Myra Carrol Read online

  “Aunty says she thinks I should have blue for my costume. We’re going to look at stuff on our next half day. She wants to buy it right out but I’d rather bring the patterns back so that you can choose.”

  Myra’s bedroom window had a wide sill, and on it stood, in their different seasons, caterpillars in muslin-covered boxes; hyacinth bulbs growing in water, their long roots showing like white worms through green or purple glass; a red clay head on which grass seed was growing to represent rather disgusting hair; chestnut buds; a baby fir dressed up as a Christmas tree; dormice, silkworms and other temporary pets. She usually attended to these things during the bed-making but not to the exclusion of what Miriam was saying. Her real and violent interest in the affairs of others was part of her.

  “Do bring the patterns back or you’ll get an awful blue and look terrible, and then George will stop keeping company with you.”

  Miriam blushed. George, the under-gardener, had worked on the place since he left school. He was seventeen when Miriam came to the house, a shy undeveloped boy, and Miriam was not one at first acquaintance to stir the pulse and hurry developments. Her sallow face under neat sandy hair often passed in front of his eyes when he was working, and all there was between them was a humble shy smile from her, and a jerk of his head in acknowledgment. Then, in the spring of the year when Miriam was seventeen, George found himself looking for a sight of her. At first, puzzled at himself, he tried to shake off his foolishness as he would a cold. It was not to be. She was always in his mind, in her paleness and soft way of going about as if, should she make too great a show herself she was bound to be hurt, she made him think of his plants. The plants needed watching and guarding, and so, he reckoned, did she. He was scared so that his breath came in puffs as he stopped her in the kitchen garden and asked if on her next half-day she would walk with him in the evening.

  George’s devotion did something to Miriam. The loneliness of her childhood had gone in serving and loving Myra. The knowledge that she was an inferior creature had eaten into her so deeply that it was there for life, but she could no longer feel unwanted. George’s face, every time he saw her, killed that. She still thought it queer anyone should want her that badly, she knew there must be something odd about George that he should want her, for no one else would, that was sure. George was shy and not one for a lot of words, but the few he did say left no doubt about his love, it pressed through his small vocabulary like the first green shoots forcing through a winter-dried bed. Gratitude was what Miriam first felt, and then came the time when she felt queer and had to blush when he was spoken of.

  “George isn’t one to take much account of what a person wears, nor it isn’t much good for, as Aunty says, I’m not one as it pays to take trouble over.”

  Though she was completely satisfied with the entire work, Miriam was an extra important thread in the tapestry of Myra’s background.

  “I like you exactly as you are; I wouldn’t have a single bit of you changed, and I expect George thinks the same.”

  Miriam’s eyes filled with tears. Myra had thrown off the words casually but she knew they were sincere.

  “If it weren’t for his being under-gardener here I wouldn’t marry him. I wouldn’t go away from you.”

  “That would be awful. Of course you couldn’t and I’d simply hate it if you did.”

  Over the bed-making, schemes were hatched. Miriam was contented to let things be, to drift along, but not Myra.

  “Did George say anything about the wedding yesterday?”

  “Oh, no, Miss Myra, I told you not to think of it. Why, he’s only just started being steady like.”

  Myra bounced to express the violence of her feelings.

  “You and George have been walking out for simply ages. If you’d get married I could come to tea every day.”

  “Where’d you come? If we were to marry it ‘uld mean sharing the cottage with his people.”

  “How can you be so silly! Married people don’t share cottages. When you marry you have a cottage of your own.”

  “Where?”

  Myra flung round and stared at Miriam.

  “Just a cottage. Any cottage.”

  “There’s isn’t a cottage empty. George has to live near the garden.”

  “He ought to have the one Andrews is in. Andrews doesn’t need that whole cottage for himself. A car doesn’t need looking after all the time like a garden.”

  “Mr. Andrews hasn’t only the car to do. There’s your pony, and the stoking of the boiler and all that.”

