No one could miss that this was not what Cynthia had been going to say. Beatrice turned to her.
“What were you going to say when Robert interrupted you?”
Cynthia had reacted immediately to the kick, and trained from babyhood to avoid growns’ questionings, had her reply ready.
“Mrs. Welsh, she’s exactly like her.”
Beatrice’s crisp voice was at its coldest.
“Really. Well, we will all have an opportunity to judge that for ourselves. After dinner we would like a performance of these imitations, Judith.”
Basil saw the horror on Judith’s face.
“Perhaps she doesn’t feel like doing them. There’s no must, you know, old lady.”
Everyone else knew that was not true, Beatrice had said there would be imitations, so there would be imitations. Even Judith accepted that no escape was possible, if she refused Aunt Beatrice would be annoyed, and would keep on about them until she did them. She turned hunted eyes on Basil.
“They’re not good I’m afraid, but I’ll try if Aunt Beatrice wants me to.”
Robert, holding the dining-room door open for the women, inadvertently gave Judith the incentive she needed to succeed. As she passed him he muttered “show ’em”. It had not until that moment struck Judith that Robert would care whether her imitations were good or bad, but once she knew he cared he would be her only audience, it would please him if she was good, so she would do her best. When Beatrice said, “Well, come along, Judith, let’s see these famous imitations,” without hesitation she got up, and choosing a good position where they could all see her, became Mrs. Welsh, not this time talking to Beatrice, but to the cook.
Beatrice was thoroughly amused, and laughed as heartily as anyone, and was as demanding of encores, but even while she laughed she was studying Judith and marvelling. No wonder they were sending the girl to a stage school, she was really clever; then her mind, as it always did when meeting somebody or something useful, turned to how best she could use a clever niece. The old people in the clubs would love her, they loved anything. Of course Judith would need to simplify her programme for them, yes, she must certainly do all the old people’s clubs. She might be a possibility, too, for the firm’s Christmas party, they enjoyed amateur talent, and family talent ought to be a tremendous hit. Then her mind switched to Judith, the girl. She looked totally different while she was imitating, alive, sparkling really; how odd that she was such a little mouse at other times, or was she? Was this the real Judith? Was the Judith who looked as if she was scared of her shadow one of her imitations?
Catherine liked Judith no better because she did good imitations, but she took a different view of her. She, too, under her laughter, tried to adjust herself to the new Judith. A Judith who was going to a stage school, and who from the look of things might be a success. No wonder Robert was silly about her, if he was, girls like Judith who were at stage schools were just the sort boys might get silly about, especially if led on. Catherine could face facts with courage; the fact she faced, and accepted, was that she had been wrong in looking on and treating Judith as a nonentity, she was not one, she was very much a person, and would therefore have to be fought more intelligently.
As usual, when she was pleasing the person she wanted to please, Judith was carried away. She was glad all the Carlyles were laughing and clapping, even Aunt Beatrice and Catherine, but it was not pleasing them that mattered, but pleasing Robert. There could be no doubt she was doing that, for Robert had suddenly become her proud ringmaster.
“Do the one of the two servants in Madeira.” “Do the gardener who wouldn’t pick the flowers in Corsica.” “Do your Stratford-Derickson relations.” When Judith would have sat down, he begged for just one more. “Do your governess, you often talk about her but you’ve never done her.”
Into the Carlyle drawing-room came Miss Simpson, in her flat shoes, and neat clothes. Simpsy, who was still in Rome with her sister who did not want her, but this time Judith did not cry, this time she could think of Simpsy and even imitate her, because Robert had asked for her. She remembered an occasion when Simpsy had met a woman, also a governess, who had been at her convent with her. In a moment she was Simpsy, almost she looked like her, her face wore Simpsy’s anxious rather foolish smile.
“Why Marjorie! It is Marjorie, isn’t it? You haven’t changed a bit. Of course I remember Sister Pious . . .”
