Amy snapped her head back as though he had struck her, but before she could say a word the old man went on, ‘But when she set foot on a stage, I tell yer, it was magic. That’s what it was. Bleedin’ magic. She must a’ bin — oh, nigh on fifty when she did ’er last play ’ere — nigh on fifty. An’ d’you know, she could walk aht there in one of her blue gowns — never wore nuffin’ but blue, that one, not if she could ’elp it — walk out there she could, ’er curls all loose on ’er neck, and they looked at ’er, and what do yer think they saw, them ’alfwits aht there as’d paid their money to see ’er? Why, they saw a girl o’ seventeen, I swears to you. She was nigh on fifty, and they saw a girl o’ seventeen. If she’d a’ wanted ’em to see a woman o’ ninety, I tell yer, they’d a’ seen that an’ all. She was magic, she was, the old besom —’
And he drank again and then looked down into the depths of his jug and shook it suggestively and Wyndham thrust his hand into his pocket again and the old man whistled once more for the boy.
‘How do you mean, a besom?’ Wyndham said carefully after a while, and looked reassuringly at Amy, who was a little white.
‘’Ard, you see. Real ’ard she was,’ the old man said, and shook his head in admiration. ‘’Ad to be, di’n’t she? There wasn’t no one as was goin’ to ’elp ’er when she was too old to confuse the payin’ customers, was there? No one wants any of ’em, not the biggest of ’em, once they can’t do the magic no more. So she was careful, and she made sure as she got ’old of every penny she could. Screwed the managers right down as ’ard as a coffin lid she did — oh, she was rich, real rich!’
The white jug returned and there was a further delay while the old man refreshed himself, and by this time Amy felt less shaken by his words, and better able to talk to him.
‘Was she ever unkind to you?’ she asked and the old man produced his cracked trill of laughter again.
‘To me? Nah. I wasn’t nobody, was I? Wasted nuthin’ on me, she di’n’t, not praise nor blame. But others — they ’ad bad times wiv ’er. ’Er daughter, like — she copped it over an’ over — when she was a little ’un —’
‘Daughter?’ Amy sat up very straight.
‘Aye. ’Er as was Lydia Mohun. Don’t you remember ’er? Big draw she was, an’ all, in ’er time, when it come.’ He shook his head. ‘Dearie me, but time does go. I s’pose it’s been long enough since she was ’ere. Nigh on — let’s see now — ’ He squinted up at the ceiling and its cobwebs. ‘Must be — yes, ten years now. Oh, dearie me, ’ow the time do go! She an’ ’er ’usband — a right one ’e was an’ all — an’ ’er children, they went off to foreign parts. Americky, so I’m told.’ He shook his head. ‘All this travellin’ — don’t ’old with it. Flyin’ in the face o’ Nature.’
‘Was she her only child — Lilith’s, I mean?’ Amy said, her spirits at the lowest ebb she could ever remember. To have come so far to find her Papa and his family, and to discover that one of them — or one who might be one of them — had been in her own country for so long seemed the most cruel of ironies.
‘Now, let me recall — ’ he squinted his eyes and stared at Amy and then shook his head. ‘No, the Mohun weren’t the only one, bad a time though she ’ad of it wiv ’er Ma when she was a little ’un, as well I recall. No, there was others. There was — let me see. There was the girl what was so quiet and turned out to be so — well, never mind that one! An’ then there was the very youngest one. ’E was a nasty piece, now, ’e was. Never took to ’im I didn’t — what was ’is name? Oh, yes, I remembers — Jody, ’e was, Jody.’
And again he drank and laughed and drank again. He was rapidly becoming fuddled, and Amy could recognize the fact and said urgently, ‘And was that all? Three children? No others?’
The old man looked up at her blearily and tried to concentrate. ‘I disremember — no, I don’t. There was another. Just one more there was. All named after plays, you see, every one of ’em. There was Celia and Lydia an’ Jody — that was from the play with Jonathan in it, but she always called ’im Jody — and there was another. Shakespeare, like the other one — Shakespeare — ’
‘Antonio! Sebastian!’ Wyndham said suddenly and the old man shook his head in disgust and sighed deeply and drank again.
