The New Moon with the Old (7 page)

‘It does, indeed,’ said Jane. ‘Well, let’s talk again when the list of schools comes.’

Merry, after a moment’s silence, agreed cheerfully. ‘All right. Now I must go and tell Betty. She’ll probably ask me to lunch. I’ll just get my coat.’ She sped indoors and upstairs, then called down: ‘Jane, are you
sure
I need to go to
any
school?’

‘Quite, quite sure.’

‘Ah, well …’ Still appearing to be extremely cheerful, Merry went into her room.

Already the house felt different. It was colder. The hall fire had not been lit, and economizing on central heating had begun. Through the drawing-room door Cook and Edith could be seen spreading dust-sheets over the furniture.

‘Got to cut down on the housework,’ said Cook, as Jane joined them. ‘So we’ll put this room right out of action.’

‘And of course we’ve closed Mr Carrington’s bedroom,’ said Edith. ‘That was a sad task.’

‘Like as not he’ll never sleep in his bed again,’ said Cook. ‘Well, we’d better scrape a bit of lunch together.’

The lunch was adequate, Jane told herself; but the cold meat seemed noticeably cold in the cold dining-room.

After the meal, Drew said he would work in his room. ‘I shall wrap myself in a blanket and pretend I’m a shivering genius in an attic.’

‘God knows what this house will be like in real winter,’ said Richard. ‘This is merely a brisk autumn day.’

He went to the study, accompanied by Jane and Clare, to decide which bills should be paid. Clare had got the village tradesmen to agree that their accounts should stand over, provided they were, from now on, paid in cash.

In the middle of the afternoon the police called again. Richard interviewed them in the hall and was soon able to report that they had gone. ‘They asked if I knew where Father was and I said I didn’t. Then they said I must let them know if I heard from him. I said “quite” which means nothing at all.’

Drew, coming down to tea, said he had opened his door to listen. ‘Not very impressive, the Law, was it? They order these things better on television.’

The glory that had once been tea at Dome House was a thing of the past, Jane noted, eating bread and margarine.

‘Austerity’s set in with a vengeance,’ said Drew. ‘Cook and Edith have even dug out our thick old nursery cups.’

Soon after tea, Merry returned. Jane had told the others of Miss Willy’s adverse decision but not of her own plans for Merry (or of Miss Willy’s offer to herself; no point in mentioning that until she’d made up her own mind about it). Richard had merely said they must find out which school Merry was entitled to attend. He referred to this on seeing her but she said airily, ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow,’ and ran up to her room, coming down only in time for dinner. This, though only a stew of
leftovers
, was quite good, but when Cook and Edith came in for television, they brought no coffee. Drew protested gently.

‘Coffee’s expensive,’ said Cook. ‘And you’ve got to learn to do without things. People are saying you’ve been spoilt—’

‘Then it’s damned impertinent of them,’ said Richard. ‘And I’ve heard you say coffee doesn’t keep. We’ll have ours while it’s still fresh, thank you, Cook.’

‘Very good,
sir!
’ Cook glared, but a slight break in her voice on the ‘sir’ turned the speech into a reproach. She stalked out, followed by Edith.

Drew said: ‘Richard, how could you, when they’re being such angels? I’d soon have coaxed coffee out of them.’

‘We’re too old to coax them.’

Jane doubted if Drew would ever be, or if Richard had ever been young enough. And at the moment her sympathies were with Richard. Much as she liked the maids she suspected that circumstances might turn them into tyrants. So she was a little sorry when Richard went on, ‘Oh, I’d better go and make my peace. God knows I’m grateful to them.’

He returned from the kitchen with a mollified Cook and Edith. A compromise had been reached: tea was served instead of coffee.

Burly, offered cold milk instead of warm, showed displeasure. ‘Have to warm it for him tomorrow,’ said Cook. She helped him on to the sofa and gave him the last
peppermint
cream. ‘We’ll get a few more of these and keep them just for him. Can’t explain to a dog, can you?’

Drew sat between the maids, just as on her first evening, Jane remembered. Indeed, everything looked much the same as then. The fire had been lit and burned as brightly …

But gone was that sense of happiness she had luxuriated in. Well, she’d thought of it as a group product, and now no member of the group could be contributing to it, except the slumbering Burly and perhaps the maids were sustained by their noble intentions.

After the News, which again failed to mention Rupert Carrington, Merry announced she was going to work on her journal. ‘It doesn’t yet know about Father. Please don’t disturb me, anyone. Good night.’

They all responded affectionately as she ran upstairs.

‘I’ve never known her so quiet,’ said Richard, once her door had closed. ‘It’s hell for her having to change schools just when she needs all her friends around her. Oh, blast Weary Willy!’

A few moments later, some small sound caused Jane to look upwards. Merry had come out of her room and was leaning on the gallery railing, looking down. Their eyes met. Jane smiled. Merry smiled in return, very sweetly; then she gave a little valedictory wave of her hand and went back into her room.

She had completed the plan on the previous day, having begun work on it as soon as she knew her school fees were not paid. Then she had shelved the whole idea, convinced by Betty that a scholarship could be had for the asking. On hearing that it couldn’t, she had made her decision within seconds: forward with the plan!

