Myra Carrol Page 20

  Myra could have added, “and you have a roomy house. You could easily have given us one of the smaller rooms as a dressing-room,” but it was one of those statements that could never be made. Even if she could have brought herself to make it there was danger in it. Lady Carrol was not the sort to hold her tongue if she thought the occasion ripe for unloosing it. Besides, she could never say a thing like that with all the implications that lay behind it. She and Andrew were still good friends, things were not as bad as asking if he could have a room to himself would sound.

  Myra’s hordes of friends, who saw her as somebody so glittering and successful that she was afraid of nothing, would have found her outlook about the double bed unbelievable. They could have imagined her being funny about it, or making a row about it, but they could not have imagined that it made her shy. Yet that was how it was. When she had time to think of it, she was ashamed of her treatment of Andrew. He was nice, he was a friend, and he was much too vulnerable and easily hurt for anyone to be unkind to him. Yet that was what she had been. She had not meant to be; in spite of Miriam she had thought liking a person was enough for marriage. She still felt it was, and still had days when she thanked her stars that she was free from fear. It was true John and Jane had only to have a cold for her teeth to chatter, but even they, through no fault of her own, had not that place in her life they might so easily have had. As for Andrew, she was entirely free of him, if anything happened to him she would be sorry but that was all. He was not tearing at her as her home had done when she was a child. He was not able to send her mad as Aunt Lilian had Uncle John. Her feeling for him was not in the same world as that between her father and mother, so that even as a child she had known what it would mean if her mother had to go on alone. No, of course it was better not to care too much; she knew it with every fibre of her, but that did not let her out in her treatment of Andrew. He was such a lamb and she had hurt him. If he put up with their being shoved together in the spare room, then she would give him an angelic Christmas. It was not much to do; anybody could if they tried.

  Myra was out by intention when Andrew came in from his office. The maid had unpacked and laid out their things: his dinner jacket, Myra’s frock. Myra had a nightdress-case made like a baby lion; it curled over the hump that was both their pillows. He went round the room for signs of how Myra had reacted. There were no signs anyway that she was angry. If she had refused to share the bed, there would merely have been a message or hurriedly scrawled note saying she was away. He opened a drawer in the tallboy. It was full of small objects such as handkerchief sachets. She had evidently snatched at a handkerchief before she went out, for a sachet was open. It was a quilted thing fastened like an envelope. In it he saw the glint of gold. He wondered idly what it was and put in his hand. The label off the lead he had given Fortesque! He saw again the parlour at “The Dragon” and Martin and his wife laughing, and Martin saying, “Gold on a dog! Gor’ dammy!” Myra had said, “Dressed like a king, the blessed boy!” How perfect she had been! She was still perfect, of course, but different. She was gayer than ever, but it was not the same sort of gayness she had then. Somehow these days, however much she laughed, he was never sure she was happy. Why should she be, married to a dud like himself? If only he could get a play on for a proper run it would make a difference. It was no joke for a girl like Myra to be married to a failure. Of course, he was doing his best, no one could say he wasn’t. He knew he cut no ice with her friends and he let her go her own way, only going with her when she asked him. He looked again at the bed. He had done his best about that, too, though God knows it had been hard, but he couldn’t face her aversion to him: that was too much. To see her avoid him, pottering round, talking about a hundred things that did not matter. Still, she could be sweet sometimes; she had been marvellous. What a thing if they could start again.

  When Myra came in he was still fingering Fortesque’s label.

  “Hallo!” she said. She came over to him and saw what he held. “That was about the nicest present I ever had.”

  She had never spoken of Fortesque so neither had he. Now he ventured.

  “I was thinking, I suppose you wouldn’t like a puppy for Christmas?”

  She considered.

  “What sort?”

  “I rather like a wire-haired.”

  “With a square nose and fur boots.” She took the label from him. “I couldn’t have him here.”

  “Mother likes dogs.”

  “I know, but a puppy who isn’t trained is a bit much.”

  “Or there’re poodles. I saw a miniature poodle puppy out yesterday.

  Myra thought of poodles.

  “No bigger than a smut.”

  “Not much.”

