My Sister Celia

by Mary Burchell

  “We don’t have to be enemies all the time, do we?” he said, and as she glanced at him in a half startled way, she noticed again how attractive he was when he laughed.

  “No—of course not. But—”

  “May I call for you here, then, about ten o’clock on Saturday?”

  “If—you like.”

  “I like,” he assured her. Then he came round and opened the door of the car for her and smilingly bade her good night.

  Freda felt there was more she ought to have said. Something which would make her own position crystal clear, so that he should not imagine that, in accepting his lift to Crowmain, she was in any way relenting about the cottage. But there seemed no way of doing this without labouring the point absurdly.

  In any case, he waited obviously for her to put her key in the door, and having seen her do that, raised his hand in a half careless salute, got back into the car and drove off.

  Slowly Freda mounted the stairs to her familiar room. It was, of course, exactly as she had left it when she went out, as she had believed, to a solitary evening at a theatre. And yet her whole world had changed.

  But it was she who had changed, not the room. And the change was so overwhelming that she had to sit down, with her head in her hands, and try to sort it all out.

  Celia! She was the dominating figure of an incredible evening. But there was also Brian Vanner. And—to a much lesser extent, naturally—Laurence Clumber. Four hours ago she had not known of the existence of the first two, and Laurence Clumber had simply been someone she hoped to see as little as possible. Now Celia and Brian were vital figures in her life, and Laurence Clumber—well, there was really no reason to go into detail about him, even if she had, perhaps ill-advisedly, agreed to let him drive her down to Crowmain on Saturday.

  Freda wondered how she was ever to sleep a wink, with so much on her mind. But of course, being a healthy young creature, she fell asleep almost immediately, and slept until her small but obstreperous alarm clock roused her to the duties of another day.

  It was hard to have to rush through breakfast and take herself off to the office as usual when, all the time, she felt like the heroine of an adventure story. But nothing is stronger than habit. And, in spite of all that had happened to her the previous evening, Freda found herself surrendering to the routine of a normal day, with a cheerful resignation known only to those who have never queried the rightness of their having to earn their living in a hard world.

  She would have liked to tell someone about the tremendous discovery that she had a sister. But Ellen Marley was away on a day’s leave, and there didn’t seem to be a suitable opportunity to tell anyone else. So she hugged the wonderful knowledge to herself and was happy about it in her own way.

  Still under the somewhat sobering influence of a busy office day, she returned home, telling herself that she must not necessarily expect to hear from Celia immediately. But hardly had she taken off her hat when her telephone bell rang, and the moment she seized the receiver, Celia’s unmistakable voice said,

  “At last! Darling, where have you been all day?”

  “At the office.”

  “What office?” Celia enquired.

  “Well—the office where I work, of course. I earn my own living, you know. Don’t you?”

  “No. Not very seriously.”

  “O-oh. Most people do.”

  “Yes. I know. And I’m aware that I’m a fortunate exception.” Celia spoke with engaging candour and what sounded like genuine gratitude. “But somehow, when you talked about owning a cottage and that sort of thing, I thought—”

  “Oh—that!” Freda began to laugh. “I only acquired it a week ago. And anyway it was left to me in someone’s will. But it’s too long a story to tell you now. For all practical purposes I’m what’s known as a working girl, and on every day, except Saturdays and Sundays, I’m at the office. I’m sorry I wasn’t in before when you rang. But here I am now. How did your—your parents take the news?”

  “They were frightfully taken aback,” Celia said frankly. “Far more so than they need have been, I thought,” she added with a puzzled note in her voice.

  “But it’s a tremendous discovery for anyone to have to take,” Freda pointed out rather gently. “Even now, I feel almost stunned by it myself.”

  “Yes, of course,” Celia agreed, but in a resilient sort of tone which ruled out any idea of her having been stunned. “Only—it’s a nice discovery, Freda.”

  “For us most certainly. For them I suppose it might well be disturbing.”

