Judith

by Noel Streatfeild

  Catherine’s intense jealousy of Judith was, Beatrice considered, out of all proportion to the situation. She did not suppose Robert would think twice about Judith once he was back at school, he was taken with her, but he would be taken with a lot of girls before he was much older, and Catherine must get used to the idea. A possessive sister could be almost as much of a menace to a boy as a possessive Mother. Was she to blame in this case for having put ideas about Robert and Judith into her head? How was she to prevent a further scene before Judith returned to her Aunt? Would it be better to talk to Catherine to-night, or should she wait until Judith had left the house?

  Beatrice, being a born organiser, decided the neatest way out of an awkward situation was to plan an evening where everybody was kept so busy there was no opportunity for scenes. The moment she reached home she got on the telephone and invited friends to a buffet supper and an evening of games. It was not easy to get people at such short notice, nor to talk her cook into liking preparing a buffet supper, but inside an hour everything was arranged.

  Beatrice’s family were used to being organised, so the unexpected party was no surprise to them. None of them wanted it, but all knew that it had to be. Basil groaned a little when told on the telephone what was happening, and that he was to be home early, but he accepted the situation with his usual meekness. Robert, who could see why his Mother had arranged the party, listened to her orders about what they were all to wear, and when they were to be ready, with an amused twinkle in his eye. She was a scream, he thought, but it was quite a smart way of stopping Catherine from making a further fool of herself. Like his Father, Robert preferred a peaceful world, and, fond as he was of Judith, he came to the conclusion that it was just as well the holidays were over, and she was leaving the next day, it was a bit awkward Catherine being in such a state.

  Not to annoy Catherine Robert avoided Judith all the evening, which was easy as his Mother saw they were on different sides in each game. He planned to get a moment with her after Catherine had left in the morning, he would ask her to write to him and they could meet next holidays, not in the house but outside somewhere, no good making Catherine in more of a stew than she was already. So it was that he went to bed untroubled by family complications, and was startled out of his usual calm when his bedroom door opened, and Judith in a dressing-gown, crept in closing the door softly behind her.

  “I couldn’t let our last evening be like that, could you, Robert? Now they’ve all gone to sleep could you read me the rest of your book?”

  Catherine had spent a wretched day. She was a conscientious worker and becoming a first-class private secretary. She knew it was necessary to forget herself and the outside world the moment she came into her employer’s study, and usually she managed to, but that morning she had failed. Her employer was a tolerant man, but he was a busy M.P. and he did not want anyone round him who was giving him half her mind. Finally, sick of mistakes, and realising he would never get her full attention, he had cut his morning work short, saying, as nicely as he could, that she should try and get that lot done, and they would work extra hard the next day.

  Catherine could have beaten herself. It offended her to have to accept she could not control her thoughts. But there it was, throbbing like a drum in her head, shutting out other sounds, including the words dictated to her, came Judith! Judith! Judith! Or the beat varied to include Robert. Judith and Robert! Judith and Robert! Judith and Robert! She tried to break away from merely repeating Judith’s name, to think constructively about what she should do. She thought perhaps as the day went on she would mind less, but it did not happen. Every few minutes she was looking at the clock, longing for it to reach five-thirty, so that she could be free to hurry home, and wait for her moment to get Judith alone, and so scare the guts out of her that she never dared see Robert again.

  The party did not upset her plans, only postponed them. When it was over she undressed, washed, cleaned her face, then, wearing her dressing-gown, very quietly opened her door. It was her intention, if everybody seemed asleep, to go to Judith’s room. She was moving towards it, along the dark passage, when she heard feet slipping up the stairs. She followed, and so saw Robert’s door open and by the light in his room watched Judith slip in, and, before the door closed, heard her whisper:

  “I couldn’t let our last evening be like that, could you, Robert?”

  Catherine acted without reason. She was blind with jealousy, her one idea was that Judith should be punished. She was down the stairs like lightning, and beating on her Mother’s door.