  The poodle held Myra’s thoughts. Black, lovable and ridiculous. She balanced the label on her finger and it fell on the carpet. As she picked it up she saw Fortesque, eager, wagging all over in excitement. He had been such a large part of her life, even in Devonshire, where she had so much; what a place a new little dog would take now when she had so much less! She looked up at Andrew and shook her head.

  “I’d adore one, but I’d rather not. Buy one for the nursery, I’ll share him; I don’t want another all my own.” She looked at her watch. “Goodness! See the time! We’ll be late for dinner. You know how your mother hates that.”

  Andrew fumbled with his tie. It was only a gesture. He was not going to be the one to start seeming at home. Myra, seeing he looked awkward, laughed but put her arm through his, which made the laugh a companionable affair.

  “Your mother believes in connubial bliss.”

  Andrew dare not say anything for fear of using the wrong words, but he squeezed her arm and she heard him whistling in the bathroom.

  Myra considered Nella Andrew’s baby. That funny old expression, “Give your husband a child” was literally true in Nella’s case. She felt she had been mean to Andrew; she had tried again to see if she could do better and Nella had been the result. So much did she think of Nella in this light that it was she who had suggested the name. “You wanted to call Jane Prunella; let’s use it for this baby instead.”

  Lady Carrol, when she came to visit, clearly felt she too had her share in the child, “And I suppose that’s fair,” thought Myra. “But for her I dare say there wouldn’t be a Nella.”

  “Such a lovely child,” Lady Carrol boomed approvingly. “I had hoped she would be a boy, but still, there’s plenty of time.”

  “Is there Hell!” thought Myra. She knew Nella was her last baby. Trying was not enough in marriage, at least it was not enough when she did the trying. She could no longer pretend even either to herself or to Andrew. Christmas had been a partial success, but it had been bought at a cost. Towards the end of the three weeks they had stayed with his parents she was being nice deliberately; that anything else was putting on an act was accepted by them both. Lying in bed recovering from Nella’s arrival, Myra tried to force her conscience into quiescence with, “I’ve not been so bad; I’ve had three children and that’s more than some people can say,” but it was not possible. There was a look on Andrew’s face that was reminiscent of Uncle John, and a thought that wandered out from that which took a lot of suppressing. Was there any likeness between herself and Aunt Lilian? Even on the edge of that thought she had to protest violently with herself. Of course not. What rubbish! There were no Brians in her life. Connie’s training was not helpful, it kept forcing her mind towards the truth. No Brians it was true, but there was quite a lot of accumulated time which she could wish had been spent in any other way than how it had been. She had been half-way to so much for little better reason than to be amused. “It’s no good being sentimental and sloppy about it all,” she told herself. “You are not making Andrew happy by pretending that you are. He’s got the children, especially Prunella.” She turned her mind to the world outside. Now that she was all right again it made her heart beat fa
ster to think of it. The eyes, the whispers, the paint brushes, the cameras, the dress designers, and perhaps the film producers, for that was in the air, who waited for her reappearance. “Isn’t she lovely! Isn’t she lovely!” You could not have everything in this world, and to be beautiful and so heart-free that you were afraid for nobody were not such bad pickings.

  The nurse, coming in with yet another armload of gifts, found Myra lying back against her pillows with a smile on her face.

  “You look pleased. Nice thoughts?”

  Myra’s smile broadened.

  “I had a governess who ‘felt’ all sorts of things about clear thinking and being free.”

  The nurse looked round for a space in which she could put some more flowers. She pushed a bowl of orchids aside.

  “You can only be free with money in the bank.”

  “Foggy, that was my governess, didn’t think that. Nor did she think of being free the way I do. That’s why I was smiling. It’s funny to think how one person can push ideas into another and how they come out quite a different shape. She’s with an old lady now, being companion. It must be funny to her to have nobody to teach.”

  “Being a companion wouldn’t be funny. I’ve seen some of them, poor things.”

  “Foggy’s happy. She has a contented disposition. She writes often.”

  “Has she seen the children?”

