by Dodie Smith
‘Well, surprising though it may sound, I’d have said we were. I’m certainly fond of her, in spite of my goings on. She was extremely annoyed about my last affair but since then … I’d have said everything was all right. But it’s obvious from this letter that she no longer gives a damn about me. And it sounds as if she means business about the divorce.’
‘And you don’t want to be divorced?’
‘I do not – for a great many reasons, one of which is that it would queer my chance of a knighthood, as she very well knows. My father was knighted, and I should very much like to be, and I’ve never known an actor who wouldn’t, in spite of what some of them say. But I should mind far more about – well, losing her, and all the scandal of the divorce court. Of course, whatever happens, I shan’t allow you to be involved in that.’
‘But I don’t mind being involved.’
‘Well, I mind for you. And I don’t fancy a co-respondent of eighteen who looks even younger.’ For a moment there was a nicker of amusement in his eyes. ‘Though I’m sure you’d be very funny in court – probably tell the judge what you thought of him. Anyway, she’ll accept an arranged divorce, if I can’t talk her out of the whole idea.’
I asked when he would see her and he said that was difficult, as the letter informed him she was coming to London but would not reach the house until two-thirty that afternoon and would be leaving again in an hour, after collecting some clothes. She would then join friends and she didn’t tell him which friends, as she wished to be approached only through her solicitors. I suggested he should ring her up but he said he hardly could, during the matinée, especially as it would mean telephoning from the stage door – ‘She knows that; and anyway, she’d probably hang up on me – you can see she’s making things as awkward as possible. Oh, my God, look at the time! And I want a word with Lilian before we ring up.’
I had forgotten Lilian, forgotten the matinée. At first I had been almost glad about what had happened, willing and even proud to be involved in a divorce case. But though he had spoken kindly, not seeming angry with me, he had not shown me one spark of affection and I now felt what surely I must have at least suspected when I ran away from him at dawn: I had involved him in something he had never wished for and now bitterly regretted.
As he turned to go I said, ‘It’s all my fault. Is there anything in the world I can do to help?’
‘I’m afraid not, my dear. But there’s something I ought to tell you now – God knows I hate to be so unkind but Eve Lester’s just told me my idea of kindness often turns out to be cruelty, and she’s probably right. Anyway, there’s no getting away from this. If I do manage to talk my wife out of a divorce, you’ll have to leave the theatre.’
I nodded. ‘And if you don’t manage to?’
‘I think you’ll still have to leave. Surely you can’t stay on – not now Eve Lester knows? And I doubt if she’ll still want you here.’
I said I understood. For a moment he looked at me unhappily. Then he hurried away.
I sat there, very still, not so much planning what I was going to do as knowing I was going to do it.
12
I got to the house soon after half-past two. I thought of the curtain going up at the theatre, with Lilian waiting in the wings for her first entrance. I also thought of the print of the house I had given her. The message, ‘Little did we think …’ now applied far more to me than it did to her.
I rang the bell and a butler – the first I had ever seen except on the stage – opened the door. I asked for Mrs Crossway and he asked if I had an appointment. I said no, but I had to see her about something very important. He looked so dubious that I prepared to push past him, before he closed the door against me, and dash upstairs – where, presumably, she would be, as she had come to collect clothes. But after a second’s hesitation he held the door open for me and said he would make enquiries. And just as I entered the hall she came downstairs.
I had seen her at the Crossway first night, but only from a distance. She had then been in gleaming white; now she wore the type of tweed suit right for town or for country. She was, as Lilian had once described her, ‘tall, dark and very Society’.
The butler turned to her and said there was a young lady asking for her. She gave me a quick glance, then told him she would cope. As he went, she came towards me, not smiling but not looking annoyed.
‘You shouldn’t come to people’s private houses,’ she said, but quite nicely. ‘Do you really want to see me, or is it my husband? If it’s an autograph—’
I interrupted her. ‘It isn’t. And it’s you I want. I must talk to you, please!’
