Dark Angel

by Sally Beauman

  I think I knew there was a problem, even then, because it had been difficult to do up the dress; I had had to hold my breath, and I had seen Jenna frown. I forgot about that when I looked in the glass, because the dress was so beautiful and the girl who looked back at me was so transformed. I stood looking at this strange girl for some time; then Jenna sighed, and I began to see the things that were wrong. I was too tall and the skirt was too short; I was thin, but not thin enough for this dress, so the bodice strained across my ribs.

  “I can let it out maybe—just a little.” Jenna fingered the hem. “And look, Vicky, there’s two inches here, maybe three. I’ll let it down. Maybe your Aunt Maud wasn’t too sure of the size. But don’t you worry now, it’ll be fine this winter. Charlotte’s party—you always go to that. You’ll be able to wear it to Charlotte’s party.”

  Charlotte’s party was the one dependable event in the winter calendar. Charlotte was a small thin blond girl several years my elder, a girl I did not greatly like. She lived in a large house some fifteen miles from Winterscombe. Charlotte had parties of unimaginable luxuriance, with magicians from London and, the previous year, an ice-cream cake. Her father bought a new Rolls-Royce every year and smoked cigars, and her mother wore diamonds in the daytime. Charlotte had once come to tea at Winterscombe and had pronounced it shabby. This had hurt. I quite looked forward to wearing this astonishing dress to Charlotte’s party.

  That year, Charlotte contracted measles and her party was canceled. The amber velvet dress hung in the closet, growing smaller and smaller as the weeks passed. I tried not to eat, but whether I ate or not, I seemed to grow taller and taller. When Christmas came Jenna let it out again, and we both began to hope: Surely I would be able to wear it at Christmas? Aunt Maud was coming for Christmas. I tried it on again, on Christmas Eve; the hooks and eyes would not fasten; I went down to Christmas luncheon as I always did, in sensible Viyella.

  Aunt Maud had forgotten the dress by then, I think. On Boxing Day, I tackled her on another matter.

  “Aunt Maud,” I said, waylaying her in her room, “can you make freckles go away? Can you get rid of them?”

  Aunt Maud raised her lorgnette and inspected my face closely. “Of course you can,” she pronounced. “Fuller’s earth. It whitens the skin. I’ve used it for years. It’s unbeatable.”

  We tried. Aunt Maud took me into her bathroom and mixed up a grayish paste. She rubbed this paste over my nose and cheekbones, then sat me down in a chair and read to me from one of her novels while the paste dried. The novel was called The Crossroads of the Heart. It took place on an ocean liner. There were always what she called Good Bits in Aunt Maud’s novels, and she read me one of the best of the Good Bits, toward the end; it was a tender scene, on the stern deck, by moonlight, and it ended with a most interesting description of an embrace. If my mother had heard it, I think she might have put her foot down, but it moved Aunt Maud a great deal, so much so that she started on one of her own stories about Winterscombe and the parties there used to be there in the old days, when my American grandmother Gwen was alive.

  “I remember once,” she said, “there was a party for a comet. Halley’s comet, you know. We were all to have supper and then gather outside, to watch the comet go over….”

  I sat very still. I liked these stories but my nose was beginning to itch; I wondered if it would be rude to interrupt and mention it.

  “I wore my emeralds. Or was it my sapphires? No, the sapphires, I think, because I remember my dress was blue, and Monty—oh!” She gave a shriek. “The Fuller’s earth, Vicky! Quickly!”

  I was rushed back into the bathroom, and my face was scrubbed with Aunt Maud’s special French soap.

  “May I look now, Aunt Maud?”

  Aunt Maud was staring at my face in a dubious way; with some reluctance, she handed me a mirror. I held it close to my nose and inspected. My nose was red; my whole face was a fiery red; the freckles winked. There seemed more of them than ever.

  “I don’t think it’s quite worked, Aunt Maud,” I began, and Aunt Maud snatched the mirror away.

