Myra Carrol Read online

  It was one thing to have reached the point of knowing what she wanted, but quite another to see how to get what she wanted. How was she to get back to London? How, having got there, was she to have any fun? It would be no good going with Foggy. Foggy’s idea of fun was a picture gallery, or a museum, with Madame Tussaud’s as a treat. She wrote to the lawyer as she had promised, and was vague. She stated that she did not want her house back at present; she expected she ought to go and see her grandmother in Guernsey; she expected that she ought to go and see Granny and Grandfather in France, but she couldn’t just now because of Fortesque. It would be awfully interesting to take classes and things but she wasn’t sure what, as she wasn’t good at anything much except riding. She read the letter through when she had finished and felt that some concrete suggestion was needed or the lawyer might come and see her again, and that would be more difficult than writing, because he was the sort of man who asked questions and when you had not an answer you felt a fool. So she put a P.S. “I think it would be nice to stay here until hunting finishes.”

  The Postscript was apparently exactly what was wanted. The lawyer was satisfied. To wish to hunt seemed a nice wholesome occupation for a young girl who had been through a very unpleasant time and, moreover, it kept the young girl secluded in Devonshire. The more secluded she was with that face and that history the better. Particularly he worried about her face; it was the sort he considered almost bound to lead to difficulties. How satisfactory if she was going to counterbalance her face by liking seclusion and simple pleasures.

  As the winter went on, Myra grew quite desperate with boredom. The weather was bad and sometimes she was stuck for whole days in the bungalow. Connie singing in the kitchen, nurse popping in and out with her bright chatter: “Shockingly slippery on the road for my Rolls Royce. Say what you like about racing motorists, I say nobody knows what danger is till they take to a bike.” “Little Tommy Coombe has got ever so nasty a boil.” “Does a kind girlsie want a little job for busy fingers? Then perhaps she’ll roll these for nursie.”

  Myra was still in the bungalow on her eighteenth birthday. She woke up amongst the rep curtains and the dining-room table in a state of acute depression. She was being detestable and knew it and somehow could not force herself to behave better. She was rude and argumentative with Connie. Connie, convinced this was the result of what she had been through, “felt” the right way to behave was to pretend it was not happening. To Myra, loathing herself for her rudeness, this patience under aggression was the last straw. Connie’s brave smile drove her on and what had started as a small unpleasantness became a one-sided row. She was brutal to Miriam. Miriam was being a nuisance, and though sympathy was not what she needed, friendship, and even a small display of the affection Myra had for her, would have helped. Miriam had found Myra’s avoidance of her, which had been her original retort to this delayed action grief, knowing Myra, hard but understandable; now she got shouted at and scolded and it was more than she could bear. “’Tisn’t like Miss Myra,” she sobbed to Connie. “She’s turned against me, that’s what it is. It’ll well-nigh break my heart but I better go.” Connie preached patience and Miriam stayed where she was, but her depression was almost too big a load and sometimes in the night she had wild thoughts about jumping into the river. Nurse, though of an easy temperament, began to dwell on the possible necessity of moving. She loved the bungalow, she considered it her home, it would be a real wrench to leave it, but much more of Myra and maybe she would try and get a couple of rooms in the village. She could not, of course, turn Myra and Connie out, as she rented the bungalow by the week, and if there was any moving to be done she would be the one who had to do it, and she had no wish to get rid of Connie, of whom she had become sincerely fond, but Myra in her present mood was “a bit much” and if it came to it she’d up and go, and before she left she’d give young Myra a bit of her mind and it would be a pleasure to do it. She’d had a bad time, poor child, nobody was denying it. But there were limits.

