“I liked them awfully, Granny. Catherine told me all about them. They loved it when old nurse looked after them, but they simply hated Mrs. Dayton, who was their governess. I’d have hated her too, she spoke in a terribly whiney voice, and walked as slow as a snail, and made the cousins walk slowly too. And Robert said she never taught them anything. All the cousins, even Cynthia who is much younger than me, simply hated saying good-bye. Catherine said over and over again that if only I didn’t live abroad they would ask Aunt Beatrice if I could spend the summer holidays with them. They said they’d always wanted to know me, and they would be absolutely sure to write to me at Christmas, and birthdays, and times like that for ever and ever.”
Alice was sure she was not hearing the true story but it was clearly no good struggling. Judith would drown her in words.
Any understanding Alice acquired of Judith grew not from deliberate efforts on her part, but from the child’s reactions to casual remarks.
“I don’t think Ham is as affectionate as Shem and Japhet,” Alice said. “Retrievers and dachshunds seem to need a lot of patting.”
Judith was at the time arranging a bowl of flowers. She stopped to stare at Ham, then suddenly threw down the tulip she was holding and ran to him, knelt by him and hugged him to her.
“You need just as much affection, don’t you, darling angel Ham?” Then she looked up fiercely at her Grandmother. “Because somebody doesn’t go about all the time saying they want to be loved it doesn’t mean they don’t want loving as much as other people who make more fuss about it.”
“Of course it doesn’t. I think Ham is an independent character. He’s able to go his own way more than Shem and Japhet. And a very good thing too. I’m afraid Shem and Japhet would do anything to keep in my good books.”
Judith went back to her flower arranging. After a moment she said:
“I’m like Shem and Japhet, I’d do anything to make people love me.”
Alice would have liked to argue about that, but she let the subject drop. To feel her way, and find out about this child was her task, not to change her viewpoint.
Another day at lunch Alice said to Mrs. Killigrew, who was serving her:
“If the Vicar comes this afternoon say I’m out, he won’t see me because I’m going to be in the shed.”
Mrs. Killigrew laughed.
“My conscience will take it. As I always say, what’s a white lie more nor less?”
After Mrs. Killigrew had gone back to the kitchen, Judith asked what a white lie was.
Alice explained:
“It’s not really a lie at all, it’s a social convention. The Vicar wants to see the wedding photographs, and I shall like to show them to him. But I must move some cuttings into bigger pots, and get them outside while the good weather lasts. It’s kind really, when the Vicar sees the photographs he will like to take his time over them, he’s not a very quick mover, dear old man.”
Judith digested that, and a pleasant feeling slipped into her. She sometimes had qualms about the half-truths she told. But perhaps they did not matter, Granny told them, so did Mrs. Killigrew. It was not possible to explain about her and Mother, it was kind to let Granny and Daddy think Mother was a very hugging sort of person, for that was how they thought Mothers ought to be.
“I think white lies are a very good idea indeed,” she said. “It’s much better to tell one than to let people feel unhappy, isn’t it, Granny?”
“As long as they really are white, they are a help to polite living. But they must be white, real lies are detestable.”
Judith’s conscience was clear. If ever lies were white hers were.
“You’re so right, Granny. I couldn’t agree with you more.”
Passing the local school, Alice and Judith stopped to watch a small girl turning cartwheels round the playground. The school teacher saw Alice and came over to her.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Winster.”
Alice, after introducing Judith, nodded towards the cartwheel-turning child.
“That pupil of yours is quite an acrobat.”
The teacher sighed.
“She does it to attract attention. She’s always got to be in the front of the picture, that child. I think she would stand on her head in a church.”
On the way home Judith asked:
“Why did the school teacher sound as if it was a wrong thing to be looked at? That little girl turned awfully good cartwheels, and all the other children were liking watching her.”
Alice remembered the numberless times when Judith had been the centre of attention. She tried to find the right way to say what seemed to her to need saying.
“I expect the child is too fond of showing off, she doesn’t give the other children a chance. It’s not very attractive for a child to be always pushing herself forward, is it?”