‘Well, I can’t think what about. Still, come in, little girl.’
She was smiling now and I guessed why. I was wearing one of my youngest summer dresses (‘like’ Kate Greenaway girls) made of a chintz sprinkled with daisies, and I had a wreath of daisies round my turn-down straw hat. She had, as my kind friend the lorry driver had, mistaken me for a child.
We went into the dining-room, a very formal room with eighteenth-century furniture. There was an oil painting of Mr Crossway, much younger than he now was, over the mantel. Mrs Crossway pulled out a chair for me and we sat facing each other.
‘Now,’ she said pleasantly.
For a moment, words failed me. I had imagined having to force myself on her, saying things like, ‘Please, please you must listen!’ Faced with encouragement I didn’t know how to begin. But at last I managed: ‘I’m the girl you wrote the letter about.’
She looked blank. ‘What letter?’
‘The one you sent to the theatre this morning. I saw it – because we open his letters to save him trouble. Perhaps you didn’t know that.’
‘I knew Eve Lester might, but I didn’t give a damn about that. Do you work in the office too? Oh—!’ She broke off, staring hard at me.
I said again, ‘I’m the girl. The one you thought …’ I let the words trail.
‘The girl the lodge keeper saw? It’s not possible. Is that what you’ve come to tell me – that it wasn’t you?’
‘It was me,’ I said miserably. ‘But nothing wrong happened – nothing at all happened, really. He doesn’t even know I was there. Oh, if only I could make you believe me!’
She gave me a long look, then said: ‘Of course I believe you. Now stop worrying and tell me everything. What the hell were you up to?’
‘I just wanted to see him.’
‘Are you in love with him?’
‘Yes, terribly. But he’s not in love with me, not one bit. And though he’s kind, he hardly ever lets me be alone with him.’
‘Does he know how you feel?’
‘I told him. I couldn’t bear not to.’
She nodded sympathetically. ‘I can understand that. So you thought you’d go to the barn just to be alone with him. But it was pretty late for a visit, wasn’t it? How did you plan to get back to London? Oh, I suppose you were staying in the village.’
I had felt from the beginning that unless I kept almost to the facts I should tie myself in knots. So I said, ‘No. Somehow I’ve got to tell you. I hoped he’d let me stay with him.’
To my astonishment, she laughed. ‘Well, you are a naughty little girl. Though I gather your courage failed. Was that it? Tell me.’ She said it almost coaxingly.
‘When I got there he was fast asleep – I could see him through the French window. I did just go inside but I couldn’t bring myself to wake him. I was so afraid he’d be angry. I stood there quite a long time, willing him to wake up. But he didn’t. And at last I went out and sat on a seat built round one of the old trees.’
‘At the back of the barn. I know.’
‘There’d been a moon but it had clouded over. I couldn’t go away until there was a little light. I sat there hours – till the dawn came. Then I walked to the road and got a lift back to London with a load of cabbages. All very ludicrous, really.’
‘Not to me, you poor baby,’ said Mrs Crossway. Then she
looked at me speculatively. ‘I wonder what would have happened if you had wakened him. Frankly, I don’t think you’d have had any luck. With all his faults, he wouldn’t consider you fair game. Besides, for years now, he’s only fallen for bitches. I suppose I oughtn’t to say that of him to you, but you know from my letter that I’m through with him. However, I’m not getting free at your expense – and for once, it wouldn’t be fair to him. Did anyone but you see the letter?’
I shook my head. ‘Miss Lester happened to be out of the office when I opened it.’
‘Have you got it with you?’
Where was the letter? Still in the office? No, he had taken it with him. I hastily said I had hidden it as I’d had no chance to put it in my handbag.
‘Well, you can go back and destroy it. This is going to remain just between you and me.’
‘Do you mean it’s all right?’ Without a moment’s warning I dissolved into tears. I think it was partly due to relief and partly to her kindness; also I hated having deceived her. They weren’t just a few quiet tears but the uncontrollable, gulping kind that I hadn’t cried since childhood. They embarrassed me horribly.
