It Pays to Be Good

by Noel Streatfeild

  Mouse was impressed.

  “A lady of resource, anyway. She ought to get on.”

  “Oh, she will, she’s a lovely performer. Mr. Low will live to bless the day he saw her. I’ve got all the pieces saved they wrote about her in the paper, I’ll show you after.”

  “Oh, but you needn’t, I saw her as Cupid, I was on the stage then myself. I saw her by accident one day, and after that I took a party to the Thursday matinée every week. I thought she was unbelievable.”

  Fanny sighed reminiscently as she went on with her ironing.

  “She did look a duck.”

  “What happened after the two years for the cooking diploma?”

  “Well, of course, in the end she had to pretend she’d got that—Christmas it was, just after her sixteenth birthday. I remember it well, because we had a lot of snow that year and I went up to Madame’s to ask what I should do about her, and I remember how cold I got in the tram. She said to let her come to a class whenever she could slip out, and then next year, that’s the one we’re in now, she’d try and get her a job, seein’ she’d be old enough to stand up for herself with her dad. And that’s how we carried on.” Her body sagged with exhaustion at the memory. “My, it was a year! She always out, and her dad always on at her because she wasn’t helpin’ in the house. Then, just previous to her seventeenth birthday, they had a proper flare up. It came along of me not bein’ so well, and Mr. Elk, he says sudden, I’m to lay up for a week and Floss could do the work. I’ll never forget it to me dyin’ day.”

  “What happened?”

  “Floss forgot herself completely, and said things I knew she’d be sorry for, and finished by tellin’ her dad everythin’. Well, of course, she couldn’t ’ave done worse. Made her look deceitful, and me too, and Mr. Elk being a very religious-minded man, it was that upset him more’n anything. Very quiet he was, but you could see how he felt. ‘Floss is not to go outside this house,’ he says to me. ‘Not without I say she may.’ But Floss she was equal to him. ‘All right,’ she says, ‘if you want me to stay in, I will.’ And on that she goes to bed and stops there.”

  Mouse’s face was alight with interest.

  “What did Mr. Elk do about that?”

  “‘Let her stop,’ he says, ‘she’ll come down when she gets tired of ’er own company,’ but she never did, she just lay there. She stayed in bed over three weeks, and the last two weeks of that she hardly ate a thing. ‘I’ll teach him, Mum,’ she says. In the end she looked so bad we had to bring the doctor to ’er.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, to begin with he can’t find much wrong, says she must get up, and get out in the sun, and told me to feed her up. Then Floss says in front of her dad, could she please see the doctor alone. Course her dad couldn’t refuse, and what Floss said I don’t know, but the next thing was, the doctor going into the shop and telling Mr. Elk that the girl was sufferin’ from bein’ kept from her art, the door through was open, so I heard him, beautiful it was what he said. Then he asks Mr. Elk to walk along with him a bit, and when he comes in, down he sits, puts ’is ’ead in ’is ’ands, and is like that close on half an hour. I fancy he asked for guidance, for in the end he says to me, ‘Tell ’er she can ’ave ’er way,’ and then sudden like, ‘‘Is ways aren’t our ways, Fan, we must just trust.’”

  “Did Madame Elise send her to Mr. Low’s audition?”

  “That’s right, said the experience would do her good, and maybe she’d get an understudy.”

  “Then why did she turn the job down?”

  A mixture of feelings, pride in her daughter’s daring, and fear that she might say the wrong thing, flickered across Fanny’s face. Mouse smiled at her.

  “Don’t mind telling me; I won’t give her away.”

  Fanny gave a boastful laugh.

  “May as well tell you, you’ll appreciate it. She comes home from the audition and says she has the job, and then she says, ‘But when the contract comes, I’m sending it back.’ ‘Whatever for?’ I said. ‘I don’t want any dirty old chorus job,’ she says, ‘I been a star and I mean to go on being one.’ So I said, ‘But Madame said you’d ’ave to make a fresh start.’ ‘Madame’s wrong,’ she says, ‘I saw the way Mr. Low looked at me. If I send that contract back I’ll get another, and it won’t be for the chorus.”