Judith had a clear conscience. Anything that pleased Daddy and made him love her more must be right; she had no idea Alice thought she sometimes showed off. Instead the conversation made her think of the cousins.
“I expect that little girl who turns cartwheels has to do it, I expect it makes her bear it better when all the others gang against her.”
* * * * *
Charles reappeared in rattling spirits, but less a Father than when he went away. Perhaps even before he left, without realising it, he was becoming bored. A daughter, especially a recently met daughter, could not indefinitely be a man’s sole companion. Watching the horse trials with Bruce, Charles had a sense of well-being that he had not felt for weeks. Apart from enjoying the company of his brother and men friends, he found he was glad to be away from his Mother for a bit. He was fond of her, of course he was fond of her, everybody was fond of their Mother, but as he confided in Bruce: “A little of the old lady goes a long way.” He did not tell Bruce that he had been happy enough with Alice until she had put a probe into his affairs with Avis, and that now he would be nervous whenever he was alone with her in case she started again. Bruce thought it quite natural that Charles needed a change, he marvelled he had stayed cooped up in Kent as long as he had.
“Why don’t you invite yourself for a day or two with Beatrice and Basil? If you pick a week-end you’ll be able to get some golf with Basil, you could take Judith along.”
Charles did not mention the long week-end with Basil and Beatrice until everything was fixed. Beatrice made the plans. It was right Charles should spend a week-end with them before he went back to America. It was tiresome he had to bring his girl with him, but that, too, could be arranged. On Saturday Basil would take Charles to his golf club, while she took Judith to visit the girls at school.
Alice took the news that Charles and Judith were going off to stay with Beatrice not only calmly but secretly with pleasure. She was enjoying seeing Charles again, and she was thankful for the opportunity to get to know Judith, but she had her own ways, and the house was small, it would be nice to get back to her normal life for a day or two.
Judith received the news of what was to happen to her in appalled silence. She could not go to Aunt Beatrice, of course she could not go. But she had to think of a way how to get out of it. The thought of going with Aunt Beatrice to visit Catherine and Cynthia at school made her feel sick. But thinking did not help; no idea came to her. Father had told her where they were going on Wednesday, and they were leaving on Friday. Relentlessly the minutes ticked by. It was Thursday. Mrs. Killigrew brought her suitcase from the box-room. It was Friday morning. There was nothing for it but the truth. At breakfast she laid down the spoon with which she was eating cereal.
“I don’t want to go away to-day, Daddy.”
Charles peered at her round the Daily Express.
“What’s that, daughter?”
“I don’t want to go. I want to stay with Granny.”
Alice looked at Judith over the coffee pot.
“Why
, darling? Aren’t you feeling well?”
Judith had thought of feeling ill, but had decided she looked too well to get away with it. But if Grandmother thought it possible . . .
“Not awfully.”
Charles cleared his throat in an embarrassed way. These feminine ailments! He certainly did not want Judith with him if she felt under the weather. Because he was embarrassed he sounded gruff.
“Oh, all right. I’ll send Beatrice a wire.”
It had been as easy as that. Judith knew she ought to be feeling pleased. But she was not. Although Charles had hugged her when he said good-bye, called her little sweetheart and said he would miss her, she remembered that gruff tone. How dreadful if she had hurt Father, if he loved her less. She was not helped by Grandmother or Mrs. Killigrew; both had made plans for a clear Friday and were unable to alter them. They were as fond as usual but neither had time to spend with her. Guessing Judith’s ailment was merely unwillingness to meet her cousins, Alice sent her out with the dogs.
While Judith was out a cable came for Charles, which Alice telephoned on to Hampstead. She did not mention the cable to Judith, because, though she feared it might mean Charles had to return to America, she was not sure, and she could not face breaking the news to the child unless she must. She had forgotten, when she telephoned the message, in whose house Charles was staying. That arch organiser Beatrice was the first to read the message. She met Charles on his return from golf with plans laid.
