by Dodie Smith
By now the bedrooms were full of people dressing up. I had nothing to do until the show started so I stood on the front steps of the vicarage and watched the audience arrive. There were a good many cars parked along the village street and a steady stream of people paying their money at the door in the garden wall. Adrian Crossway stood there greeting people and escorting the local gentry to good seats. I hoped to see some pretty dresses but most of the gentry wore drab-looking silk, and the villagers wore drab cotton. Not one dress, in my view, qualified as a real garden-party dress. I remembered that Molly, Lilian and Zelle had worried about what they should wear; and I thought that, even if they wore their simplest summer dresses, they would look better than most of the audience.
I had been too busy all morning to think of the girls. Now I was on the look-out for them. I had begun to fear they would be late when a large, chauffeur-driven car pulled up at the garden gate and out got three absolute visions in fluttering printed chiffon. Molly’s was mainly pale green, Lilian’s was pink and mauve, and Zelle’s was beige and white. All their dresses – and their hats – were the apotheosis of garden-party clothes. (I later learned that Zelle had bought them all, for the occasion.)
I reached the girls just as Adrian Crossway was introducing himself. He had been nice to me, but to them he was almost reverently admiring; they might have been three goddesses, As he took them into the garden I heard him say they were too late for front seats but he would find them a very special place.
When I got back to the vicarage, the local stage manager wanted to give me some last-minute instructions, so I only got to my open upper window as Adrian Crossway, tall and straight under the cedar tree on the mound, was about to address the audience. I then saw the ‘very special place’ he had found for the girls: they were at his feet, sitting on white skin rugs. On the lower slopes of the mound were the privileged village tots but they didn’t have any rugs.
The minute Adrian said: ‘Good people! My friends, one and all!’ the audience stood and turned to the mound, as people in the chancel of a church turn to the east for the Creed. It would have been more impressive than it was if so many chairs had not been knocked over, but Adrian gave people time to pick them up. He then spoke well and I quite liked what he said about entertainments, as well as church services, having the right to be blessed.
After that, the audience turned towards the vicarage again, knocked over and picked up more chairs, finally got themselves settled; and the show began.
First, Mr Crossway spoke the prologue. Being above him, I could see little more than the top of his head. Anyway, I could neither look nor listen as Brice was already showing a number card. My job had started.
For nearly two hours I repeatedly dashed from my window-seat and up a flight of stairs, shouting my ‘warnings’ and ‘readys’, with no respite except during an interlude of folk song, during which I got the opportunity to have a good look at the mound. The girls were now not merely sitting; they were reclining, very gracefully, on the rugs. Reclining with them was Adrian Crossway and a large red-haired man rather like Henry VIII but better looking, and broad rather than fat. I was just wishing he would stand up so that I could see if he was tall enough for Molly when, up from the back of the mound, came Mr Crossway. I thought it unprofessional of him to mingle with the audience when he was still dressed as an eighteenth-century squire, but no doubt it would have been dull spending the afternoon in the housemaid’s pantry. I saw him being introduced to the girls and then he, too, settled on the skin rugs. The whole group looked most picturesque and I watched it with interest until the folk songs stopped and my job started again.
When the entertainment mercifully ended I barely waited for Mr Crossway to finish the epilogue before I grabbed the chance to get into the bathroom to tidy up. I found I looked pretty awful. My hot face was shining and I seemed to have lost my powder compact. My grey linen dress with its spotless white collar (‘like’ a Puritan Maid, according to Aunt Marion) was creased and the collar no longer spotless. I felt in no mood to mingle with the girls in their chiffon glory. Anyway, I decided I must report to Brice. But when I got to the terrace he wasn’t there; and as I happened to see the girls going into one of the marquees I hurried into the other and had two cups of tea. Then I felt better and went out to the lawn.
Already chairs were being stacked and people who were not at tea were wandering around. Almost at once I saw Mr Crossway coming towards me, still in his eighteenth-century clothes; many of the performers were still in their costumes. He said he had been looking for me.
‘Any special reason?’ I asked hopefully.
‘In a way. Come and stroll with me. I’ve been talking to your very decorative little friends. Tell me about the dark one. Can she act?’
‘Lilian? She’s only been in musical comedies.’
‘But she tells me she’s played parts. I was wondering—Oh, dear, I’m afraid this may hurt your feelings.’
I found he was considering Lilian for the part I had played, that memorable evening. The girl who had been taken ill was not returning and he had never thought the understudy good enough. I felt a pang, but as there was no hope of getting the part myself I was all for Lilian having it. I suggested he should hear her read.
‘That’s what I thought. Is she teachable?’
‘I’d say that’s just what she is – very quick to pick up ideas. She’ll be thrilled that you like her.’
‘I don’t know that I like her – except for the part; she seems a trine hard. The baby-faced giantess is a darling. She’s made something of a hit with Hal Hammond, as you can see.’
Molly and the large red-haired man were strolling across the terrace and he was being most attentive.
I said, ‘How suitable that his name’s Hal when he’s so like Bluff King Hal – though his eyes aren’t so piggy.’