  Mouse was surprised, she had no idea that the Flossie she had met had such skilled guile in her. A bitch, and a foolish bitch, was how she had placed her. How wrong she had been. Foolish!

  “That girl’ll go far. She’s perfectly right, Mrs. Elk, that’s what happened. Mr. Low saw her, and naturally spotted that she was amazingly pretty, and when she sent the contract back, he sent for her as you know, and the result is there is a chance, a marvellous chance for her in about six months’ time.”

  Fanny had finished ironing, and was folding the clothes, she stopped and looked out of the window.

  “Seems silly, Miss Shane, but I knew this day was comin’. Years ago it was I first knew it, Floss was swingin’ on that gate. I can see her as if it was to-day. The teacher from the school had been worrying Mr. Elk, it was on account of Flossie’s looks—jealous, I reckon, her being like the back of a cab. After she’d gone, I looked out of that window; Floss was swingin’ on the gate, she had on a little red coat I’d made her, and a red cap, she looked a picture, and I knew then as sure as I stand here how things would be for her.”

  Mouse looked at Fanny. This interview was not a bit as she had imagined it, she felt a growing inclination not to grab Flossie for L.L. but to protect this silly little mother.

  “There’s one hitch,” she said sharply, calling Fanny back from castle-building, “her speaking voice is wrong.”

  “Her voice!” Fanny’s amazement was even greater than Flossie’s had been. “She’s always spoke so nice, the neighbours often mention it, and she’s always been to her elocution at Madame’s of a Saturday.”

  “It is wrong, though. But Mr. Low has thought of a way to get it right. He’s sending her to Miss Lynd for voice production and singing, and she’s wonderful, but that won’t be enough.” How she detested her mission, she had not realised how difficult this part of it would be. Her voice was apologetic. “He wants her to come and stay with me.”

  “Leave home! Whatever for?”

  Mouse got up and came to the table, and embarrassed Fanny by patting her hand.

  “Only just while she’s training; when she’s got the job, she can live where she likes. You see it’s important that she should be corrected all the time, not only while she’s at her classes.”

  There was a pause. Then Fanny pulled herself together.

  “Of course, that’s quite right. Me and Mr. Elk, we couldn’t help her. Just for a moment I felt upset; you see, she’s never been away from me not for a day, and she’s such a mother’s girl.”

  “She’ll come home for the week-ends. I’m usually away, so she’d have to, anyhow.”

  “And when she’s workin’ she can come back home, or maybe she’ll want us to move up West End a bit.” She looked at the door through to the shop. “Listen to me running on, but I’ve got all excited. I was forgettin’ her dad doesn’t know. I don’t know what he’ll say. Course he said she might go on the stage, but live away from home!—He’s in there,” she jerked her head to indicate George, “you go in and have a talk with him, and I’ll put on the kettle and get you a cup of tea.”

  There were no customers in the shop, so George was reading The Smallholder. He got up when Mouse came in.

  “Good afternoon.” He did not add anything about ‘What can I do for you?’ because customers never came through the house door, and Mouse did not look like his sort of customer anyway. Mouse saw there was not a chair, but there was an up-ended wooden box, so she sat on it.

  “Mr. Elk, I’m here on behalf of a theatre manager about Flossie.”
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  “Ah!” He folded The Smallholder and put it away behind the till, and faced Mouse, leaning himself against some boxes of oranges.

  “I hear you have given your consent to her going on the stage.”

  “In a manner of speaking I have.” He picked up an orange and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. “The stage, Miss, may be all right for some, but for those who know different it’s a sin. Mind you, theatrical performances are all right, I used to take Mrs. Elk when we was first married, but that don’t mean that I want a daughter of mine makin’ a show of ’erself. Maybe, born to it as some are, it’s what God intended, but it’s not what was meant for Floss.”