  “Well, of course it doesn’t work in one go! Quick-smart, just like that! Il faut souffrir pour étre belle! You must persevere, Vicky. Now, if I were to leave you a little packet, and you were to apply it every week …”

  I took the packet of Fuller’s earth. I tried it once a week for four weeks. When it was all used up and the freckles were still there, I acknowledged the truth. I loved Aunt Maud very much, but she had been wrong about three things: wrong about the dress size, wrong about the Fuller’s earth, and wrong about my possibilities. I had no possibilities. My faith in Aunt Maud, though still strong, was dented.

  Aunt Maud was one of the pillars of my life; she defined its boundaries. There were other pillars, too: There were my father and my mother; there was my godfather, Steenie’s friend the poet Wexton; there was Jenna; there were my uncles; and finally there was William, who was called the butler but who did all sorts of things around the house that other people’s butlers never seemed to do, including cleaning the boots and shoes—on which subject Charlotte (on that day she came to tea) was very scathing.

  “The butler cleans your shoes?” she said.

  It was winter, and we had just returned with muddy lace-ups from a walk in the grounds.

  “Don’t you have a bootboy?”

  “Well, Jenna cleans mine. Usually.”

  “Jenna? But she’s your nanny. She’s not even a proper nanny—Mummy said so. My nanny wears a brown uniform.”

  This worried me more than I wanted to admit. When we had tea with my mother, I could see that Charlotte did not think much of her either. I could see her eying my mother’s dress, which was the kind of plain dress she always wore on weekday afternoons, and over which she wore an elderly tweed jacket. I knew my mother’s opinions about diamonds in the daytime, and—although I was sure she must be right—I began to wish she had worn something more dashing than a single string of pearls. She did have diamonds, after all; they were kept in the bank, and every six months there would be a debate about selling them.

  I began to wish I could tell Charlotte about these diamonds and to plan how I might mention them, in a casual way, once my mother had left the room. On the other hand, I knew my mother would be ashamed of me if I did any such thing. I squirmed about in my chair and tried not to notice when Charlotte shivered and glanced toward the drafty windows.

  My mother was telling her about her orphanage work, and Charlotte was listening with a small, tight, supercilious smile that made me more nervous still; she despised orphanages as much as she despised my mother, I could tell.

  When my father joined us I relaxed a little. I was sure my father was beyond reproach: He was so tall and so handsome; he had fine hands and a quiet dry way of speaking; he was a good horseman, and when he wore his hunting clothes William said there wasn’t a man to touch him in the county. I rather wished he were wearing his hunting clothes then, so Charlotte might see him at his finest; as it was, he was wearing one of his old tweed suits, but those suits were built for him, and William (who had the job of brushing them) used to finger their material and say, “That’s quality.”

  I hoped Charlotte would see this. I hoped that when my father began to talk to her, that small supercilious smile would disappear from her face. My father stammered a little over certain words, which was a legacy from the Great War, but he was gentle and kind and he charmed everybody. It could only be a matter of time, I told myself, before Charlotte succumbed.

  He asked her first about her lessons—which was perhaps a mistake, because Charlotte was now at boarding school and she had already, during our walk, given me her opinion of girls who stayed at home for their education.

  “Your mother teaches you? I thought you at least had a governess.”

  “Well, I did. But she left.” I hesitated, because that was difficult territory: None of the governesses had stayed long; we now no longer had a parlormaid and the cooks we
re always giving warning. This was because of wages, and the boiler in the basement, which ate money, and the orphanages, which ate up even more.

  “She takes you for everything?”

  “She’s very clever. I do English and French and geography with her, and next year we shall begin on Latin. Mr. Birdsong comes over three times a week for mathematics.”

  “Mr. Birdsong? But he’s the curate.”

  Definitive scorn. I was instantly ashamed of Mr. Birdsong, a mild and patient man whom I had always liked. Sitting in the drawing room, I now began to wish that my father would change the subject. Charlotte was lecturing him on Roedean, and the small supercilious smile was still on her face.

  “And what about the summer holidays?” my father said, when that speech came to the end. He said it in his most polite and gentle way, but I could tell he didn’t like Charlotte at all. In fact, I think he found her funny, but no one would have known, because his manners were perfect.

  “Oh, Mummy says we shan’t go to France next year. She says the Riviera is overrun. We may go to Italy. Or Germany. Daddy says Germany is on the up-and-up.” She paused and swung her foot and gave me a sly glance.