  “Come at once. Come at once. Judith’s in Robert’s room.”

  Beatrice had her hands full with Catherine, who was quite hysterical, so though she saw Judith back to her bedroom, and, since Catherine was not to be trusted, ordered her to lock her door, and told her in her coldest voice that she would talk to her in the morning; she had to send Basil to deal with Robert.

  Basil had heard what Catherine had said, but even before he reached Robert’s room he had decided there was probably a lot of fuss about nothing. He sat on the end of Robert’s bed and felt in his dressing-gown pocket for his cigarette case and lighter. He lit a cigarette and offered his case to Robert.

  “Have one. Soothing. What was Judith doing up here?”

  Robert hesitated, then deciding to trust his Father, blurted out:

  “If you want to know, I’ve written a book but I’ve only told Judith, I don’t want everyone knowing. I read her most of it, but I couldn’t finish. She came up to hear the end.”

  “Did you ask her to?”

  “No. As a matter of fact I was just going to tell her it was a bit late when Catherine started screaming. What’s there such a fuss about?” Robert saw his Father’s expression, and slowly crimson rose from his neck over his face, and into his hair. “I say, they couldn’t have thought . . .”

  Basil flicked the ash off his cigarette.

  “Women are odd about things like that.”

  “But Judith! Well, I mean she’s like a kid . . .”

  “I know, but, as I say, women are odd. Her Mother had a bit of a reputation, daresay that’s at the back of it.”

  “What ought I to do?”

  “Go to sleep. Judith leaves in the morning. Have to do something about Catherine, can’t have her in this state every time you look at a girl.”

  “But I didn’t . . .”

  Basil moved to the door.

  “You’ll find out it isn’t what you do that matters, but what they think you do. Good-night, old son. I’ll see what I can do to smooth things out.”

  Basil did his best for Judith. Since he could not mention Robert’s book, and it sounded rather a flimsy story anyway, he was awkwardly placed. He said he believed a lot of fuss had been made about nothing, of course the girl should not have gone to Robert’s room, but you only had to talk to Robert to see there was no harm in it. One thing he did put his foot down about, and so firmly that for once Beatrice had to obey him. This story was to stay inside the family, no suggestion of it was to go outside, particularly there was to be no hints to the girl’s Stratford-Derickson relations.

  When the next day Mercy called for Judith, following her instructions Beatrice allowed nothing in her demeanour to suggest anything but fondness for her niece. All the same, it struck Mercy the girl seemed oddly subdued, but supposed she was sorry to leave her cousins. She waited until the house was out of sight, then smiled at her.

  “Cheer up, chicken. I think you’ll be back with them soon. Your Uncle may have to go abroad, and he wants me to go with him.”

  * * * * *

  It was a letter from a friend that made Ambrose think he might have to go abroad. The ship on which Avis was travelling had called at Colombo, and there the friend had heard from passengers what he considered disquieting news. It seemed that Avis lived mostly in her cabin, according to the stewards, ate nothing and was i
n a very low condition. The friend felt Ambrose should be told. No Stratford-Derickson liked interfering with another, and Ambrose particularly disliked the sort of interfering he might be faced with; it was highly embarrassing to have a sister of Avis’s age who behaved like a love-sick girl. The three brothers had held a family council at which as little as possible had been said. It was however decided that a friend of Herbert’s who lived at Singapore should be asked to meet the ship, and if his report coincided with that of the friend in Colombo someone would have to fly out. No one actually put into words why the flying might be necessary, but all hinted at it.

  “There’s never been anything like that in the family,” said Ambrose.

  “Melancholia has its literary precedents,” Herbert reminded his brothers.

  “Can’t believe Avis would do anything stupid,” said Angus.

  After further discussion it was arranged if anybody had to go Ambrose should be the one if he could get leave, and it was agreed it would be desirable if Mercy went too. No one said why it was desirable but there was a feeling when a woman was in trouble of any sort, having another woman around was a sound principle.