When Judith finally sat down it was evident she was to the Carlyles a different person. Even Robert saw Judith with new eyes; doing imitations in a bus for himself and Cynthia was one thing, standing up in front of the family was quite an ordeal and she had been brilliant, he could see she had even impressed his Mother, and that really was something.
“You have never seen Ruth Draper, I suppose, Judith?” Basil said, “but your Aunt and I have. It will be exciting, won’t it, Beatrice, if we have a Ruth Draper in the family?”
The children had not seen Ruth Draper, but they had heard her spoken of. Judith was certainly clever, but hardly a Ruth Draper yet, they looked at their Mother for her reactions. Beatrice surprised them.
“Work hard, Judith, and you never know. You are certainly gifted.”
“Goodness,” said Cynthia afterwards, “I never heard Mother so polite before. I think you can take it, Judith, that as far as we Carlyles are concerned you’ve arrived.”
Judith was unaware that her success that evening meant anything to her, but it did. Her imitations had been something she did to please, she had not thought about herself as the performer. But before she went to sleep that night she turned over what Beatrice had said. Was she gifted? Perhaps she was. If she was a success at this stage school, would Robert be pleased, would Mother be proud of her? If they would be it would make all the difference, it would be something to work for.
It was ill-luck that allowed Beatrice to discover her arrangements were not being carried out. There was only one day left of the holidays; the family were at breakfast when Mrs. Welsh, her face pink with excitement, came into the dining-room. She carried a picture paper, and laid it in front of Beatrice as if it were a basket of exotic fruits.
“Cook said to show you this. Speakin’ likeness, isn’t it?”
On the front of the paper was a photograph taken outside the Dorchester of an American film star signing autograph albums. Behind the star, beaming proudly and infatuatedly, was Cynthia. Since Judith had imitated her, Mrs. Welsh’s every remark was considered by the children to be excruciatingly funny, even now though they knew it meant trouble both Robert and Cynthia grinned at Judith, though as well Robert gave Cynthia a sign which meant “leave this to me”. Not that he expected a major row, for having no idea why Cynthia was ordered always to be with himself and Judith he supposed all that had to be faced was a row for disobedience, and a second one for Cynthia for her crime of standing outside the Dorchester begging for an autograph.
Beatrice pointed to the picture paper, which Basil was examining.
“What’s the meaning of this, Robert? Yesterday you were supposed to be in Kew Gardens, you said you went to Kew, you even described the flowers.”
The angrier people were the quieter and more off-hand Robert became.
“Who said we didn’t go to Kew?”
“That paper. You can’t have been outside the Dorchester and in Kew Gardens at the same time.”
“Who said it was the same time? We didn’t have to spend all day in Kew.”
“But you did. I said Kew and I meant Kew.”
Basil was unwilling to intervene, but he felt he really must.
“I don’t quite see why you are so insistent on Kew, Beatrice. It is the holidays. I think the children should go where they like, though I must say it seems a wretched waste of time hanging about outside the Dorchester on the chance of getting an autograph.”
Cynthia was not willing for Robert to suffer for her.
“Robert wasn’t hanging about outside the Dorchester, it was only me that was.”
Catherine felt a stab of jealousy so sharp it hurt physically.
“You were alone! You can’t have been. You were with Robert and Judith. You had to be.”
“Do I understand that you were alone outside the Dorchester, Cynthia?” Beatrice asked.
Cynthia could not involve her friends.
“It wasn’t for long. What a fuss about an autograph. Almost everybody in the world collects them, there are even clubs for collectors, and you pick on me as if I’d been shoplifting.”
“I’ll discuss you later.” Beatrice turned back to Robert. “Where were you and Judith, Robert, while Cynthia was at the Dorchester?”
Robert was amused by his answer, and sounded as if he thought it funny.
“In Kew Gardens, Mother dear. You told us to go there, and we went. I always try to be an obedient son.”
Basil laughed.
“There you are, Beatrice, they were in Kew Gardens.”
Beatrice ignored him.
“But you were ordered to take Cynthia with you.”