  “And what about you, Vicky? You didn’t say.”

  “Oh, we have great plans,” my father said in his easy way.

  “Really?” Charlotte fixed upon him a small hard gaze.

  “Yes. We shall stay here, you know. Just as we always do.”

  “All summer?”

  “Definitely. All summer—shan’t we, darling?”

  He turned to my mother, and I saw an amused glance pass between them.

  My mother smiled. “I think so,” she said, in her quiet voice. “Winterscombe is so lovely in June and July, and besides, the boys come over—you know, from the orphanage. We have to be here for that, you see, Charlotte. Now, would you like a sandwich? Perhaps a piece of cake?”

  When tea was over, my parents left us. Charlotte and I sat by the fire and played cards. We played gin rummy for a while and then, in a desultory way, took turns at patience. Charlotte told me about the new Rolls, which would be coming to collect her, and why it was so much better than the Rolls of the preceding year. She told me about Roedean, and how many name tags her brown-uniformed nanny had sewn on her new uniform, and she made it quite clear that playing patience was not her idea of after-tea entertainment.

  I was very humiliated, and very afraid that Charlotte might return to the question of summer holidays, to the fact that we never took holidays abroad. When it was my turn to lay out the cards I did it very slowly, trying to pluck up the courage to mention my mother’s diamonds. By that time I wanted to mention them very much indeed, because I could see that Charlotte thought my mother was plain and shabby, like the house. The thought of my mother’s disapproval held me back, though, and so I continued to lay out the cards and scan my memory: There must be something I could mention that would wipe that supercilious smile off Charlotte’s face—but it was hard to think of anything.

  There were my two uncles, those other pillars of my life, and laying out the cards, I did consider them. Both my uncles were exotic in their ways: Uncle Freddie had had so many careers, including flying mail planes in South America, which must surely be glamorous. He had his enthusiasms, as my Aunt Maud called them, and the latest of these were two greyhounds, brought to Winterscombe the previous month and fed—to my mother’s horror—on beefsteak. These dogs were “goers,” Uncle Freddie said. They were going to win the Irish Greyhound Derby.

  On the other hand, I was not too sure about these dogs, which spent most of the time, when not eating, asleep, and wouldn’t listen to the special commands Uncle Freddie had been given by their Irish trainer. Uncle Freddie’s enthusiasms had—as he would sadly put it—a way of “fizzling out.” Better not to mention the dogs, perhaps, or South America, which Uncle Freddie had left in clouded circumstances. Uncle Steenie, then?

  Uncle Steenie was definitely glamorous. He was an exquisite dresser and an exquisite speaker. He had the blondest hair I had ever seen, and the most beautiful pink-and-white complexion. Uncle Steenie knew everyone-but-everyone, and he called everyone-but-everyone “Darling” in a very warm tone of voice. He also said “too” a great deal: The journey was too impossible; the wine was too squalid; the last hotel was too quaint. Uncle Steenie had a great many friends all over the world, and, since he did not work, he was always visiting them. He was very good about sending postcards, and I usually received one every week. Their messages were brief: Salut, Vicky! Here I am on Capri, he might write, and then he would draw one of his little lightning pictures underneath, of himself or a tree or a shell. Uncle Steenie drew very cleverly and wrote in violet ink. I had a great collection of these postcards: That year alone he had been in Capri, Tangier, Marseilles, Berlin, and a villa in Fiesole which was too marvelous, and which was owned by his best friend, Conrad Vickers, the famous photographer. Uncle Steenie had a great many famous friends: He knew film stars and painters and singers and writers. My godfather Wexton, who used to be his best friend, had dedicated a whole book of poems to my uncle Steenie, poems he had written in the Great War which were called Shells.

  Should I mention my uncle Steenie? He did not come to Winterscombe very often, it was true, and when he did, there were arguments about money: Uncle Steenie wanted to be the Best-Kept Boy in the World, and he used to remind people of this in a loud voice when he had finished all the wine at luncheon. I found this very odd, because although Uncle Steenie was undeniably well kept and had that beautiful complexion, he was not a boy and hadn’t been a boy for quite a long time. When he talked about being one, he made my father furiously angry.

