“You’ll never, never guess what she wanted, Simpsy.”
Even in a moment of extremis Miss Simpson could not allow that to pass, but she could make her reproof in the form of a joke.
“We don’t say ‘she’, do we, dear, unless we are talking about the cat’s mother?”
Judith did not know that Miss Simpson had spoken, for she was suffering from shock.
“When Marie said Mother wanted me you were just as surprised as I was. The queer thing is she was just as she always is, not a bit as if she was saying the strangest thing to me any Mother could say. She was sitting in the window, like she always is, with her paper fixed on that thing she writes on, and she was holding a letter. ‘Oh Judith,’ she said, ‘your Father wants to see you. He’s over for his sister Charlotte’s wedding. You will be a bridesmaid.’”
Miss Simpson stared at Judith, while slowly she accepted what she had said. She knew that Judith’s Father had been given the right to see his child, for Mother had told her so, but that right had never been exercised, and she had understood it never would be. She had known Judith had an Aunt Charlotte, for at Christmas and on Judith’s birthday books came from her Father’s Mother, and always on the fly-leaf was written: “With Grannie’s and Auntie Charlotte’s love.” The books were so surprisingly suitable, considering where they came from, that she had remarked on it, and Mother had said that Charlotte had probably chosen them, she was years younger than the rest of the family, and so probably remembered the sort of books a girl of Judith’s age would enjoy. Somehow, without thinking much about her, Miss Simpson had imagined Charlotte as a confirmed spinster, who would spend her life looking after her widowed Mother. A Charlotte who was not only to be married, but was presumably young enough, since there were to be bridesmaids, to be married in white, was an entirely new conception. She fumbled for something to say, which would skip what was incredible.
“Did your Mother say what you are to wear?”
Judith clutched Miss Simpson’s hand, which was lying on the table.
“Simpsy, try and get us out of it. Imagine us meeting my Father, and those awful relations.”
Miss Simpson too knew the special voice used for Winsterisms, but she ignored the knowledge.
“What nonsense! Awful indeed! They are probably charming. Look what lovely books your Grandmother always sends you.”
Judith was not to be consoled with nonsense of that sort.
“Don’t be so governessy. You know what they’ll be like, and you’ll hate them just as much as I do, you know you will.”
Miss Simpson was afraid this might be true, but she answered bravely.
“Silly child, I shall do nothing of the sort. I expect we shall have great fun, I always enjoy a wedding. When do we go?”
At that moment Marie, the bonne-à-toute-faire, again knocked on the door. Mother wished to see Miss Simpson.
Left alone, Judith cried. It was unbearable to be sent away. Never had she been away from Mother. How could she meet her Father and not be rude? The man who had been cruel to Mother. Why should she meet the relations? Mother had always said they were so frightful she had to live abroad so as not to meet them. She would not meet them, at least not more than she must. Thank goodness there were always bedrooms she and Simpsy could sit in and shut the door. But why was Mother letting her go? How long would she have to stay? Simpsy must get a promise it need only be for the wedding.
Miss Simpson came back, and sat in apparent calm behind the pile of lesson books at the head of the table.
“The wedding is just after Easter. Your dress will be made in England. I am to take your exact measurements and send them to-day.”
“Did you ask how long we have to stay? Did Mother say we could come back directly the wedding’s over?”
Miss Simpson looked at Judith’s agonised face, and so deep was her pity it was like a physical hurt. But she was a brave woman, and knew a quick cut would be kindest.
“I am not to go with you, dear. You are to go alone. Your Mother doesn’t know how long your Father proposes to stay in England, but you will stay as long as he does. She thinks probably about two months.”
* * * * *
It seemed to Judith, as the aeroplane took off, impossible she could ever be happy again. She did not cry, for Mother was seeing her off, and would have been so disgusted that fear of seeing that disgust kept her eyes dry. She had cried when she said good-bye to Miss Simpson; Mother did not know about that, for she had been working when Miss Simpson departed for Mary’s tea-shop in Rome. Judith, her eyes blurred with tears, had not seen how nearly Miss Simpson too was to crying, nor how the lump in her throat had seemed as if it might choke her as Judith clung to her.
