Final Curtain (4 page)

‘There he remains, guarded by Millamant, who, since the death of her husband, has house-kept for her father-in-law, and who is supposed by the rest of her family to be feathering a nest for her son, the egregious Cedric, who is delicate. The family (excepting Thomas) is inclined to laugh with bitter emphasis when Cedric is mentioned, and to criticize poor Milly's treatment of the GOM. Milly is a jolly woman and laughs at them. She once told Thomas that if either of his sisters cared to take on her job she'd be delighted to relinquish it. She had them there, for though they all visit Ancreton a great deal, they invariably leave after a few days in a tempest of wounded feelings.

‘Occasionally they close their ranks. They have done so at the moment, being at war, as a family, with Miss Sonia Orrincourt, an indifferent actress, with whom, at the age of seventy-five, their father is having a fling. This astounding old man has brought the lady to Ancreton, and there, it appears, she intends to remain. She is an erstwhile member of the chorus and was selected as a type to understudy a small part in a piece at the Unicorn. This was a shattering innovation. The Unicorn, in the theatre world, is as Boodles in clubland. No musical comedy artist, before Miss Orrincourt, had enlivened its stage-door. Sir Henry watched a rehearsal. In three weeks Miss Orrincourt, having proved a complete washout as an understudy, was given the sack by Thomas. She then sought out his father, wept on his waistcoat, and reappeared in her present unmistakable role at Ancreton. She is a blonde. Pauline and Desdemona say that she is holding out on the Old Man with a view to matrimony. Thomas believes her to have taken the more complaisant attitude. Claude, in the Middle East, has sent a cable so guarded in its phrases that the only thing it makes clear is his rage. Claude's wife, Jenetta, a shrewd and amusing woman, who maintains a detached attitude to her relations-by-marriage, has been summoned, in Claude's absence, to a conclave. It is possible that her only child, Fenella, hitherto a second favourite with Sir Henry after Pauline's child Panty, might lose ground if he married. Even jolly Millamant is shaken. Her appalling Cedric is the senior grandson, and Sir Henry has of late begun to drop disconcerting hints that there is life in the old dog yet.

‘This, then, is the set-up at Ancreton. My information has come by way of occasional visits and Thomas, who, as you will have discovered, is a talkative chap and doesn't know the meaning of the word reticence.

‘In some such fashion as this, dear Troy, would I begin the novel that I dare not attempt. One word more. I understand you are to paint Sir Henry in the character of Macbeth. May I assure you that with Pauline's child Panty on the premises you will find yourself also furnished with a Bloody Child.'

Troy folded the typescript, and replaced it in its envelope across which Nigel had written her name in bold characters. The young man on the suitcase stared fixedly at the envelope. She turned it face downwards on her lap. His illustrated paper hung open across his knee. She saw, with annoyance, her own photograph.

So that was what he was up to. He'd recognized her. Probably, she thought, he potters about doing fancy little drawings. He looks like it. If the other people get out before we reach Ancreton Halt, he'll introduce himself and my lovely train journey will be ruined. Damn!

The country outside the window changed to a hurrying tapestry of hedgerows, curving downs and naked trees. Troy watched it contentedly. Having allowed herself to be bamboozled into taking this commission, she had entered into a state of emotional suspension. It was deeply satisfactory to know that her husband would soon return. She no longer experienced moments of something like terror lest his three years absence should drop like a curtain between their understanding of each other. The Commissioner had promised she should know two days beforehand of Alleyn's arrival, and in the meantime the train carried her to a job among strangers who at least would not be commonplace. But I hope, Troy thought, that their family upheaval won't interfere with the old boy's sittings. That
would
be a bore.

The train drew into a junction, and the other passengers, with the exception of the young man on the suitcase, began to collect themselves. Just what she'd feared, thought Troy. She opened her lunch-basket and a book. If I eat and read at him, she thought, that may keep him off; and she remembered Guy de Maupassant's strictures upon people who eat in the train.

Now they were off again. Troy munched her sandwiches and read the opening scene of
Macbeth
. She had decided to revisit that terrible country whose only counterpart, she thought, was to be found in Emily Brontë. This fancy pleased her, and she paused to transport the wraiths of Heathcliff and Cathy to the blasted heath or to follow Fleance over the moors to Wuthering Heights. But, if I am to paint Macbeth, she thought, I must read. And as the first inflexions in the voice of a friend who is re-met after a long absence instantly prepare us for tones that we are yet to hear, so with its opening phrases, the play, which she thought she had forgotten, returned wholly to her memory.

‘Do forgive me for interrupting,' said a high-pitched voice, ‘but I've been madly anxious to talk to you, and this is such a
magical
opportunity.'

The young man had slid along the seat and was now opposite. His head was tilted ingratiatingly to one side and he smiled at Troy. ‘
Please
don't think I'm seething with sinister intentions,' he said. ‘Honestly, there's
no
need to pull the communication cord.'

‘I didn't for a moment suppose there was,' said Troy.

‘You are Agatha Troy, aren't you?' he continued anxiously. ‘I couldn't be mistaken. I mean, it's too shatteringly coincidental, isn't it? Here I am, reading my little journal, and what should I see but a perfectly blissful photograph of you.
So
exciting and so miraculously
you
. And if I'd had the weeniest doubt left, that alarming affair you're reading would have settled it.'

Troy looked from her book to the young man. ‘Macbeth?' she said. ‘I'm afraid I don't understand.'

