Myra Carrol Read online

  Myra was waiting in her uncle’s study for him when he got home. He looked particularly sagging and grey; when she had hugged him she pulled up his armchair and sat herself on its arm. She put her hand in his.

  “I’ve heard from Foggy.”

  His face lightened.

  “Good. When is she coming?”

  “She isn’t. She says that she has always felt that when she stopped being my governess it ought to be a clean break.”

  “Rubbish! I’ll write to her.”

  She squeezed his hand.

  “But she’s quite right. I’m going to be presented next year. I’m too old to have a governess.”

  “Seventeen too old!”

  “I’ll be eighteen next spring.”

  “I don’t like the life you are leading. It’s aimless. It’s against the teachings of Christ.”

  She stared at him. In all the years she had never heard him talk like that. Of course, he had gone to church with her on Sundays, and he still did, but he never talked about it. He hadn’t even talked about religion when he came down for her confirmation; she particularly remembered that for they had gone fishing in the evening and talked about flies and she had been glad, for the rest of the household had been rather whispering and tiresome. The longer the word Christ hung in the silence between them the more embarrassing it became.

  Uncle John got up and went to his desk, and came back with a book. Myra peered at it and her eyes rounded with astonishment. It was a Bible. He opened it where there was a marker and read part of Lamentations. He had often read out loud to Myra, Dickens and Scott and The Prisoner of Zenda, and though he made it interesting he read in a very ordinary voice, but now he mouthed and used heavy emphasis, and his face got red with emotion, particularly his forehead. “How hath the Lord covered the daughter of Zion with a cloud of his anger . . . ”

  Myra ceased to attend after the first sentences. This Bible reading offended her sense of decency. She and Uncle John were not on those sort of terms at all. They were friends, they had always been friends, and friends did not read the Bible to each other. It was horrid of him; it made him a stranger, a different person.

  As he read his voice rose in passion and intensity.

  “All that pass by clap their hands at thee; they hiss and wag their heads at the daughter of Jerusalem.”

  His voice was so unlike itself and so raised that Fortesque supposed it was a game and gave an encouraging bark. Myra seized on the interruption.

  “Uncle John, darling, what’s the matter?”

  He stopped reading and looked at her. The colour slowly faded from his face. He shook his head as if to clear a mist between them.

  “Sometimes I can hear the roaring of Hell’s flames, little Myra.”

  She felt his cheek.

  “Do you think you’ve got a temperature? You easily might have. You look queerish.”

  He shut the Bible. He looked at it as if surprised to find himself holding it.

  “What were we saying?”

  “Well, I came in to talk about Foggy. I was telling you I was too old to have a governess.”

  He was fidgeting with the Bible marker.

  “What sort of people do you meet at these parties your aunt takes you to?”

  “Just ordinary people.”

  “What are their names?”

  It was obviously necessary not to upset him. He seemed very odd; was this the beginning of another nervous breakdown? Thankfully she seized on Andrew.

  “The one I see most is Andrew Carrol.”

  “Young Carrol.” He was delighted and apparently surprised. “Oh, he ought to be all right. Why don’t you bring him here?”

  Myra, grateful the conversation had taken a turn for the better, leant against him and ran a finger up and down the buttons of his coat. She used all her charm.

  “Well, he works all the week.”

  He put his arm round her.

  “Shy of bringing him for inspection?”

  Glad to see him calmer, she accepted the suggestion.

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind you, but nobody else.”

  “But your aunt must know; I mean, she sees you dancing together.”

  He was flushing again. She dashed in quickly.

  “Of course, I dance with other people too. If I brought him to tea it would have to be a Saturday or a Sunday, and you’ve got to be in alone and absolutely promise you won’t tell Aunt Lilian.”

  He frowned.

  “Does your aunt disapprove of him?”

  “Of course not. It’s just that I hate being looked at and talked over.”

  He remembered the days when he was courting Lilian. The unendurable urge which had made him try and go where she went, and the agonies he had endured in private in case he had appeared a bore and had made others laugh and talk. He squeezed Myra’s shoulders.

  “Very well, have it your own way. You fix it and give me the tip when to be in.”

  She played on her success.

  “And you do see what I mean about Foggy. I am too old.”

  Uncle John met Andrew and took a great liking to him. Myra steered the conversation to Worcestershire, and fishing, and the question of her dancing partners never arose. Uncle John could imagine that a girl having her first love affair might think a governess in the way. It would need tact and he felt too ill and confused to deal with the situation. One thing he refused to consider and that was Connie taking another situation; he in fact got in what Myra thought was a frightening state at the mere mention of the idea. He spoke very fast and in great excitement. He said that Myra did not realise the burden of responsibility. That he simply could not face bearing that burden alone. That of course it was weakness on his part to feel he was bearing any burden alone. That he knew God let no man bear a burden by himself. That His rod and His staff were there to support him, and yet, miserable sinner that he was in his weakness, he was afraid he needed earthly support. Myra saw his eyes turning towards his Bible and hurriedly prevented him fetching it by sitting on his knee and laying her cheek against his. She spoke exactly as she would have to a child.