  “But he isn’t married, he doesn’t want it all. One room would do for him.”

  “It’s part of his wages, and your father put him in. It’s a nice cottage, it would be acting silly to give it up.”

  Connie, trusting and guileless, would say sometimes: “Drawers tidy, dear?” or “You do turn your mattress, don’t you?” and Myra, so accustomed had she become to her routine, would answer firmly, quite unconscious she was lying, “Yes, Foggy.” “Of course, Foggy.”

  Although there were neighbours who helped make up the pattern of her life, children she met at dancing and gymnasium classes or at the Pony Club, it was the permanents inside her home who absorbed Myra. She was never intimate with those outside. The parents and guardians of other children, though admiring, were a little scared of her independent spirit. “I didn’t go because I didn’t want to” was a dangerous phrase to sneak into the schoolroom. Her beauty too was against her. It set her apart in the grown-up minds from their own children. Myra, by just existing in the neighbourhood, presented such a ludicrously high standard of what a face could look like. In fact, remarks about the faces of other children were always qualified. “My Joan’s getting quite pretty, don’t you think? Not, of course, in the Myra standard, but much better looking than she was a year ago.” Of course a few parents consoled themselves by saying, “Yes, Myra is lovely, but it’s rather too much of a good thing, if you understand me.” Her neighbours understood only too well what pricks of envy felt like, and made soothing clicks with their tongues, or simply smiled. Myra was liked by other children, but she did not need them and they felt this. There was always said, before anything was planned, “We’ll ask Myra, but I bet she won’t come.” Myra enjoyed meeting other children, but increasingly they made her impatient. She might deceive Connie in order not to be bored, but her own disposition, together with Connie’s teachings, and a background of a house run for her with a household who existed for her pleasure and comfort, made her utterly fearless of, and often scornful of, the opinion of others. “I know we shouldn’t have ridden this way, but we have, and we’ve made a new gap in the hedge. We can’t be killed for it. I’ll go and apologise to the farmer. I’m not afraid of him.” So easy for Myra. No father and mother to talk about atrocious hunting-field manners; no possibility while she was about of saying nothing and hoping that the damage would not be noticed. It was not that Myra felt she ought to confess, but she could not believe that anybody would mind anything that she had done. She thought her doing it made it right. The maddening thing was that more often than not it did. At a party, during fooling with a balloon, an ornament got broken. The over-excited children were sobered at once. The host was bad-tempered and important and everything in the house was valuable: he gave a children’s dance every year, invitations to which were automatically accepted, and other arrangements waited for the invitations to appear. Before going to the dance most of the children were reminded by parents, nervous of their offspring’s clumsy ways, to be careful, Sir Henry had such lovely things. The offspring had no need to be reminded of their host’s temper, the majority of them had seen it on the hunting-field, and those who had not had heard awe-inspiring accounts of it from the others. “Shove the thing behind that vase,” a boy suggested. “If we just leave it where it is no one will know who did it.” “It’s perfectly true, we don’t know who did it. Might have been any
of us.” Myra looked at them scornfully. “What’s all the fuss about? I’ll go and tell him I did it. I’m not afraid of him.” With a leader the children were all willing to confess. Myra led the way and did the talking, hers was the only face Sir Henry registered. Her words were simple enough, her apologetic smile and the look in her eyes were a masterpiece. Sir Henry was won over before she had finished speaking. Over a whisky and soda he told a friend about her later. “I liked the spunk of the little thing.” He believed it, he believed he would have liked what she said equally had it come from any child, he had no idea what Myra’s smile had done to him.