She said, ‘Why cry now, you silly girl? Though I suppose you’ve plenty to cry about. It’s hell being in love with someone who doesn’t give a damn about you.’
She got up, went to a dumb-waiter, blew down a whistle and asked for some coffee to be sent up. Then she sat down again and said: ‘Mop up, ducky. Remember you have to go back to that theatre and behave as if nothing’s happened. I’ll tell you something that’ll cheer you up. He does give a damn about you. It’s just dawned on me that you’re the girl from the office who helped him at rehearsals – and went on and played one night. Didn’t you jump on a footstool? I should have liked to see that.’
‘He was furious. And he thinks I’m a hopeless actress.’
‘He was amused, really. And he’s told me again and again how much he likes you.’
She went on talking, repeating things he had said which had made her like the sound of me. I think she was giving me a chance to control myself. When I’d managed to, she said briskly, ‘Now can’t you settle for being someone he thinks of as a real friend? Can’t you cure yourself of – well, having a crush on an actor? Oh, I do realise it seems more than that to you.’
‘How can one want to cure oneself of caring for anyone?’
‘I know what you mean.’ She no longer sounded brisk. ‘Sometimes I wish I still cared. I used at least to be happy between his affairs. He’s such a very, very nice man – he has all the virtues except fidelity. But now … you see, I now don’t care enough to make putting up with things worth while. I’ve stopped finding his unfaithfulness heartbreaking; I just find it infuriating. And I’m absolutely through with standing for it.’
She was telling herself this, as much as telling me. I asked if he understood how she now felt.
‘Well, I’ve warned him but he doesn’t believe me. Of course I haven’t told him I’ve stopped caring. Anyway, I haven’t completely stopped; I’m still fond of him, as he is of me. But I’ve got to get out, before I’m too old. My father’s made me see that – I was staying with him when I got the letter about your goings on, you bad child.’ She gave me a quick smile. ‘Well, that was a false alarm but I shan’t have to wait long. His last mistress left England some months ago so he’s sure to start something soon. And I shall never again turn a blind eye.’ She went to get the coffee from the dumb-waiter and brought it to the table. ‘All the same, I’m not spying on him. The woman at the lodge did it off her own bat; she’s by way of being devoted to me – used to be my maid. I’d like him to know I didn’t—’ She broke off. ‘How silly! I was forgetting he doesn’t know anything about it.’
I, too, had forgotten he was not supposed to; and I saw how easily I could make some slip. I must say as little as possible and get away as soon as I could. Glad though I was of the coffee, I wished I did not have to stay and drink it.
After that, she pulled herself up by saying she’d talked too much about herself and said things she oughtn’t to have said – ‘But somehow you’re easy to talk to.’ Then she began asking me about myself, where I came from, where I lived and so on. While I answered, another fear came to me. Suppose he did ring up from the stage door, in the first interval – before I had warned him to know nothing about the letter? He could be private enough if he turned the stage door keeper out. Just as I thought of this, a telephone rang in the hall. I waited in terror, expecting the butler to come and say Mrs Crossway was wanted.
Nothing happened. And then I saw by the clock on the mantel that it was too early for him to have telephoned. The first act would not be over yet. But, oh, I must get away! And the coffee was so very hot.
A moment later, I made a slip. She asked if I had given up my plan to go on the stage. I said, ‘No, I’ll try again, now I have to leave the Crossway.’ She asked why I had to leave and I opened my mouth to say ‘Because he says I must’; I even got as far as ‘Because’. Then I managed to break off and finish, ‘Well, surely you want me to, don’t you?’
‘Because you’re in love with Rex? As if I minded – except from your point of view, you poor kid. I’d hate you to leave on my account. You stay on but do try to be sensible about him. By the way, you can tell him I shan’t go away, as I said I would. I shall be here when he gets home tonight.’
I stared at her. ‘But surely I mustn’t tell him anything?’