‘It is no use,’ Amy said almost despairingly. ‘My Papa’s name was never in any play by Shakespeare I knew of of. He was called Ben — I suppose he was Benjamin, I never knew for sure, to be honest. He was just called Ben —’
‘That’s right,’ the old man said, and yawned hugely, displaying unlovely yellowing remnants of teeth and a coated tongue. ‘Benedict. That’s ’oo it was. Benedict —’
Amy sat up, her face whitening with excitement. ‘What did you say?’
‘’E was called Benjy — Benedict was all ’is name, but ’e was a right little limb, and ’e ’ated it. Wouldn’t never answer to it, ’e wouldn’t. Only if they called ’im Benjy or Ben. Nice little nipper ’e was —’
He yawned again and leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, and Amy looked at him doubtfully and shook her head.
‘I think we will not learn more now, do you?’ she said crestfallen. ‘There is so much more to know — so much more — ’
The old man opened his eyes suddenly and sat upright. He stared up at Amy and said very loudly. ‘She went away with ’im — Jody. Long time ago. Long after the accident ’appened. Went away to foreign parts and never came back. Left ’er ’ouse behind, all untouched, so I’ve ’eard. Grosvenor Square it was — main rich, was Lilith Lucas, and lived in Grosvenor Square. You try there — ’ and again he settled back in his chair and closed his eyes, leaving them both staring down at him.
There was a long silence and then, unmistakably, the old man snored and Wyndham put out his hand and gently tugged on Amy’s sleeve, and bemused, she allowed him to lead her out of the stuffy little room into the passageway outside and eventually into the traffic-roaring street beyond.
She stood on the kerb, blinking up into the April sunshine, trying to absorb all she had heard, and after a moment Wyndham said, ‘Well, you know, I think the next step is to take ourselves to your lodging, Miss Lucas, to tell Fenton of the plans made for his audition, and then, I suppose, to Grosvenor Square!’
She looked up at him and smiled tremulously. ‘You have been very kind, Mr Wyndham, and I have much appreciated it. But —’ She hesitated, and he looked down at her with a slightly crooked smile.
‘You wish to go alone?’
‘Thank you for understanding,’ she said. ‘It is just that I am beginning to realize that all — that perhaps it is not a matter to be — oh, dear, it is so difficult — ’
He nodded. ‘You are beginning to realize that when family skeletons start to dance in their closets it is as well, perhaps, not to give them too large an audience.’
She put her hand out and touched him gratefully. ‘Indeed, you do understand. But then, you are an actor. And actors can always enter into people’s feelings so well. Thank you so much. You will never know how deep my gratitude runs, Mr Wyndham.’
He bent and kissed her hand with all his usual flourish and smiled, his mouth curling agreeably. ‘It is my pleasure, I promise you. Now, I shall go to Long Acre and speak to Fenton. You set about your visit to Grosvenor Square, and remember — we have a costume call for tomorrow! I shall be looking forward to seeing you, and I hope, Fenton, with great eagerness. There is a hansom now — I shall see you into it and then be on my way.’
He stood in Orange Street, watching the hansom clopping away towards Piccadilly, his hat in his hand and his dark curls lifting on his brow in the light breeze. An agreeable child, he thought. But more in need of help than perhaps she realizes. I think, after I have spoken to her brother, I will have a word with Laurence too. He will be the one to tell about this jaunt. And it would absolve me of any intentions towards the girl to which Laurence could take exception —
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘Well, I d
on’ know,’ the old woman said again, and spat with remarkable accuracy over the railings into the street. ‘Why should I? Tha’s what I asks meself. Why should I?’
‘To oblige me,’ Amy said. ‘Please?’ and looked at the old woman with every atom of appeal she could. But the woman was impervious to her charm and merely hawked and spat again and repeated defiantly, ‘Why should I? What’s in it for me?’ At which point Amy at last understood, and scrabbled in her reticule to find some money.
The old woman peered down shortsightedly at the coin Amy put into her grimy hand, bit it and then, apparently satisfied, turned and went on down the steps into the area towards the kitchen door.