“I know, but it’s her holidays, and I didn’t think it would hurt for once, it would be different if she made a habit of it.” Robert kicked Cynthia to be sure she appreciated that gem.
It was at this moment that the telephone bell rang. The house was full of telephones, there was one in the dining-room. Beatrice got up.
“Bother. It’ll be for me, about that by-election.”
It was not about the by-election, but Mrs. Pusey, the Mother of Cynthia’s girl friends. Another paper carried a photograph, in that photograph the Pusey girls were also in the group. The Pusey girls were far more vulnerable to parental annoyance than Cynthia was, it had not taken their Mother long to get the whole truth out of them.
“Every day!” Mrs. Pusey wailed down the telephone. “Imagine what my friends would say if they had seen them hanging about, and of course your friends, too. Naturally I don’t blame one child more than another, but I fancy Cynthia was the ring-leader, I don’t believe my two would have gone without her.”
Beatrice let that pass, for she was facing something more important.
“I’ve seen a photograph and was just hearing the story from Cynthia when you phoned. I hadn’t realised it was a daily business . . .”
At the table Robert exchanged a quick look with Cynthia, who grinned and turned down her thumbs.
“I think I may say I’m rumbled,” she announced cheerfully. “Daddy dear, the dreadful secret is out, your youngest daughter has never been out with Robert and Judith, she has sneaked off with her low friends, sleuthing film stars.”
Basil gave her a fond smile.
“Silly little idiot! First, for wasting your time on such a foolish occupation, and secondly, for pretending you only did it once when it was a daily event.” He looked at his watch. “I must be off. Apologise nicely and I dare say you’ll be forgiven.”
Beatrice, as she replaced the telephone on its stand, was deciding what action, if any, she should take. Catherine forestalled her; there were only a few minutes before she must leave for work, and she had no intention of departing until she had said some at least of the things which were burning her tongue as if they were acids. In all her years of possessing Robert, though she had prepared for his becoming grown-up and for conditions changing, she had never imagined a situation like the present was possible. She had thought of girls vaguely, they would be about, and probably one would try to marry Robert, but she had known she could cope with that, not perhaps in the way she had planned as a child, his marrying a girl who had a brother as husband for herself, but she was certain she could influence him to choose somebody with whom she could get on. Although she had known Robert had grown rather away from her lately, she had looked upon this as a passing mood, and it had never crossed her mind that her position might be changed permanently, that Robert might move right away from her, and she become just a sister he saw occasionally. This news about him and Judith had broken her dreams. A girl cousin of his own age, that he went off alone with every day. She did not really suppose that the sort of things her Mother imagined went on, and she was too undeveloped to realise what a hold it would have had over Robert had it been true, what her possessive nature could not endure was the hours the two spent alone together, the intimate talk that must have taken place, and not a word repeated to her, not a hint from Robert about what was going on. In fact Judith had stolen her place, she and Robert were secret friends, that was what was so unendurable. She turned first to Cynthia.
“You can go. As Father says, you’ve been an idiot, I want to talk to Robert and Judith.”
Cynthia laughed.
“Thank you very much, but it’s not you who tells me when I can go, it’s Mother.” Catherine made a gesture with her head which belonged to her childhood, an anti-grown signal to be instantly obeyed. Cynthia laughed again. “And it’s no good doing that. You see, you’re a grown now, it’s me, Robert and Judith who can make signs.”
Beatrice had come to a decision. She came briskly back to the table.
“Run along, Catherine, or you’ll be late. I don’t want you for the moment, Cynthia, I’ll talk to you later. Robert and Judith, I want a word with you.”
It was too much for Catherine. Pushed into the adult world by Cynthia, ordered to run along by her Mother as if she were a child, and all in front of Judith. She turned as if to go, then a strangled cry burst from her, she rushed round the table, caught Judith by her shoulders and shook her.
“You beast. You horrible little beast. Sneaking in here. It was all right until you came.”