She slapped her forehead. ‘Of course you mustn’t. If I don’t watch my step I shall muck up our conspiracy. Let’s get it straight. You say nothing, you do nothing – except destroy the letter. And I say nothing. And we never admit we’ve had this meeting. Perhaps someday we can meet officially. I hope so.’
I said I did too. It wasn’t true, much as I liked her. If we met again I still might give something away.
At last my coffee was finished. I got up, thanking her for being so wonderful to me, and then took a last look at the portrait over the mantel. The hair line was that of the number two toupee. She noticed the direction of my eyes and said, ‘That was painted soon after we married. We were so happy. He was faithful to me for nearly a year – or rather, it was nearly a year before I found out he wasn’t. You know, even now, if he’d pull up … But he won’t, probably can’t. And women would never let him.’
We went into the hall. She opened the door for me and, just before I left, said: ‘I think it was very brave of you to come here, and I’m grateful. It’d be pretty silly if I’d tried to divorce him when, for once, he isn’t guilty. He’d be grateful to you, too. It’s a pity we can’t tell him.’
I was dead set on telling him as fast as I could, before he got in touch with her and wrecked everything. So I didn’t linger.
I took the first turning out of the park and managed to pick up a taxi. The first interval would now have started but he was on at the end of Act I and at the beginning of Act II and had a change of clothes between them; if he was going to telephone, the second interval was the dangerous one as he had more time then.
Back at the theatre, I dashed up to the office and said to Miss Lester: ‘You may not be on speaking terms with me but you’ve got to help me, if it’s for the last time.’ And then I told her what I’d done, and asked her to warn him at once. I didn’t dare do it myself as it would mean talking to him in the wings and I knew he would hate me to do that. She took in everything I told her, then just nodded and got the key of the pass door. When she went I still did not know how she felt about me.
But when she came back she left me in no doubt. After telling me she had made Mr Crossway understand, she said: ‘Now listen. If you want to talk to me about this whole wretched business I’ll do anything I can to help you. But if you like, we’ll just pretend it never happened.’
I looked at her in astonishment. ‘Aren’t you angry with me? Don’t you want me to leave? He said you would.’
‘How little he knows me, after twenty years. Perhaps you
ought to leave, for your own good, but I shouldn’t think you want to, do you?’
I said I thought I’d die if I had to.
‘Well, we can’t have you dying. Do you know, when I came back to the office and found you’d vanished, I wondered if you’d gone out to throw yourself under a bus?’
‘Me?’
She laughed and said she was glad to see me look so astounded. ‘I might have known you’re not a girl to bow out of things. Let’s go down and watch Lilian’s last-act scene.’
We went down arm in arm.
Lilian really was very good. For the first time I saw how Mr Crossway wanted the part played and why he was right about it. I suppose it was because he had trained her to carry out his ideas exactly. And the Eton crop suited her wonderfully well. It somehow accentuated the beauty of her eyes and, surprisingly, made her look not boyish but even more feminine than usual.
When we got back to the office Miss Lester told me to wait in the Throne Room as Mr Crossway would be coming up to see me after the matinée. ‘He wants to hear everything from you, so that he gets the complete hang of it – and to thank you, of course.’
‘Thank me?’
‘Well, you pulled off a miracle. Tell me, didn’t you mind having to lie? You’ve always struck me as truthful.’
I had always struck myself as truthful. But when I came to think about it I found that, though I hated deceiving Mrs Crossway, I had not felt conscience-stricken about the lying itself and I still didn’t. It seemed to me just a way of protecting my dear. I said I hoped the end justified the means.
‘Anyway, don’t think I’m judging you,’ said Miss Lester. ‘I haven’t the right to.’
Then one of the programme girls came in for something and I went off to the Throne Room.
I sat at the long table staring at the spoke-like metal work of one of the round windows. I still did not know if he would let me stay. And when he came in he looked almost grimly serious. But he did thank me very kindly. Then he listened while I told him everything I could remember. I finished by saying:
