It was a letter enormously characteristic of the writer, confirming, to me, the impression I had received at once: that in no circumstances could Alma Chilcot ever be ridiculous. So, in the closely-written sheets, I could derive no amusement from her little archaic turns of sentence, her points of view about trifles, her Victorian underlinings of the unexpected word or the sprinkling of unnecessary capital letters which caught the eye everywhere.
‘My dear Miss Buchan,
‘I suspect it is Possible that I may not be here when you kindly visit me again, but the doctor is so kind that I cannot read his real thought.
‘I have been thinking of you so much, and of That Matter you spoke of, and it is Difficult to write about as I feel that I may convey Wrongful impressions in a letter which a word would set right when I am no longer there to speak it. In any case, Dear Girl, I have tried to be Kind and I am sure you will remember that.
‘I told you that I failed with your Grandmother. Miss Buchan the reason was that I could not endure my situation, tho’ indeed I tried to stay on for the sake of your dear Mother and your Aunt Myra. I fear that Lady Vallant made it Hard for me to remain on that account. She is a bad woman, a bad mother and a wicked Christian. I could not pray with her, in Vallant House, and presumed to tell her why. Her anger was very terrible, but God gave me strength and I said my Prayers for those unhappy children in my own room.
‘This escape was not possible to Them, and it was a habit of Lady Vallant to make Anne and Myra leave their beds and come to a sort of Confession. She once made Myra stand for an hour in the cold with only her nightgown on, for some childish fault. It was half an hour before, by chafing her feet, I was able to warm the child. It was the sound of her tears that brought me to her side.
‘Tuesday.
‘Your Grandmother thought much of worldly Things and of her person and dress, and your aunts and uncles suffered from this in many ways. I have often seen your aunts and your mother sent out in clothes utterly unbecoming their Station, and in this respect, Myra and Anne were the worst treated. Even your Grandfather commented upon it, but to no avail. Sir Frederick could do nothing – about anything, and I feel sure that this Soured him. He and the children might have loved each other, else. As it was, I think he could not but be reminded of his failure in authority as head of the house whenever he met them at Prayers or on the staircase. I never heard him address an affectionate word to any, tho’ he once gave Emmeline a shilling on her birthday.
‘The strain upon sensitive children was Very Great. I myself was one of a large family which had to practise drastic Economy through our straitened means, but should have been ashamed to let any child of mine be so improperly clad.
‘I did what I could for them with my needle in my spare time, and was sometimes enabled to effect improvements. I did not dare attempt too much lest Lady Vallant notice.
‘Miss Buchan, that was not all. They were not properly nourished, especially in sickness. The dishes, at best, came to the schoolroom from the dining-room and were thus never hot or punctual (the schoolroom was at the top of the house), but far more often the diet was different from that of Sir Frederick and your Grandmother. Even the butler (Hutchins) was indignant, but it was impossible to complain to the servants. They did what they liked unless it was a dining-room matter
‘Wednesday.
‘when nothing was suffered amiss by Lady Vallant, and in the time I was in her service I never saw a luxury upon the children’s trays. Many a time I have slipped out to buy them little tempting morsels and strong Soups, which the butler would most kindly heat for me in his own pantry if our schoolroom fire was low. Thus it came that Hutchins and I were led into an association which, tho’ not Right, I cannot regret, and would do again. He saw that just complaints could not be made to the kitchen, for the fact is that your Grandmother led her servants such a life of it that they seemed to retaliate on the children, where they knew they were safe.
‘For the least thing which displeased her, Lady Vallant would deprive the children of a Meal. My dear, they were growing girls and not robust – especially Myra. I often wrote to my Mother for advice as to their welfare and care.
‘Hutchins told me much. If he is still at Vallant House, you can trust him, believe me. He is a good man.
