I thought of Helen — it was dreadful of me to think of Helen but I could not help it — Helen was like that: tough and callous and a little bit selfish and she sailed through life very comfortably.
“What shall I do with them?” asked Mrs. Millard. “Tell me what to do. Shall I put them back in prison or take them to a jeweller and see if he’ll give me anything for them. I don’t suppose he would give me very much.”
“Can’t they be cured?” I asked.
“The only way to cure sick pearls is for somebody to wear them,” she replied. Then she said, “Will you wear them for me, Jane?”
“Me!” I exclaimed. “Oh no, I couldn’t!”
“Why couldn’t you?”
“Because — because they’re valuable. I might lose them — it would be awful if I lost them!”
“I don’t see how you could lose them, but if you did I wouldn’t mind.”
“You wouldn’t mind!”
“Not really,” she said thoughtfully. “I know it sounds strange, but I would rather they were lost than shut up in prison.”
“Mrs. Millard, I couldn’t! Besides, you don’t mean it! You wouldn’t like me to wear them!”
She didn’t, of course. I hesitated — for I knew Mother would not like it — and then, for some strange reason I thought of Ronnie. Supposing Ronnie had fastened a string of pearls round my neck — and had gone away — and never come back! The thought of Ronnie made it all seem more real and tragic. How could I refuse?
When I went home I was wearing the string of pearls round my neck; I put them inside my jumper so that neither mother nor anybody else should see them.
Chapter Nine
My story was finished. I had decided to call it The Lamb and The Wolf, so I wrote the name on the title page: THE LAMB AND THE WOLF by Jane Harcourt. It looked rather good. It was three o’clock in the morning, for the last two chapters had raced along like mad; they had practically written themselves and I had not been able to stop.
The whole thing was written in fat red exercise-books; I had started to write it in this form and had just gone on getting one book after another as I went along. Now that it was finished I gathered the books together and put them away in a drawer. Some day I would read it over and perhaps I might show it to Mother but meantime I buried it under a pile of stockings.
The next day I felt sleepy and relaxed. I had been working at the story for weeks — sometimes quickly and easily but at other times plodding along with nothing but a fixed determination to keep me going — now I had completed the thing and put it away and I was not going to give it another thought. To-night I could creep into bed at ten o’clock and sleep solidly till morning.
“Jane, you’re wool-gathering!” exclaimed Mrs. Millard. “Have you been burning the midnight oil?”
The question took me by surprise. I gazed at her stupidly. “How — how did you — know?” I stammered.
“I didn’t know, but I know now.”
“About the oil-lamp?”
“That was merely a façon de parler. You look tired and your eyes are owlish and I’ve spoken to you twice without getting a reply.”
“It was just a story,” I said hastily. “I’m sorry I was inattentive but I finished it last night, so —”
“A story about Esmeralda?”
“No, of course not! It wouldn’t be right! Esmeralda belongs to you. It’s just a story, Mrs. Millard. The people aren’t real — besides nobody will ever read it.”
“How long is it?”
“How long is it!” I echoed in surprise.
“How many words?”
“But — but I couldn’t count the words. I just started at the beginning and went on until it was finished.”
“An admirable method!”
“It’s quite long, really,” I told her. “About as long as a novel, I should think.”
“And about as wide as a carpet, I suppose?”
She was teasing me of course so I played up to her. “It’s wider than a stair carpet,” I said solemnly.
“You’re learning, Jane,” declared Mrs. Millard smiling. “But there’s no need to be cheeky.”
“You taught me to be cheeky,” I said.
“Goodness!” she exclaimed. “I thought I was being so careful to teach you nothing you shouldn’t know! Well, never mind about that,” she added. “You can bring the story tomorrow. Now, for heaven’s sake let’s get on with the job.”
The last thing I had intended was to tell Mrs. Millard about my story, but sometimes it seemed as if she could see through a window into my brain. Mother was good at this, too, but she was not a patch on Mrs. Millard, and it was a different kind of seeing. She did not pounce on you suddenly and surprise you into saying something you had meant to keep to yourself.
Mrs. Millard said no more about the story and as I went home I decided that she had forgotten all about it — and anyhow I was not going to take it to her to-morrow and let her read it. That was out of the question. That was definite. I thought about it as I crept into bed at ten o’clock that night. Quite definitely I was not going to show the story to Mrs. Millard.
Next morning my feeling was not so definite. I disinterred the pile of red exercise-books from the bottom drawer and hesitated with it in my hands. Should I or should I not let Mrs. Millard read it? Of course she would laugh and tease me about the story, but would that matter? The point was, did I want her opinion? It would be a perfectly frank opinion — and an expert opinion — and therefore worth having.
It was time to go to The Corner House and I had not made up my mind so I decided to take the story with me and leave it in the shed with the bicycle. Then, if she remembered … but she would not remember, of course.
“Where is the novel?” demanded Mrs. Millard when I walked in.
She did not read it at once (we were busy with Esmeralda’s affairs) but she made me leave it with her for the week-end. When she saw the pile of exercise-books she raised her eyebrows and remarked, “No wonder you couldn’t count the words!”