  “Of course, darling Uncle John, you mustn’t bear anything alone. If you are going to get in a fuss without her let’s have Foggy here.”

  In the end Uncle John wrote to Connie: would she please remain where she was and on his pay roll for the time being. It was rather a rambling letter and had a long quotation from the Bible at the end of it. It was not private and Connie showed it to the district nurse, who shook her head over it and said, not being a religious gentleman, she didn’t like the look of it at all, and if she were Miss Fogetty she would do what she was asked, as you never knew what was coming. Connie, after a great deal of thought, “felt” nurse was right, and with gratitude to Heaven for so obligingly arranging that her inclination should be allowed to coincide with her duty, remained where she was.

  Myra, in her rôle of “amusing little girl”, managed to avoid real knowledge of the people with whom she mixed. By degrees she half knew a good deal, but she never quite accepted that Aunt Lilian and her world were real, there was a feeling there was no substance behind them, and like figures in a dream they might vanish. There were evenings when the veneer of civilisation was painted very thinly and decadence showed clearly. Nights when Pauline Silk sulked and was jealous, and made ugly scenes. She wanted to paint Myra and made countless efforts to get her to her studio, but Myra, originally in good faith, had said could she bring Fortesque, and Miriam would come to look after him. This had been seized on as such a good joke by those who heard it that Myra had stuck to the suggestion. Being laughed at, especially laughter about herself and Myra, put Pauline Silk into heavy sulks, which took whole bottles of champagne to clear away. Sometimes it was Henry who was horrifying. Myra really disliked him and made no effort to disguise it. There were evenings
when this fascinated Henry and he could not leave her alone, sitting next to her, pawing, whispering. On these nights she heard that she was at the age he liked, that she would soon be too old. She retaliated by saying she would be thankful to be any age he did not like, but it was impossible to snub Henry; snubs encouraged him. Henry tried to get her to let him drive her home, but Aunt Lilian prevented that, not clearly and definitely and forever, as Myra would have liked, but with a hint that he must wait. Myra could not imagine why any of them tolerated Henry, but supposed it was because at some stage of the evening he gave his impersonations, and these, though cruel to a degree, were amusing. In spite of their cruelty people were flattered if Henry impersonated them; he sometimes impersonated Aunt Lilian. Myra could not understand what it all meant exactly, but she followed enough to see its implications and marvelled Aunt Lilian was not cross, but she never was. Quite a lot of people seemed talented, some of them drew on the backs of menu cards, sometimes funny caricatures and sometimes drawings which were passed round amidst roars of laughter. These were always rubbed out before Myra saw them. The parlour tricks, as they were called, were never produced until the early hours of the morning; a lot of champagne was what usually stimulated the performers, but there were two or three, and Henry was one, who did not get gay from drink but from something else. They would disappear for a time and Myra learnt that these absences were considered a good thing as so-and-so would be sure to come back in top form.

  Brian’s arrival coincided with Myra’s birthday. He was incredibly good-looking and abysmally stupid. He was brought along much as Myra would have brought Fortesque to a party. “This is Brian,” said Rose, who brought him, “he was dragged up all anyhow, poor sweet, but he looks marvellous, doesn’t he?” Brian was twenty-two and a clerk in a city office. He fell shatteringly in love with Myra. Whenever Rose would let him, which was seldom, he asked her to dance with him. During the dances Myra learnt quite a lot about him. In his refined cockney he told her that he had very little money and his clothes and everything were provided by Rose. Myra heard how he loved dancing and indeed he danced beautifully, and about a girl called Lily that he wanted to marry, only she didn’t seem much now he had met Myra. Brian could not get over his admiration of the class of place he now visited, nor his surprise at finding himself there. He had been of their party two or three times when Aunt Lilian spoke about him.

  “That young man, Brian, of yours. I think it would be kind if you asked him to come back here for sandwiches, don’t you?”

  They never brought anybody back to the house and Myra thought Brian an odd choice.

  “He’s not mine, he’s Rose’s, I should think she gives him sandwiches if he’s still hungry, but he oughtn’t to be, he eats lots of supper.”

  Aunt Lilian was patient but there was that about her which made Myra wonder how long she would be.

  “I think it would be nice if you invited him. He’s your age, and I like you to have young friends and he’s obviously very fond of you.”

  Next time Myra saw Brian he was not in their party, but they managed a dance together. Myra gave her invitation. He flushed with delight and said he would be pleased, he was sure. Rosie would have to be squared, or perhaps for once he could slip away without her noticing.