Not a word about it had been said to Betty. The less Betty knew, the better; she was loyal but no liar. Merry had simply told her there would be no scholarship, accepted sympathy plus a good lunch, and then departed – turning to give her friend a beautiful and memorable smile.

The afternoon had been spent in shopping, after a
cross-country
walk to a village where she had never shopped before and was unlikely to be recognized. Thoroughness in covering tracks was part of the plan.

And now she was alone in her bedroom with the night stretching before her – a night when, for the first time in her life, she would not lie down to sleep. She had just taken her last look at the group below, murmuring to herself Juliet’s words: ‘Farewell! – God knows when we shall meet again!’ She was glad Jane had looked up. Now Jane, as well as Betty, would have a smile to remember.

So much to be done – and so little she could safely do until the household settled for the night, as someone might
ignore her request that she shouldn’t be disturbed. She could write her farewell note but felt it would be unlucky to do that before she was ready to leave. It would be best to pass the time by making an entry in her journal, particularly as she had said she was going to; even the shortest entry would turn that lie into the truth. She disapproved of lying and even of ‘acting a lie’. But she sometimes gave herself a dispensation by feeling she was ‘playing a part’. She would have to play a continuous part for the next six months.

She unlocked the drawer where she kept the journal, settled at her desk, and wrote:

She broke off. The mood for journal writing had come on with such a rush that she knew she would write for hours if she let it have its head. She therefore concluded:

Posterity, frequently addressed, had become for her a composite creation made up of herself when old and famous, biographers of her famous self, the British Museum, and some critic who would one day write: ‘Publication of the journal proves she was as great a writer as she was an actress.’ But she never visualized this composite Posterity without rebuking herself for conceit which she already recognized, if only occasionally, as her most menacing sin.

Posterity, anyway, was located in the far-away future. She would be outraged if anyone but herself read the journal now. Suppose her family searched for it, even broke open
her drawer, in the hope of finding clues to where she’d gone? Could she take the journal with her? Well, hardly; not twenty-two exercise books.

Inspiration descended. At one time she’d had a passion for sealing her letters. Yes, she still had her sealing-wax set – complete with matches and a fat red candle. (What a child one had been at twelve!) She also had some string. After tying the exercise books together, she sealed the string at the knot and every criss-cross; then wrote a note in red ink:

That, she felt sure, would prove a potent message.

By the time she had put the journal back in its drawer, the party below was breaking up. She waited a full half-hour, then tip-toed onto the gallery. No light could be seen under any door. The real business of her night could begin.

First, she got out one of her recent purchases, a bright blue packet on which was the picture of a Titian-haired beauty. According to the instructions, you first washed your hair and then poured over it a jug of water into which part of the contents of the packet had been stirred. ‘Enough for three rinses, unless a very deep shade is required.’ She did require a deep shade, the rich auburn of the wig she had worn as Juliet, so she would use the whole packet.

Thanking God and her grandmother for her fitted wash basin, she began washing her hair. But even this part of the operation did not prove easy. Usually Clare did the job for her, while she held a towel to her face. Now the soap got into her eyes and she kept banging her head on the taps. The tinting was still more difficult; so much of the mixture went
into her ears or down her back. And her hair emerged merely looking dark instead of mousy – but one couldn’t really judge until it was dry. She pinned up some curls, put on a setting net and hoped for the best.

Now she would pack. This would need the most careful consideration as all clothes taken should be suitable for adult wear. She feared that few things would pass the test with flying colours except her one pair of high-heeled shoes and her superb running-away outfit which she had tried on before dinner.

In the spring Clare had misguidedly bought a thick white polo-necked sweater, a boldly checked black-and-white skirt, and a very full black coat. The neck of the sweater made her head look too small, Drew insisted the skirt was a stolen horse-blanket, and the coat was generally held to indicate imminent motherhood. Clare’s Folly – swiftly so named – had soon been relegated to the box-room cupboard, where clothes intended for rummage sales were kept. Before dinner, while surreptitiously getting her suitcase, Merry had abstracted Clare’s Folly, replacing it with her school uniform.

It was pleasant to reflect that if any search was made for her it would be for a mousy, uniformed schoolgirl, not for a Titian-haired adult in dashing clothes. And the clothes, Merry was sure, would suit her splendidly as she was tall enough to carry them, nearly four inches taller than Clare. True, the skirt would be short but not so very as it had been too long for Clare. Anyway, short skirts were dashing – and only
grown-ups
wore them; schoolgirls wore their skirts drearily long.

After spending over an hour going through her clothes, Merry found their juvenility so depressing that she took a long look at Clare’s Folly just to cheer herself up. It really was splendidly mature. But she must not only look mature; she must feel it – and a first step towards that would be to sound it. She would now decide what voice to use.

It must be more sophisticated than her normal voice, and she must be more than usually careful to speak what she believed Drama Schools called Accepted Southern English – not to be confused with what she and Betty called Affected Southern English, as spoken by many radio announcers. Merry had once mimicked this by saying: ‘In this perm, the pert speaks of his longing for herm.’