‘Oh, but it was too conclusive,' he said. ‘But, of course, I haven't introduced myself, have I? I'm Cedric Ancred.'

‘Oh,' said Troy after a pause. ‘Oh, yes. I see.'

‘And then to clinch it, there was your name on that envelope. I'm afraid I peered shamelessly. But it's too exciting that you're actually going to make a picture of the Old Person in all his tatts and bobs. You can't imagine what that costume is like! And the toque! Some terrifically powerful man beat it out of solid steel for him. He's my Grandpa, you know. My mother is Millamant Ancred. My father, only promise you won't tell anyone, was Henry Irving Ancred. Imagine!'

Troy could think of nothing to say in reply to this recital and took another bite out of her sandwich.

‘So, you see, I had to make myself known,' he continued with an air that Troy thought of as ‘winsome.' ‘I'm so burnt up always about your work, and the prospect of meeting you was absolutely tonic.'

‘But how did you know,' Troy asked, ‘that I was going to paint Sir Henry?'

‘I rang up Uncle Thomas last night and he told me. I'd been commanded to the presence, and had decided that I couldn't face it, but immediately changed my plans. You see,' said Cedric with a boyish frankness which Troy found intolerable, ‘you see, I actually try to paint. I'm with Pont et Cie and I do the designs. Of course everything's too austerity and grim nowadays, but we keep toddling.'

His suit was silver grey. His shirt was pale green, his pullover was dark green, and his tie was orange. He had rather small eyes, and in the middle of his soft round chin there was a dimple.

‘If I may talk about your work,' he was saying, ‘there's a quality in it that appeals to me enormously. It—how can I describe it?—its design is always consistent with its subject matter. I mean, the actual
pattern
is not something arbitrarily imposed on the subject but an inevitable consequence of it. Such integrity, always. Or am I talking nonsense?'

He was not talking complete nonsense and Troy grudgingly admitted it. There were few people with whom she cared to discuss her work. Cedric Ancred watched her for a few seconds. She had the unpleasant feeling that he sensed her distaste for him. His next move was unexpected. He ran his fingers through his hair, which was damply blond and wavy ‘God!' he said. ‘People! The things they say! If only one could break through, as you have. God! Why is life so perpetually bloody?'

‘Oh,
dear
!' Troy thought and shut her luncheon basket. Cedric was gazing at her fixedly. Evidently she was expected to reply.

‘I'm not much good,' she said, ‘at generalities about life.'

‘No!' he muttered and nodded his head profoundly. ‘Of course not. I so agree. You are perfectly right, of course.'

Tray looked furtively at her watch. A full half-hour, she thought, before we get to Ancreton Halt and then, he's coming too.

‘I'm boring you,' Cedric said loudly. ‘No, don't deny it. God! I'm boring you. T'uh!'

‘I just don't know how to carry on this sort of conversation, that's all.'

Cedric began to nod again.

‘You were reading,' he said. ‘I stopped you. One should never do that. It's an offence against the Holy Ghost.'

‘I never heard such nonsense,' said Troy with spirit.

Cedric laughed gloomily. ‘Go on!' he said. ‘Please go on. Return to your “Blasted Heath.” It's an atrociously bad play, in my opinion, but go on reading it.'

But it was not easy to read, knowing that a few inches away he was glaring at her over his folded arms. She turned a page. In a minute or two he began to sigh. ‘He sighs,' thought Troy, ‘like the Mock Turtle, and I think he must be mad.' Presently he laughed shortly, and, in spite of herself, Troy looked up. He was still glaring at her. He had a jade cigarette case open in his hand.

‘You smoke?' he asked.

She felt certain that if she refused he would make some further peculiar scene, so she took one of his cigarettes. He lit it in silence and flung himself back in his corner.

After all, Troy thought, I've got to get on with him, somehow, and she said: ‘Don't you find it extraordinarily tricky hitting on exactly the right note in fashion drawings? When one thinks of what they used to be like! There's no doubt that commercial art—'

‘Prostitution!' Cedric interrupted. ‘Just that. If you don't mind the initial sin it's quite amusing.'

‘Do you work at all for the theatre?'

‘So sweet of you to take an interest,' Cedric answered rather acidly. ‘Oh, yes. My Uncle Thomas occasionally uses me. Actually I'm madly keen on it. One would have thought that with the Old Person behind one there would have been an opening. Unfortunately he is not behind me, which is so sickening. I've been cut out by the Infant Monstrosity.' He brightened a little. ‘It's some comfort to know I'm the eldest grandson, of course. In my more optimistic moments I tell myself he can't leave me
completely
out of his will. My worst nightmare is the one when I dream I've inherited Ancreton. I always wake screaming. Of course, with Sonia on the tapis, almost anything may happen. You've heard about Sonia?'

Troy hesitated and he went on: ‘She's the Old Person's little bit of nonsense. Immensely decorative. I can't make up my mind whether she's incredibly stupid or not, but I fear not. The others are all for fighting her, tooth and claw, but I rather think of ingratiating myself in case he does marry her. What do you think?'

Troy was wondering if it was a characteristic of all male Ancreds to take utter strangers into their confidence. But they couldn't all be as bad as Cedric. After all, Nigel Bathgate had said Cedric was frightful, and even Thomas—she thought suddenly how nice Thomas seemed in retrospect when one compared him with his nephew.

‘But
do
tell me,' Cedric was saying, ‘how do you mean to paint him? All beetling and black? But whatever you decide it will be marvellous. You will let me creep in and see, or are you dreadfully fierce about that?'