  Myra pleated her sheet. In the short scrappy letters she had sent Foggy she had made everything sound all right. Anyway there was absolutely no place for her here, even on a visit. She would talk to cook, and Bertha, and Miriam, and though nobody would mean to say anything they shouldn’t, she would learn that the life about which she read in the letters and the life Myra lived were two different things, and she would worry and be made unhappy.

  “No. I must try and arrange it.” Myra felt somehow the nurse was criticising her. “She doesn’t have to be a companion; Uncle left her some money.” She sat up and hugged her knees. “Tell me about that woman who had the triplets. You promised you would.”

  The nurse looked at her curiously.

  “Are you ever serious?”

  Myra held out her hand.

  “Give me that vase, it’s rather sweet.” She smelt the flowers. “No, thank God! I never am.”

  Myra was back in 1943. She looked with distaste at the packing case, the contents of which had set her off on such memory searching. She moved away from it with a faint shrug to that younger Myra lolling in bed. What a fool! On the whole what an unpleasant fool. She had no longer any sympathy; the Myra she had been looking at had been twenty-six, too old to drift around like that, too experienced to do many of the things that she had done. Of course, the mistake went back to the eighteen-year-old who had married Andrew; but at twenty-six she should have been more formed, she should have thought more clearly, made up her mind definitely what she wanted. Could she not realise at twenty-six that nobody can drift untouched through life the way she was doing? That something would grip her sooner or later? Myra swore out loud, and then added: “for goodness’ sake, no,” and then, as if pleading with herself, “no, no, no! Don’t think of all that. You’ve sworn to yourself you wouldn’t. You go and look for those curtains that were in the maids’ rooms. They were chintz and ought not to be wasted. Red daisies on buff, if I remember rightly.” She pressed herself against the wall and threw the light of her torch on various objects sewn into sacking. She sang, “Red daisies on a buff ground,” to “Red sails in the sunset.”

  The barn door was forced open and an icy blast blew in.

  “Who’s that?” Myra called. “For goodness sake shut that door.”

  “It’s Miriam, madam dear. I’ve brought you a cup of bovril to keep the cold out. It’s terrible in here.” Myra came out from behind the packing cases. Miriam laughed. “You ought to see yourself; your face is as black as a sweep’s.”

  Myra took the cup of bovril.

  “I’ve turned out all this. We shall never use any of it.”

  Miriam looked over Myra’s collection.

  “This old table will be useful, and the chairs. They say that utility stuff is shocking, and I suppose the fender will make a cruiser or bomb or something of the sort, but otherwise there isn’t much to show, is there, dear? Seeing the time you’ve been in here, I mean.”

  “Do you remember this angel picture?”

  Miriam examined it.

  “Out of your schoolroom, wasn’t it? I never thought much of it. Have you found the children’s rocking-horse?”

  “No. I looked when I first came in and then I forgot it.”

  “Well, it’s somewhere. Give me your torch, madam dear, and I’ll have a look. I saw it put in the van myself. I remember that horse coming to the house as well as if it was yesterday. John’s birthday it was, and Ladyship sent it, and I didn’t care for it myself for I like little children’s toys to look natural like, but John was as pleased as anything. Would call it Bella. Funny the names children give things.” She broke off and started to fumble. “Here’s something. Oh, no, that’s the settee from the drawing-room. Funny, you’d think you’d pick out a rocking-horse right away.”

  “There should be a high chair somewhere. I promised it to that nice little Mrs. Wills with the husband in the Air Force.”

  “That’s in the corner.” Miriam reappeared and picked her way across the barn. “I saw that put there myself.” There was a pause. “I can just see it. Oh, the horse too, but I can’t get through to them; shocking the way I’ve put on weight since I’ve been cooking. Aunty always said it made you fat but I never believed her, but it’s true, even on the rations. When you’ve finished your bovril, dear, if you’d give me a hand we’ll get them out, they’re behind a roll of carpet, that’ll be the lot from the stairs, and that great wardrobe trunk of yours.”

  Myra put down her cup so suddenly it clattered. She got up.

  “Don’t touch that.”

  Miriam was peering round and not heeding Myra or she would have wondered at her tone.

  “We’ll have to; can’t get the things out otherwise.” She began to pull at the roll of carpet.

