by Dodie Smith
The rain had stopped now and the day, though not sunny, was whitely bright. Her spirits rose. This not knowing where she was gave her a sense of adventure and freedom – and also security; for surely a person who didn’t know where she was would be particularly difficult to find? This idea was pleasant but also confusing. She even felt a little dizzy; but most cheerfully dizzy, with a tendency to giggle.
Now she was in the little town’s High Street. A glance at the roof line and the upper storeys showed her that the houses were very old, but they had all been turned into shops and most of the shops, refronted, were very modern indeed. Their contents struck her as being unusually highly coloured – such yellow loaves, such emerald vegetables, such scarlet meat! As for the clothes’ shops, they were displaying the most dazzling shades, with a preponderance of turquoise, flame and canary. Nothing looked quite real; it was like walking through a dream. No, not a dream, for her dreams were always dimly coloured. This was like walking through illustrations of nursery rhymes.
She pulled herself up. These were the thoughts of Merry. Mavis had not been heard from since she’d said, ‘All the way, thanks, dear,’ on the bus. And it was Mavis who must ask where the station was. She came back on duty by saying: ‘Stop dreaming, ducky. Shouldn’t wonder if you’re a bit light-headed. How about some breakfast?’
Not that Merry was really feeling hungry. And the only café she passed was not yet open. Better get to the station at once or she might miss some good train. She would ask her way now. There were few people about but two fat women were approaching. Mavis rehearsed her question to them. Then Merry decided they were looking at her curiously. She would speak to no one who looked at her curiously. Mavis said: ‘Oh, don’t be daft, dear. Ask the next person you see.’ Merry looked for the next person – and saw her, not in the street but in a shop window, picking up a fallen showcard. She was young and pretty, with hair just the colour Merry had hoped to achieve; and the showcard, now righted, said:
DAURENE
Hair stylist
Tinting a speciality
Without consciously making any decision, Merry found herself in the shop.
The red-haired young woman emerged backwards from the window. Mavis said: ‘Could I consult Madame Daurene, please?’
‘I’m her,’ said the young woman. ‘Just Daurene – everyone calls me that. What can I do for you, dear?’
The voice was the perfect voice for Mavis. Merry, subtly adjusting her tone, said: ‘Do you do de-tinting?’
‘Pardon, dear?’
‘Well, un-tinting.’ Merry pointed to her hair.
Daurene got it. ‘Went a bit far, didn’t you? Well, let’s have a look.’
She ushered Merry through pink plastic curtains into one of four cubicles gleaming with chromium, looking-glass and glossy pink paint. Everything looked new.
‘Only opened last week,’ said Daurene. ‘Oh, I’ve been in the trade since I was sixteen but this is my first venture on my own. Sit down, dear. Whatever did you use?’
Merry told her, adding, ‘I wanted it to look just like yours.’
‘Well, thanks, dear.’ Daurene flicked the hair about with a comb and then passed judgement. ‘You won’t get rid of this muck for at least six washes. And you’ll never get a shade like mine out of a packet. Let me give you a proper bleach and tint.’
‘That’d be permanent, wouldn’t it?’
‘Oh, definitely – except for touching up the new hair as it grows.’
‘Suppose I wanted my own colour again?’
‘You could be tinted to it, while the new hair grew – but you won’t want to be. Girls usually want to go redder and redder, or if I give them a blonde tint, they want to go blonder. None of them want to go back.’
Should she risk it, and arrive in London ready for the fray? But before deciding, she asked the times of the trains.
‘Only two good ones a day and you’ve missed the nine-twenty. The other’s not till two-thirty so you’ve lots of time. Oh, come on, dear – I’m in the mood to do you a lovely job. And I’ll style it for you, too. A windswept might suit you or an urchin. I’d rather not decide until I’ve got the colour right. Okay if I go ahead?’
‘Okay.’ Merry, looking at her reflection disgustedly, had decided almost anything would be an improvement.