  “You funny girl. You seem to understand their reaction better than I do.”

  Freda forebore to mention that she had been forewarned by Brian.

  “Anyway,” Celia went on, “of course they want to see you. Indeed, their attitude seems to be that they can’t really accept the idea until they have seen you.”

  “I suppose that’s natural too,” Freda said slowly. But she felt chilled and disturbed at the prospect of appearing before the sceptical Vanners, however much she might, theoretically, admit the justice of their attitude. “When would they like to—to see me?”

  “This evening, if you can manage it.

  “Yes. I could manage it.”

  “But—Freda, please don’t mind about this—they want to see you alone. I mean—they don’t want either Brian or me there. They have some idea that we’re prejudiced. That we—or, at least, I— might interfere and influence things too much.”

  “I see.” Freda tried to suppress the little flame of resentment which these words lit. But it was extraordinarily difficult not to be angry at having the role of probable imposter so obviously thrust upon her.

  “Are you there?” Celia spoke a trifle anxiously, as though she thought the slight silence might mean Freda’s withdrawal in a huff.

  “Yes, of course. I was just thinking. What time shall I come?”

  “About eight-thirty?”

  “Yes—all right.” Freda noted, in passing, that she was evidently not being invited to dinner with the Vanners until her credentials had been examined.

  “Do you know the address? I gave it to you last night.” Celia repeated an address in St. John’s Wood.

  “Yes—I remember.”

  “And, Freda—don’t mind about their doubts. It will be all right. I know it will!”

  “Of course. I don’t mind, really,” Freda insisted bravely.

  But she did mind. She minded very much indeed. Not that anyone should entertain reasonable doubts of the story which Celia had probably poured out. But that she should be asked to prove her bona fides in such unfriendly circumstances.

  However, there was nothing she could do about it, except go to the meeting with what dignity and courage she could muster. She must remember that she was no imposter, and that she had no reason whatever to feel either uncomfortable or apologetic. The facts—such as they were—must speak for themselves, and the Vanners must think what they would.

  Freda, however, would have been superhuman not to feel a tremor of apprehension as she walked up the tiled path to the Vanners’ intimidatingly handsome house later that evening, and she found that her breath was coming uncomfortably fast.

  The maid who opened the door in answer to her knock gave a gratifying gasp of astonishment. This served to restore Freda’s courage somewhat. For, if so much were to depend on no more than the actual likeness to Celia, it was just as well that it should be a likeness to shake the most casual observer.

  “Please come this way, miss,” the maid said. And she led Freda through a pleasant square hall into a garden room at the back of the house. “I’ll tell Mrs. Vanner that you’re here.”

  Evidently it was Mrs. Vanner who took the initiative, Freda noted, and possibly it would be she who would come to ask the first questions. But when the door opened again, a few moments later, two people came into the room.

  For some reason or other, Freda expected the Vanners to be quite elderly. But, although Mr. Vanner wa
s grey-haired and might be verging on a distinguished sixty, Mrs. Vanner could have passed for forty-five anywhere, and certainly did not look old enough to be Brian’s mother.

  She was good-looking, in a forceful sort of way, and, if she was startled at Freda’s likeness to her adopted daughter, she concealed the fact better than her maid had done. It was she, as Freda expected, who took the initiative. And, although she did not shake hands, she said quite pleasantly,

  “Good evening, Miss—Mersham. Please sit down.”

  Freda sat down, and tried to remind herself that she was there by invitation, and with no purpose whatever but to settle the truth. In consequence, she unknowingly adopted the best line possible. She waited, in courteous silence, for the Vanners to say the first words.

  It was not, perhaps, what Mrs. Vanner had expected. But, after a moment, she said, rather coolly,

  “This is an extraordinary story that my daughter brought home last night, Miss Mersham. You must not be surprised if we find it very difficult to accept—entirely without proof, as it is.”

  “I’m not surprised at all,” Freda replied. “I find it difficult to accept myself. But the likeness is even more difficult to explain away.”