“Your Mother-in-law is dead, Marion wants you back. I’ve rung up about planes, they’re holding a seat for you to-morrow, or, if you want to go back for your things, there’s a seat for you on Monday. I’ve roughed out a cable for you to send Avis, telling her Judith will be coming back. I’ve tentatively booked a place on a plane for her on Monday.”
It was all such a rush Judith had no time to think. Charles returned to Kent on Saturday; on Monday, with cases packed, they left by car for London and their respective aeroplanes. Judith did not know that Grandmother had begged for the plans to be changed, that she might be allowed to keep Judith a little longer. She believed Grandmother and Mrs. Killigrew were quite satisfied to see her go. Charles’s mind and heart were already with Marion; he called Judith his little sweetheart and showered her with presents and kisses, but she could feel he was not minding desperately saying good-bye. He did not say that somehow, no matter how difficult, he would see her again next year. He did not mention seeing her again ever.
In the aeroplane Judith, dazed by the rush of her departure, struggled to puzzle out what had happened. She had known her visit to England was coming to an end. But why was she suddenly being sent home? The unknown Marion’s Mother had died, but to Judith a Mother-in-law meant nothing. Then slowly an idea wriggled into her brain. She had refused to go away with Father for the week-end. She had disappointed him, she had disappointed everybody. Even Grandmother and Mrs. Killigrew had not been the same. She had not explained why she would not go, and Daddy and probably Granny and Mrs. Killigrew too, thought she did not love Daddy enough to do whatever he wanted.
When half her journey was over a faint lift came to Judith’s spirits. She would see Simpsy. Mother was sure to have cabled for her, she would not want her in the apartment unless Simpsy was there. She slipped into a day-dream in which Mother had the qualities of Miss Simpson. Mother was waiting at the airport. Mother’s arms were round her. Mother’s face was pressed against hers. “Darling, how lovely you are back. How I have missed you.” But even in her daydream, like a strong current under smooth water, the lesson she had learnt pulled at Judith. When people loved you you must do exactly what they wanted. If you disappointed them in the smallest way, they stopped loving you, and did not want to see you any more.
PART TWO
ebreak
AS SHE laid down the letter she had finished reading Beatrice Carlyle made an annoyed sound. She looked round at her family cheerfully eating their breakfasts, and, because put out herself, felt a wish to remove the smile from their faces.
“It looks as if I shall have to invite Judith to stay.”
Catherine stopped eating.
“Judith! Oh Mother! Not in Robert’s holidays.”
Cynthia looked reproachfully at her sister.
“I know nobody but Robert matters, but it is my holidays too.”
Catherine dismissed that.
“She won’t make any difference to you, you’ll go about with your kid friends as usual, it’s Robert and I who’ll have to put up with her, she’s more our age.”
Beatrice liked facts.
“She’s Robert’s age, and you won’t see her much as you’re at your job all day.”
Robert was straining his memory.
“Judith? I’ve almost forgotten her.”
Catherine’s dislike burned fiercely.
“You can’t have. Don’t you remember her at Charlotte’s wedding? A terrible show-off, always jabbering French and Italian. Why’s she coming, Mother?”
Beatrice took up her letter.
“She’s not coming, she’s here. Are you listening, Basil?”
Basil was deep in The Times. He laid it down immediately on catching the note of command in Beatrice’s voice.
“Yes, dear.”
His children laughed. Cynthia leant towards her Father, her plaits just missing the sausages on her plate.
“You weren’t. Can you say who we’re talking about?”
Robert and Catherine joined in.
“Come on. Try.”
The scene was familiar to Beatrice, but never failed to aggravate. It was unjust that weakness should draw affection. It was she who by example and driving power made the children work hard and play hard; if Basil had been allowed his way they would be three slackers, yet she never drew the sort of affection that was showered on him, not that she wanted it, but sometimes, as now, she felt left out. Her crisp voice made all the family attend.
“Don’t be foolish, of course he didn’t hear. It’s Judith, Charles’s girl, she wants to come and stay.”