  Uncle John was the one person outside her home who really mattered to Myra. She had unusually few relatives. Her father was an only child and his parents lived in France. Her mother’s father was dead and her mother lived in the Channel Islands. Uncle John was her mother’s only brother. There were fourteen years between the two and the brother looked on his sister almost as if she were a daughter. He always came to stay when Myra’s parents were at home, but, as well, he would appear now and again in between their visits. He always came unexpectedly. The telegraph boy would be seen pedalling over the bridge and the news would be shouted by someone and, no matter what the weather, Myra would dash out skipping with excitement, saying, “Uncle John’s coming! I’m certain it’s going to be from him.”

  Uncle John was a barrister. He was tall, his greying hair was fair. “Mr. Enden’s got such a good face,” cook would say. “Puts me in mind of that St. Stephen in the window of the church,” was Bertha’s opinion. He was gentle and kindly with everyone. Miriam adored him in a breathless, puppyish way. “Makes you feel you want to do something for him, he’s so pleased with any little thing you do,” she told Myra. To Connie he was wisdom walking on legs.

  Between Myra and her uncle there was real friendship. He came to Devonshire to get away from things. What things were never explained, that they were a mixture of London and work was taken for granted. When he first arrived he would be so tired that even his voice was dead, everything he said fell out of his lips as if he had not the energy to use an inflection. He always stooped, but the first days of a holiday he was bent as if he had a load on his back. He would spend his time, no matter what the weather, out of doors and wherever he went he took Fortesque with him. Fortesque gave practically all his love, and he had a lot to give, to Myra, but he gave a neatly cut slice to Uncle John, and that he gave this slice and would behave in what might appear a faithless way while Uncle John was in the house, was a clearly understood point between himself and Myra. No matter where he walked, Uncle John was always back on time at the end of lessons. He came into the schoolroom, giving Connie a smile that shone through him like the lighting of a lamp in a dark house.

  “Finished?”

  Connie nodded at Myra.

  “Run up and get your things.”

  Uncle John was always amused at the angel over Connie’s head.

  “If I were a painter I should paint you as a companion piece. You’d have just the same expression as she has. I don’t know what instrument you will play in the heavenly choir, but I think the organ. How you’ll practise for perfection, and how patiently you will try all the stops!”

  Connie was doubtful what he meant. She turned to look at the angel.

  “I’m fond of that picture.”

  “So am I, that’s why I think you would make a pleasant companion piece.”

  Connie laughed.

  “I’d look very queer as an angel. I always think of them as having a lot of hair, and being good-looking, and all that, as well, of course, as being good.”

  He gazed at her with amused affection.

  “I see we hold totally different views on the characteristics of angels.”

  Myra and Uncle John shared a love of the river. Sometimes they would fish. Myra was not much of a fisherman, but she liked wading up the river, she liked the feel of the suck of the water; out in the middle of the river she saw a hundred enchantments that she missed from the banks. It was in the middle of the river that you saw the banks’ full lovely reflection in the water. It was in the middle of the river that there were big rocks on which you could sit. She fished a bit because that was what she was carrying a rod for, but more often she merely carried the rod and slipped and splashed along, talking to herself and humming in something near a trance. It was when she sat on a rock that she remembered Uncle John, for when they were fishing the same stretch she could see him, absorbed, throwing a beautiful line, and a smile would curve her mouth. Even when she was small her feeling for him was protective; as she grew older it was maternal. She wanted to look after him and do things for him.

  Walking along the river bank, or sitting on its edge, they talked. Myra did most of the talking. Uncle John was a magnificent listener. It was usually Myra’s affairs or the affairs of the household that they talked about. Uncle John was married to Aunt Lilian. Aunt Lilian never came to Devonshire, and all Myra knew of hers he had picked up from overheard conversations when her parents were home.

  “How’s Lilian?”

  “Splendid.”

  “Gay as ever, I suppose.”

  “Rather. Never in the house. Very sought after, you know.”

  “I don’t wonder, she’s so good-looking.”

  “Yes, isn’t she.”

  “Well, give her our love.”

  “Rather.”

  That was the end of talk about Aunt Lilian. From all Myra heard of Aunt Lilian in her conversations with her Uncle there might not have been such a person.