‘He said that when your aunt Sophia had the Pneumonia (the draughts in the schoolroom were very bad) your Grandmother came to enquire for her but once. But S. was very hardy, so, I think, was Emmeline. I could tell it in their attitude to that house. Sophia even under my charge talked quite openly of an early Marriage for herself, which, tho’ I discouraged as being immodest, I could not but see was for her happiness. Emmeline resembled your Grandmother closely, would seem to obey and go her own way. Lady Vallant had respect for this, that is why it is Important that if ever you should be in unhappiness from Lady V., you should understand this. Be brave. I was not. I should think you were, from my sight of you. You have, I am sure, had a happy home life, my dear child, and that gives courage.
‘Later.
‘From the first I found myself devoted to your mother and Myra. Pity, it is very true, is akin to love. I showed it – unwisely, as I see now – not knowing your Grandmother as I was to later. She made things terribly difficult for me, and on at least one occasion I spoke my mind. I would have done so to the end but that it made life worse for those Two Dear Children.
‘My dear, Myra was lame from birth – did you know? Her hip, I think. She walked always with a slight limp and felt it most keenly. Your Grandmother made many a joke about her gait, when angry. Anne protected her whenever possible, and Lady Vallant (if one dare say so of a mother about her child) disliked Anne. It was as tho’ any love in that house was cause for suspicion. It Brought them into deceit for which I could not blame or chide them. They never lied to me. Their every motive was misunderstood, and once when Myra timidly embraced Lady Vallant, she repulsed her, saying, “what are you trying to get out of me?”
‘Since, I have often thought that your Grandmother provoked the children in order to punish them. I suspect that her treatment of Anne was due to Anne’s loving care of Myra.
‘As for Myra, it is unbelievable that anyone could have disliked the child, but I am sure your Grandmother hated her. I have thought and thought, and I can only suppose that she was either Envious of the girl’s looks or contemptuous of her infirmity. Pride or vanity, I do not know. I should ask God’s forgiveness for these wicked thoughts, but shall not. He knows, and will strike in His good time. I have heard that Mother mock her child before the servants.
‘Thursday.
‘While I was there, your Aunt Emmeline came out into Society. A Ball was given for her by friends across the Square. Sophia, tho’ only seventeen, was allowed to go as well, and the girls wore the only stylish gowns I had ever seen upon their backs. Even your Grandmother realized that they must be suitably clad. They looked most handsome, and quite irradiated the old schoolroom, tho’ I ever preferred the faces of my two charges.
‘For days before the Event Myra talked to Anne and myself of the gaiety in store for her sisters. She attached an altogether disproportionate importance to the Ball and I enquired the reason.
‘It seemed that the poor little thing believed that it was a kind of Freedom and Happiness which befell young ladies at eighteen, and she would reckon the months – even the hours – that she herself had yet to wait. I think she even believed that on that Day her Mother would change, and love her. She was just over fifteen years of age.
‘My dear Child, it is about this matter that I really feel I am not entitled to write. As I told you, I was never quite sure.
‘Emmeline and Sophia had gone downstairs, your Grandmother was receiving gentlemen in the drawing-room – she did not, so far as I know, see the Girls off. She displayed no interest even in her own daughter’s coming out Ball. I was writing to my Mother in the schoolroom, describing the unusual gaiety for her benefit. Anne and Myra in their nightgowns ran to t
he stair head and Anne, ever the more daring, crept to the drawing-room flight with her sister. I blame myself for not stopping them but was always rejoiced for them to have a pleasure however small and they wished to secure a last glimpse of your Aunts in their finery. Anne laughed with pleasure and made some admiring Comment and Lady Vallant heard and quitted the d. room. I could distinguish no words, only that she was in one of her rages, and my heart sank. Then came a cracking sound and a cry – two cries, I think. I hurried down the stairs to see Myra in the arms of one of the gentlemen who brought her to the schoolroom. Lady V. would not have her in the drawing-room. A Doctor was instantly fetched by another gentleman. He held out v. little hope. My little Myra had received a spinal injury and lingered, I believe, for the inside of one year.