Amy hesitated just for one moment at the top of the steps, looking round the Square. It sat quiet and elegant in the thin April sunshine, the trees in its central garden just beginning to blush greenly. Each of the tall handsome houses had its sweep of steps up to its porticoed front door, each had its wrought iron railings enclosing the sunken area that led to the servants’ quarters, and each bore unmistakable signs of the wealth of its occupants. Except the one before which she was standing.
It was the only house in the Square which looked unoccupied, despite its curtained windows, for its window-frames were in need of paint, and its brass doorknob was green for want of polishing. Indeed, it had been this which had drawn her to it in the first place. She had tugged on the big rusty iron bell pull several times and had been about to give up in despair when the old woman in the dirt-streaked black stuff dress had appeared in the area below and peered up at her suspiciously.
And now Amy was about to enter the house, and she shivered slightly, a mixture of agreeable and disagreeable sensations filling her. It was very exciting to think that perhaps she was about to walk into the home of her own grandmother, someone she had never known but whose existence had been so important to her, but somewhat alarming to follow the smelly old woman in the rusty black gown down into her malodorous depths.
But then, as the old woman looked back at her over her shoulder Amy gave herself a mental shake, and lifted her chin and set her foot to the first of the area steps to follow her down. This was adventure, she told herself. Great adventure. She was the Brave Little Lady, facing up to fear and trembling with spirit and a high heart. She was the lovely heroine of a melodrama about to face up to untold terrors in a way that would ensure that all hearts would melt with love of her. She was the principal in this unique drama and she would justify her casting. So, acting with every atom of her being, she went down into the area and ducked her head to go into the big dark kitchen that lay beyond it.
She managed to keep her heart up with her acting for some time. The old woman led her over a stone-flagged floor past a vast wooden dresser and kitchen table and huge black iron cooking range, none of which, quite obviously, had seen water or scrubbing brush for many years, to the icy cold echoing corridors beyond. They had once had whitewashed walls and been floored with drugget, but now the whitewash was obscured with grime and cobwebs and the colour of the drugget could not be seen under the heavy layer of dust that shrouded it.
But once they left the kitchen quarters behind, ascending the back stairs to reach the green baize-covered door that led to the main part of the house, her performance deserted her. No longer was she the plucky little heroine; now she was her own frightened and saddened self, walking over black and white marble squares in a hall in which no one had set foot for years, going from drawing-room to boudoir to dining-room to library, each filled with furniture covered in great grey dust sheets.
That the house had once been sumptuously appointed, with rich brocaded curtains and lavishly upholstered furnishings, gilt embossing in all directions and the most exquisite of carvings and paintings and sculpture, was immediately apparent. And that it had been left suddenly was even more clear. In one of the big bedrooms there was still a bath and a row of now tarnished brass hot water cans beside it. Amy had no pretensions to any housewifely skills but even she knew that such impedimenta should have long ago been put away and the fact that they had not distressed her more than anything else she saw.
She stood in the middle of the big bedroom with its sheet-covered bed and chaise longue and stared at that long-forgotten bath and wondered who had used it last, and why it had been left so quickly. And the damp emptiness of the house seemed to seep into her bones, filling her with a deep melancholy.
‘Well, seen enough?’ The old woman’s voice came harshly, making her jump.
‘I — what did you say?’
‘’Ave you seen enough? Can’t ’ang around up ’ere all day. Got other things ter do, I ’ave,’ the old woman said and turned and walked stiffly away to the ornate door of the big bedroom.
‘Who — whose house is this?’ Amy said breathlessly, and stood still, refusing to be hurried away by the old woman’s obvious impatience to be rid of her.
‘I dunno!’ the old woman said and sniffed horribly. ‘Nuffin’ ter do wiv me, is it? Nuffin’ ter do wiv you, neither, come to that. Shouldn’ ’a’ let yer in in the first place, reelly — ’
‘You must know who employs you to be here,’ Amy said. ‘Are you the janitor?’
‘The what?’ The old woman peered at her with a huge suspicion. ‘I ain’t never ’eard o’ no janitors. I’m the caretaker ’ere, tha’s what I am, and don’ you go callin’ of me no janitors, or I’ll have the peelers on to yer —’
‘That’s what I meant,’ Amy said. ‘The caretaker. If you are the caretaker here, how can you not know to whom the house belongs? You must know who employs you and pays your wages.’