“Oh Simpsy! I’m so frightened. Suppose something happens to me, and Mother and you aren’t there. Who’ll look after me?”
Miss Simpson could not find words to console. Would a Father who had to be divorced, be competent to look after a child he had deserted when she was a baby? Would the Grandmother be a sensible woman? It was unlikely, for from what she had overheard the Winsters were foolish, and the Grandmother was probably all to pieces now that the daughter, who had cared for her, was leaving her to get married. If only she could have said: “Don’t worry, darling. If something goes wrong, send for me, I will be with you on the next aeroplane.” Materially it was possible, for she had enough money saved to fly to England, but immaterially it was out of the question. It was beyond imagination to picture Mother’s reaction to such a journey. The thought of her tone of voice as she asked why it had taken place, gave a feeling of cold water trickling down the spine. So, as she kissed Judith good-bye, all Miss Simpson could offer was letters, and the promise that if Judith sent her an S O S she would telephone to her from Rome.
Judith had never before travelled alone, nor by aeroplane. She, Mother and Miss Simpson had to carry all they possessed wherever they went, so air travel was out of the question. The novelty of travelling in the sky blurred the edge of Judith’s misery, and for the first time for days she began to relax, for there was, as well, a real feeling of release because the dreaded parting with Mother and Miss Simpson was behind her. There was still the dreaded future, with Father and his family, but that was ahead in time, the parting was in the past; almost she could start to count the days to reunion. The fear of being alone with strangers, helpless in an alien world, was lessened by the stewardess. Like all air stewardesses she was, both by disposition and training, on the qui vive to solace and calm. Judith was her only child passenger, and she would in any case have kept an especial eye on her. But, as she had helped the child fasten her safety belt, she had noticed how wretched she looked, and how scared and tense. It was unusual to find a child who was afraid of flying, but she supposed Judith was an exception, so she went out of her way to put her at her ease. She stood over her when she served her dinner, and persuaded her to eat. She discovered she had not been in England since she was a baby, and she told her a few places she should visit while she was in London, and how lovely the bluebells would be in Kent, where the wedding was to take place. She asked what Judith was wearing as a bridesmaid, and said that blue with bouquets of pink tulips was exactly right. Judith, quoting Mother, said: “Too obvious, don’t you think?”, whereupon the stewardess had laughed, and told her she never heard such nonsense, she would look a pet in blue. When the stewardess left to attend to her other passengers, Judith had the feeling she did not want to leave her, and that should an emergency arise she would be her first thought. The warmth in the plane, the throb of the engines, and the dinner which was larger than her usual evening meal, made Judith drowsy. She slid from the present into a dream in which she and the stewardess were falling through the air, attached to a parachute, the stewardess’s arm was round her, and the stewardess’s voice was saying: “There’s nothing to worry about. I will look after you, darling.” It was a rough return to reality to hea
r the same voice saying: “Let me fasten your safety belt. We shall be landing in five minutes.”
Mother disliked photographs of people, so she had none of Judith’s Father, not even a snapshot. As the aeroplane began to descend, panic again gripped Judith. It was night, she would be unrecognised by Father. Somebody would kidnap her. Would the stewardess bother to look after her once the aeroplane landed?
Charles knew exactly what Judith would look like, for he had demanded a recent photograph, and had been sent the one taken for her passport. What he did not know was what you said when you first met a daughter who did not remember you. His wife Marion had suggested a welcoming present. “Not a doll, she’s too old, maybe some candy, or flowers, anything to make her feel you’re kind of excited to see her.” Charles had been unable to go that far, he knew he would look a fool carrying a parcel. Instead, he had tried to think up suitable welcoming words, but none sounded just right. He hoped that the sight of his child might produce the right words. When he actually saw Judith, frightened and forlorn, but the sort of daughter he hoped she would be, fair, blue-eyed, pretty, he forgot to worry about words. In a second he was beside her, hugging her, and murmuring: “Judy. My own little Judy.”
