Myra Carrol

by Noel Streatfeild

  Myra was going to St. Jean de Luz but she had the last week in July and the first in August free; it was on these two weeks that Lady Carrol had her eye. She thought it so important that she should make this attempt to put a road block in Myra’s downward path that she gave a lot of thought and trouble to the method she used. She took a house at Sandgate and arranged that Andrew should stay with them there for his month’s holiday, and the children until John went back to school. Then, when the whole thing was fixed, she tackled Miriam and asked her how they could best persuade Myra to the house.

  “I should so like her to see something of John.”

  Miriam, as she grew older, had developed in personality. That deep well of love which she had for George was still there, and even had she been given the opportunity she could not have loved another man. She had known something perfect in their short time together; it was not to be replaced or overlaid with something less exquisite. Instead she gave all of herself to Myra’s children. Myra herself still held a great piece of her heart, but she knew that now was not the time when she was wanted. The Myra she knew had apparently vanished; this exotic, hard, smart, queer-spoken woman had nothing to do with her Myra. But Miriam knew, too, that the real Myra was not dead, and bided her time, waiting for the old friendship to return. She let Myra know she was there unchanged when she wanted her. Because of her love for the children she grieved that Myra saw so little of them. She knew that others thought it was a good thing, but that was just ignorance; it would be good for the children to see a bit more of her.

  After her talk with Lady Carrol, Miriam sat down and wrote to John. She sent him some sweets and asked him to send a nice little letter to his mother asking her if she would come to Sandgate for a bit with them. For Miriam knew that all the children, and John in particular, thought the earth of their mother, and were thrown into ecstasies by the smallest sign of her favour; she also knew that with that odd reticence combined with abnormal intuition which is part of childhood, they never spoke of this devotion to anyone.

  Myra found John’s carefully written note on the hall table when she came in at 3 a.m. the morning after a party. Because she had drunk too much she was stirred to deep emotion. She seldom brought people home with her because of waking the children, but she had two friends with her on that occasion. She read the letter out loud.

  “Dear Mummy, would you come to stay with us at Sandgate, please. I made three runs in the third eleven match yesterday love John.” She had tears in her eyes. “Isn’t that sweet! Aren’t children heavenly! I shan’t keep him waiting an instant for an answer, the blessed lamb. I shall write a letter now and you shall post it.”

  John received a letter starting “My blessed darling” which, though it did not read at all as though his mother had written it, he accepted calmly because grown-up people’s actions were always unpredictable. Myra the next morning, suffering from a hangover, wished she had never written the letter, but neither a hangover nor anything else made it possible for her to think she could let John down. She dialled Lady Carrol’s number; it would save a lot of trouble if the old cow wouldn’t have her; John would understand that if his grandmother said “no” it meant “no,” even when it was said to his mother.

  Lady Carrol succeeded in sounding cool and pleased as she expressed pleasure in Myra’s coming visit. The speedy answer to her request to Miriam reminded her once more what a treasure Miriam was, and made her wonder, not for the first time, what on earth it was in Myra that Miriam found to be devoted to, for that Miriam was devoted was beyond argument, and it was also beyond argument that Miriam would not give doglike affection to merely a lovely face.

  Andrew could not come to Sandgate until the week-end of August bank holiday, so Myra had a few days with the children without him. They were days of intense excitement for the children, and of bewilderment for Myra. The house went to the children’s heads. It was a long two-storied building on the cliff top, with a lawn in front of the house which ended with a stone parapet, which overhung a zigzag path through a rocky garden and a gate which opened directly on to the shingle. Beyond that was the sea. At high tide the sea and garden seemed to meet and then there were shouts “Come and look, Mummy, we’re an island.”

  Nannie tried to keep the children in hand, which meant away from their mother’s influence, but it was impossible. She had not got Lady Carrol to back her, for it suited Lady Carrol that Myra should be part of something approximating to home life before she had her talk with her. Being a part, even a temporary part of home life might soften her, and at least it would make her understand what she was being talked to about. Nannie also had the holiday mood, and the house to fight. A house with its own gate straight on to a beach suggests entirely abnormal living; even Nella did not need to be given permission to go out and play. There were restrictions, of course; the shingle shelved sharply so there could be neither paddling nor bathing without a grown-up present, and though the children were obedient, for safety’s sake Nella might not go on the beach alone. But to Jane and Nella, unused to moving without Nannie, and to John straight from school where no move was made without direction, that gate to the beach was the quintessence of freedom.

  Myra awoke on her first morning at Sandgate feeling, which was not saying much, less jaded than she had felt for months. The sun was shining, there seemed for once no reason to lie in bed. Lucille was to join her at St. Jean de Luz, so she was away for this fortnight holidaying with her family in Normandy, and it was Miriam, who had slipped off without Nannie noticing, who drew back the curtains.

  “It’s a lovely day, madam dear.”

