My Sister Celia

by Mary Burchell

  “Your twin sister?” The girl passed her hand over her face. “Do you mean there are three of us?”

  “Oh, no.” Freda gave a faint smile at that. “My sister—my little sister Celia—was killed in an air raid, years and years ago.”

  “In an air raid?” The other girl’s voice ran up on a note of incredulous excitement. “Brian, do you hear that?”

  ‘Yes, I heard.” The young man too had come down the steps by now and was looking from one girl to the other.

  “She says”—the girl’s voice was still pitched on that high, incredulous note—”she says she had a twin sister, called Celia, who was killed—who was supposed to have been killed—in an air raid.”

  “What did you say your name was?” the young man asked Freda gently.

  “Freda. Freda Mersham. But you haven’t told me your name,” she added, turning to the other girl.

  “It’s Celia Vanner. But that’s not my real name. Vanner is the name of my adopted parents.”

  “Your adopted—?” Freda felt something in her throat which almost choked her. “But your real name,” she almost whispered. “What was your real name?”

  “I don’t know,” the other girl said slowly. “My parents—my adopted parents, I mean—never wanted me to think of myself as anything but their daughter—and I can’t say I wanted things otherwise. But I know that they adopted me during the war, from some sort of temporary orphanage. I’d been found wandering after one of the worst air raids.”

  “You were—found?—after an air raid? Oh—Celia!” And half timidly Freda put out her hands towards the other girl.

  There was a moment of the most extraordinary tension and emotion. Then, swiftly and with touching naturalness, Celia put her arms round Freda and kissed her.

  “It can’t be any other way,” she said slowly. ‘You’re my sister.”

  It was all Freda could do not to cry in that moment. And she was almost glad when the young man called Brian interposed a little gruffly.

  “You’ll have to go into proofs and things a bit more thoroughly than that. Though of course it does look, on the face of it, as though it might—”

  “Might!” repeated Celia scornfully. “Isn’t that just like a man! Look at her—and then tell me that she might be a connection of mine. And how do you explain away the fact of the air raid in each version of the story?”

  “I’m not explaining it away,” he protested. “I’m only saying that you’ll have to look into the case thoroughly. It’s no good you two girls getting into a state of high emotion and rapture, and then finding that you have nothing to do with each other. The most extraordinary coincidences do happen, and—”

  “I don’t believe a word you say,” interrupted Celia good-humouredly. “And, what’s more, nor do you. Freda is my sister. Where do we go from there?”

  “We were going to the Ronaldsons’ party,” the young man said, gesturing vaguely towards the house.

  “Oh—of course.” She too looked up at the house, which had most of its windows lighted up.

  “I’ll go,” Freda said hastily. “I’ll tell you where to find me—but I’ll go now.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t,” declared Celia, with emphasis. And, as though to enforce her determination, she caught Freda lightly by the hand. “You’ll come with us.”

  “But I haven’t been invited to the party. I can’t just gatecrash because—”

  “It’s not that sort of party,” Celia interrupted easily. “There’s nothing formal about the Ronaldsons’ parties. One can always bring an extra person—and a sister would be included as a matter of course. Besides—think what a sensation! One doesn’t find a sister every day. They’ll adore to have you.”

  And, holding Freda tightly by the hand now, she mounted the steps once more and knocked on the door.

  As they all three stood there, waiting for the door to be opened, Celia looked at Freda and smiled with the utmost satisfaction. Her eyes—so exactly the same unusual, almost hyacinth blue as Freda’s—sparkled attractively, and her expression reflected the good-humoured determination she had shown when she insisted that Freda should accompany her and her escort.

  She’s much more used to having her own way than I am, thought Freda, half touched, half amused by this discovery about her new-found sister. Then the door was opened by an elderly maid, who said, “Good evening, Miss Vanner, good evening, sir,” before she looked at Freda and blinked.

  “It’s all right, Furman. You aren’t seeing double. This is my sister,” explained Celia, with an easy acceptance of the strange new situation which half disconcerted Freda.