Judith was so startled by this welcome that she forgot how she had intended to treat her Father. Temporarily he was not the horrid man who had been unkind to Mother, he was a knight in shining armour who had come to look after her.
Driving to London Judith studied her Father. He was not a bit like the Uncles to look at. They and Mother were thin, tall and had dark hair. They spoke quietly, and without gesture. When they laughed it was thin laughter carefully controlled. Father was not fat, but he certainly was not thin. He was fair and not very tall. He had a warm full voice, twinkling blue eyes, and when he laughed, which he did a lot for he seemed to find the simplest things she said funny, it was a deep rolling laugh that seemed to start in his stomach and gather volume before it came out of his mouth. It was difficult to remember not to like a man who looked as Father looked, and laughed as he laughed.
“Don’t worry too much what you talk about,” Marion had advised, “just keep right on talking. Little Judith is sure to feel shy.”
“I thought we would spend a few days in London,” Charles said, “you’ve never been there, and there’s heaps to show you.”
“So I understand from the stewardess.”
That made Charles laugh.
“Do you mean to tell me the first news you have had that London is worth seeing came from the stewardess?”
“Of course not. Miss Simpson has taught me a lot about London, but mostly in history lessons. She told me if it could be arranged I should see St. Paul’s Cathedral, Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London. What the stewardess told me about was waxworks, and the changing of the guard outside Buckingham Palace, and other places which have no historical connection, but are merely amusing.”
Father laughed again.
“You sound as though visiting places for amusement was disreputable. Don’t you and . . .” Charles hesitated. “Don’t mention Avis right away,” Marion had advised, “you won’t mean it, but it will be easy to sound as if you were criticising her, and little Judith is probably over-sensitive about her Mother.” Carefully Charles inserted Miss Simpson’s name. “Don’t you and Miss Simpson ever go to places for fun?”
Judith knew Father had been going to say “your Mother”. She had a feeling, if she described her days, he might not say so but Father would think they were dull. A wave of acute loyalty swept over her. Father would never understand how gorgeously happy Mother, she and Miss Simpson were. He might think the sort of things they liked doing boring. He wouldn’t understand how busy Mother was, and how she would be with her more if she could. Father had got to understand that Mother only needed her, so was not minding a bit that he had married somebody else.
“Not Miss Simpson—Mother and me. Almost every day we go somewhere. Mother says: ‘Where shall we go to-day, darling?’ and then she lets me choose.”
Charles was surprised. Avis must have changed.
“Isn’t she still writing?”
Judith was shocked and showed it.
“Of course, don’t you read her books?”
Charles wished he had not asked that question. He seldom read a novel, thrillers were more in his line, and if he did read a novel it was certainly not one of Avis’s. But he could not admit this to Judith, who obviously thought not reading her Mother’s novels a sin.
“Haven’t read her last. I’m pretty busy, you know, Judy.”
“Why do you call me Judy?”
“Don’t you like it?”
Judith quoted Mother.
“The usage of nicknames belong to a type.”
Father roared. Judith had caught her Mother’s tone exactly. Almost he could see Avis.
“As a matter of fact you would have been christened Judy if I had had my way. Your Mother wanted to call you Selina. It’s a Stratford-Derickson family name. I couldn’t face it. Selina has a prim sound to me, and I didn’t want a prim daughter. I put forward Judy, and we compromised on Judith.”
This picture of her babyhood amazed Judith. She had never visualised a time when she had belonged to both Mother and Father. Once more she felt the need to state that she was Mother’s child.
“I should have liked Selina. I don’t think it sounds prim.”
Charles changed the subject. It was not his fault they had talked about Avis. But Marion was right, Judith was obviously devoted to her Mother, and could easily imagine criticism where none was intended.