  Myra skipped from her bed and hung out of the window. The lawn was bordered with hardy salt-bitten rose bushes covered in what appeared against the sea background to be picture postcard roses. Myra sniffed the morning.

  “I think I’ll have a bathe.”

  Miriam had her head in a vast mahogany wardrobe.

  “Breakfast is in twenty minutes. No good starting wrong. Ladyship likes everyone down on time to meals, as well you know. What’ll you wear?”

  “White. It’s the only thing for this place. We’ll have to get my things washed before I leave or Lucille will have a migraine that can only be cured by boiling dozens of lettuce leaves and drinking them with butter and pepper, and I should think she couldn’t do any of that in an hotel.”

  Miriam took out a white linen dress.

  “John’s waiting to show you he can swim.”

  “To show me!”

  “Yes, they only swim summer terms at his school, so he’s only had this year and last; he’s just learnt to do the baths and back. Quite a distance it sounds.”

  The children were on the beach when Myra, partially covered by a bath wrap, joined them. She had a very dashing black and white bathing dress and cap. John eyed her with shy admiration, only jerking out “Hullo.” Jane always spoke her mind.

  “Ooh, Mummy, what a lovely bathing dress! Look, Nannie, doesn’t Mummy look lovely! Take off that coat and let’s see all of you.”

  Myra sat down beside Nella.

  “Good-morning, Nella.”

  Nella was, of the three children, the most like Myra in appearance. She had at that period a habit of beginning all sentences with “My dear!” She laid a hand on her mother’s knee.

  “My dear, you’ve not said good-morning to Archibald.”

  Archibald, the nursery dog, was a red setter. All the children had inherited their mother’s love of dogs, to John Archibald was God. He turned to Myra.

  “Last year at Eastbourne he simply ate and ate starfishes. He was terribly sick. Daddy said we needed you there. That you knew all about dogs.”

  Jane’s tone was brisk and dimly reproachful.

  “We washed Fortesque’s tombstone before we came away. I hope you noticed.”

  Myra shook her head.

  “I’m afraid not. It was nice of
you though, for you never knew Fortesque.”

  “My dear,” Nella corrected her, “we knew him intimately.”

  “He was golden brown, rather the colour of Archibald, only he was long and smooth.” John spoke as if repeating a story often retold.

  Nella patted Myra’s knee.

  “And when he was so ill you sat up with him all night and never went to bed not at all.”

  Jane felt the story was getting out of hand.

  “That’s the end, Nella, not the beginning. First of all he lived in a big house in London, bigger than ours, and the people there didn’t like him much, so you and Daddy used to take him for walks in the park, and coming down the stairs you held his mouth shut so he wouldn’t bark.”

  This was clearly a favourite part of the story. John went on.

  “Then one day Daddy wanted to buy you a present, so he bought Fortesque a lead. Green with almost real gold.”

  Jane wriggled forward.

  “And Mr. Martin, who lived in a place called ‘The Dragon,’ said ‘just fancy, gold for a dog!’”

  On they went through Fortesque’s history. Myra stared at the sea through her dark glasses and found herself moved and a little irritated. It was so like Andrew, loyal, faithful Andrew, to build her up to the children. There was not much he could say so he had picked out the rôle of queen dog lover. As the children reached the hyacinths Nannie broke in.

  “I think the children should bathe now.”

  Myra found bathing with her children very attractive. John, swimming beside her, panting out:

  “I’ll go first. There are simply thousands of jellyfish. I’ll swim a path through them for you.”

  Jane very hard working:

  “Is that better? Did I turn sideways properly?”

  Nella did not try at all. Her bathing consisted of being carried out a short distance in Myra’s arms, and when a space had been swept clear of jellyfish, floating, held in position on Myra’s hands. Myra loved it all, but best of all she liked Nella’s clinging arms and appealing:

  “My dear, you won’t let go, will you?”