  It was to Uncle John that Myra took her worry about Miriam.

  “It’s simply idiotic not to be able to marry because there isn’t a house.”

  “You sure that’s all that’s stopping them?”

  “Well, Miriam says he’s only just started being her steady, but it’s not true, they’ve been walking out for ages. If they married I could go to tea with her every day.”

  “I’m sure if George knew that he’d marry her to-morrow.”

  “Don’t tease.”

  “Well, it wasn’t much of a reason, was it? When Miriam marries you’ll have to get used to doing without her.”

  “I know. I’ve thought that right out. I don’t mind a bit. I’ve said to myself, you won’t be able to tell her to do things, you won’t be able to see her whenever you want to. It’s George who will come first, not you. Which means I’m not jealous. I’m glad, I’d hate to feel jealous.”

  There were a few minutes’ silence.

  “Horrible; it can ruin your life.”

  He spoke with such sadness and fervour that she looked up at him.

  “Did you know somebody whose life it did ruin?”

  “Many.”

  “But you were thinking of somebody special.”

  “Yes. It’s an illness, you know, at least it is when it gets a real hold.”

  “I hope I’ll never be jealous, I wouldn’t think I would because I’m not about Miriam. It’s lucky if I’m not because I’m black with other sins. Sometimes in the sermon I start counting them and it’s fearful what they add up to. I don’t even really honour Daddy and Mummy. I think they’re cracked always travelling about when they could live for ever in a lovely place like here. I shouldn’t think in commandment sense it’s exactly honouring when you think people are cracked, would you?”

  “I imagine bowing down to a graven image is one of your besetting sins.”

  “Is it? Now that’s one I never counted. I haven’t got a statue of a saint or anything like that.”

  “You go very near to worshipping this place.”

  She stood still.

  “But that’s not a sin. So I do Fortesque and you and Foggy.”

  He put her arm through his and drew her on.

  “Of course you do. Quite right that you should. But everybody has
not the same capacity for giving. When you love anything, or later on perhaps it will be a person, I think perhaps worship will be the right word.”

  “I can’t see me doing any bowing down.”

  “If I remember my catechism, it says, ‘bow down nor worship.’”

  Uncle John was not only a good listener, he did things as a result of listening. One visit he turned up with a roll of parchment under his arm. He took Myra into the summer-house and laid the roll on the table.

  “You’ve got to keep a secret. This is the plan for the home of Miriam and George. I’ve bought a piece of land on Foster’s long field. It’s dry and half-way between here and the village, and on a road. Look.”

  Together they pored over the architect’s design. It was a bungalow with a bathroom.

  Myra took some time to grasp it, then her imagination completed the building to the chimney.

  “It’s not a bit like anything else here. People have an upstairs and a down, and no bathroom, and the W.C. is in the garden.”

  “I know, but things aren’t always going to be like that. Why should we expect bathrooms and lavatories indoors, and take it for granted that the rest of the world don’t want them.”

  “But they don’t. The maids have a bathroom and can use it when they like, but Miriam only baths once a week, she told me so.”

  “It’s all upbringing. If you hadn’t always had a bathroom of your own, and from babyhood been bathed ever day, and in the middle of the day as well if you’ve been riding or playing games, you would think once a week heaps. Give everybody a bathroom with cheap easily run hot water and they’ll bath every day from habit. It’s ridiculous that taking baths should be a sign of breeding, but it is. Roughly it works out at a great-grandfather a bath.”

  “Then families that go back to William the Conqueror would live in the bathroom.”

  “I said very roughly. Our American cousins who have hardly any grandfathers are great bathers, but somehow, in this country, to bathe is a social distinction. To more than half the people to be a daily bather means a rich man. It’s a silly point but it’s a bar to equality and the faster all bars to equality disappear the better. Real equality can only come when nobody looks up to or down at anybody. A bathroom a home is a step in the right direction.”