  “It’s an astounding likeness,” agreed Mr. Vanner, speaking for the first time and not, Freda thought to his wife’s pleasure.

  She make a quick gesture of something like dissent.

  “These inexplicable likenesses do occur sometimes between people who are absolutely unconnected,” she said impatiently.

  “But there is the fact that I did have a twin sister called Celia,” Freda pointed out.

  “We have—you must forgive me for saying this—only your word for that,” Mrs. Vanner replied.

  Yes, of course,” Freda agreed coldly, but with dignity. “You have only my word for that, enough I suppose, if you went back into the billeting records at Crowmain—the village to which we were both evacuated during the war—there might be some entry to show there were two of us.”

  “Yes, that’s possible,” agreed Mr. Vanner. And again Freda had the impression that his wife wished he would leave the matter to her handling.

  “I doubt if there are any such records at this date,” she exclaimed impatiently. “In any case, I should tell you right away, Miss Mersham, that there is one fact in our possession which makes your claim quite untenable, in spite of the remarkable likeness.”

  “And what is that?” enquired Freda, suppressing with difficulty the angry impulse to point out that she had made no claim. The claim had been made, most eagerly, on her behalf by their own adopted daughter.

  “We have never discussed with Celia any of the meager information we had about her when we adopted her,” Mrs. Vanner explained. “And she was therefore unaware even of her name before we had her. But this, of course, was known to us at the time. It was not Mersham.”

  “It was not?” Freda was completely taken aback. “What—what was it, then?”

  “I don’t think it would serve any useful purpose to tell you.” Mrs. Vanner was quite firm about that. “The fact that it was not Mersham is all that matters, from your point of view, isn’t it?”

  “Why—why, yes,” agreed Freda, in utter dejection. “I suppose it is.”

  She hardly knew how to keep back her tears. Not for any humiliation or chagrin. But because the lovely, eager, heart-warming girl she had called “sister” for a few hours was not her sister, after all.

  Incredible though it might seem, Celia was nothing to her. The saying about blood being thicker than water did not apply to them. Celia—her little Celia—had died under the bombs years ago, just as she had always supposed. The beautiful, bright Celia who had appeared for a moment on her horizon was just a sort of mirage.

  And yet something rebellious stirred deep down in her. Something which almost hurt.

  “I can’t believe it!” Freda exclaimed. “There must be some explanation. I know—I know—”

  Suddenly she began to cry. Not loudly or stormily, but with quiet, deep sobs which astonished her herself—the more so that she simply could not control them.

  “Oh, please—” Mrs. Vanner sounded distressed and, for the first time, uncertain of herself. “You mustn’t cry about it. After all, you hardly know Celia.”

  “It doesn’t s-seem like that,” Freda sobbed. “She seemed just like my sister. For a few hours I—I had someone. Oh. I’m sorry, but—”

  “Don’t apologize.” It was Mr. Vanner who came over and put a kindly hand on her bowed head. “We do—I do—understand your distress. But it was better to find out now than later, wasn’t it?”

  “I suppose so,” Freda conceded sadly.

  “Of course it was.” Mrs. Vanner took up that line of argument with bracing firmness. “That was really why we had to make such searching enquiries, you know—why we may have appeared to be a little—a little” she hesitated for the word and seemed unable to find it.

  “You see, if you had been Celia’s sister,” Mr. Vanner explained, “there would have been a good deal to settle—arrangements to make—and so on.”

  “I don’t understand.” Freda wiped her eyes childishly with the backs of her hands. “What sort of arrangements?”

  “Well, if you had been Celia’s sister, we should have felt some sort of responsibility for you.”

  “Would you really?” Freda looked at Mr. Vanner in surprise, through her wet lashes, and she felt faintly comforted that anyone should have thought about her in that sense, even passingly.

  “That was my husband’s idea,” said Mrs. Vanner, and Freda had the impression that she had not altogether shared it—even passingly.