‘Then that’s the last you’re going to see of yourself until I’m through,’ said Daurene, swinging Merry’s chair round so that it faced away from the looking-glass. ‘You’d be surprised how many girls lose their nerve the first time and want me to stop. They say children and fools should never see a job till it’s finished – not that I mean you’re either, dear, still … Take your coat off and put this on.’ She produced a surplice-like overall. ‘We’ll start by getting the soap out.’
A shallow metal bowl was fixed to the chair. Merry was tilted backwards so that her head rested on it. Full-length, with her feet supported by a stool, she felt as if about to be guillotined – face upwards.
She was never able to recall clearly all the stages and details of her metamorphosis: the washings and dryings, the dampings and dabbings, the strange smells … Twice, a dryer was lowered over her head and she was handed what Daurene called ‘books’, actually the floppiest of women’s magazines. At first Daurene talked willingly, prodded by questions. Merry was anxious to avoid being questioned herself as she had not yet invented reasons for arriving wherever she had arrived. She learned how Daurene had got backing for her business, ‘And I’m doing ever so well, dear – booked solid from twelve o’clock, couldn’t have taken you if I hadn’t had a cancellation. It’s quite a job, running the place single-handed. Excuse me a minute, dear.’ She dived into the shop to serve a customer, giving Merry time to decide on being a typist about to look for work in London.
Daurene, on returning and hearing this, merely said:
‘Fancy! Well, good luck, dear – and now don’t talk for a bit. I’ve got to concentrate.’ From then on, she spoke mostly to herself, giving advice and encouragement. ‘A bit more – no, don’t overdo it … That’s got it. Now we’re getting somewhere.’
At last the tinting was finished but Merry was still not allowed to see herself. ‘Not till I’ve styled you, dear,’ said Daurene, brandishing the scissors. ‘They say it takes a man to cut hair but don’t you believe it.’
The next quarter of an hour was alarming. Daurene cut, combed, flashed and clashed her scissors, to the accompaniment of remarks such as, ‘My word, you’ve got a lot to get rid of – what a mop!’ Hair flew into the air, the floor was thick with it – or rather, Merry guessed it was; she did not dare to look down, fearing that unless she kept quite still she might lose an ear. Once she ventured: ‘Surely that’s enough?’ Daurene went on cutting.
But at last she put the scissors down, combed the hair carefully and said: ‘Well, there we are – and if you don’t like it I’ll break my heart.’ She then swung the chair round to face the mirror.
Merry’s first sensation was one of utter astonishment – not at the colour, which she adored, or at the styling; she knew instantly that this ordered disorder was both fashionable and becoming. What astounded her was that she simply did not recognize herself. The face in the glass might have been that of a stranger. But how splendid – especially as the stranger was far prettier than she had ever hoped to be. And she looked years older, quite grown up. Her delight was so great that she forgot all about Mavis, and it was the voice of Merry at her youngest which exclaimed: ‘Oh, thank you, thank you! It’s marvellous – like a lovely copper cap! Oh, darling Daurene, you’re a great artist.’
She then sprang up and hugged Daurene who looked extremely astonished. Fortunately she then heard a customer in the shop, so Merry was left alone long enough to calm down and grow older.
After gazing at herself again, most blissfully, she opened her suitcase. Now she would change into the white sweater. Daurene, returning after showing the customer into the next cubicle, said: ‘My word, that suits
you! Well, here’s your little bill.’
It was a large little bill but Merry grudged not one penny of it. She even added a handsome tip – then wondered if she ought to have tipped a proprietress. Daurene obviously did not share that doubt. She just said, ‘Thanks ever so and ever so glad you’re pleased. Well, bye bye,’ and then went off to the next cubicle. The customer had brought a hairstyle cut out of a ‘book’. ‘Might do a lot for you,’ Daurene pronounced earnestly. Merry knew she was already forgotten. Her magical transformation had, for the magician, been just a run-of-the-mill morning’s work.
Now Mavis must be left behind in the hair-strewn cubicle. Merry unpinned the wilted pink rose and dropped it into the wastepaper basket. ‘But who am I now?’ she wondered, stepping out into the bright little High Street.