  “She started young. I suppose it’s become a habit with her.”

  “That’s just it. Mrs. Elk put her to it when I was away, and it was a showin’ it was wrong the way it made them both act deceitful.”

  “But you’re going to let her do it?”

  George jerked his head back towards the kitchen.

  “You been talkin’ to Mrs. Elk?” Mouse nodded. “Then she’ll ’ave told you all about the doctor and that. I’ve ’ad to give my consent, but it goes against me.”

  “Now that you have given it, I suppose you’d like her to do well, wouldn’t you?”

  George considered.

  “Yes. If a thing’s goin’ to be done, may as well be done well.”

  “There’s a chance for Flossie to step right to the top straight away.”

  George shook his head.

  “That’s all wrong. Whatever you do you ought to work up to it. Makin’ things too easy won’t help her.”

  “You’re wrong there, Mr, Elk. I know the theatre. It’s a help to get a chance right away, but it’s not all jam. Having started at the top you’ve got to stop there, and that means work, and work, and work, and never let up for a minute. It isn’t the getting there that’s difficult, it’s the stopping there.”

  There was a pause, and then George said in surprise:

  “That’s right, that is. I know with my onions. I got a piece of land I rent, Cheshunt way it is, and three years back I took a first for ’em at the show; these last two years I only got a second, this year I’ve tried a new way and I reckon I’ll take the first again.”

  Mouse laughed.

  “Taking Flossie as an onion, that’s exactly what I mean. But what I’ve come about is her training.” She looked anxiously at George, he did not look a touchy man. “Her accent’s bad.”

  “Very like,” he agreed mildly. “We’re common people.”

  She saw he had spoken quite simply, as one who preferred facts. Her heart warmed to him.

  “They think if she was away from this part of the world for a bit, she’d get it right. I’ve asked her to come and stay with me. It isn’t only the accent, I can help her in lots of ways. She’d be home for week-ends, of course, and you could come up first and see where I live. I’ll look after her, you needn’t worry.”

  “You told ’er mother what you come about?”

  “Yes.”

  “What she say?”

  “That it’s up to you.”

  He went to the corner behind the door and brought out another box, he put it down facing Mouse and tapped her knee.

  “Look here, miss, you look to me one I can talk to. I’m not thinkin’ so much of Floss, it’s Mrs. Elk. Floss wants to do this dancin’ and that and I can’t stop ’er. But the day she leaves this ’ouse she’s gone for good. Mrs. Elk doesn’t see that.”

  “I don’t see that—” Mouse began.

  George stopped her politely.

  “If you’ll excuse me, miss, you do. Do you think when she’s been living in your flat along of you that she’s comin’ back to ’er mother? No.”

  “I live very simply.”

  “Your simple isn’t our simple. What’s right for you isn’t right for us. It’s going against what’s intended. We was put down where we was meant to stay.”

  “Good gracious! That would kill all ambition.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. It’s open to all to make a success of their lives, but ’avin’ made it there’s no reason to go changin’ all your ‘abits to live like your betters. Take me, what would I do if I made a fortune?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Stop right here in the Fordham Road, and carry on same as I always done.”

  “Mrs. Elk would have something to say about that.”

  “No. She talks silly at times, very silly, but she wouldn’t want things different, except maybe some help in the ’ouse on account of ’er sufferin’ with her stomach.”

  “I wonder. I quite hope you won’t make the fortune, then you won’t be disappointed. But Flossie, you mean, is bound to move into another world.”

  “That’s right, and I wrestled in prayer a lot about it. I took my time before I said ‘Yes’ even after the doctor said she should be given her own way. I said to Mrs. Elk, ‘That’s what Doctor wants, but what does God want?’ and I prayed, and while I was prayin’ I got my answer. All of us is meant to bear burdens, and Floss was given to Mrs. Elk and me as the burden we got to bear. Mrs. Elk she don’t see it, Floss is all she’s got, and she don’t see that encouragin’ ’er with this dancin’ she’ll lose ’er. I don’t mind ’er going to live with you, miss, it’s good of you to offer. But it’s for Mrs. Elk to say. I’ll call ’er.” He opened the door. “Fan.” Fanny came in, looking anxiously at George. He nodded at Mouse. “You heard what this lady come about. Are you willin’ for Floss to live away?”