  “For God’s sake, Steenie,” I heard my father say once, when I passed them in the library and the door was open. “For God’s sake, you’re almost forty years old. This can’t go on. What happened to the last check I sent you?” Perhaps, on the whole, it was better not to mention my uncle Steenie, either. Charlotte would be sure to ask what he did—she always asked that; she even asked it about my father.

  “But what does he do?” she said, after I had explained about the estate and my mother’s orphanages and the lake, which needed dredging, and the boiler and its inexhaustible appetite for pound notes.

  “I suppose he has a private income?” She made it sound like a dreadful disease. “Daddy said he thought he must. He said you couldn’t possibly manage otherwise, not in this great barn of a place. Of course, there is the title….” She wrinkled her nose. “But Daddy says titles don’t count these days. Not unless they’re very old—and yours isn’t very old, is it? Daddy says they can be useful, of course. He wouldn’t mind a title on his board, because there’s still some people they impress. It’s a pity he isn’t in the City, like Daddy, don’t you think? It must be horrid to be so poor.”

  “I don’t think we’re poor. Not exactly poor.” I was red in the face. “Mummy says we’re very lucky.”

  “Nonsense. You haven’t two halfpennies to rub together—Daddy said so. He made a big killing last week and he told Mummy then. He made more money on that one deal than your father makes in five years. It’s true! You ask him.”

  No, better not to mention my uncle Steenie, who did not work, or my uncle Freddie and his reluctant greyhounds; better not to mention my aunt Maud, who had been famous as a hostess once but who was now vague and old and wrong about my possibilities. Better, in fact, to stay off the subject of my family altogether.

  I sneaked a look at the clock, hoping it would soon be time for Charlotte to go, and began to stack up my cards: black queen on red king; red knave on black queen: this patience (I could already tell) was not going to come out.

  Charlotte sat opposite me, watching the pack as if she expected me to cheat. She tapped her fingers on the green baize cloth. Queen of spades on king of hearts. Suddenly it came to me: the perfect candidate, the trump card.

  “Oh, by the way,” I began—there was no time to be subtle—“I may go to Amer
ica next year. Did I tell you?”

  “America?”

  “Yes. To stay in New York. My godmother lives there, and she wants me to stay with her.”

  “Your godmother? You never mentioned an American godmother.”

  “Well, I call her ‘aunt.’ Aunt Constance. But she isn’t really my aunt.”

  This was now more than a boast; it was a lie, since I called her no such thing, but I was launched, and scented victory. Charlotte’s eyes had grown small and concentrated.

  “Constance?”

  “Constance Shawcross,” I said.

  I brought out the name with a flourish. I hoped, I suppose, that it would impress, for I knew, in a vague way, that my godmother was celebrated. She must, however, have been far more celebrated than I had ever imagined, for Charlotte’s reaction exceeded my greatest hopes. She drew in her breath; her eyes rounded; her expression was of envy tinged with disbelief.

  “No! The Constance Shawcross?”

  “Of course,” I said firmly, although I was at once afraid there might be two and my godmother the wrong one.

  “Heavens!” Charlotte looked at me with new respect. “Wait till I tell Mummy.”

  Such triumph! I was a little afraid it would be difficult to sustain, because I could tell that Charlotte was about to press me with questions, to which my answers were sure to be wrong. But I was saved. There was a scrunch of tires on gravel, the blaring of a horn. Charlotte looked up. I took the opportunity to switch the order of my cards.

  “Your father’s here,” I said. “Oh—and look—this patience is coming out, after all.”

  That was how the lie began; it was a lie that would have the most terrible consequences.

  When I mentioned Constance’s name that afternoon at the card table, all I really knew was that it was a name likely to impress. I knew my godmother was famous, though for what I had no idea. I knew that my uncle Steenie adored her and pronounced her incomparable; I knew that, when he came to Winterscombe, he would sometimes produce magazines that charted my godmother’s social activities in breathless detail. I also knew that when he mentioned her name he was met with silence and the subject was quickly changed. The magazines, which Uncle Steenie would leave open upon tables, would be removed the instant he left the room. I knew, in short, that there was a mystery.