She had, when planning her escape, chosen the name she would use: Mary Young – Mary because it would sound to her like Merry, and Young because it seemed to her funnily suitable. But she now thought the name insufficiently dashing for her new appearance. She would be … Mary le Jeune. A charming name – but not right yet; ‘Mary’ was too meek. She could risk sticking to ‘Merry’ now that she looked so different. Yes, Merry le Jeune. And now she must invent a voice.
But could she really sustain any voice but her own? How carelessly she had forgotten to be Mavis! Safer to use her own voice and concentrate on speaking more slowly – and thinking before she spoke. Extreme calmness must be her keynote: confident calmness. And she felt calmly confident now, strolling along with her copper-capped head held high. She also felt hungry – and here was a café open. She went in.
It was a bleak little place, most unlike the glorious and dimly lit Espresso coffee bars she had visited in London. But there was a massive juke-box (to her shame, she did not know how to work it) and the girl behind the counter was obviously a teenager. One might add to one’s sparse teenage vocabulary. Merry made her way through the almost empty café, perched herself on a high stool, and remarked: ‘I guess I’m early. Not many cats around the joint yet.’
‘Haven’t got no cats – nor no joint either,’ said the teenager. ‘Only do ham sandwiches.’
Deflated, Merry ordered a couple.
While waiting for them, she sustained a shock. Staring at her from the looking-glass behind the counter was a very different girl from the one seen in Daurene’s discreetly lit cubicle. By the crude light of day the copper cap was … well, very highly burnished copper. However, it still pleased her; what did not was her face. Mavis still lingered blue of eyelid, plastered with powder and flaunting a lipstick which gave the impression that her mouth had been dyed with her hair. Abandoning teenage conversation as a dead loss, Merry hurried to the Ladies’ Room and did what she could to improve matters, which wasn’t much; a complete cleansing was needed and a new, very tactful make-up. Copper cap undoubtedly called for discretion.
The sandwiches proved to be stodgy but she wolfed them down, drank a glass of milk, paid her bill and asked the way to the station. Only ten minutes walk, she was thankful to hear – though what she was going to do for two hours she couldn’t imagine, burdened as she was with her suitcase.
The High Street was now crowded with shoppers. Wandering along, she remembered her first impression of it. How changed everything was now! The shops still looked bright but their brightness was normal; gone was that early-morning clarity of vision. For a few moments she regretted it, tried to hold it in the mind’s eye. Then she began window-shopping. There were so many things she needed as a grown-up but she didn’t dare spend any money – not after Daurene’s little bill.
It was only one o’clock when she reached the end of the High Street and came to a small, cobbled square; a market square undoubtedly, but there was no market today. She was attracted by a porticoed, eighteenth-century building, on the upper storey of which were incised the words ‘Assembly Rooms’. Inspection showed that the place was now used as Auction Rooms. A poster announcing a sale had a strip pasted over it saying ‘On View Today’. The doors stood open revealing a large collection of second-hand furniture. Well, to go in would pass the time – and one could find something to sit on.
Never could she have believed that so many hideous things could be gathered together under one roof. As well as deplorable furniture there were pictures and pottery, bundles of bedding, carpets, draperies, old gas-stoves and oil-stoves. She began to play a game; she would win it if she could find one thing she would have accepted as a gift. Absurdly – and though she knew it was absurd she felt it quite strongly – failing to win would be unlucky.
There must be something! Looking up at the gallery which tan round the room she saw a table loaded with books. Surely among so many … But it was still no good. She read title after title. Sermons, books about chemistry, mathematics, agriculture … Well, she would walk right round the gallery.
And in a corner she found it: a rosewood sofa, upholstered in faded moss-green brocade. She wouldn’t have paid for it but as a gift – yes, she could consider the game won. Gratefully, she sat down.
Still nearly an hour to waste, even if she got to the station early. She leaned back and put her feet up. This was the kind of one-ended sofa that invalids in old novels spent so much time on. How quiet this place was! She had seen only one person, a man working in an office.