  Myra, sitting up in bed, was more aware that there were limits than Connie, Nurse or Miriam. She simply could not understand herself. Fortesque alone heard her troubles. “Something’s changed in me. I don’t know what I want. I don’t want ever to be fond of things, I hate hurting Foggy and Miriam, I hate not wanting to live at home any more. You are the only thing I feel the same about; I would do anything for you. Die for you or fetch you out of a burning house. Oh, I do hope I’m nice to-day! If only there wasn’t going to be a fuss. Every birthday I’ve ever had my nicest present came from Uncle John, except the year when he gave me this beastly bungalow. Foggy’s going to try and make up for him being dead and if she does I’ll be hateful, I know I will. I’ll simply not be able to bear it, and then I’ll be rude, and Foggy will be miserable. And it’s no good anyone saying praying will help. I pray so hard my knees make holes in the floor, and I get worse.”

  Andrew had written regularly, awkward, jerky, shy letters. Myra had answered about one in six; she hated letter writing and especially at the present time when to write meant spending an extra half-hour in the bungalow. She was ineffective with her pen, she had barely out-grown “We had a lovely Christmas, I hope you did too, Love, Myra,” finished off with a double row of crosses. So Andrew only heard the names and peculiarities of the horses she hired, the state of Fortesque’s health, and scrappy accounts of the day’s hunts. But just before her birthday, on an exceedingly wet afternoon, she had written a letter through which her depression and state of mind leaked. “I thought it was an idiotic party but everybody else liked it, but everybody here is pretty idiotic.” “I simply hate this bungalow, it’s so full,” and, most important to Andrew, “I wish you were here. I’ve nobody to talk to.”

  Andrew had in his humility no hope that Myra would like to see him. He had hinted in every letter that he might be able to come down sometime, and he had asked what the Inn was like, but Myra had torn up his letters long before she answered them, so he got no reaction to his hints, and supposed that, very naturally, she did not want to be bothered with him. Her last letter tossed him up to the heavens. He, so quiet, who never asked a favour, suggested a long week-end in so fervent a way that it was granted, and only when he was out of the room did the manager say with surprise, “Funny, young Carrol seemed to have more to him this morning.” At home it was easy. His parents were surprised when they heard he was staying the week-end with friends, he was seldom away for he had few assets as a guest, but they were not sufficiently interested to ask who the friends were, his father only remarking to his mother, “Andrew goin’ to some of his damned cranky playwritin’ friends, I suppose,” and his mother replying, “I suppose so. Quite a change for him to go anywhere, even to them.”

  Andrew had sent Myra chocolates for Christmas. He knew it was a dull present but he had not the nerve to send her anything more personal. He had bought another vast box for her birthday, but on receiving her letter he became venturesome. He looked longingly in the book shops, playing with the idea of taking her a collection of his favourites, but he knew he was only playing; Myra would not even bother to pretend she was pleased with a gift like that. He looked even more longingly at the jewellers. He had money saved; it would be wonderful to see her wearing something he had chosen for her, and she liked pretty things, but he was almost certain she would refuse anything that cost much. There was that imperial regal mood of hers, when she would seem so secure in her own beauty that she floated out of reach of tributes of any kind. He knew she had been buried under flowers and chocolates, but he had never heard of her accepting anything more, and, knowing how he felt himself, he was certain heaps of men had wanted to buy her things: elevated though he was by her letter he was not taking a chance of giving offence. Yet he must buy her something that was different, something that showed he had thought and tried.

  The Burlington Arcade had not the sort of shops Andrew went to, but it was full of novelties of the sort girls liked, and he h
oped perhaps he would see something which would cost a lot, be lovely in itself, and yet look inexpensive. Wandering and peering he discovered Fortesque’s collar and lead. It was jade green fastened with a small gold-plated buckle. The lead was a novelty with a slip clasp so that it could be made long or short at will. There was a small gold-plated name plate on the collar, and a tiny gold-plated label on the lead. The young woman assistant, enchanted to have lifted her week’s commission by so unlikely a sale to such as Andrew, became interested, and persuaded Andrew that to make the gift really personal he should have the dog’s name engraved in facsimile of his handwriting. Andrew had tried to suggest that he was buying a collar and lead for his own dog, but the assistant did not pretend to believe him; the Burlington Arcade was the place to buy presents; truly some of the present giving was queer, but Andrew did not look queer, certainly not so queer that he was excited over a present for his dog, so she waved his words aside with competence and before he knew where he was he had written Fortesque on a card, had given his address, paid and was out in the Arcade.