  “Your sister, miss?” Furman’s eyes opened wide. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  “Nor did I until ten minutes ago,” Celia assured her gaily. And—obviously very much at home in the house—she led Freda upstairs and into a large bedroom which appeared to be doing duty as a dressing-room.

  “Can you find an inch for your hat and gloves?” She spoke to Freda as though she had known her all her life and, picking her way among the wraps, went over to the mirror to add a trace of lipstick to her very red lips. Then she turned suddenly and said, “Come here, Freda.”

  Freda came slowly across the room and stood beside the other girl.

  “There—just look at that.” Celia took her by the arm, and the two girls stood facing their reflection in the mirror. “It’s almost—uncanny, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Freda. “It would be uncanny if it weren’t—lovely.”

  Celia pressed her arm with an easy but genuine affection.

  “You dear girl! Are you so pleased to have found me?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ve always wished I could have someone of my own. Haven’t you?”

  “But I always had,” Celia explained. “I mean— the Vanners are my family. I’m a bit the spoiled darling of the household, to tell the truth,” she added, with engaging candour. “I’m the only daughter. And Brian’s just like a brother.”

  “Oh—Brian is the son of the Vanners?”

  ‘Yes.”

  “He seems very nice.”

  “Oh, he is nice,” Celia declared carelessly. “Now let’s go and show ourselves and cause a sensation, shall we?”

  She was so gay and good-humoured about it that one could not possibly demur. But Freda’s reaction would have been a different one, if she had been left to her own choice. She was still almost dazed, and indescribably moved, by the incredible discovery. To her the whole event savoured so much of a miracle that there was something almost sacred about it. She was not at all sure that she wanted to go into a room of curious and interested strangers—to be stared at and questioned.

  But Celia—while also genuinely touched by the strange reunion—was evidently delighted at the prospect of astounding and mystifying her friends.

  “I hope Brian hasn’t stolen our thunder by telling the whole story yet,” she exclaimed. “Come on—let’s hurry!” And, catching Freda by the hand—it seemed to be a favourite gesture of hers—she hurried her downstairs and into a large room at the back of the house, where fifteen or sixteen people were standing or lounging about, sipping drinks and talking.

  They stood for a moment, side by side, in the doorway. Then someone who was evidently their hostess came forward with an exclamation of unmistakable pleasure.

  “Celia, my dear!” Then she stopped dead, and repeated, “C-Celia—” more uncertainly, and gazed in a startled sort of way from one girl to the other.

  “I know. Isn’t it incredible?” Laughing, Celia brushed a careless kiss over her hostess’s cheek. “You can hardly tell which is which, can you, Fran? Like those advertisements for home perms.”

  “I know which is you all right,” Frances Ronaldson said slowly. ‘You’re unmistakable for many things besides your actual appearance. But I don’t understand. What’s the explanation?”

  “This is Freda—my sister,” announced Celia, evidently enjoying the sensation this caused, not only
with Frances, but among the half-dozen people nearest to them.

  ‘Your—what? You haven’t got a sister!” exclaimed someone.

  “That’s what you think!” Celia’s smile was tinged with an engaging sort of pride as well as mischief. “That’s what I thought, to tell the truth, until half an hour ago. But then Freda turned up. So I brought her along.”

  “Well—of course.” Frances Ronaldson gave Freda a somewhat distracted smile. “How do you do, my dear? I’m very glad you came.”

  Freda murmured something appropriate in reply, and tried not to mind the way the others crowded round and looked at her.

  “But is she a long-lost Vanner or something?” enquired a girl who looked as though she had wandered out of the pages of Vogue and was not specially pleased with the company in which she found herself. “I thought I knew all Brian’s family.”

  “There are some things hidden even from you, Coralie,” retorted Celia good-humouredly, but with an air of being able to hold her own with anyone. “No—of course she isn’t a Vanner. Nor am I, really, as well you know.”