  It was of course generally understood that Judith must not know there was even remote anxiety about her Mother, so she returned to a family with a secret. Lucy would telephone and Mercy would look round to be sure Judith was out of hearing before she replied. “No news yet.” Angus and Herbert would call round, and talk about the weather until the study door was safely shut behind them. When friends telephoned Mercy about future engagements, she had to admit they might be going abroad but was never able to say where: “Oh somewhere warm. We both feel we could do with some sun.”

  Judith’s term had not started, so, apart from keeping it a secret where she and Ambrose might be going, Mercy had to plan where Judith should live while they were away. She had made arrangements for getting Miss Simpson over, but the present woman in charge had agreed, should she have to go away, not to leave until she returned, and, as Mercy told Lucy even if Miss Simpson were over already, an old persons’ home was no place for Judith.

  “I can’t see why she can’t stay with those Carlyles,” Lucy protested. “I know we don’t want the Winsters to know why we are worried about Avis, but you needn’t say where you are going.”

  At first Mercy side-tracked that question, but at last she felt bound to explain.

  “It’s nothing Judith has said, and nothing really in the manner of Mrs. Carlyle, but I have a feeling the visit wasn’t a success.”

  “What does Judith say?” Mercy did not answer, and in the pause Lucy thought about Judith, as she had seen her a few minutes before on her way out to post some letters. She looked, as always, soignée, Avis had given her that, and she was certainly a very pretty girl, but now that Mercy mentioned it she did not look very happy, or was “lost” a more descriptive word? “She knows you’re going away somewhere?”

  “I told her we might. It upset her, I could see that. She’s a very affectionate child, and seems even more so since she came back, it’s as if she couldn’t bear me out of her sight.”

  “Have you asked her whether she enjoyed herself?”

  Mercy made a small worried gesture.

  “She’s been well brought up. She answers politely that she had a very nice time, but I have a feeling she doesn’t want to go back there.”

  “Have you told Mrs. Carlyle she may have to have her?”

  “No. Ambrose thinks I have, but I have kept hoping we needn’t go.”

  Lucy laughed.

  “You realise you may have to leave at a minute’s notice, and that I haven’t a spare room, and that Herbert is a bachelor and has a mistress who more or less lives in, and the parents are abroad, so while you’re away some Winster’s got to have her. What other Winsters are there?”

  Mercy looked ashamed.

  “I don’t really know, and I haven’t liked to probe. It seems so unkind to let the poor child know we’re looking for someone to take her.”

  Lucy went to the telephone.

  “What’s the Carlyle number? You’d better go into the hall to catch Judith when she comes in.”

  Beatrice was writing a campaign speech she was to make at a by-election. She frowned when the telephone rang, but answered it immediately. Lucy’s voice puzzled her.

  “Who?”

  “I am Lucy Stratford-Derickson. I am the wife of Angus, the youngest of Judith’s Uncles. He is in the family publishing firm. My sister and brother-in-law, Mercy and Ambrose, may have to go abroad to-morrow. If that happens, could you take Judith?”

  Beatrice felt quickly for excuses, but she knew there were none. With Robert and Cynthia at school it was no good saying there was no room. How about the by-election? Her crisp high voice came so forcibly over the wire it was as if almost she came with it.

  “It’s not very convenient. I am going away. The by-election in Yorkshire. Why have your brother and sister-in-law to go abroad? It’s very sudden, isn’t it?”

  Lucy could sound very snubbing when she liked.

  “Illness in the family. I would have her, but we have no spare room. Has Judith any other relations in London we could try?”

  Lucy judged that to be a smart suggestion, and she was right; Edward and Charlotte lived in London, but they had no spare bedroom, only a put-you-up, and it would certainly cause family comment if the Stratford-Dericksons had to telephone Charlotte because the Carlyles had said they could not take Judith.