“It isn’t as long as it looks,” I assured her. “And it isn’t really very messy — and the books are all numbered.”
“That, at least, is something to be thankful for,” said Mrs. Millard dryly.
*
I was quite frightened to go to The Corner House on Monday morning. Mrs. Millard would laugh; or perhaps she would be kind, which would be almost worse; or perhaps she would be angry, which would be worst of all. When I had put away the bicycle I hung about in the garden for a few minutes trying to pluck up enough courage to go in.
Suddenly the window of the study was flung open and Mrs. Millard’s head appeared.
“Interesting spectacle of an author suffering from cold feet!” she exclaimed.
I looked up and smiled feebly.
“Come in,” she said. “You’ll get a cold in your nose as well if you hang about out there.”
The pile of exercise-books was lying on the table in the study.
“Oh yes, I read it,” said Mrs. Millard in answer to my question. “You kept me awake till half-past one. Oh yes, I finished it. Yes, it interested me — but I’m not sure whether it would have interested me quite so much if someone else had written it. There’s a lot of Jane in it.”
“Then it’s no good —”
“Did I say so? For heaven’s sake give me a chance to speak! Love Stories are not in my line, and if someone else had written it I wouldn’t have read it — that’s all I meant.”
“You’re not angry?”
“Why should I be angry?”
“Because — because you taught me — all that. I mean I just thought — afterwards — that you might be — annoyed.”
“Calm yourself,” she replied. “If you become any redder in the face you will have a fit. Let me assure you that I am not angry — not even annoyed. Certainly you learnt the background of your story from Esmeralda, but what does that matter? You could have learnt it from other sources if you had
wanted.”
“Not so well.”
“Perhaps not, but if you’re going to write about a bygone age it’s better to have an authentic source of information — and why should I deny it to you? It’s rather interesting,” added Mrs. Millard, looking at me with a piercing stare. “You’ve got the atmosphere. The story isn’t just a story staged in the period, with cardboard scenery … and as a matter of fact there are quite a number of little touches that you couldn’t have learnt from the letters.”
“Perhaps I dreamt them,” I said.
“So you dream of Esmeralda? How strange!”
It did not seem strange to me. If you work for hours every day with papers and letters written long ago by a vital colourful personality it would be strange if she did not haunt your dreams … but she did not haunt Mrs. Millard, that was obvious.
“I wonder where we should send it,” said Mrs. Millard thoughtfully.
“Send it!” I cried. “But I only wrote it for fun! I started because I was bored — the idea came to me — and then I couldn’t stop. It went on — unrolling — if you see what I mean.”
“Unrolling,” said Mrs. Millard nodding. “Yes, of course. That’s why the beginning is dull and sticky. The beginning very nearly put me off. You’ll have to alter the beginning, Jane.”
“It’s a sort of build up. You have to describe —”
“You don’t build up this sort of story. You don’t describe the scenery and the characters. This sort of story is an entertainment for people who can’t be bothered with long and detailed explanations. You must plunge straight into the middle of the story on the very first page.” She smiled and added, “Here am I telling you how to write a novel … and I couldn’t write a novel to save my life.”
All the same she was right. The beginning was too heavy and it was not until Chapter Four that the story began to get going.
“Tell me more,” I said eagerly.
Mrs. Millard was clever — I had always known that — but it was not until she began to discuss my story that I realised what a brilliant brain she had. The whole plot and all the characters were clearly in her mind and she put her finger on the weak points with unerring judgment.
“You’ve given away the secret a bit too soon,” she declared. “You should keep it up your sleeve — and you could do that quite easily if you cut out the highwayman’s visit to the inn. That gives the show away completely. Then there’s Giles. You changed your mind about Giles half-way through — he’s too black at the beginning and too white at the end — and you don’t make it clear what changed him.”
“It was his wound,” I explained. “He had never been ill in his life and he thought he was dying.”
“But you don’t say so,” she pointed out. “You’ll have to make more of Giles’s sudden conversion. I’m not a believer in sudden conversions, but that’s neither here nor there.”
“I wondered about Ralph?”
“Don’t touch Ralph. I believe in Ralph. As a matter of fact I fell for him, good and hard — Ralph is a darling.”
“I’m glad you like Ralph,” I said.
“He’s real, isn’t he?” asked Mrs. Millard. “He’s a flesh and blood young man — with his long legs and his broad shoulders and his twinkling eyes. Where did you meet him, Jane?”
“In Edinburgh,” I said — I could feel myself blushing. “But I don’t know him — properly. I don’t know his name — or anything — and I don’t suppose I shall ever see him again.”
I thought perhaps she would tease me about it but instead of that she sighed and said, “What a pity! I like the sound of Ralph.”
For a moment I hesitated. It would have been a relief to tell Mrs. Millard the whole story, and I had a feeling she would understand, but while I was still trying to make up my mind about it she changed the subject and the opportunity was lost.
“You haven’t been so successful with your heroine,” declared Mrs. Millard. “Agnes isn’t human; she’s much too good to be true.”
“But I didn’t want her to be like Esmeralda!”
“You’ve gone to the other extreme! You must do something about Agnes. Give her some ideas! Put some life into the creature!”
