Myra Carrol Read online

  It was Andrew who had suggested that she stay on a week or two with her grandparents. He seemed all of a sudden to be older.

  “You stop on and have a good time. I’ll get things straightened out in my mind by the time you come home. I’m a bit knocked endways at the moment, but I’ll straighten things out.”

  Myra, on the veranda, thought of his words, and she thought of John and Fortesque and Miriam, and wished most passionately to be at home. Instead, she re-read a note signed “Pauline” and opened her wardrobe and took out her most startling frock. An evening with that crowd would at least stop her thinking about anything else.

  Myra came home in three weeks; everybody begged her to stay; she was looking lovelier every day and was the most talked of visitor to the Riviera. She pretended that she wanted to see Fortesque, actually she wanted her baby. She had enjoyed herself in an unthinking way. Her grandparents made a pet of her, and, hoping she would come again for another visit, were delighted she should have a good time, and while she was doing things she did. It was when she awoke each morning and thought back over the day before and last night’s doings that she was in a muddle. It had seemed fun at the time but it had not been really; it was all silly somehow. Most of the friends of her own and Andrew’s age had gone home, and she was seeing a lot of Aunt Lilian’s world. She knew that those friends of her own and Andrew’s who were left disliked Aunt Lilian’s friends, and grew silent and unlike themselves with them, but this, instead of putting Myra off, somehow drove her on to see more of them. It was as if her own and Aijdrew’s friends became like the children she had known in Devonshire, all thinking and saying the same thing, and frightened of something happening just in the way years ago they had been frightened. This sort of atmosphere made Myra truculent. She would know whom she liked; what was there to be frightened of? In her spare minutes she tried to think about herself and Andrew. She had married him, and she still wanted to be married to him, only she did not want him looking sensitive and hurt every time she said something he did not like. She was sure if she tried harder everything would be all right. She would really try and be interested in his silly plays. Perhaps if she let him read them out loud to her he would forget she had laughed. Probably he had forgotten already. Anyway, even if he hadn’t, there was always John. She warmed at the thought of John. She went out and bought little things for him, and got comfort from laying her purchases on the bed and picturing him wearing them.

  As Myra travelled homeward she looked forward to her arrival more each moment. She had presents for everybody. A hat for cook, a bag for Bertha, a brooch for Miriam, even Nannie, whom she had never seen, was not forgotten, she had brought her eau-de-cologne. Myra had been the pivot of her childhood home, of vast importance to Aunt Lilian’s, the one person who mattered in the bungalow and, naturally, she came first in the Chelsea house; all her life, her comings and goings were what made the lives of others; she was unable to conceive any house to which she belonged where this was not so. She had wired to Andrew to say she was coming, but deliberately she had not said on which train; she felt it would be easier to start the new life she intended to lead with him if it did not begin by her travelling alone with him in a taxi. Much better if it began in the nursery with Fortesque and all the usual home things. Driving to Chelsea she was upborne by pleasure; it was nice to be going home, it would be fun to talk to Miriam while she unpacked, it would be fun taking her presents to the kitchen, it would be heavenly to see John, and she would be perfect to Andrew, she absolutely would.

  There was nobody about in the hall when she arrived; she had to ring the bell to get help with her suitcases. Bertha came at once. She was pleased to see Myra but it so happened that cook had that day been having a tooth out and had been sick and queer since; Bertha had a lot extra to do, and was moreover enjoying the slight fuss and hearing of cook’s dreams under gas, and the description of the abscess that had been on the root of the abstracted tooth. To cook, Bertha and Miriam, Myra was still, in their minds, Miss Myra and they all said “madam” in unreal voices.

  “Good-afternoon, madam.”

  Myra was chilled. She had somehow expected running feet and glad cries.

  “Mr. Carrol’s not back yet, I suppose.”

  “Oh, yes, madam, he is.”

  “I should have thought he would have heard the taxi. What time was he expecting me?”

  “Just said you’d come to-day. He’ll be in the nursery.” Bertha smiled. “He never hears a thing when he’s with little John.”

