“Angus,” she had said one night as they were undressing for bed, “has it ever struck you what an extraordinary upbringing your niece is having?”
Although Angus was less entangled in the Stratford-Derickson admiration society than his brothers, for six years in the army had widened his outlook, he was shocked by what Lucy had said.
“Extraordinary! We’ve always thought it a wonderful upbringing. She’s a charming child.”
“Don’t ‘we’ me,” said Lucy, “I’m talking to you, Angus, not the entire Stratford-Derickson family. And if you ever thought it a wonderful upbringing, it shocks me from someone as intelligent as you are, and child is not the right word, she’s a girl, and it won’t be long before she’s a young woman. Look at her, taken out for walks practically holding a governess’s hand. Do you realise, as far as I can gather, she never sees anyone but that governess and Avis?”
Angus had laughed.
“What nonsense! They’re always travelling, so of course they meet other people. Avis has got friends in every country in Europe.”
“I know, but these Spanish friends we meet, and the others that we don’t, are only Avis’s friends. I asked Judith if she knew many people here, and she looked quite stunned as if I had asked a silly question, and said ‘no, nobody’.”
Avis had not taken to Lucy, so Angus had hurriedly brought that visit to an end before Lucy could, as she put it, get to grips with the Judith problem. The uneasiness between Lucy and Avis, though Lucy did not know it, was that Avis could not shut her outside the family in the way she had shut Mercy, nor could her head be talked over. Lucy could and did join in any conversation. Nor would she be left outside family jokes. When Avis and Angus used a Stratford-Derickson expression or abbreviation, at once she pounced, demanding to know exactly what it meant, and where the joke had started. But although they left in a hurry, and Angus could not feel the visit had been a success, Lucy made him speak to Avis about Judith, and something that he said took deeper root than was suspected by anyone at the time.
“Have you any plans for Judith?” he had asked. “I mean, she’ll be sixteen next year, she’ll need to get around soon, and meet people, won’t she?”
Avis had been uneasily conscious that it was time Judith got around.
“I shall probably send her to a finishing school somewhere, Paris perhaps.”
“And don’t let Avis tell you she’s going to send Judith to a finishing school,” Lucy had ordered, “it isn’t a finishing school that girl needs, it’s mixing with young people, particularly boys, of her own age, and going off on her own.”
Angus had tried again.
“A finishing school would be all girls, she really needs to mix. Has she got the brains for a university?”
Avis had dismissed that hope.
“She’s much more Winster than us. Miss Simpson’s done a good job, the child is tolerably well-educated, and her languages are quite good, but no university would look at her.”
“Of course we’ve only got my old flat at the moment, but we’re looking for something larger. Perhaps, if we have a spare bedroom, you’d let her come to us some time. Lucy knows quite a lot of young people.”
Avis did not promise anything.
“That might be a good idea, the child scarcely knows London. When she was there, it was with her Father. Imagine London seen through the eyes of a Winster. I believe Madame Tussaud’s was the high spot of the visit, and the Albert Memorial was presented as England’s greatest glory.”
Soon after her return from Charlotte’s wedding Judith had unconsciously, in describing a conversation with someone in the market, shown her Mother her gift for mimicry. Avis had been entertained; the child, she thought, has pinned down that type with her gestures and her tongue far better than I could with my pen. From that time on, when relatives stayed, or she had guests who would be amused, Judith had been ordered to perform. She had been ordered to perform on several occasions for Angus and Lucy. Angus had enjoyed the performances, but Lucy had taken them seriously, and had instructed Angus to speak of them in his Judith talk.
“Lucy thinks, and so do I, that Judith has a real gift for mimicry. If she doesn’t show any other talent, it might be worth having her trained.”
The idea had been new to Avis, and had taken her by surprise.
“A stage training? I doubt if she’s good enough for that.”
“Well, keep it in your mind,” Angus had suggested, glad to bring the subject of Judith to an end, but glad to have something remotely satisfactory to report to Lucy.
Avis had kept the subject in her mind, not consistently but now and again. It certainly would solve the problem of what to do with Judith when she was seventeen, or thereabouts, if she sent her to England to a stage school; probably nothing would come of it, but it would mix her in a new world, and she could stay with one or other of the family, for they all owed hospitality.
When Avis had read The Times, and the first agony had passed leaving her limp from pain, a thought had flown to her and clung. She must be alone, she could not face the questions in the eyes of Miss Simpson and Judith, she could not see friends, she must be alone in a place where she knew nobody. The longing for solitude where she could lick her wounds unseen took her to the telephone, where she learned if she left at once for Marseilles—she was in Corsica at the time—she could catch a boat for Siam. Another call to Ambrose, and she had arranged to send Judith to London. Ambrose had been admirable. He accepted, having also read The Times, Avis’s need to go alone to the other side of the world. He offered no sympathy, because he felt none, it had always been to him regrettable that someone of Avis’s intelligence could be so foolish over a love affair, but he was helpful. Without hesitation he said he and Mercy would take Judith, and on asking what education she was to receive, accepted calmly Avis’s “I haven’t thought. Lucy and Angus suggested a stage school, because of her imitations . . .” “Leave the decision to us,” was all he said. “Write when you feel able.”