‘I never once heard your Mother discuss the Tragedy with her sisters, save in a general way. It seemed as tho’ Anne were dumb, yet she was always ready with a laugh and a joke in Myra’s room where I had to command myself not to give way many a time. All I can say of the weeks which elapsed after the Accident is that at least Myra was largely beyond the reach of her mother’s harshness, for Lady V. soon relinquished her to my care and the Doctor’s visits. To the relief of us all she seldom visited the schoolroom floor, and was entertaining much at this time and often out at receptions. If she ever came to the patient’s room, Myra would weep at the sound of her step.
‘It made one’s heart ache to see how few comforts and distractions Myra had. I did what I could. And after a while, the bad service reasserted itself with trays of unappetizing food quite unsuitable to an invalid. It was over this that I attacked Lady Vallant; I lost control of myself and spoke to her as no woman should to her Mistress, and to my amazement was not instantly dismissed. I believe that she did once actually inspect the schoolroom food provided, but this led to a great deal of Unpleasantness and even impertinence towards myself from the Cook and maids. You can have no idea of the atmosphere of violence and anger which seemed to envelop that most unhappy home. At last I could endure it no more, it was affecting the nerves and health. Lady V., in paying me my salary, remarked that from the first I had stirred up strife and that I was far too indulgent in the schoolroom.
‘My h’writing is becoming terribly shaky and bad. I sh’d not speak of this to your dear Mother. It can do no good to open old wounds. It occurs to me that Lady Vallant is, as you put it, “harrying” your Mother on your account, trying to discover if you three children have ever been told the Truth about her. This may be conscience or a desire not to alienate her own Grandchildren. Anne has probably made her no promise of silence. Anne never breaks her word. Indeed, there was plenty to tell you all, apart from Myra.
‘In case we never meet again, God bless you all. If I have pained you, as I know I must have, forgive me. “Doubt is a greater mischief than Despair” and the truth sets free. I have told you what I know.
‘Yours very sincerely
‘Alma Chilcot.’
Somebody, I began to remember, had told me to ring for them; I am fairly certain I made no attempt to do so, yet the Sister was suddenly in the room with me. Incredible woman! she was all kindness and humanity.
‘My dear girl! you mustn’t give way so! I assure you your friend didn’t suffer at the end.’ She was speaking, then, over her shoulder to some underling, ‘Hysterical. Bit overstrained, evidently’, and a vile-tasting sedative was given to me. I had got to that stage when one literally has no control over one’s features and precious little over one’s conduct, the stage in which one’s normal self sits watching the amateur dramatic exhibition and wondering what is going to happen next. One’s manners, it seems, are the last thing to go by the board. I managed apologies and disclaimers of illness, and luckily the whole affair was attributed to Miss Chilcot’s death. They mopped me up and dosed me and spoke me fair, and I began to deal with Miss Chilcot’s ‘things’.
There was a writing-case, very worn, which I would keep as a souvenir, a pair of real lace cuffs and a collar – these I would sell for her sisters, a copy of the Hampshire photograph which I already possessed and the usual trickle of little possessions, the deckings of many an alien mantelpiece and chest of drawers, efforts after the home atmosphere which all governesses make, and there was a packet marked Anne made these for Myra. Inside was a family of paper dolls coloured in chalk.
I thought I was over my temporary loss of control. Holding the dolls to my cheek I found I was wrong.
III
Anger works in various ways. I reckoned up my chances with it, guessed that when I had come through collapse I should settle down to the fury which is not fire but ice. Forgiveness and softening were out of the question. Some hates are holy things; the Vallants are good haters, and I hoped I was as good as the best of them.
CHAPTER XIX
I
IF James had not come home on leave at this period I hardly know how I could have carried on. And quite apart from the presence of him and its relief, there was the rock-bottom duty of helping him to knock up a good time. He relied on me for this, I on him to keep his hand on Vallantry. We didn’t fail each other. It had its funny side. By now our Vallant items had grown to formidable size, and much of his leave was an overlapping of indignation and outings, rage and revues, dinners and denunciation – at times we hardly knew what to snatch at first. At some musical comedy, James, ostensibly drinking in the plugged waltz refrain, said quite loudly ‘But the old woman’s a sadist!’, and once or twice we left the theatre in the middle of the show to walk the streets discussing our grandmother.