It was over in a moment. Robert and Beatrice pulled Catherine away from Judith, and pushed her out of the room. Beatrice was disgusted, and sounded it.
“Really! Behaving like a drunken fishwife.”
Judith had been so scared since the telephone call that Catherine’s final outburst only added to the horror of an already horrifying morning. They had been found out, just as she had always been afraid they would. Aunt Beatrice knew they had deceived her, what would happen now?
Beatrice was put out by Catherine’s outburst, she had always thought, and had said so to Basil, who of course had not listened, that Catherine was too possessive over Robert. Most tiresome, she would have to do something about it, separate them perhaps, Robert better not come home next holidays, he could go somewhere with Basil. Then she dismissed Catherine and gave her full attention to Robert and Judith.
“Really, Robert, I should have thought you had more sense of responsibility. How could you arrange for Cynthia to go running all over London with those Pusey girls?”
Robert knew it was wasting time to go on defending Cynthia, Mrs. Pusey and Beatrice were certain to get together and would piece out the autograph history.
“You have your facts wrong, Mother dear. I did not arrange anything for Cynthia. Since Mrs. Pusey has, one would gather, told all, no harm will come of confiding in you that your youngest daughter commits the deadly sin of collecting autographs. She and the Pusey girls have autograph hunted all through the holidays, and Cynthia’s nose was not to be taken from the trail because Judith came to stay. I sympathise with her. I don’t want autographs myself, but I am sufficiently tolerant I hope to admit that others do.”
Beatrice wished he was young enough to smack. She wished too she had something decisive to say. She could not, without giving her reasons, say much about his being out alone with Judith. The more she saw of Judith the more she was inclined to feel she must have been wrong in that first impression. She supposed the truth was she had never liked Avis, and because she had been unfaithful to Charles, and, if rumour were true, had had a succession of foreign lovers since, she had classed her as a loose type whose daughter would probably take after her. This, she realised, was unfair
, the last thing the girl looked was loose, she had not taken to her but that was not the reason why. Being a forceful character, who made herself felt by her efficiency and clear thinking, she instinctively distrusted women who got on through being thoroughly feminine. Judith was evidently going to grow up that type. She looked helpless, and adoring, and young though she was Robert and Basil had already fallen for her. However, you could not say to a niece “I don’t like your type, and I don’t want you in my house,” especially as the girl could not be blamed for the Cynthia affair. Because she had got herself into a situation from which she did not know how to extricate herself, Beatrice knew both what she said, and the acidity in her voice, were to Robert ridiculous, but she was unable to moderate either, and even as she spoke was thinking “It’s this wretched girl’s fault. Thank goodness we’ll be rid of her to-morrow.”
“I am exceedingly annoyed. You two are far too old to behave so thoughtlessly; had anything happened to Cynthia, as it well might have, I should have held you jointly responsible. You deliberately deceived me, and now you see what it has led to, clearly you are not to be trusted, so, though I am exceedingly busy, I shall have to put off all my engagements to-day so as to look after you. I hope you feel thoroughly ashamed.”
To Robert and Cynthia that day was not without humour; they were past masters at the art of dumb-insolence, and were able by sign language, perfected over the years, to keep in touch with each other’s thoughts. Judith found the day so terrifying that she grew more idiotic hourly, she stuttered when she was spoken to, answered stupidly, dropped things, ran into things and, wherever she went, left something behind; Cynthia thought her hysterically funny. Robert, knowing Judith was scared, was sorry for her, but he did wish occasionally that she would be less of an ass.
Beatrice, hurrying the party from shop to shop, shepherding them into a restaurant, and leading them round Madame Tussaud’s, felt a private longing to knock Robert’s and Cynthia’s heads together. Judith she discovered she could bear with better when she was stupid, especially when she was sufficiently stupid to lose Robert’s sympathy. But most of her mind was not given to the maddening Robert and Cynthia, or to Judith, but to Catherine. There was a real problem, which had to be tackled, the question was how.
Judith Page 13