Basil tried to focus Judith in his memory.
“Judith? What’s she doing in England?”
Beatrice knew that Basil seldom bothered to listen to the items of family news she retailed from her Mother’s letters. It had always been one of his more aggravating qualities that he failed to retain in his head anything which did not interest him. She thought repeating news twice a bore, and her voice showed how she felt.
“You know how Mother fussed about Judith, I never could imagine why. Then about a year after Charlotte married the fuss died down; well, that was because about then she met the woman who married Avis’s brother Ambrose, the one in the F.O. They had been to stay with Avis while they were on their honeymoon, at Madeira or somewhere like that, and she saw Mother when they came back and told her to stop worrying about schools in England for Judith, as she was being well brought up by a governess.”
“And Granny believed her?” Catherine’s voice was incredulous. “Judith stayed no end of a time with Granny, she must have known she was idiotically brought up.”
“I thought she was rather a nice little thing,” Basil said mildly.
Robert grinned at his Father. At sixteen he had an elder brother’s feeling for him, watching him with amused sympathy when he put his foot into it.
“She was an awful wet.”
Beatrice went on after a meant pause, to show she did not like being interrupted.
“Ambrose married Lord Peldon’s daughter Mercy. I believe she’s a very pleasant woman, anyway Mother liked her, and at least she stopped her worrying. Judith is staying with Lady Mercy and Ambrose Stratford-Derickson now.”
“Why can’t she stop there?” asked Catherine.
Beatrice found the place she wanted in the letter.
“We are enjoying having Judith, but I think it is ver
y dull for her spending her evenings with Ambrose and myself, she needs the company of young people of her own age. I wonder if you would have her for a visit, perhaps we can meet and discuss it.”
“Oh, do go and see her, Mother,” Catherine begged, “and make her agree to keep her. What’s she doing here anyway, she’s got her own home?”
Beatrice turned back to the letter.
“Mercy says somewhere that she’s going to a school, she doesn’t say where, I suppose she thinks we know.”
Basil folded The Times and got up. He spoke more firmly than was his custom, his eyes on his children.
“Judith is your Mother’s niece, and she must certainly pay us a visit while she’s in London. You only saw her on one occasion, you might like her very much now.”
Beatrice too got up. She disliked on principle agreeing with Basil, but on this occasion she had to.
“I’ll ring Lady Mercy now, and I’ll try and see her to-day. I expect we’ll have to have Judith, if only to show her Mother the Stratford-Dericksons are not Judith’s only relations.”
Honeymooning Ambrose had brought his wife to Madeira to meet Avis. They had arrived at the moment when Avis was making her final choice of a school in England for Judith. Ambrose had not so much wished to marry as decided it was time a man in his position had a wife. Lord Peldon’s hopes, as he told everybody at Mercy’s wedding, of his daughter finding a husband, until this fellow Stratford-Derickson had turned up, had been at a low ebb. “He’s not my cup of tea, too high-falutin’, but they speak well of him at the F.O. Anyway, no matter what the fellow’s like, Mercy’s damned lucky to catch him, she’s getting a bit long in the tooth.”
Mercy was exactly what Ambrose wanted. Lady Mercy Stratford-Derickson would sound well. Even on the honeymoon she had made no demands on him. She did not seem to mind that he was a poor performer physically. She was willing to do whatever he fancied, and go wherever he wished, but appeared to be equally happy if left alone in an hotel. The truth was Mercy, too, had found exactly what she wanted. She had to have a husband to remove her from her family, who were always foot-deep in unpaid bills. More important, a husband who could prevent her from becoming a permanent unpaid charlady in her Father’s draughty, leaking, stately home. She had always given the meagre spare time which was hers to helping in the local cottage hospital, for nursing gave her complete fulfilment, and deep happiness. As a wife, whose husband was not only out all day but, better still, would not always wish for her company in the evenings, she visualised a future full of nursing. Never a day passed but she read of short-handed hospitals; surely she would find one in London which could use her.
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