancy, what on earth is this? Who is going to have a procession and banners?”

  “It’s a secret, because of Mrs. Meeker.”

  “Mrs. Meeker? Is she mixed up in it?”

  “No. If she knew she’d stop it, though she’s on Emil’s side. I ought to be thinking about supper, I suppose.”

  Nancy rose and stooped to light the gas oven. The back of her neck was very dirty. She could not have washed it for quite a long time. Though a slattern in her house-work, she had hitherto kept herself and the baby tolerably clean.

  “Basil Wright,” she said, coming back to stand by the table. “He writes pieces for the papers. He’s in the gasworks.”

  “You mean there’s going to be some kind of demonstration?”

  “To show up Miss Foss,” said Nancy, nodding. “Emil’s students are going to paint the banners.”

  “Merry Christmas!” exclaimed Lucy in exasperation. “But it’ll ruin everything! Where is he? Where’s Emil?”

  “I don’t know. He’s out.”

  “Then I must wait till he comes in. I must speak to him at once. Nancy, can’t you see that it’s a crazy idea? Do please help me to persuade him. Get him to stop it!”

  “But I love him!” said Nancy, staring at her solemnly.

  “I know. So you must want him not to be so silly.”

  “I don’t want him any different.”

  Stooping again, Nancy turned off the oven, which had been roaring away all this time. She seemed to have forgotten her idea about supper.

  Lucy averted her eyes from that dirty neck in a spasm of pity and disgust, but it did not alarm her. Mental derangement, she imagined, becomes apparent in screams, frenzy, delusions. She was not aware that complete disintegration could take place so quietly.

  The outer door opened and slammed. Hasty steps crossed the hall and went into the living-room.

  “That’s Emil!” exclaimed Lucy. “I’ll go and speak to him.”

  A burst of Wagner greeted her as she sailed in to the attack. Emil had turned on the wireless and was crouching beside it. He looked round and signed angrily to her not to disturb him.

  “I’m sorry, Emil. I must speak to you now. It’s urgent.”

  “Later, please. It’s the last act of Tristan. I’m furious to miss so much. I’ve been running all the way home.”

  “I can’t help that. This is vital. Nancy’s been telling me a fantastic story about processions and banners.”

  He started and scowled.

  “She had no business to say anything,” he snapped.

  “Thank heaven she did! Turn that thing off. We must have this out.”

  “But it is Flagstad singing.”

  “Not just now. It’s only old Mark maundering.”

  “In a few minutes it will be the Liebestod.”

  “Yes, and I shall shout at you all through it if need be.”

  He tuned the wireless down and knelt, half listening to it and half to her, while she pointed out the folly of his behaviour and reproached him for letting his colleagues down.

  “They laughed at me and poked fingers at me,” he growled. “What have they done for me?”

  “We wrote that letter….”

  “Vich is not answered. It doesn’t do anything. For nothing have I humbled myself and creeped to the Council. My friends in the town, also, are very angry with me for deserting them. Basil Wright is only now saying to me how I have been used. You don’t do it for me, only for yourselfs. Because you are afraid for your own jobs.”

  “All right,” said Lucy, firing a shot at random. “I shall go and spill the beans to Mrs. Meeker.”

  Emil spun round with a jerk and forgot Wagner for a moment.

  “Ach, Lucy! Please! You mustn’t do that. You don’t understand. It would be bad for Basil Wright.”

  “Much worse for you, it could be.”

  “She would be very angry. By her, everything must be correct. And for now they don’t quarrel. I think it’s politics. For now he is working with her.”

  “I shall go to her unless I’m sure this crazy business has been called off.”

  “But that’s all right. It’s been called off.”

  “What?”

  “Since I was so stupid, to listen to you and write that letter to Poole, I’ve told them we can’t have this procession.”

  “Why on earth didn’t you say so before?”

  “Why should I? It wasn’t your business.”

  “You’re sure it’s off?”

  “Quite sure. Don’t please tell Mrs. Meeker. She will be less sympathetic for me and she will quarrel with him.”

  “Emil, do you swear it shan’t happen?”

  “I don’t tell lies. My students also I have forbidden. It’s a great disappointment for them.”

  He turned up the wireless again and settled down to listen as though the episode were over.

  Lucy knew that he was not a liar. She gave a sigh of mingled relief and exasperation. All this panic had been for nothing. She was turning to leave him when the first notes of Flagstad’s Liebestod pierced the forlorn room like a shaft of light. Then she stood spellbound by the door, unable to go.

  Fury and bewilderment, care and doubt, fell away from her as note serenely followed note. It was as though she had suddenly emerged from a tunnel, clamorous and dark, into a strange, lofty landscape. She came back and sat on a stool by the untended hearth.