  With John! Myra knew she did not like to think of Andrew with John. John was her baby. Of course he was Andrew’s too, but somehow it was queer he was in the nursery.

  “Where’s Miriam? I’ve got presents for you all as soon as she’s unpacked.”

  “Miriam’s upstairs helping Nannie, and cook’s bad; she’s had a tooth out, so we’re a bit all anyhow to-day.”

  Myra felt as if someone had pricked her with a pin and she was subsiding. Nothing had been said really. Of course, if cook was not well Miriam would be helping with dinner later on, and she was meant to look after the nursery; it was all nothing, just disappointing somehow.

  She went upstairs. Something made her open the day nursery door softly. Andrew had bought a canary. The cage was hanging in the window. Andrew was standing by it with John in his arms; he was making chirping sounds to which the canary replied with a noise which would have done credit to a cinema organ. Under the cage sat Fortesque, looking up longingly at the bird. By the fire were Nannie and Miriam; Miriam had a pile of freshly washed diapers and Nannie was hanging one or two to warm on a new shining chromium guard. It was like a picture called “Interior of a Nursery”, it was placid and complete, nothing seemed missing. Myra came in. Fortesque came bounding to her as fast as his age would allow, screaming his delight; greeting Fortesque she did not see how Andrew looked. John, frightened by the noise, howled.

  Nannie saw just the sort of spoilt beauty she had imagined. Rushing into her happy, well-organised nursery, making her baby cry. She took John from Andrew.

  “There, there! Did the nasty dog frighten him?”

  Myra straightened up from patting Fortesque.

  “He’s not nasty; you mustn’t teach John that.”

  Andrew kissed Myra.

  “She doesn’t. She’s very good to him. But sudden loud noises aren’t good for babies.” He turned smiling to Nannie. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  John was quiet; Myra came over to him and held out her arms.

  “Come to mummie.”

  Nannie unwillingly passed him over; she did not approve of mothers who could pop into a nursery after being away for weeks and expect their babies to take to them right away. John seemed to agree with her. He howled again. Nannie was able to champion Andrew.

  “Give him to his father, madam; he’s always good with him.”

  Andrew avoided Myra. He was like a child who, having seen something to frighten it in a certain spot, will go to immense lengths to avoid passing that spot again. It will never speak of what it has seen, it will not even admit there is any spot it dislikes, it just tenaciously and secretly fights to keep away from it. Myra found this attitude of Andrew’s wholly incomprehensible. Though she did not love him she valued his friendship, and now their old easy relationship was gone. There were, of course, occasions when his passion for her overcame his fear of hurt, and occasionally her passion would match his, then both would believe for that short space that things were different, that they were going to be all right now. A new day showed that nothing was different, that they were drifting apart, but hope is slow at dying; Andrew loved Myra and nothing was altering that; he supposed he was an idiot to have imagined she loved him. He had never asked her in so many words, he had just taken it for granted that she did, else why marry him? He evolved a theory that she had loved him, or at least thought that
she did, until they were married, and then his clumsiness and inexperience had put her off. His inferiority complex, fostered since infancy, would have required a very great love and understanding even to lift it slightly; as things were it took deeper and deeper root, and its outward expression was, “It is simply marvellous of Myra to have married me at all. I must be grateful even for that, and keep out of her way as much as possible so as not to annoy her.”

  Myra found her life both annoying and incomprehensible. She had married Andrew and she had been rude and beastly, but she did mean to try harder and be nice in future. She wanted an ordinary home; she would even try about food and sewing; why then should everybody, not only Andrew but all the household, make her feel they could get on without her?

  She tried cook. The very morning after her return she went into the kitchen trying to look like the mistress of the house. Cook, recovered from her tooth trouble, beamed.

  “Good-morning, dear.” She held up a finger. “Just you wait!” She went into the servants’ sitting-room and came back with Myra’s gift hat stuck on her head. It looked ridiculous worn with her morning cotton and white apron, but she was delighted with it. “Proper Frenchified look, hasn’t it?”