  Fanny nodded.

  “It’s only middle weeks, she’ll be home weekends.”

  “At first she will, but you mark my words, it’s the beginnin’ of the end; the day she leaves here, she leaves for good.”

  “You old silly.” Fanny smiling, turned to Mouse. “Listen to him, he doesn’t know much about girls. Floss’ll always want her mum.”

  George shrugged his shoulders hopelessly.

  “You’re willin’ then she shall go and stay with this lady?”

  “If it’s for the best I am.” She turned to Mouse. “If you’ll come in, miss, I’ve a cup of tea ready for you.”

  CHAPTER X

  Myra Lynd was born Myra Smith, in a caravan attached to a small circus. Her gipsy father, Rube Smith, who combined the jobs of first tent hand and drum player, had cut himself off from his own people when he had married a gajo. Her mother, a disheartened creature, was the daughter of a small farmer who had lost all her background by her marriage. When she was not having a baby she did odd jobs, taking the door money, and selling photographs. There were innumerable small Smiths, combining in various ways the flaxen hair and china-blue eyes of their mother and the swarthy colouring of their father. Myra, called after the bareback rider who had acted as midwife at her birth, was entirely gipsy outwardly, but inwardly had much in her of her mother’s family. Somehow she possessed a love of decency, law, and order, she disliked the filth and squalor in which they lived, she knew there were better things somewhere, and she meant to find them. Habit might have blunted her sensibilities, but fate helped her, she developed a singing voice. Her talent was soon discovered by the circus people, always on the look-out for means of making the children profitable, and they did their best to ruin any chances her voice might have had, by putting her into the ring at the age of eight to yell ballads over the blare of the small, but very noisy, band. However, just before her ninth birthday the circus came to Cornwall and played for a night near an artist community. The artists, bored by bad weather which had stopped them working, came in a body bringing with them such guests as they had staying at the time. Among the guests was Gerald Lynd. Gerald had inherited a fortune from an energetic grandfather, it had been made in rubies and then invested over half Europe. He had no particular interest in rubies, so made no effort to find any more, but instead spent the money
on music which he loved. He heard Myra sing, and without a word to his party went to the back of the circus, and learning that her father was the man with the drum, waited until he was free and made an offer of fifty pounds for her. He did not mention her voice, and heaven alone knows for what purpose her parents supposed they were selling her when later the same evening they agreed to part with her outright for a hundred pounds cash. Naturally Gerald had not that much money on him, but he raised it by loans from the community, and a cheque cashed at the public-house, and early the next morning the circus and all her family moved out of Myra’s life for ever. She watched them depart from the window of an attic bedroom in the house of one of the artists, and as the last wagon lurched out of sight she gave a sharp sigh of happiness. She remained that summer with the artists, and when she was not being used as a model, spent her time in the sea, and she filled out a little, and became even browner than usual, and very merry. When the winter came Gerald took her up to his house in Mount Street, and got her a governess, and himself gave her lessons in the theory of music. She was not allowed to sing a note. She proved quick and receptive, and she was a hard worker, for she was conscious from the beginning that the continuation of this glorious change in her fortunes depended on her voice. Gerald never grew fond of her as a person, but devoted to her from a musician’s angle. He grew ambitious for her. “I must take Myra to Germany,” he said to his friend Cyril who was acting as his secretary. “Could you bear to live in Germany for a bit?” Cyril could bear to live anywhere where he lived free, so later the three of them made their headquarters in Leipzig where Myra had a German governess and was allowed to speak only her language, and from where, every week or two, they motored to other towns for the opera or a concert which she had to criticise with intelligence, in German. A year later they moved to Paris. “That’s enough of Germany for a bit,” Gerald said. “Myra will come back later to study. It’s time she spoke French.” They stayed in