Judith had dreaded her first night in England. An hotel with only her Father to look after her. What would she do if she felt ill? How would she find her way about? Could you ask a Father about bathrooms, lavatories and things like that? How face being homesick all alone? Actually she scarcely remembered her arrival at the hotel. She was half asleep as Father led her in. Then she heard him call out:
“Here she is, Charlotte.”
Judith had a vague picture of how Charlotte would look. She had been Auntie Charlotte on the fly-leaves of books ever since she could read, so she must be quite old, Aunts were. Miss Simpson had talked more about poor old Grandmother left alone than about Aunt Charlotte, but had seemed surprised that she was young enough to be married in white.
“I expect she will look charming, dear. But somehow a hat seemed a more likely choice.”
Charlotte in real life was twenty-eight, slim and smart. She had amused blue eyes, a rather tip-tilted nose, and fair hair in soft curls all over her head. She gave Judith a kiss.
“Come along up to bed, pet. You look as if you’re ready for it. Get them to send her cases up right away, Charles, and order some hot milk.”
In no time Judith found herself undressed, washed and in her nightdress.
“What about prayers?” Charlotte asked.
Judith remembered she had left for England on a Thursday.
“On Tuesdays and Thursdays I say them in Italian.”
Charlotte laughed.
“It’s a mercy I don’t have to do that. I only know about four words of Italian, so God wouldn’t hear much from me on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
In bed, warmed by hot milk, Judith had only time for two thoughts before she fell asleep. If only she was not a Winster, what a gorgeous person Charlotte—she had told Judith to drop the Aunt—would be. But how odd not to mind owning you could not speak Italian.
The days in London hurried by, and each left Judith more confused. “Don’t do too much,” Marion had advised Charles, “it’ll only tire the child out. Just see she has fun.” Charles’s idea of fun was a late start, an early and prolonged lunch in a good place, a little easy sight-seeing, and usually a theatre in the evening. Judith had never had that sort of fun before, and was shocked to discover she was enjoying herself. What w
orried her most was that it was not so much the lovely things they did, and the nice food they ate, which pleased her, but the way Father treated her. He talked to her as if she were grown-up, and what she said as likely to be right, as what he said. It was just the opposite to the way she was treated by Mother. Mother always spoke about her as “the child”. “Where are you and the child going to-day, Miss Simpson?” “I think the child needs a new coat. Such a nuisance, but I must manage an afternoon for shopping.” Or, when the Uncles were there, “Nicht vor dem Kind”. To be treated not only as an equal, but as an amusing, charming companion Judith found almost intoxicatingly pleasant. The trouble was that enjoying the experience made her want more of it, and made her try to please, and there was the catch, for never did Father, and Charlotte when she was about, find her so amusing as when she was supposedly quoting Mother. Not that she was being disloyal. Mother, as she described her, was a Mother out of a fairy story. All the things Judith had longed to do, and had never done, she and Mother did together.
“Extraordinary,” Charles said to Charlotte, “how Avis must have changed. Can you imagine Avis taking seats for a Carnival, and enjoying having confetti thrown down her neck?”
Charlotte had not seen a great deal of her sister-in-law when she was married to Charles, but had loathed her when she had met her with childish vehemence. Now hearing of her from Judith, she supposed she had been intolerant of a type that, as a child, she had not understood.
“I must say she doesn’t sound a bit like the Avis I remember, but I suppose she’s the sort that makes a marvellous Mother. She terrified me, and always made me feel an ignoramus, but obviously she’s not a bit like that with Judith. Mother was always an angel when I was a child, but even she didn’t make a point of being in every afternoon so as to have tea with me. Nor did she spend hours designing my clothes. Avis seems to be a mother in a million.”
Mother always saw Judith was well-dressed. She took her to good places, and bought cleverly. She had a natural clothes sense, and chose rapidly without consulting Judith. If a vendeuse spoke admiringly of Judith’s appearance she was immediately snubbed.
Judith Page 2