  The hat criticised from every angle, Myra tried to get down to the day’s food, but cook knew her inadequacy and never before having seen Myra willing to struggle with food problems, she treated the entire visit as a social call.

  “I’ll see to everything, dear, don’t you worry yourself. Would you fancy a hot bun? I’ve some just coming out of my oven.”

  It was the same with Bertha. Bertha was now house-parlour maid with assistance from Miriam and a daily charlady. Myra found her cleaning the silver. Bertha, at sight of Myra what she called “on the wander,” used a familiar phrase.

  “Looking for something to do, dear?”

  Myra took up a spoon that Bertha had cleaned and played with it.

  “I was really going to ask you how things were. I mean, is Mrs. Jones a good charlady?”

  Bertha was busy and never had approved of gossip when she was working.

  “Of course she is, dear, that’s why I engaged her. Now if you want something useful to be at do give Fortesque a dose of Benbow; his breath’s been shocking lately, enough to turn you over.”

  Miriam was going through Myra’s clothes. A job like that would in the old days have meant a nice chatty hour, but in the few weeks Myra had been away Miriam had given for ever some of her heart to John. Myra burst into the bedroom and sat down on the bed with a bump, unaware that she was sitting on clothes that Miriam had already sorted, and that now sorting clothes twice meant less time for seeing what you could do to lend a hand in the nursery.

  “I do wish,” Myra said, “that people wouldn’t treat me as a child. Other wives are the person everybody depends on in their own houses; why aren’t I?”

  Myra had brought Fortesque in with her. After the manner of dachshunds he was burying himself. All he could find for the purpose was a pile of neatly folded tissue paper. Miriam, for her, sounded quite annoyed.

  “Oh, Fortesque! And I’ve just folded that. Could you move, Miss Myra, I mean, madam dear, you’re sitting on the things that didn’t need a press.”

  Myra moved, but Miriam had always, save for the bungalow period, been her friend and confidant, so she went on with her theme untroubled by her tone.

  “Cook doesn’t seem to want me to order meals, and Bertha doesn’t ask me for orders for anything. How do you get to being like her ladyship, for instance?”

  Miriam found that funny.

  “If you lived to be a hundred you never would, and, speaking plainly, a good thing too, if you ask me.”

  Myra unrolled a belt Miriam had just rolled, and played with it.

  “I don’t know. There must be some time when a person gets to be a proper married woman. Other people do. You can’t go on all your life not being.”

  Miriam took the belt from her.

  “Aren’t you taking Fortesque for a walk? He’s had very little exercise while you’ve been away and he’s a shocking shape.”

  Myra had been lounging. She stiffened and sat up.

  “Do you want me to go out?”

  Miriam looked helplessly round the cluttered bedroom; there was a great deal to do.

  “Well, dear, I’m busy and when I talk to you I don’t get on as I ought.”

  Myra got off the bed. She was horribly hurt but not for worlds would she show it; she lifted her chin and spoke in a light carefree voice.

  “I was off, anyway. I must see how my son is getting on. He was being dressed when I went up this morning. I think I’ll put him in his pram and take him for a walk.”

  Miriam used exactly the voice she had used when Myra, as a child, had tried to do something silly.

  “John’s in the garden asleep. You don’t want to push him about. Whatever for?”

  Lady Carrol had decided that Myra ought to start producing her another grandchild in roughly a year’s time; in the meanwhile, as she had no special use for her, she thought the best thing the foolish little creature could do was to enjoy herself. The season was just starting, no reason why the young couple should not have a good time. That this was the best way Myra could employ herself, was made clear to her.