  “There’s no need for that, I shall, manage. If Lady Mercy has to go abroad someone will let me know, I suppose, and I will have Judith collected.”

  “It’s all fixed,” Lucy told Mercy. “Though, mind you, I’m not sure you are not right. She tried to get out of it, but I stopped that nonsense by asking if there were any other relations I could ring.”

  The news from Singapore arrived that night. It was worse than was expected. Avis apparently had refused to see Herbert’s friend, but he had managed to have a look at her as she left the ship, and he thought she appeared a very sick woman. She was staying for a day, perhaps two, in Singapore and he would keep a tab on her, but one of them had better fly to Siam and take charge. It was awkward making arrangements with Judith in the house. The word Siam could not be used, in fact no discussion could take place in front of her. Ambrose, aggravated already at having to go, found this curtailment of expression the final exasperation.

  “I shall ring Mrs. Carlyle,” he said, “I’m sure it can’t make any odds to them which day they take the girl.”

  Beatrice was out, but he got hold of Basil at his office. Beatrice had not warned Basil Judith might be coming, for she knew he would be pleased, and that would annoy her, but Basil needed no warning for he thought that it was right and natural that Judith should stay with them.

  “Of course. How soon can she pack? I’ll be along to fetch her.”

  When Basil saw Judith he felt something he had not felt for years, emotion which made his throat ache. The aeroplane for Siam was leaving early the next morning, Mercy had a great deal to do and arrange. Being tender-hearted she had done everything in her power not to make Judith feel pushed out in a hurry, but she had not succeeded. It would have taken more skill than Mercy possessed to have accomplished that, for Judith had been bitterly conscious that ever since she had come back to the house she had been shut out of something, telephone conversations she must not hear, lowered voices, closed doors. “It’s me,” she had thought, “they’ve heard about me and Robert.”

  When Basil arrived Judith was sitting in the hall surrounded by her cases, and he saw her before she saw him. She looked, he thought, like pictures he had seen of refugee children, not of course in dress, for she was well turned out, but in her face, a sort of hopeless nowhere-to-go-look. Startled that he could feel emotion, he said the first comforting words that came into his head, it was an in
vitation phrased as he would have phrased it for a business acquaintance who was up against it.

  “What about a bite of lunch somewhere?”

  Basil took Judith to the best restaurant he knew. He did not, as his heart told him, succeed in comforting the little thing. As he drove her along, she answered politely every time she was spoken to, but the Judith, even the scared Judith he had known a few days ago, was gone, it was as if the spirit had been knocked out of her. “Beatrice has scared the soul out of her,” he thought, “over that Robert nonsense, I must see what I can do to straighten things out.”

  In the restaurant he gave her a glass of sherry.

  “I don’t know whether you’ve had any of the stuff, but that much won’t hurt you.” He smiled at her. “Quite an ordeal coming back to us I suppose. Tell me, is Robert’s book any good?”

  Judith gaped at him. He was not angry. He knew about the book. Slowly at first, but warmed by his interest, speaking faster and faster, she described Robert’s story, breaking off now and again to imitate Robert reading. Then, as she was about to say that was as much of the book as she had heard, she paused, and, as she remembered the things Beatrice had said, flood after flood of colour poured through her cheeks.

  Basil again felt emotional. “Poor little beast,” he thought, “I must help her, but how? It’s no good pretending Beatrice and Catherine are going to be pleasant to her, because I know damn’ well they’re not.” Stretching back in memory he offered her what would have comforted his child self at the age of ten.

  “I say, look what’s on that trolley. We must leave room for some of those sweets.”

  Oddly, that funny little effort helped. Judith snatched eagerly at a change of conversation, and talked for some minutes on sweets she had eaten in various parts of the world, and this gave Basil an opportunity to think, and when Judith finally ran out of foreign sweets he had come to a decision.