‘It ain’t none o’ your nevermind, missy! I lets you come an’ look on account of you says yer interested, an’ I thought, well, I thought, bin sent by Vivian an’ Onions, that’s why she’s ’ere, an’ now you go saying as you don’t know whose ’ouse this is — ’ere, you get aht of ’ere, d’you ’ear me? Aht you go, missy, and fast about it. Shouldn’t never ’ave let yer in ’ere in the fust place —’
Grumbling furiously the old woman hustled her out, and perforce Amy went, coughing in the dust her footsteps sent up from the carpet.
‘Vivian and Onions?’ she said. ‘Where are they? Who are they? You had better tell me, for I shall find out for myself, if you do not, and tell them that you let me in here when you should not, and —’
‘Yer a wicked piece, tha’s what you are!’ The old woman went scuttling ahead of her as fast as she could, looking back malevolently over her shoulder. ‘Wicked, gettin’ an ’armless old woman into trouble. What’d I ever do to you, eh? No need to get like that, is there —’ Her voice took on a wheedling note. ‘You wouldn’t make no trouble fer an old woman what never done no one any ’arm, would yer? Let yer in, di’n’t I? Well then, why you want to go tellin’ ’em as I ain’t done my work right? I done all one old woman can do. Made sure no one comes an’ steals nuthin’ —’
‘I’m sure you’ve done very well,’ Amy said and drew back from the unpleasantness of the old woman’s breath as she suddenly turned and peered closely into her face. ‘All I wish to know is who owns the house. It really is only that. I will make no complaints about you, I do promise.’
The old woman looked at her with her rheumy old eyes swimming with doubt and anxiety and Amy felt a sudden stab of pity for her and put out one hand and said awkwardly, ‘Truly, I will do you no harm. I just think — it is possible that this house belonged once to my grandmother. It is just that I wish to know if it is true. Will you tell me?’
There was a long pause and then the old woman said, ‘Don’t know ’oo owns it. All I can tell yer is the lawyers, them nasty ol’ lawyers, they put me ’ere. Ten years ago it must a’ bin, or more — I misremember ’ow the time goes on, an’ there’s no reason why I should care anyways. But ten years or more ago it was, they lawyers sent me ’ere. An’ ’ere I bin on me tod ever since.’
‘The lawyers are Vivian and Onions?’ Amy said. ‘Is that it?’
‘You
won’t tell ’em nuthin?’ the old woman said piteously and Amy shook her head with some vehemence.
‘Of course I won’t,’ she said. ‘Of course not. Just tell me where they may be found, and I shall go to them and say nothing about you.’
‘Oh, damn yer eyes,’ the old woman said and hobbled away to the kitchen door to throw it open. ‘Lincoln’s Inn, tha’s where they ’angs aht. Lincoln’s Inn. Now get aht of it, an’ leave me in peace. An’ don’t never come back no more —’
The street outside seemed colder and crisper and cleaner than the open air had ever been, and Amy stood on the kerb breathing deeply, trying to blow the dust and the cobwebs out of her lungs, but, even more, the melancholy out of her spirits. Somewhere not too far away she heard the striking of a clock and automatically counted the chimes. Three strokes. Could it be so late? And yet so early? It seemed that an eternity had passed since she had left her little room in Long Acre that morning, and yet so much had happened so quickly; she had found — or Wyndham had found for her — new employment on a real stage, and it looked very likely that Fenton too would be accommodated in the same production, and she had found her grandmother’s house. Of that she was quite sure. She had been in there but an hour or so, wandering about the rooms, but from the first instant she had been sure of it; this had been the house where the woman who had been her father’s mother had lived. And lived with great passion. The very bricks had seemed to breathe familiarity to her, as though she herself had lived there once long, long ago, and had experienced passions and angers, happinesses and lovings that had left their traces behind them in the fabric of the building.
She pulled herself together. Even for the fanciful Amy Lucas, this was going too far. The idea of ghosts had always appealed to her sense of the dramatic but she had never believed in them in any real way. They had been creatures to pretend to shiver at deliciously, or to be brave about, but never to take with any seriousness.
Long Acre Page 19