  Nannie, unwittingly, for she was full of good qualities, played a leading part in upsetting the Carrol marriage. Andrew was the charming husband whom nobody valued properly, not even his own mother; and as for his wife, spoilt, conceited thing, she treated him dreadfully. He was clever too, given proper encouragement he might be a famous playwright. Nannie had her dreams; she saw herself and John in the stage box and Andrew, as he gave her the tickets, saying, “It’s you I want there, Nannie. You’re the only person who really understands me.” Nannie was a splendid nurse; she got John on wonderfully. Lady Carrol said so, and anyway it was beyond argument. Almost every day Myra had an imaginary scene in which she dismissed her, but she was prevented from even putting forward the idea to Andrew by her old fear of disaster. She pictured John ill, choking with croup perhaps, and no Nannie there to help, but she might have stifled this and fought for her rights if Fortesque had not died when he did.

  She had been home about a month when Fortesque was taken ill. It was nothing at first, a chill, but the illness developed rapidly. He was kept in his basket in the small washroom downstairs. It opened on to the garden for, to the end, he retained his one great virtue that he was a clean dog and he liked to be taken outside. Myra refused to have anyone with him at the end, though both Andrew and Miriam begged to be allowed to help. About four in the morning he got out from under his blanket, and lurched, trembling violently, towards the door. She ran to him and picked him up, and as her arms went round him he died. She put him back in his basket and sat on the floor in the corner of the room, hugging her knees and staring into space. All her life she seemed to have been waiting for this, to savour what it was like to lose what you loved. No comfort came to her; her mouth was dry, and her heart felt as if it had been hacked at with a sharp flint. Dimly a thought formed. “This must only happen once. I won’t love anything again, it hurts too much.”

  Andrew, who had not been to bed, came down about six. He was gentle and tender to admiration; he made tea and laced it with brandy and helped Myra to undress and put her to bed, then he crept down and dug a grave in the garden and dressed and went to Covent Garden and bought a box of hyacinth bulbs just coming into flower. When Myra woke everything that had belonged to Fortesque was out of sight, and the place where his body lay was a gloriously scented patch of blue. Nobody who knew her, least of all Andrew, expected a soft Myra waiting for comfort. She was extraordinarily gay and talked a lot, and went out even more than usual. But in her heart she laid away the remembrance of how kind Andrew had been.

  Jane arrived in June nineteen twenty-four. Lady Carrol was extraordinar
ily pleased and at the same time thankful. Of course a lovely little creature like Myra could hardly be kept out of sight, but while she was in sight she should have her husband beside her. Of course a boy like Andrew could never hope to be more than Myra’s husband, but that was a thoroughly well-understood position and Andrew ought to be able to occupy it quite nicely. But had he been? Naturally a mother could not be entirely in her married son’s confidence, but she had gleaned, by using her eyes, asking questions and listening to gossip, that Myra had been going about alone, and that Andrew, tiresome creature, stayed at home and wrote his plays and talked to Nannie. Not that Lady Carrol worried about the talking to Nannie part; no one could possibly think they were being even mildly silly, and what a mercy, for really she was an admirable nurse; indeed, her only fault was pandering to Andrew’s wish to romp with his son and interfere with the nursery routine. A baby of two should be always at a given place at a given moment, where, in fact, his granny could find him. With Andrew about, anything might happen. John and Nannie were rushed off to the Zoo, or the Serpentine; it was foolish and somehow effeminate of Andrew. As for Myra, she seemed to be knowing some rather queer people. Of course life had changed; the most unlikely people behaved in the oddest way and thought nothing of it. Still, it was unpleasant to be unable to pick up an illustrated paper without seeing pictures of your daughter-in-law scampering about, often half dressed. It was vulgar as well as unpleasant to see her face smirking at you from every advertisement column advertising pearls and tooth pastes, and all the rest of it. She spoke to Myra about it saying, as a gentle but equally clearly intended hint:

  “Even in these times there is a difference between being well known and being notorious, dear.”

  To which Myra replied:

  “I’ll say there is.”

  Lady Carrol would have liked to have spoken to Andrew, but she felt it better not. Andrew, so quiet and reasonable about everything else, could look what when the boys were small she had called “mulish” if anyone as much as hinted at criticism of Myra. All things considered, the news, not given her but observed, that Jane would be arriving fairly shortly was more than good.