France two years, and Myra had a French governess and life was exactly as it had been in Germany except that she spoke nothing but French except on Sundays when she spoke only German. Paris is not a place in which you can live without being seen, and Myra by now being thirteen, Gerald’s friends came back to England and talked. “I saw Gerald in Paris with that little girl he’s adopted. Extraordinary ménage!” “Something ought to be done about that child Gerald’s got hold of; most unsuitable!” “Well, she’s safe enough with those two!” “Safe! But what ideas is she picking up?” The gossip grew and finally reached the ears of Gerald’s aunt. Up to that moment all that needed excusing about Gerald had been excused on the ground that he was a musician. “Artists always are queer.” But the aunt thought this last talk a bit much. Little girls indeed! She wrote a tactful letter suggesting that a girl of fourteen would be better in a school. Gerald replied that Myra was thirteen, not fourteen, and that he was educating her too divinely. However, he was tired of Paris and wanted to reopen his London house, and above all he was sick to death of Cyril and needed an excuse to shake him off, so he packed Myra off to a convent outside Milan, stipulating that she still keep up her French and German, and he gave Cyril a nice lump sum as a parting present, and took a new secretary called Tony. Cyril cried a good deal, otherwise everybody was pleased. At sixteen Myra went back to Germany and started her training; she had an unusual-shaped throat, and it produced a magnificent contralto voice which in smooth passages made you think of cream coming out of a churn. When she had been training for a year, Gerald came over to hear her, and was moved to tears, and went home and made a will leaving her all his personal money; the bulk of the ruby fortune was entailed, or he would have left her that too. Two years later she made her first appearance in England: it was at a party given by immensely rich and influential musical Jews. She left the audience gasping, Gerald had not prepared them for how beautiful the voice was, he thought it better that there should be an element of surprise. The excitement was greater than he had hoped, his hand was nearly wrung off, his shoulders sore from pats, and he and Felix, who had replaced Tony as his secretary, took Myra home in triumph, and they had a little party when they got in, and lived again every moment of the evening, the expression on so-and-so’s face, the jealousy of somebody else, then they drank Myra’s health and kissed her hands and packed her off to bed. That was July, and Gerald said that Myra must have a holiday until September and that she should choose how it should be spent. Her choice was the Mediterranean. Gerald groaned. It would, he said, be terribly hot; still, she should have her way, he’d charter a small yacht and since they were going to be in the Mediterranean they would have a look at Greece as she should be Felix’s spiritual home. Ashore for the day at Samos, they all caught diphtheria. They lay in their cabins supposing at first they had Mediterranean throats, and by the time Gerald’s man, who was acting nurse, realised they had something worse and sent ashore for a doctor, Felix was dead, Gerald dying, and only Myra with her sturdy gipsy blood could be saved. She and three members of the crew who had caught the disease, were rushed ashore to the isolation hospital, where, just in time, they operated on Myra’s throat. In operating they ruined her vocal chords. It was Gerald’s aunt who came to her rescue. Not only did she fetch the girl back from Greece, but showed her how to make the best of what was left of her voice. Her unfailing flair for things social told her that Myra should make the most of her gipsy stock, dress in exaggerated colours, and hang herself with beads. Then, too, she should take Gerald’s name, just now the tragedy was fresh in people’s memories; later, without the constant reminder, they might forget who she was. “Now, my dear,” she said, “you are a figure of interest in musical London, snatch at your opportunity, let it be known you will, at a price, take pupils.” The result was greater than could be hoped. Myra made no effort to catch the real singer, but fixed her eye on those who wished to shine in musical comedy. In time she held a remarkable position, she discovered in herself a real flair for teaching and still more a real flair for spreading helpful gossip in the right quarters. Bizarre, racy, amusing, and very knowledgeable, she was a great figure in London.