Strange to think of people dancing here – poor Assembly Rooms, now filled with junk. Antique furniture was romantic; junk just depressing. But would junk turn into antiques in, say, a hundred years? No, not most of the junk here – for one thing, it wouldn’t last long enough; as well as being hideous it was badly made. But this was a pleasant little sofa. She wondered if it had belonged to people who came to dances here, girls in Jane Austen dresses, or crinolines. What would they think of her thick white sweater, her short, boldly checked skirt? Then and now … fascinating to think about.
Sliding lower on the sofa she stretched her long legs and lay looking up at the delicate mouldings of the ceillng. ‘Don’t go to sleep,’ she warned herself. No fear of that now; she had never felt more wide awake. Surprising, that, when she remembered she had only had that tiny cat-nap in the barn in – how long? She had awakened at eight o’clock yesterday morning, nearly thirty hours ago. She had got out of bed then a mousy-haired schoolgirl and now … It was kind of fate to bring her to Daurene; the morning had been more than well spent. And soon, soon – in not much more than three hours – she would be in London.
3
Night Thoughts
How dark it was … she must have forgotten to draw back the curtains before getting into bed. She reached for the switch of her bedside light, failed to find it, failed to find the bedside table, almost overbalanced—
Then it began, the rushing return of memory in a turmoil of bewilderment and fear. She sat bolt upright and swung her legs over the side of the sofa; then restrained herself, grabbing the edge of the sofa as if on a raft from which the waves of surrounding darkness might dislodge her. She must keep still, control herself, think.
Now that she was sitting up, the darkness wasn’t so absolute. She could see the pale shapes of round-topped windows, along the gallery; and at the far end, two slightly brighter windows which must look onto the lights of the market square. People would be there. She would attract their attention, break a window if necessary. She felt in her coat pocket for her torch. As her hand closed on it, a church clock began to strike.
She counted the strokes carefully – and astoundedly, as the count increased. Ten, eleven, twelve! She had slept over ten hours. She raged at herself. But there was no time for that now. Snapping the torch on, she made her way along the crowded gallery to the front windows.
The little cobbled square was entirely deserted, the shops shuttered, the windows above them dark. By the light of one of the small, old street-lamps she read a signboard on which was painted: J. Birdswell, Seedsman, Established 1760. It seemed to her that the square must have looked much the same when J. Birdswell first set up in
business except that the lights inside the old lamps were now electric – and as she noticed this, they all went out.
But surely if she screamed loud enough someone would hear? Perhaps a policeman would patrol the square. She pulled herself up. A policeman was the last person she wanted to meet. And why take it for granted she was irrevocably locked in? Surely she would be able to open some door or some window?
Should she go back to the sofa for her suitcase and handbag? No, they would hamper her. She would get them when she had found some way of escape.
Carefully, she lit herself down the staircase, the foot of which was near to the large front doors. Well, of course they were locked on the outside – she had expected this – and the tall windows that flanked them were unopenable and also barred. She threaded her way along one side of the huge room. All the windows were barred. At last she came to a door which opened. But it only admitted her to a dilapidated cloakroom. Her torch, after shining along a row of pegs, was reflected in the gilt-framed pier-glass above the fire-place. She turned the light on herself and saw her face floating in the darkness … frightening; no more of that.
Exploring further, she saw a marble-topped wash basin; also, through an open door, a mahogany-surrounded lavatory of most antiquated design – but it still worked, she was glad to find. And the cold tap of the basin obliged with a stream of water which issued from the mouth of a china lion’s head. She wondered if the water would be fit to drink and risked a little, from the palm of her hand.
Now she would go on looking for some way out, though where she would go when she got out, she couldn’t imagine. There would be some hotel but it would be dosed by now. She could bang on the door – but they might refuse to take her in. Why not stay just where she was?
Could she bear it, all the long hours of the night? ‘You will bear what you have to bear,’ she told herself sternly. ‘And serve you damn well right for falling asleep.’ Yes, of course she would stay here. She would go back to her suitcase and have a meal of biscuits and chocolate. And she would take an alarm clock with her; she had noticed several amidst a welter of old saucepans.