  It took time for Myra to grasp what had happened. She saw that Brian was always with their party now, and she knew he never saw Rose. She knew that almost as soon as she had a sandwich in her hand she was sent off to bed. She knew that in public Aunt Lilian missed no opportunity of saying “Brian and Myra.” She knew that Brian had changed rapidly for the worse. At first, after he became attached to herself and Aunt Lilian, he was silent and awkward and when they were dancing together talked a lot about wishing he were out of everything, and that he and Myra could go off together. As most of the men Myra danced with wished those sort of things she thought nothing about them, only supposing that coming from Brian, who was usually cheerful, it must mean he was feeling under the weather. Then, by degrees, Brian changed. He was like a small child trying out naughtiness to find how far it can go without punishment. He began by a half saucy remark to Aunt Lilian, which he not only got away with, but which made Aunt Lilian, of all people, miserable. She almost apologised to Brian. What had she done? Was he angry? From that first rudeness he went further and further, ordering Aunt Lilian about, and countermanding her orders to waiters although it was she who was going to pay, and generally making a nuisance and, in Myra’s opinion, an ass of himself. Aunt Lilian’s friends were delighted with the new Brian. They sat around more like people in a theatre audience than ever, and nudged, and whispered, and repeated rude things he had said. An aunt was still an aunt to Myra in spite of all she knew of Aunt Lilian’s faults. Though lack of interest in sexual matters still kept her in partial innocence she was beginning to understand that there was a good deal going on around her outside ordinary married life, but not being interested she did not probe; in fact, certain that she would not like a good deal that there was to know, she deliberately closed her mind. Even had she known for what purpose Rose had originally collected Brian she would have been unable to accept that Aunt Lilian wanted him for her lover. Brian was not all that much older than she was. Aunt Lilian was Uncle John’s wife and, therefore, did not do things like that.

  It was Rose who tore the stoppers out of Myra’s ears, and dragged back the curtains which obscured her sight, Rose had not succeeded with Brian. He was pleased with clothes and presents, and delighted at the smart world in which he found himself, but he was slow and stupid. and had not quite grasped what Rose was leading up to, when Aunt Lilian, with Myra as live bait, pulled him to her shores. Rose was at best a nasty piece of work with all that had been decent in her coarsened, if not eradicated, by drug taking; thwarted and jealous she was quite repulsive. They were leaving a club, Aunt Lilian laughing with Brian, when in the entrance Rose stopped them. She would certainly have screamed what she had to say if they had tried to move, as it was she spoke fairly quietly. She used some words new to Myra, but she made herself quite clear. When she had finished and they were in a taxi, for not wanting Thompson about Aunt Lilian had said she would not use the car at night, Myra waited for the denials which would make life decent again; instead Brian said:

  “I think showing us up before Myra was a bit off,” and then added: “Still, I suppose you’d rumbled our little goings on. You’ve no flies on you, have you, kiddie?”

  It was worse than illness, far more frightening. It was horrible being sent up to bed and leaving them down there. That first night Myra decided to run away to Connie. It was Uncle John who prevented her. There was a scene the next morning between him and Aunt Lilian because of the time they came home. It was five o’clock, he said, when Aunt Lilian went to her bedroom. Myra was not about at the time of the row but Skinner, thoroughly frightened, reported it to Miriam. Miriam, calling Myra, said:

  “I hear you weren’t in till five.”

  Myra was just about to deny the accusation when she checked herself.

  “Who said it was five?”

  “Your uncle.”

  Myra gripped her hands together under the bedclothes. She felt herself shaking.

  “Uncle John? How did he know?”

  “Heard your aunt’s bedroom door. Carried on alarming, Miss Skinner says. She says she could hear him right up the passage though the door was shut. Saying prayers and quoting the Bible, he was. Miss Skinner says he’s been doing that a lot of late.”

  Later in the day Aunt Lilian said:

  “Has your uncle seemed at all queer to you lately?”

  “What way?”

  “Excitable and quoting the Bible.”

  “No.” Myra felt Aunt Lilian had not found her inflection sufficiently convincing. “No, of course not. Anyway, I shouldn’t have thought there was any harm in quoting the Bible.”

  “It’s very unlike him. I shall have to watch hi
m.”

  “Why?”

  “If he is, a doctor should see him. He may need looking after.”

  Myra did not like the way she said that.

  “You mean in a nursing home?”

  Aunt Lilian’s soft voice could be extraordinarily cruel.

  “A home. I mean, he may need to be shut up.”

  “No!”

  Aunt Lilian was writing a letter. She went back to it as if she did not mind if Myra heard what she said or not; it was a favourite trick of hers, and Myra was beginning to know that it meant this was the crux of the conversation.