“Perhaps I could —”
“Of course you could! Some of the minor characters are very good — Ralph’s father for instance. I think you could make a lot more of Ralph’s father. Fill in the sketch and give him more to say …”
She went on talking about my story, praising this and criticising that. I had intended to make notes of her suggestions, but there was no need for notes. I saw it all clearly; I saw exactly how to alter it and improve it. I was quite breathless with excitement by the time she had finished; my fingers were itching to get hold of a pencil and begin the task.
“Take it and go away,” said Mrs. Millard at last. “Do it now, at once, while your eyes are blazing, and don’t come back until it’s done.”
“But your book —”
“My book can wait. I shall take a few days’ holiday. Solda and I can get on with the Spring-cleaning.”
“But if I go back now —” I began, hesitating at the door.
“It’s a secret!” cried Mrs. Millard in delight. “It’s a secret — even from Mother! And of course if you go back now, in the middle of the morning, Mother will want to know why — and you’ll have to tell her all about it — and that will spoil everything.”
It was true, of course, but Mrs. Millard had twisted it round and made it sound a little unpleasant — as she always did when she spoke of Mother. I stood there wondering how I could explain.
“But it’s quite easy,” continued Mrs. Millard nodding. “You must work here.”
“That would be marvellous,” I said eagerly. “If I could work here — if I wouldn’t be in your way. Perhaps you’ve got an attic — or a cellar —”
“Alas, I have neither,” said Mrs. Millard. “Neither an attic nor a cellar. The Corner House is sadly lacking in amenities. All I can offer is a very prosaic spare bedroom.”
“I can write anywhere!” I cried.
She laughed — and I laughed too, for I saw she was pulling my leg.
*
Mrs. Millard’s spare bedroom was a marvellous place to write. There was a solid table in it and when I had moved the table near the window and found a suitable chair I had all that I wanted. Nobody came near me, nothing disturbed me, and I could work in peace. In three days I had made all the alterations suggested by Mrs. Millard and several others that I thought of myself. When it was done I showed it to Mrs. Millard and she was pleased.
“You’ve improved it,” she said. “It’s better in every way, but I don’t like the title. ‘The Lamb and the Wolf’ — no, Jane, it won’t do.”
“Agnes and Giles,” I pointed out. “She’s the lamb and he’s the —”
“Oh yes, that’s obvious, but you need a title that will catch the eye and be easily remembered — a title that will describe the book. What about Highwayman’s Halt, or The Mulberry Coach or —”
“The Mulberry Coach!” I cried.
There were a few other mistakes (small details about clothes, and the terms I had used in describing the duel between Ralph and Giles); in several places my critic objected to the phraseology and made me alter it. By the time we had done all this the manuscript was in a frightful mess and I said I would rewrite the whole thing.
“Indeed you won’t!” declared Mrs. Millard. “Give it to me at once. If you rewrite the story you’ll change the wording and take out all the freshness and spontaneity. You aren’t experienced enough to leave well alone. We’ll pack it up here and now and send it to be typed.”
“Nobody will be able to read it.”
“My woman in London will. She gets worse messes than this to decipher.”
Mrs. Millard made up the parcel, sealed it and sent Solda to the post office without more ado … and the moment it had gone I thought of all sorts of improvements which I should have made.
&
nbsp; “Put it out of your head,” cried Mrs. Millard in exasperation. “We’ve wasted nearly a week over your wretched novel. We shall have to work double time to make up.”
Chapter Ten
“Where did you get those beads, Janie?”
I had been thinking about The Mulberry Coach (and wondering how long Mrs. Millard’s ‘woman in London’ would take to finish the typescript) and before I could answer Mother’s question Helen chipped in. Helen had come down to Timble Cottage for the week-end and this was Sunday morning.
“She got them at Woolworth’s, I should think,” declared Helen, helping herself to marmalade as she spoke.
“There isn’t a Woolworth’s in Ryddelton,” Rosalie pointed out.
“Well then, she got them at that little shop in the High Street; the shop that sells cheap sweets and tin trumpets and packets of balloons.”
“I think it’s a nice little shop,” said Rosalie. “And the woman is awfully nice. She has very good oranges and they’re a penny cheaper than McBain’s.”
They began to argue about the shop — Helen’s voice with its contralto note and Rosalie’s lighter treble. The argument spread and became heated and illogical, as it always did when they argued, and they forgot about the pearls. Presently when nobody was looking I slipped them inside my jumper and heaved a sigh of relief.
As a matter of fact I had been wearing the pearls for a month. I wore them next my skin, night and day, and only when I went for a walk on the hill did they see the sun. It was impossible to soak them in sea-water — we were miles from the sea — but that could not be helped. Already there was a slight difference in their condition (although they were still a bad colour they were not so dull and lifeless) but I had not shown them to Mrs. Millard. We had been working very hard and her mind was engaged with Esmeralda’s affairs so she might have forgotten about the pearls.
Mother came upstairs when I was making my bed. She said, “Jane, darling, I wouldn’t wear those beads if I were you. They’re not very pretty and they look — they look rather cheap. I don’t like artificial pearls very much, and —”
Anna and Her Daughters Page 8