‘And he hasn’t acquired any wives yet,’ said Mr Crossway. ‘I must say they make a striking pair.’
‘It’s so splendid that he’s tall enough for Molly.’
‘He also has other advantages – including a good deal of money. He’s a local landowner. If he’s seriously attracted, your big little friend could do well for herself.’
‘What do you think of Zelle?’
He said he’d hardly spoken to her. ‘She was sitting next to my brother, who has persuaded them to stay for the evening service. Are you going back with them, or with Brice?’
‘I suppose I couldn’t drive back with you?’
‘No, indeed. And I’m not going till tomorrow. I dislike driving at night. I shall sleep in my workroom.’
I asked when he was going to show me the workroom and he said he ought not to have put that idea into my head. ‘When my wife’s down and the house is open, people often wander over from here and I could have shown you round without its being conspicuous. But now it’s out of the question. We can’t walk across there all on our own.’
We had come as far as the bridge over the stream. I made sure there was no one within earshot and then said: ‘But later – tonight – couldn’t I visit you?’
‘In your long black cloak, I suppose?’
‘Well, I do have it with me.’
He chuckled. ‘And after our interlude at Hampstead I take it that your intentions are entirely dishonourable. No, of course you can’t visit me, tonight or any other night. This is a blood-curdling conversation to be having at a vicarage fete.’
‘No one can hear.’
‘I realise that now – but by tomorrow I shall fear some old lady may have had a powerful hearing-aid trained on us. Oh, you’re a mad, bad girl and I’m so fond of you.’
‘Even when I’m looking my worst, as I am now?’
He regarded me critically. ‘Well, your nose is a bit glossy but what’s a glossy nose between friends?’
‘That’s how I felt about you, that night when your face was covered in grease. Except that I felt more than friendly.’
‘Well, so do I. But you real
ly must get it into your darling head that I never seduce respectable young women, even when they don’t want to stay respectable; and if any dowager has heard that through her hearing-aid I trust she’ll set it to my credit. Now, as they say, we must mingle – with the others, I hasten to add.’
‘Can I ask you one thing first?’
‘You undoubtedly will if you want to.’
‘I just want to know, if you didn’t think it wrong, would you … well, like me to visit you in your workroom?’
‘Of course.’ He said it very seriously and very kindly; then his tone became amused again. ‘We’d better try to look less sultry as we rejoin the mob.’
‘Are we looking sultry?’
‘Well, you are. And I rather feared I might be, judging by the effect you have on me, you shameless girl. That’s absolutely all for today. Let’s find your friend Lilian and I’ll ask her to come and read to me – tomorrow afternoon if she’s free.’
We found both Lilian and Zelle strolling with Adrian Crossway. It turned out that he had asked all the girls to supper at the vicarage after the evening service, and he at once included me in the invitation, which I thought very kind of him.
‘Do stay,’ said Zelle. ‘Then you can drive back with us.’
I said I must ask Brice if he wanted me to return with him. Adrian Crossway said I need not bother to let him know about supper. If I didn’t turn up, he’d know I’d gone back to London.
I found Brice upstairs in the vicarage, checking and packing costumes which had been sent from London. He said of course I could stay and, though he would miss me on the return journey, I deserved some fun after my hard work. I helped him until all the clothes were packed except those that were still on people’s backs; the local stage management would have to cope with them. Then Brice went to ask the housekeeper for a sandwich as he saw no chance of getting a meal for hours. I, too, had a sandwich because, if a plan I was already working on came to anything, I was going to be short of food before the evening was over.
Brice went off in the village taxi in time to catch the last train from the little local station. I went back to a bedroom and sat on a basket of clothes, thinking. By now I had decided my plan was practicable but I was not yet sure if I dared carry it through; and I still had not made up my mind when the bells began ringing for the evening service. I stood at the window and watched people going into the church, including Molly accompanied by Bluff King Hal, and Lilian and Zelle with Mr Crossway.
I could go to church too, and then to supper, and then home with the girls. But would I? I told myself I must make up my mind before the bells stopped ringing – no, it would be time enough when they all came in to supper; I could say I had been too busy packing costumes to come to the service. Then it dawned on me that my last chance of all would be when the girls drove along the road to London. I could stop the car, say I’d been for a walk and got lost … or something like that.
This would give me more time for thinking and I had a sudden longing to be out in the country, all on my own. Surely I could find some little wood to hide in?
I waited until the bells stopped ringing and the last straggler had hurried into church. The little street was now deserted. I went quietly downstairs. A pleasant smell was coming from the kitchen; no doubt there was going to be a good supper but what cared I about food? The front door stood open. I dashed out and ran the short distance to the road that led to the station and London. Once I had turned the corner I was behind a hedge and out of sight from the village.
I could see no wood ahead of me but there were some tall haystacks in between me and Mr Crossway’s house and on the opposite side of the road to the lodge. I went into the field, chose the best situated haystack and sat down behind it. Although I was only a few hundred yards from the church, and even less from Mr Crossway’s lodge, no one could see me here. And it was a perfect place for thinking. In front of me stretched a patchwork of fields, divided by hedges dotted by tall trees and pollarded willows, and above me arched the vast twilight sky.