  “I always think of you as Brian’s sister,” replied the girl called Coralie.

  “I know,” said Celia sweetly. And for a moment Freda was aware, from the slight tightening of Celia’s hand, that this brisk exchange of pleasantries was significant.

  “But the story!” exclaimed one of the men impatiently. “Let’s hear the story, Celia.”

  “And meanwhile, won’t you sit down,” said a vaguely familiar voice beside Freda. And, glancing over her shoulder, she was astounded to find Laurence Clumber standing almost immediately behind her.

  “Why—hello!” She was so astonished—and, in some way, relieved—to see someone who knew her in her own identity, rather than as some sort of strange carbon copy of Celia—that her voice contained a note of cordiality which she immediately regretted.

  “Hello,” he replied non-committally. And, as she almost sank into the chair he had brought over, Celia glanced round in surprise and said, “Oh, you’ve found someone you know?”

  “We’re old friends,” stated Laurence Clumber unwarrantably, before Freda could say anything.

  And then the clamour for the story became so insistent that Celia—taking the floor naturally, though with great charm—launched into a lively account of her meeting with Freda, less than half an hour ago.

  “But then nothing’s proved,” objected Coralie, when the tale was told.

  “Nothing. Except the way we look,” replied Celia scornfully. “And the air raid, which is common to both stories.”

  “It’s an inexplicable likeness unless you are relations,” agreed a large, pleasant-faced man who appeared to be Frances Ronaldson’s husband. “You’re practically identical twins. It’s fairly rare for such a likeness, even between twins, I imagine.”

  “I wonder what your mother and father are going to say, Celia,” went on Coralie, in what Freda could not help describing to herself as a mischief-making sort of voice.

  “They’ll be as charmed and delighted as I am,” asserted Celia quickly. But Freda noticed that no one—not even Brian Vanner—rushed to support that view.

  “This is certainly your year for sensations, isn’t it?” observed Laurence Clumber beside her, and looking up quickly at him, Freda tried to feel annoyed at his presence and failed.

  “Yes, it is,” she agreed shyly. “And not the least is meeting you again—here.”

  “I know Bob Ronaldson quite well,” he explained.

  “And Celia?”

  “I’ve met her a couple of times—at a party like this.”

  “But you didn’t notice the extraordinary likeness. When you first met me, I mean.”

  “It isn’t so striking when one sees you separately, I suppose,” he said thoughtfully. “I believe I did think you were vaguely familiar. But I had no reason to connect you with a girl I’d met casually at a party in London. And anyway,” he added gravely, “we were a good deal concerned with other things, weren’t we?”

  ‘Yes,” she agreed coldly. “We were.” And she tried to look like a landowner resting firmly on her rights.

  “Are you still mad with me?” he enquired casually.

  “M-mad with you?” she repeated, slightly put off by his unexpected approach. “I don’t know that I was the one who was ma—angry.”

  “Perhaps obstinate was more the word,” he said reflectively.

  Freda immediately felt nettled by the implication of that.

  “If you mean have I changed my views about my cottage,” she replied coolly and firmly, “I have not.”

  “Still going to live in it?” He grinned down at her, and, to her annoyance, she discovered that he had a certain charm of manner, particularly when his eyes twinkled in that unexpected fashion. But she knew that he was laughing at her about something which was infinitely important to her. So she replied, still in that cool, firm voice,

  “Yes, certainly. At the weekends.”

  “Oh, yes, of course—at the weekends,” he murmured. And then someone came up with a tray of refreshments, and Celia and one or two others joined the group, so that conversation became general.

  It was all immensely entertaining and exciting, and Freda had never before had so much fuss made of her. But it all also seemed just a little bit unreal, like a faintly disquieting dream which one knew must end.

  She longed for a brief respite, in which to take stock of this strange new situation. But it was difficult even to arrange her thoughts in any familiar sequence when, all the time, people wanted to ask her questions and hear her tell the most unexpected things about herself.