Ideas thrown out are seldom intended to be picked up and used in exactly the shape in which they were when thrown. It was a great surprise to Angus when Ambrose called and told him of his telephone conversation with Avis. Neither brother had seen the inside of a stage school and were incapable of imagining what they might be like, but equally neither could imagine what to do with a girl who was rising seventeen, but had not got the brains, even if coached, for a university. Without hesitation they left Judith’s education plans to Lucy.
Lucy was as amazed as Angus that the thrown out idea of a stage school had been picked up by Avis. She was even more amazed at Judith’s sudden arrival, and refused to accept Angus’s explanation of Avis’s behaviour.
“I suppose she didn’t think Siam would suit Judith, and it would be a terribly expensive fare for three.”
“What nonsense, something must have upset her. From what I saw of her, she’s the last person to dash off leaving other people to make plans for her child. What happened?”
But Angus was not to be drawn. Avis’s love life was a Stratford-Derickson matter.
“You’re letting your imagination run away with you.”
Lucy laughed.
“Am I? I wonder. Meanwhile, when Judith turns up I’ll look her over, if she hasn’t changed, as I said when I saw her last, a stage school will do her a lot of good.”
Lucy had seen Judith the day after she reached England, and at first glance she had seemed the same child she had last met in Spain, but in a very short time she had realised she was mistaken. The shy girl who had come quietly to meals, and who, unless ordered to entertain with her imitations, had spoken only when she was spoken to, who could be seen wandering off contentedly for long walks with her governess, had vanished, and her place had been taken by a creature who reminded Lucy of a stray puppy she had once befriended. The puppy must have had rough usage, for he had leap
t back from a friendly outstretched hand, so did Judith. Lucy could not imagine that to the puppy her hand had not appeared friendly, any more than she could imagine that to Judith, already so low-spirited she could barely speak without crying, her well-meant but terrifying questioning was almost beyond bearing, and a day spent with her, which was what Mercy had arranged, not to be faced in advance but endured minute by minute.
“Hullo, Judith, how are you after all this time? Take your coat off, and let me have a look at you.” Judith had done as ordered, and looking much smaller without her coat, had fixed scared eyes on Lucy. “Don’t look so frightened, we were good friends in Spain, weren’t we?”
The enormity of this statement did not penetrate to Judith’s mind, for she was concentrating on trying not to cry. After a pause she had managed a faint, assenting whisper.
Lucy had studied her. It was tiresome the girl was so shy for she was pretty, her fair hair was charming and so was her heart-shaped face. Her clothes were good, and she wore them well, but she looked such a little girl somehow; perhaps she was rather unformed for a stage school, but what else? Perhaps a domestic economy or citizenship course would be better, but that would be all girls, and it was time she met boys.
Lucy had taken Judith out shopping with her, and the whole while had her under her microscope, and towards the end of the morning had come to a decision. The girl was ludicrously backward and childish, she must be thrown amongst both boys and girls of her own age. If the West End School for Drama and Speech Training would take her, she should become a student. In her mind, like Angus and the rest of the Stratford-Derickson family, she had marshalled her reasons.
“It’s the best thing for her,” she planned to say, “the only subject I could get her to talk about was her governess, imagine that from a girl who will be seventeen in August. I realise she will mix with all types at the school, but that’s just what she needs to knock the shyness out of her. I telephoned the school while she was with me, and fixed an appointment, we may as well get things settled as soon as possible.”
Judith, who had no idea what was contemplated for her, nor what thoughts had passed through Lucy’s head while her sharp eyes snapped at her, had been almost sick with fright when, towards the end of luncheon, Lucy had said:
“You better do some of your imitations now, I’ll pick one or two in case the principal of the school wants to see what you can do.”
To imitate came naturally to Judith, but not to imitate to order alone. When she had imitated the locals, or what she could remember of the Winsters on Mother’s orders, it had been easy, anything was easy which made Mother love her more. When she had regaled whatever servants they had with imitations of visitors—she had nearly reduced the Spanish cook to hysterics with her imitation of Lucy—it had been easy because servants who laughed were contented, and contented servants made Mother happy. When on that visit to Grandmother she had imitated the Stratford-Derickson Uncles, and even on occasion Miss Simpson, it too had been easy, for it had pleased Father, but how could you think of imitations to do when there was no one to please with them? Judith had struggled to explain.
“I can’t do them like that.”
Lucy was a quick thinker, and a quick mover, which was why there had been no gap between her decision that Judith should go to the school, and her telephoned request for an appointment. Being quick herself, slowness and shilly-shallying set her nerves on edge.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Judith, that sort of false modesty is so tiresome.”
Judith, trained to obedience, had got to her feet.
“What do you want me to do?”
Had Lucy chanced to remember Judith’s mimicking the Spanish cook and gardener arguing as to whose job it was to water some tubs of flowers, it was possible Judith might have stumbled through a poor reflection of the argument as she recalled it, but Lucy had not remembered and instead suggested the first idea that came to her mind.