  Emil turned to smile at her, their late altercation completely forgotten. The pure voice floated on, rose, sank, soared and carried them away over the mountains.

  Not singing, not singing, thought Lucy, with tears rolling down her cheeks. More than singing. This voice goes on always, always, behind all the other voices; for all men must suffer and all men must die.

  The door creaked. Nancy’s vacant face peered in at them. Emil, who had risen and was pacing the room, went to her and drew her down on the sofa beside him. She leaned against his shoulder with a contented sigh.

  We die. We were born to die. We are what we are: “the sentient target of death” But, before we die, we speak.

  Motionless the three of them sat in the summer twilight,
as they had often sat together in the old days, when Lucy lived there. When the voice sang no more, she stole quietly away.

  5

  MR. GARSTANG was both diverted and relieved when he got his copy of the Staff letter. This time, he resolved, there should be no hanky-panky, and he waited impatiently for his summons to a special meeting. None came. After ten days he rang up the Chairman, and learnt that no special meeting was to be held. Lady Frances was against the idea The Staff letter would come up at the end of term meeting in July.

  “But is no reply to be sent before then?” asked Garstang.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve written to Mildmay, telling him that the letter is under consideration.”

  “Well,” said Garstang.” I wish you’d consulted the rest of us, before deciding against a special meeting. Her Ladyship isn’t the entire Council.”

  “There are difficulties. I can’t tell you on the telephone.”

  “Then I’d like to come and see you.”

  “Certainly. Any time.”

  Colonel Harding lived near Slane Bredy and Garstang to the west of the new town, on the edge of the Welsh hills. It was a signal mark of Garstang’s anxiety that he took the trouble to drive seven miles in order to find out what had happened. He had been upon the Council for fourteen years but he had never before exerted himself to so great an extent. He was angry at what he believed to be another Hayter victory.

  “Lady Frances,” explained the Colonel,” is furious over that Staff letter. She thinks it was all got up by Miss Carmichael.”

  “Oh … why?”

  “I can’t think. The girl had signed it, of course, along with all the others, but Mildmay seems to have been the moving spirit. I don’t know why she has such a down on Miss Carmichael.”

  Garstang thought that he knew why, and smiled.

  “But what’s worse,” continued the Colonel, “is that she’s now decided to get rid of Angera. We’re not to accept his apology. He’s to go.”

  “I shall fight that,” said Garstang, “tooth and nail. We were distinctly given to understand that we were only holding out for an apology, and that there’s no question of his really going.”

  “She’s changed her mind, and she can always carry the meeting. Lady Anne and Mrs. Massingham will back her up.”

  “I’ve not changed mine, and I’m sure Miss Foss will back me up. I shall get hold of Pidgeon and Coppard and tell them they must come. That’ll be four against three.”

  “Pidgeon’s away. Be away till mid-June. And you’ll never get Coppard in term time. If you want a fight with the Millwoods, it’ll have to be in July. A meeting now won’t do Angera any good.”

  Garstang saw that this was true, but deplored the implied insult to the Staff.

  “Yes,” agreed the Colonel. “I’m a bit worried over that. Mildmay wrote to me unofficially and hinted how very strongly they feel; in fact there was a veiled suggestion that they might resign in a body if we don’t do something quickly, one way or the other.”

  “Good Lord! We can’t have that happening!”

  “Oh, I don’t really think there’s any danger. I had a word with Hayter.”

  “Oh? Did you?”

  “He said there’d be no resigning when it comes to the point. He’s sure he can manage them, though he thinks Miss Frogmore ought to be on the Council. He says they’ll hang on to their jobs when they’ve had a little time to think it over. I gather he’s encouraging them to think.”

  “Even Mildmay?”

  “He couldn’t afford to resign. Got an invalid wife, and too old for any other job.”

  Mr. Garstang did not like the sound of all this, but he did realise that nothing could be gained by pressing for an early meeting. He would do better to mobilise his forces for a battle in July.

  He waited until Dr. Pidgeon came back, and he then drove over to Severnton one evening, dined Pidgeon and Coppard at the Crown, primed them with some excellent Burgundy, and explained the position. Both promised to attend the next meeting, in July, and to support him in his fight to keep Angera. They could scarcely do less, with so much Burgundy inside them, though they grumbled a little at the impending exertion and could not understand why the Council had dwindled so much, or why Thornley and Spedding had not been replaced. Garstang found that he could not explain that, but he was able to convince them that the ladies (bless their hearts) had got the Council into a scrape and that it was time for all good men to come to the rescue.

  It was a most successful little dinner, though Mr. Garstang regretted the brandy which topped it off when he went to get his car out of the Crown garage. It was most unlikely that he would run into anything, for he was a careful driver, but if he did, there might be questions which he would not have cared to answer. Not that Coppard and Pidgeon were any better; the convivial manner in which they were strolling off, arm in arm, down High Street, was delightful to see.