  Until now, she had never supposed that her life-story held any interest for anyone but herself. It had, she believed, been an unusually quiet and uneventful one. But now people were saying, “How romantic!” and “My dear, how tragic for you!” and “What a story! It’s like something in a book.”

  Unexpectedly, it was Brian Vanner who finally rescued her from this bewildering blaze of limelight, just as she was beginning to wonder if the slight drumming in her head were the beginning of a violent headache, or just the excited beat of her pulse.

  Someone had put on a radiogram in an adjoining room, and several of the guests, including Celia, had drifted in there to dance, when Brian appeared beside Freda and said,

  “Come and talk to me for a little. It’s time we got to know each other, if we have a sister in common.” And, to her relief, he led her to a windowed alcove at the far end of the room, where it was cooler and quieter than any spot she had managed to discover so far.

  “That’s better.” He leaned back against the shutter, at one end of the window-seat and smiled at her. “You’d about had enough, hadn’t you?”

  “Oh, but it’s terribly kind of everyone to be so interested!” she protested.

  “Why? It’s as good as a free seat at the theatre, for them,” he retorted carelessly. “And you were finding it all a bit of a strain, weren’t you?”

  “Well, it’s all rather—rather unreal. Except for the one stunning fact of Celia’s existence.”

  “And that,” he suggested kindly, “is the biggest thing that has happened to you in years.”

  “I suppose,” she said soberly, “it’s the biggest thing that has ever happened to me. The discovery that there’s someone in the world, after all, who really—belongs to me.”

  She bit her lip suddenly, for, with all the excitement and the emotion of the last hour or two, she felt again near tears. Just as she had at that moment when Celia put her arms round her and kissed her.

  He seemed to realize that, for he gave her a few minutes to collect herself before he spoke again. Then he said,

  “You mustn’t mind, Freda, if I remind you that, in a very real sense, she also belongs to some other people too.”

  “Why—of course.” Freda looked surprised. “I don’t mind that at all.”

  “Don’t you?” He looked at her curiously and smiled faint
ly. “Then you’re singularly undemanding—which may make things easier.”

  “I don’t think—I understand.” Freda spoke doubtfully.

  “No? I’ll try to explain.” He paused, as those choosing his words carefully. Then he went on—“Celia is an usually warm, rich and attractive personality—”

  “Yes, I see that!” Freda interrupted eagerly.

  “And she quite naturally inspired a deep and possessive affection in people.”

  He paused again, and Freda asked doubtfully, “Why possessive?”

  “I can’t tell you, exactly. Except that perhaps it’s natural to want to be first with anyone so attractive. She’s quite innocent about it herself. She can’t be unaware of it, because she is intelligent, but she’s not in the least a trouble-maker—”

  “I’m sure she’s not!” interjected Freda indignantly, and, smiling, he leaned forward to pat her hand, as though to reassure her that he understood how

  “It’s just that she is the kind of girl who naturally inspires a certain amount of jealousy and competition among those who love her and want to be first with her.”

  “Do you love her and want to be first with her?” enquired Freda, before she could stop herself.

  “Of course,” he retorted lightly. “I’ve told you—we all do.” But he smiled as he said that, so that she was not quite sure how seriously he meant the words. “But I at least don’t resent your appearing on the scene.”

  “Meaning,” Freda said quickly, “that someone else may?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Your parents, in fact?”

  “I was thinking of them. Try not to blame them too much, if they do, because—”

  “I shan’t blame them,” Freda interrupted gently. “I think I understand. You mean they will be a little frightened. Because they’ve always wanted to think of her as their own flesh and blood, and if a real sister turns up, that could undermine their sense of security.”

  “Something like that. You see, they adore Celia. She’s been the pet of the household from the very beginning, and they just think there’s no one like her.”

  “I—see,” Freda said slowly. “Then it’s going to be a shock for them to discover that there is someone exactly like her, so far as looks go.”