An inner monologue in mature Accepted Southern English now began, while she packed the least-juvenile of her clothes and selected stockings, handkerchiefs and many small possessions. The monologue became so interesting when she heard herself coping with various imagined situations – such as the amorous intentions of admiring theatrical managers – that she sat entranced, just listening to herself. This would never do. The night was passing. Sternly she concentrated on packing. What books should she allow herself? Only Shakespeare. It was agony to leave all her other plays but the suitcase was already overflowing.

Now to assemble her money – from three boxes: spending money in the first box, savings towards Christmas presents in the second, savings towards theatre visits in the third. Grand total: nearly twelve pounds. She would also take the diamond brooch which had been her share of her mother’s jewellery, though she hoped she would have no need to part with it. She was confident she would find a job before her money was used up.

Her hair would certainly be dry by now. She removed the net in front of her looking glass, then gasped in dismay. The colour reminded her of badly polished mahogany and combing did nothing to improve it. Had she time to wash it again? No – and what would be the use? The tinting was said to remain for several shampoos. Perhaps a hairdresser could help her but for the present she was stuck with this horrible thatch and could only hide it with a head scarf.

To cheer herself up she put on her new brassière. This was no make-shift bust such as had let her down when she played Juliet. She had told the astonished shop-assistant it must be earthquake proof and it certainly seemed so. Now for the checked skirt and polo-necked sweater! Magnificent effect! A soft white woollen prow jutted in front of her. Unfortunately it oniy
looked
soft; it felt just a bit like a birdcage.

If only her hair wasn’t spoiling everything! But wait – might it not be turned to advantage? Might it not be just the hair to escape in, a far more effective disguise than the one she had planned? But she must dress up to it – or rather, down to it. Off came the white sweater, on went an old pink blouse. She would pin a wilted rose to the black coat and – yes, she had some blue earrings from a cracker. She now looked superbly common, a word she had always been discouraged from using but exactly right for her present appearance. And as well as common, she was common-place; no one would give her a second glance.

What sort of voice should she use now? At that instant, a girl called Mavis was born. She spoke sloppily, called everyone ‘dear’, very frequently said ‘honestly’ and ‘definitely’. From now on Merry’s inner monologue was mainly spoken by Mavis. Accepted Southern English was in abeyance.

Mavis required make-up. Out of the suitcase came Merry’s newly acquired cosmetics. Blue shadow on the eyelids; orange lip-stick; too much pink powder. Merry was enchanted by her skill but shocked that she could look so awful.

Creative effort had given her an appetite. She ate some of the chocolate and biscuits she had bought that afternoon; then brushed her teeth. Mavis remarked: ‘Fussy, aren’t we, dear?’ Merry said: ‘God’s given me good teeth and I intend to keep them.’ Mavis then said: ‘Well, get a move on, ducky. And take the envelope that had the hair stuff in it. We don’t want anyone to know what we’ve been up to.’ Merry was glad
to find Mavis was no fool; they would get on well, sharing a mind and a body.

She glanced at her clock. Heavens, how fast the night had gone! It was time to begin her farewell letter. (A job for Merry; Mavis went off duty.) She wrote:

She read through the letter and carefully blocked out ‘Remember I am a master of make-up.’ Why give such a possibly valuable clue? Besides, it was conceited.

Now she was ready to start but it was still too early. The most tricky part of her escape was choosing the exact moment to leave. She must go before it was light but if she tried to cross the fields at the back of the house while it was dark she might sprain an ankle or fall into a ditch. Her objective was a road travelled by an early-morning bus to London. She had worked it all out: the time the sun would rise, the time the cross-country walk – around four miles – would take, the time the bus would pass. She ought to wait a while. But she was getting nervous. Better too early than too late and she wasn’t sure what time Cook and Edith got up.

She put on the black coat, with its dangling pink rose, picked up her suitcase and her handbag, and then gave a last look around the room. Conscious of a slight catch in her throat she told herself not to work things up – ‘You’re not going to execution.’ The voice of Mavis said cheerfully, ‘Bye bye room.’

Lights off, torch on, door opened and quietly closed … Now along the gallery – and don’t bang the suitcase into the banisters. She reached the top of the stairs. No sailing down in the middle now; she put the torch in her coat pocket, grasped the handrail, and felt her way step by step. Placing her letter, addressed to Richard, on the hall table she imagined the moment when he would open it and read it aloud. Poor darlings, would they all be terribly worried? She gave a loving look up towards the bedroom doors. But she must not think about that now – already the dome above her was paler than the darkness around her. Perhaps it was already dawn.

But when she let herself out of the back door it was still so dark that she had to use her torch until she reached the lawn. Then there was nothing to bump into but a herbaceous
border – which she did once and felt some tall flower brush her cheek. How terribly exciting this escape was! This thrill of fear that she might be caught, she must store it up to be acted later … The dark mass on her right now was the barn – and ahead, a glimmer of white, was the gate. She opened it quietly, then looked back at the house. No lighted windows, no pursuers … She was out in the lane, free.