  He got himself with safety out of Severnton and into Slane forest. He was feeling genial and deedy, and so much pleased with himself that his imagination toyed with new campaigns. This little dinner was but the first move in a successful routing of Hayter. As soon as Angera was reinstated there must be some agitation for elections to the Council. Sensible recruits must be found, who would join the Garstang party. And a pension must be voted for poor old Mildmay. It was a shame that the old man should, after so many years of faithful work, be subjected to rudeness from his employers — should have to keep his mouth shut or starve. On this point there would be no difficulty with Lady Frances; she would see it at once, when she had calmed down, for she was the last person in the world to penalise those who ventured to disagree with her. But, as a matter of principle, the whole question of Staff pensions ought to be considered.

  I may not often go on the rampage, thought Mr. Garstang with a chuckle, but when I do, I’m a corker. Hayter may be a very clever fellow with the ladies, but now he’s up against Me.

  It was a beautiful midsummer evening and Slane forest was silvered with the rising moon. Every prospect was delightful until he came out of the dip by Slane Bredy and saw Gibbet Hill looming above him with the red flare of a bonfire on the top of it. Then he remembered a distasteful circumstance. That abominable monument had been unveiled during the afternoon with speeches, hymns, prayers, folk-dancing and every other foolery which the Meeker tribe could devise. All decent people had, of course, kept away. But he saw, as he took the hill road, that quite a large crowd must have attended, for the grassy turf at the top was littered with leaflets and ice-cream cups. Quite a number remained, shouting and swaying in silhouette against the fire. There was the blare of a band; they were dancing. On all the rest of the way the road was dotted with groups returning to Ravonsbridge, and he had to drive very carefully. A police car, which came tearing over the hill with screaming sirens, scattered them to right and left, and suggested trouble in the town. Bound to be trouble, thought Mr. Garstang, blowing his horn, where that cow of a woman is concerned. She brings all the riff-raff in Severnshire up here and expects them to sing hymns.

  He swung cautiously down the hill. Ravonsbridge lay peacefully below him, the scattered lights, the spire, the massive bulk of the Institute and the gulf of the Ravon valley beyond, stretching away to the Welsh hills and a lingering sunset. It was a slow journey. The returning groups were rowdy, larking and pushing one another all over the road, and not at all inclined to get out of his way. The crowd grew denser as he reached the town, and there was such a mob at the bus terminus that he could scarcely get through. He crawled at a foot’s pace into Market Square, where he was obliged to stop, hemmed in on every side by swaying people. There was a strange noise going on, a clamour of screams, shouts, cat-calls and a sort of music, as though people were banging on tin pans. He had just realised that something unusual must be happening when he heard another sound; the sharp crash and tinkle of broken glass. All round his car the people were exclaiming:

  “Black faces….”

  “They got black
faces, see?”

  “Fellers dressed like girls….”

  “What is it, Mum? I can’t see….”

  “Who is it?”

  “They got a guy! See? They got a old guy….”

  “It’s the Reds….”

  “Look! Look at the banners….”

  “It’s the Rebeccas! You know … the Rebeccas….”

  “That was a donkey’s years ago….”

  “They never don’t have Rebeccas now….”

  “See what it says? Down with Millwood?”

  “Oh, Mum! I don’t like it! I don’t like it!”

  “Sillee! It’s only a old Guy Fawkes….”

  “The Rebeccas, they had black faces….”

  Rebeka riots? Men dressed as women? What wind from the past was this? Garstang peered at the innocent gaping faces pressed round the car, babbling an old wives’ tale. He opened the roof and climbed upon the seat to see better as a fresh crash of glass mingled with the din. He caught sight of a fierce black face under a woman’s straw hat trimmed with daisies. Then he was petrified by the sight of his own name. The square was full of heaving banners and one, swinging round, displayed its legend before it tilted again:

  DOWN WITH GARSTANG

  Another blackened face came into view, caught his eye, and shouted something. Then, the banners shifting, the horrible little corpse of Miss Foss appeared, strapped into a chair and swinging wildly over the heads of the crowd. She was wearing her well-known black beehive of a hat, and from her mouth issued a huge yellow bladder bearing the words:

  THE POISON TONGUE

  Just as he realised that it was not a corpse, but a guy, a soft, nauseating mass hit him squarely on the mouth and nose. He ducked down into his car again, retching and choking, to discover that he had been hit by a rotten tomato. The people round the car were now beginning to protest, to cry out angrily, to scream, as fresh crowds, running from the bus-stop, pushed into the square and swept them off their feet. Crouching down over the steering-wheel he was violently sick.

  “Garstang!”

  Colonel Harding was looking into the car.