  “It was Celia’s idea too,” Mr. Vanner observed, with a faint smile. And Freda experienced a fresh stab of pain, as she imagined the eagerness with which Celia had probably planned—all to no purpose.

  “I’d better go,” she said, getting wearily to her feet. “I’m sorry to have given you so much trouble for—for nothing.”

  “You have no need to apologize,” Mr. Vanner told her. “Any mistake which was made was entirely understandable. Both my wife and I”—he gave a somewhat compelling look at his wife—“realize that.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” agreed Mrs. Vanner, almost genially, now that the danger, as she saw it, had completely passed. But she could not conceal the fact that she was glad Freda was going. Since the unpleasant interview was nearly over, she even held out her hand in farewell.

  But, as she did so, something quite unexpected happened. The door opened abruptly, and Celia walked into the room.

  “Celia!” exclaimed all three, in varying degrees of dismay and admonition, and Mrs. Vanner added quickly,

  “I thought you had gone out for the evening.”

  “I couldn’t, Mother. You must see that! I couldn’t possibly stay out of all the fun,” pleaded Celia, with a winning smile which showed how used she was to having her own way, even with her adopted mother. “Has everything been settled?” There was an awkward silence. Then it was Freda who said, quietly and with courage,

  “Yes, my dear. Everything has been settled. I’m afraid we all made a mistake somewhere. There—there isn’t any connection between us. Your—your name was not the same as mine.”

  “But it must be!” Celia suddenly turned very pale, and Freda loved her for it and longed to protect her from the pain which caused it.

  “It simply isn’t,” Mrs. Vanner stated firmly. “And you’d have done much better to stay out of this, Celia. This was just the sort of scene we wanted to avoid.”

  “But Freda’s my sister! I know she is.”

  “You can’t know it, my dear, if she isn’t,” her father said, in a troubled tone. “This is all dreadfully upsetting. But the name by which you were registered at the casualty centre was nothing like Mersham.”

  “What was it then?” Celia demanded.

  But once more Mrs. Vanner said, “There isn’t any point in your knowing that now. Your name is Vanner.�
��

  “That’s true, darling, you know.” Freda spoke tenderly, even though they were now supposed to mean nothing to each other. “If you’re name isn’t Mersham, that’s all that matters in this particular discussion.”

  “But there must be something—something—”

  Celia ran her hands distractedly through her hair. “Think, Freda, think! Can’t you remember anything about the early days that would help?”

  Both her adopted parents made futile little gestures, as though to stop this painful scene before anyone could be more deeply hurt. And Freda said helplessly,

  “I can’t my dear. How can I? I was five—perhaps four—when Mother and C-Celia went away and left me in Crowmain with Mrs. Cant.”

  “Mrs. Cant,” repeated Celia, in a wondering sort of tone, and suddenly both the Vanners were quite still. “Mrs.—Cant. That was the name! I remember now. There was a little boy who used to tease me and say, ‘I can—but Celia Cant.’ ”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As CELIA’S high, excited voice died away, it seemed to Freda as though the very room waited for the next utterance.

  Then it was Mr. Vanner who said quietly, “You’ve proved your own case, my child. The name under which you were registered for adoption was Celia Cant.”

  “Then it’s true?” Celia’s lovely face crumpled suddenly, as though she were a child about to cry. But she recovered herself and repeated shakily, “It’s true! That was the name I must have given when they found me wandering. It was so simple—much simpler than my real name. I would remember that—and probably gave it as the name of the lady I’d been living with. And they must have thought I meant my mother. Oh, Freda!”

  “Just a minute—” Mrs. Vanner began. But nothing could stop the girls’ reunion now. They rushed into each other’s arms and hugged and kissed, as though they were only now meeting for the first time.

  “It’s true,” Celia kept on saying. “Dear Freda—I didn’t know you meant so much to me until they tried to take you away.”

  “We didn’t try to take her away, Celia,” Mr. Vanner protested mildly. “We just—”