As a child I had been too happy and too occupied to be introspective but I had become so during my aunt’s long illness, when I poured out my thoughts in my journal. Not one journal entry had I made since my first night in London and I had almost lost the habit of analytical thought about myself. Now I sternly told myself to concentrate.
Most of the concentration took the form of self-justification. My aunt’s views on the emancipation of women were pressed into service, also the behaviour of my favourite Shakespearian and Shavian heroines, so often as much the wooers as the wooed; though I reminded myself of what he really wished – had he not said so? In such a case, when only his conscience was coming between us, obviously I must make the decision. Only … it required courage.
I should have needed none if I could have acted on impulse, as I so often did. But with time to think, in this calm country twilight, I not only needed courage but also felt it ebbing away. Shocked, I reminded myself I might never again get the chance I had tonight. And I went on reminding myself. In the late dusk I got up and peered round the edge of my haystack. I was on higher ground than the village and could see both the church and the vicarage. I was surprised that there were lights in the church still – surely the service must be over by now? Then I saw that a group was forming in the churchyard and people in it were lighting lanterns; and I remembered hearing that the folk singers would end the day by walking the full length of the village, singing. I watched them troop out of the churchyard, swinging their lanterns, and for a moment I watched their progress along the street. Then the vicarage cut off my view of them but I could still hear their voices.
They were singing The White Paternoster, ‘Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, bless the bed that I lie on.’ I had often sung it at school. Listening, now, I had the most intense sensation of being a child again. It lasted for as long as I could hear the voices. Then I returned to being myself standing there by the haystack. I remember thinking, ‘This is me, in this present moment. And it is wonderful to be me, entirely my own responsibility. And I shall do what I must.’ Then the moment of acute consciousness passed and I was fully occupied with definite plans.
The lights in the church were out now and lights streamed from the vicarage. Would they have begun supper yet? I should have liked to be there, getting to know Adrian Crossway and Bluff King Hal; and in a secret, and therefore enjoyable way, showing off my dear Mr C. to the girls. I could still be there, in less than two minutes—
I sat down behind the haystack and watched the moon rise.
It must have been about an hour later when I heard voices and laughter, then the slam of a car door. I jumped up and looked towards the village. Now I could see the lights from a car in front of the vicarage; the girls must be leaving. The lights travelled forward, then turned onto the road near which I was. For a split second I thought of dashing out to intercept the car, but where I actually dashed was behind the haystack again. The car passed. Once more 1 came from behind the haystack and watched the rear lights for as long as I could see them.
Soon after they disappeared another car came from the vicarage. I dodged until it had passed me and then saw it turn in at the lodge gates of Mr Crossway’s house. I looked across the park; and a few minutes later I saw lights in his workroom.
Now I need wait no longer and the moon was high enough to light me on my way. Then it occurred to me that if I arrived too soon he might bundle me into his car and drive me – where? Perhaps back to London. So I must still wait.
Sooner than I expected the lights in the workroom were out. Now I must get there as fast as I could. I ran along the road and in at the lodge gates, glad to notice that the lodge was in darkness. Leaving the drive, I raced over the grass to the workroom.
What did I do now? Knock on the door, tap on a window? At first I could see neither, except for the large double doors which had served when the building was still a barn. These were no longer in use; roses were growing against th
em. Exploring, I found a French window open onto the warm, windless night. I tiptoed up to it and murmured into the darkness a very soft ‘hello’.
Nobody answered. For a moment of blank disappointment I thought he was not there. Then the moon, like a very stagey bit of stage lighting, shone in on him and I saw that he was already asleep. He did not stir as I moved towards him.
He was lying on his side, facing me, one hand childishly under his cheek. His left arm was outside the bedclothes. I noticed his naked shoulder; I had never before known that men sometimes slept minus pyjamas. I gazed down on him with love and great interest. He looked far younger than he usually did. This was partly due to the expanse of naked flesh but, even more, to his lack of facial expression. As a rule, his expression was one of controlled, sophisticated humour. Now, in utter repose, there was no control whatever, nothing but a youthful, slightly open-mouthed blankness.
I thought he must have been very tired to have fallen asleep so soon. It seemed unkind to wake him.
But I did wake him.
11
Less than twenty-four hours later I wrote:
How I wish I had kept this journal up since I came to London! Now it is too late. Even if I had time to write fully of all that has happened I could never recapture the flown moment, never be the me who lived it. Often I was happy – and I long for a record of that happiness. But if I made the record now it would be tinged by the sadness of farewell. Not that I am sad, exactly; or anyway, really unhappy. It is more that I am lonely, with a strange kind of loneliness which has nothing to do with being alone, away from people. Even if I could – and how I wish I could – be with him tonight I should still be lonely. Unless … yes, now I understand. It would be all right, even if we were apart, if he cared for me as I care for him.