  Andrew, from the moment he planned this week-end, had given a lot of thought to his meeting with Myra. Should he announce his arrival by letter, and take it for granted he could call at the bungalow, or should he go down and hang about until he ran into her? In the end he did neither. He did not dare write for fear she send a telegram saying she did not want him to see him, he could not risk hanging about in case he wasted some of his precious week-end. He arrived at “The Dragon” at midday on Saturday and had not been in the place five minutes before he was shyly approaching the landlord with a note. Could he have it sent to the bungalow?

  Breakfast had been worse than Myra had dreaded. Connie and nurse had tried so terribly hard and were so formidably gay. There were quite a lot of parcels by post, from her grandparents, from friends, from cook and Bertha, there were presents from Connie and Miriam and nurse, but as well there were what Connie called “just an extra present” or “I saw it and thought it was what you would like,” these were palpable attempts to copy her parents’ and Uncle John’s taste. Myra fought hard to be nice, but, conscious of over eager, over hopeful eyes on her, all she could achieve was casual thanks. Miserable with herself and conscious of having hurt and disappointed, she took Fortesque out for an immense walk; it did not do her much good but she returned in a slightly better frame of mind to be greeted by Andrew’s note. Andrew! Her spirits soared. She did not bother how interested Connie and nurse might be, but called out with a gaiety nobody had heard from her for weeks:

  “It’s Andrew Carrol. I shall ask him to lunch.” The telephone had been installed for nurse; in two minutes Andrew, quivering with happiness, was on the end of the line hearing Myra say, “How absolutely heavenly! You being here is the nicest birthday present I could have. Come along as quickly as you can.”

  It was no wonder that Connie and nurse, exchanging delighted glances, or Andrew, running into the bar and asking the way from the amused landlord, were all hopelessly deceived.

  Andrew throve on appreciation. He had been on good terms with Myra in London, especially at the time when he was helping her over Uncle John, but it had been only good terms, and there had always been the rather discouraging knowledge that his place in her life was to walk with her and give her tea and that her evenings were spent dancing with other men. Never once had there been a hint of sentiment between them. He had dreamed of kissing her, and of holding her hands. His plays were full of love scenes, every line of the men’s part being the things he wanted to say to her, but he knew himself for a feeble, stammering creature, he thought it simply marvellous that someone like Myra would even walk with him, outside his dreams he had not really hoped that she would ever care for him.

  Lunch was the gayest meal. Andrew’s coming lifted Myra’s feelings of being trapped. He was from outside, he was not part of the bungalow, he was London, and yet nothing to do with Aunt Lilian; he was, of course, to do with Uncle John, but he seemed to have forgotten that, for he never mentioned it. At lunch they had a “do you remember?” sparring match; they made their expeditions together sound gay and amusing, little things that Fortesque had done sounded funny as they repeated them. Andrew, intoxicated at the nearness and the changedness of Myra, became quite unlike himself, he scarcely stammered at all, so emboldened was he by all this and nurse’s and Connie’s shining approving eyes, that the close of lunch he announced fearlessly that Myra must come back to “The Dragon” with him and fetch her birthday present. Nurse and Connie stood in the garden and watched the two with Fortesque beside them go laughing down the road.

  “Well,” said nurse, “I knew she was acting up, of course, but I never thought of Mr. Right being the trouble.”

  Connie beamed.

  “I ‘felt’ there was something; I told you Myra wasn’t being a bit herself.”

  Nurse got on her bicycle and pedalled to a case. Connie went into the sitting-room and helped Miriam clear the table.