  It was not only the bathing; all day it was the same. Shrill cries for her. Nothing the children did but she had to hear about it and share. Nannie was jealous not only for herself but for Andrew. It would not be at all nice if he came down and found the children so wrapped up in their mother they had not time for him. He was not the sort to allow his nose to get out of joint; he was so nice he didn’t know what out of joint meant; a pity, for if he were to take a look round there was more than enough to put it out of joint for good. It was a cruel time for Nannie. Even Nella was ceasing to be a baby; one of those changes loomed ahead which shadow with temporary tragedy the lives of all children’s nurses. One day the nursery is theirs, theirs the supreme rule; the next their boxes are down the stairs, and someone else is saying, “Come away from the front door, dears, there’s a draught.” The tragedy will not linger; almost at once it is overlaid by “a baby from the month,” but it is a tragedy nevertheless, and the pain is at its worst when the change is gathering to a head. The children were devoted to Nannie, but Myra was with them so seldom, she was so lovely and, like many children, they were susceptible to beauty; as well she had been given by John that especial worship which children so often bestow on the parent who neglects them. Jane was more critical. She liked people for definite qualities. She liked her mother when she taught her to swim, but she reserved judgment as to who was the better teacher until her father arrived. Nella was an affectionate little creature, she had been from the beginning the sort of baby described as cuddly; that the cuddling had all been done by others than her mother had not caused her consciously to miss anything, but when her mother was there, not dashing in and dashing out, but day after day with as much time for her children as they chose to demand, Nella scarcely left her side. Nannie, brooding on what was happening, thought “It isn’t right. Pet them up for a couple of weeks, and then off to the other end of everywhere,” or, another time, “Very nice indeed on a holiday when everybody’s well, but how would you like to nurse them when they’re ill, hold their heads over the basin, and sit up all night when you think they may be bad.” If a conference had been forced between Myra and Nannie, understanding might have been arrived at. If Nannie could have blazed out all that was in her heart Myra, appalled, might have been pricked into replying, and then Nannie would have heard that it was only fair Andrew should have something, and the children were what he had, and nobody, least of all the children, wanted her; she lived her own life and that suited everybody. Nannie must have answered that, must have told Myra how the queen dog lover was not all, how patiently Andrew had built her up into a wonderful mother; have shown her that there was a secure niche empty and waiting for her. Myra was already puzzled, already gripped by her children, and she would have known, which Nannie did not then or at any time, that if Andrew had built the niche it was designed to hold a mother and not a wife. However, naturally no such conference took place. Myra played around for what she knew was only a fortnight. Andrew would find one week of sharing the children quite enough. While Nannie, who had done such fine work for the children, brooded sullenly, wondering whether perhaps, after all, she would throw up her career. Of course, she was a children’s nurse; of course she wanted to look after babies; but ought she to think of herself? Ought she not perhaps to stay and try in her way to take the mother’s place?

  Andrew came down full of the holiday spirit, and he had the surprise of his life, for on the platform at Folkestone was Myra with Archibald on a lead and, on one side of her John, Jane on the other. It was an accident that she was there. Lady Carrol had ordered the car and was going with the children to the station when, at the last moment, there was a crisis in the kitchen; she told John to call Nannie to go in her place, to which John had replied, “wouldn’t Mummy?” “Wouldn’t Mummy indeed!” thought Lady Carrol. Mummy certainly should. John was sent flying down the garden path to the beach where Myra was sunbathing.

  “Mummy, Mummy, Granny says she can’t go to the station because of cook, and could you drive Jane and me and Archibald?”

  Myra sat up. It would strike the totally wrong note if she were the first person Andrew saw. Not for a second must he be allowed to think she had usurped his children.

  “I’m not dressed.”

  John held out her linen frock.

  “It only wants buttoning up.”

  He saw no reason why she should not come, and every reason why she should. She looked at his face and felt he merely thought she was loitering at an important moment, and not that she might not be coming. This attitude there seemed no gainsaying. She got up and buttoned her frock over her bathing dress.

  Because the party on the platform was so homely yet so unusual, Andrew was awkward to a degree. He could not think how to greet Myra. Even while the children were flinging themselves at him he was wondering if he should kiss her or not, it was such a while since he had; when the time came he was still uncertain and only said, stammering abominably:

  “Hallo! Hot, isn’t it?”

  Myra thought his greeting quite suitable; she had her mind fixed on how to put over to him as soon as possible that she was not trespassing. She nodded and smiled but what she had to say was lost in the clamour made by John and Jane. They had to tell Andrew every single thing they had done since they arrived; each statement reminded one or the other, or both, of something more; both found it necessary to speak very fast and at the top of their voices. One word rang out in each sentence. “Mummy.” Myra felt she must explain. She managed to be heard above the din.

  “I’m thankful you’ve come. Doing the heavy mother has worn me a bit thin.”

  Andrew had long ago accepted his life as it was, but it was the beginning of his holiday; he had seen the group on the platform, he was still hearing, “Mummy did . . .” “Mummy took us all . . .” “Mum
my said . . .”; against all sense a flicker of hope had arisen. He answered Myra cheerfully but his shoulders sagged. “Oh, Hell!” thought Myra. “He looks tired. He looks like Uncle John used to look when he began a holiday. I must be nice.”

  While Andrew was shaving, John came in to see him. He wandered round the room fidgeting and chattering, while Andrew, intent on what he was doing, murmured at intervals, “Yes, old man.” “Really, old man.” Suddenly John burst out:

  “I say, Daddy, does Mummy have to go abroad?”

  Andrew stopped shaving. He seldom stammered when talking to the children, but he did now.

  “She needs a change.”

  “A change from what?”

  Andrew was thankful his back was to John, for he knew his face would betray the fact that he had no idea how to answer. He pretended to be busy with his shaving, when at last he replied he stammered atrociously.

  “Everybody needs a change now and then, old man. Air, you know, and people.”

  “This is a change of air. It isn’t the same air as London. Nannie said we were going to the sea for a change of air. If it’s a change of air for us why isn’t it for Mummy?”