  Myra, as if she were being dragged, crossed the barn. She took one end of the roll of carpet and it was laid out of the way. Then she leant her weight to shifting a crate, and there, facing her, stood a large white wardrobe trunk with wide blue and green stripes painted down it, and portions of stuck-on labels plastered on it.

  “Come on, old Bella,” said Miriam. She lifted a piece of the canvas. “Takes me right back. Oh, well, no good thinking. I’ll just put him with the other things, shall I, madam dear?”

  “Yes.”

  Miriam turned her back to the horse and pulled it behind her, holding on to one end of its rockers.

  “Nice to think, though, of all the babies who’ll enjoy it.” She came back and fetched the chair. She looked at Myra. “You look starved with the cold. Why don’t you come in now?”

  Myra shook her head.

  “No.”

  “Well, if you get a chill don’t say I didn’t warn you. You may think it’ll help the war effort to turn out all this stuff, but it won’t if we have you in bed for weeks and the doctor, who’s rushed off his feet anyway, coming every day.” Miriam dumped the canvas-shrouded high chair beside the fire-guard. “Well, I must be getting on anyway or the dinner will spoil. Nella ought to be hungry. It’s a wonder her fingers can run up and down at her practising on a morning like this.” She picked up the cup and saucer. “I’ll come across for you when it’s lunch time. You’ll never hear the bell in here.”

  Myra did not hear the barn door shut. She did not hear Miriam’s monologue. She had known that wardrobe trunk was in here. She had known where it was. She had avoided its corner. Now it confronted her, and she was weak before it. No good fighting. No good trying to sing. There it stood and, as if it could speak,
it said: “Yes, here I am. I knew you would have to look at me in the end. You can’t run away for ever.”

  John was nine, Jane seven and Prunella would be four next month. Myra would be thirty in the spring. Lady Carrol considered these ages and decided on one last effort to force Myra to take her proper place in the home. Strain her ears as she would she could hear of no one person with whom Myra’s name was linked, but she heard other things. There was apparently no thought of a separation between Myra and Andrew, however unsatisfactory Myra might be, Andrew never admitted it, and seemed contented to go on sharing a roof with her, and that being so it was necessary she should behave herself. Some day (Lady Carrol, knowing how strong she felt herself and seeing no sign of the encroachments of old age on her husband, hoped it was a very distant some day), nevertheless some day, however little she deserved it, Myra would be Lady Carrol. It was not, her mother-in-law felt, asking much that she should consider this and remember that a bad reputation once made stays, and that even in old age it makes the name of the bad reputation gatherer unsuited to the patrons’ lists of the religious and more old-fashioned charities. Sitting on committees and forming part of the list of patrons was, Lady Carrol considered, a duty and privilege of peeresses; moreover, as one got on it became an interest. Myra, with all that was said about her gathering in volume, was already crossing the future Lady Carrol’s name off certain lists, especially those which dealt with enlightening the heathen. Lady Carrol’s own family had been great supporters of foreign missions and she considered Myra’s future exclusion from their councils a tragedy. The effort she would make this August was not planned at bringing Myra and Andrew together; she had long ago accepted there would be no more family. It was directed at getting Myra away from her friends so that she could, with some detachment, review her life and possibly reform it. There were stories of bottle parties, and drugs, and of close friendship with degenerates of both sexes. She had gradually cut adrift from friends of Andrew’s and her own and, now mixed entirely, as far as her mother-in-law could make out, with the immensely rich whose surname matched the advertisements on the hoardings, the queer clever type, the undomesticated and more garish of the artistic world, and as an outer ring there were all manner of hangers-on, people who lived on the inner ring—photographers, dressmakers, columnists, golf professionals, interior decorators. The inner ring paid, the outer ring decorated and embellished, but both rings talked the same language, and contrived an impression that here was culture. Up to a point Lady Carrol was deceived by the contriving; she lumped Myra’s world together as “very clever” without understanding one half that went on. She knew that this cleverness covered what to her was nothing more nor less than a cesspool, nevertheless she called it cleverness. She had sufficient perspicacity to doubt if Myra really understood half of what was going on round her. She had never got over thinking her a pretty little idiot.