  “You saw quite a lot of Mr. Carrol in London, I suppose?”

  “Not to see him so much. Miss Myra talked of him often, though.”

  “But he came to the house?”

  Miriam liked Connie, but she had learnt her attitude to her from cook and Bertha. She was “staff” like herself, it was not for her to know everything. She was not to know, for instance, that Miss Myra had gone out with him when she was supposed to be out with her, and how she and Miss Skinner had sat and sewed with the door shut. Nor how Miss Skinner had said that it would be just like Mrs. Enden to stop Miss Myra knowing a nice boy like that out of spite. Nor how, when she had said that it seemed a pity that Miss Myra wasn’t dancing with him of an evening, Miss Skinner had said in her awful tone of voice, “You can’t mix fresh water and foul in the same basin, Miriam.” And there was something else Miss Fogetty must not know. Think what she liked about the pleased way Miss Myra had called out “Andrew!” or the words she had used to him on the telephone, Miss Myra did not care a snap of her fingers for him. Back in the days in London when, for all they had been so queer, Miss Myra had been lovely, so full of talk and telling her everything, she talked of Mr. Carrol so openly and as easily as if he had been a brother, and when you did that you weren’t falling in love. Miss Fogetty wouldn’t know that, of course, poor thing, how should she, but she knew. So all she answered was:

  “Mostly at the week-ends. He worked all the week, Miss Myra said.”

  Connie looked at Miriam’s closed-up face, and saw the way she tried to appear busier than she was, and she felt sad because she liked Miriam. “Jealous, poor dear!” Dreadful even if you had lost a George to grudge other young things happiness.

  Fortesque’s outfit was a tremendous success. It was put on him in the parlour at “The Dragon” with the landlord and his wife as audience.

  “Look at the brown silk angel! Doesn’t he look a lamb! Is it a real gold buckle?”

  “Only rolled, I’m afraid.”

  Myra hugged Fortesque.

  “Dressed like a king, the blessed boy, and very proper too! If only he didn’t hate it so, poor pet, I’d take him for a walk on the lead. Don’t you think he looks lovely in green, Mrs. Martin?”

  The landlady agreed and she and the landlord watched Myra and Andrew and Fortesque up the road. Then the landlady chuckled.

  “They’ll be making a match of it, shouldn’t wonder.”

  The landlord winked and nudged.

  “Gold on a dog! Gor’ dammy!”

  Andrew, having found his way down once found his way down again, and by his third visit Myra knew he was going to ask her to marry him. She had known it with a part of her mind since his first visit, and if she had not, the jokes of nurse and the village would have told her, but Miriam quietly stated the facts. It was hard for anyone to talk alone to one of the others in the bungalow, but Connie had gone on the omnibus into the town and nurse was on her round and the woma
n who cooked had not arrived, so Miriam snatched at her chance.

  “Mr. Carrol is in love with you, Miss Myra. He’ll be popping the question. Have you got the answer?”

  Myra had enjoyed the jokes about Andrew. It was nice to have people fond of you, it was nice his coming down, but marry! Because she did not know the answer and because it was not Miriam’s way to bully she was cross.

  “Well, if he is, what’s it got to do with you?”

  Miriam was unperturbed.

  “Everything, Miss Myra dear. I don’t want you making a mistake.”

  Miriam, although it was unlike her to interfere, sounded like her old self. Myra slipped back to the easy terms of the days before they came to the bungalow. They were in the kitchen, Miriam polishing a pair of Myra’s riding boots. The glow of the stove, and the spluttering of something in a saucepan lent itself to a friendly talk. Myra sat on the table.

  “How do you know when you’re in love?”

  “You just do. It comes over you in a kind of rush, like flushing; one minute it isn’t there and the next, there you are like a tomato!”

  Myra scratched some flour out of a crack in the table.

  “What comes over you? D’you feel different?”