At other times, James would study my face quickly and say ‘We can only knock out Vallant by shock tactics’, and he took me to tea at the Ritz or the Carlton (I forget which) carrying a string bag bulging with a tin of golden syrup and a bunch of watercress ‘just to see if one could do that kind of thing’, and we ate it zooishly under the incredulous eyes of the head waiter and our own man. We were literally a sensation, as James had expected, and the feeling was horrible. But he was right; it had dislodged Lady Vallant for an appreciable time, and is a method I can vouch for, if I cannot recommend it to the squeamish. I once knew a man who cured himself of melancholia by putting £200 out of a Bank balance of £350 on the Derby. His action so shocked him that it drove away his bogeys, and a girl we all know, on being presented at Court, was so ill with nerves that she nearly fainted; she was on the verge of losing consciousness and just managed to lean forward to some dowager sitting by her daughter and to stammer, quite untruly, ‘I think your dress is fussy and unbecoming’. In the whispered melee that followed the faintness was forgotten for the whole evening.
II
When I showed James the Chilcot letter he had much ado not to break down, for which (like Kipling’s subaltern with his Colonel) I respected him. I was thankful to see that in regard to affairs of peace the war hadn’t calloused his mind, although he did his best (as I had done) to be robust about the whole thing.
He said, ‘All this happened over forty years ago. It’s no worse because we know of it for the first time. It was an accomplished fact when we were at our happiest.’
All true – and all no good as consolation, and he knew it. There is no time in grief. Once more we were back, but reinforced a hundredfold, at our dreadful habit of spying upon mother: trying to read her face in the light of our greater knowledge, knowing the action for the futility it was, and quite unable to stop.
And there was the curse of imagination; vivid, morbid, probably inaccurate, it nagged one with small swift scenes, taking one from room to room of Vallant House, putting the wrong emphasis upon this fact, attaching insufficient importance to that, and egged on eternally by stray sentences from the Chilcot letter. It was the country seat business over again, only more acute: the fact that one didn’t know and that the house did.
Sometimes it seemed to me that one’s efforts of imagination must inevitably be worse than the actual fact; at other times, lines from the Chilcot letter – infini
tely less sensational – surpassed anything one’s mind could contrive. It was ‘heads I win, tails you lose’ with a vengeance.
The Vallants had ‘a kink’, that was the easy colloquialism current in our clan. It was entirely typical, no less of the dominion of the distaff side than of family injustice, that we all termed anything which offended against our codes ‘Vallantry’ and ‘Vallantish’, casually loading the sins of the mothers on to the inadequate shoulders of our grandfather, Sir Frederick. Susan Stonor had married him and become a Vallant. It was enough! The Stonors, so far as we could discover, had never been or achieved anything spectacular, or fallen into any historic disfavours or under those eminent and readable displeasures which penetrate the history book; they were just the county family which is the Imperialistic backbone of the nation, monotonously produces children and is called ‘of’ their native earth. The Vallants of Hampshire, the Stonors of Lancashire.
Information was difficult to wrest. The elder Seagraves, Stonors, Vallants and Verdunes were uninterested, rooted in the social security of generations and incurably averse to the personal touch, shying from anything which might develop into a tie.
James, fresh from the clean straightforward violence of war, had less tolerance than ever for the family temperament; he had his moments of seeing them all entirely objectively, which was male and wholesome but quite useless to me as it only saw results instead of exploring for causes. And yet, hasn’t all evil (like all talent) from crime to idiosyncrasy, to have its beginnings which need not necessarily be remote? In years to come, as yet unborn members of the family would have their Susan Vallant (she was a Miss Stonor, my dear) upon whom to load all blame, all excuse for personal lack and frustration. We who were living in her actual period had no such landmark.
A Harp in Lowndes Square Page 16