“Imitate that governess of yours, funny old thing.”
Into Lucy’s ultra-modern flat had padded Miss Simpson. Simpsy with her middle-aged spread, her feet which resented hills, her loving ways, her kind anxious eyes, her candles in honour of Saint Jude. Simpsy, who without warning had been sent to Mary in Rome, who would not want her. Simpsy, whom as far as Judith, tossed without warning into the Stratford-Derickson world, knew, she would never see again. There was a moment, while she had licked her lips and swallowed, when it was possible she could hold on to her self-control, then suddenly it had become impossible, and she had flopped back into her chair and had buried her face in her hands, while she shuddered with sobs.
Lucy had done her best, for she was moved by the girl’s misery. Lucy’s best was not much help, but it did penetrate that the pats, and the “Try to stop crying, and tell me what’s wrong” were meant to be kind, and at last, sniffing and hiccupping, Judith had raised her swollen face.
“I’m so sorry, but it was your talking about Simpsy. You see, I don’t know when I’ll see her again.”
That had been before Mercy had planned to bring Miss Simpson and her old persons’ home together, so Lucy had little comfort to offer. Nor was she mentally sympathetic, for the tears seemed to her to show how badly Judith needed to be free of a governess. But no one could have been unkind to so wretched an object as Judith had looked at that minute; she had said that it was nonsense to talk like that, Rome was no distance, of course she would see Miss Simpson again, and had changed the subject to the West End School of Drama and Speech Training.
The drama school Lucy had selected took itself seriously. The principal was an old actor who had in his day toured his own Shakespearean company. The stage being overcrowded, it was his custom only to recommend to join the profession the really talented; the rest, in fact the bulk of the students, he hoped would, if they did not choose some other work, teach voice production, or if still determined on a stage career, go into stage management. Judith was therefore just the kind of pupil he approved. Lucy, speaking to him privately, Judith having been left in the waiting-room, had explained about the gift for mimicry which could be encouraged, but not probably with a view to being used professionally. She had told of Judith’s strange upbringing, and the number of languages she could speak. Finally, she had made it clear that a Judith sucked into and absorbed by the life of the school, was what her relations hoped for.
The principal, looking at and listening to Lucy, was sure, before Judith was brought into his office, that she would be a suitable student, and when he saw her he was convinced she would be. Many of his students had accent defects which took months to cure, and sometimes were never cured. Judith’s soft educated voice charmed him. Many of his girl students found it necessary to express their personality by outré dressing, and some by over-done make-up. Judith’s neat schoolgirl appearance he thought refreshing. He did not teach the art of mimicry in his school, for it was a gift, like being born with a soprano voice, which could not be acquired by teaching, but he would not have taught it if he could, for it was a gift he did not care for, so he did not ask Judith to imitate anyone, but to give him a speech from a play of Shakespeare’s.
Judith had got past the crying stage, nor was her agony as acute as it had been when she first lunched with Lucy, for with every hour she spent in England she clung closer to Mercy. Even the alarming stage school interview with Aunt Lucy in attendance was not so appalling as it might have been, for by the evening it would be over and she would be safe at home with Aunt Mercy, and to-morrow, as a reward for to-day, she had Aunt Mercy’s promise that she could spend the whole day with her at her hospital. That morning, before she had dropped her at Lucy’s flat, Mercy had kissed her and said:
“Good luck, my dear. I hope you have a successful interview at this school.”
Judith could not know that Mercy was only saying what she thought an Aunt ought to say, and really hoped the school would not accept her, so that
she could be sent to somewhere more suitable, where she could ride perhaps, so, supposing she would please Aunt Mercy, Judith did her best. Miss Simpson had given her a good grounding in Shakespeare’s plays, and had made her learn quite a number of speeches by heart, but Judith had never seen the plays performed, so she only knew them as Miss Simpson spoke them. She chose Viola’s “Make me a willow cabin at your gate.”
Both the principal and Lucy were first puzzled, and then found it hard not to laugh. Here was no passionate Viola, but a precise governess making sure that every word was correct, and no syllable slurred. When Judith had finished, the principal, his eyes twinkling, beckoned Judith to his table.
“Who taught you that?”
“My governess, Miss Simpson.”
The principal let his amusement show.
“Do you think Viola spoke those words like that? A girl desperately in love, remember. Listen.” The old man did not get up, but leaning forward in his chair, spoke the speech starting on a low note, and climbing with each line until his voice vibrated with passion. At the end he relaxed. “Now, you try it that way.”
Judith waited a second, memorising the inflexions, then she started again.
“Make me a willow cabin at your gate . . .”
Lucy, who knew and loved Twelfth Night, was surprised but the principal was stunned, and looked at Judith with different eyes.
“Extraordinary! My every inflexion.” He looked Judith up and down with real interest. “I shall see you next term, young lady. Perhaps we can teach you not to imitate others, but to give your own interpretations, and then—well, we shall see.”
Judith Page 10
