Judith

by Noel Streatfeild

  “What about Judith? Where is she to join you?”

  Avis made a small dismissing gesture with her hand.

  “She isn’t joining me. She is no longer a child, she will be seventeen in a few weeks. If you don’t want to have her she can move into an hotel, or a hostel, or wherever English girl students live.”

  It was obvious to Mercy that it was no good talking. Avis had made up her mind, appeals to her as a Mother would only make her laugh. The best she could do was to get plans clear for Judith.

  “Of course we’ll have her, but Ambrose and I thought it was better for her to be with young people.”

  Avis looked at Mercy’s kind anxious face, and was irritated.

  “I suppose it sounds shocking to you, but I have never been the maternal type. I gave birth to Judith, I’ve seen she has been fed, clothed and educated, but my attitude is that of a thrush, my duty is done, I am now pushing my young bird out of the nest to fend for herself. Quite truthfully, I feel no further responsibility.”

  Ambrose wished Avis had not made this statement in front of Mercy, it would have been better made to him, and he could then have passed the facts to Mercy in more palatable form. But since it had been made it was best to get the position clear.

  “Somebody has to be in charge. Do you wish Mercy and myself to be responsible for the girl? What about her Father?”

  It was as if Avis gave her daughter a final push into space.

  “She’s all his from now on. I’m writing to him to say I’ve done my part, he can take over.”

  “But that,” said Mercy, “will mean the Winsters will look after her, and I’m not sure she will be happy with that arrangement.”

  Avis was already in her mind composing a letter to Charles, and another to Judith.

  “If Judith doesn’t like Charles’s arrangements she must make others for herself.”

  Judith had no idea her Mother had cut her adrift, or that she was the subject of unending telephone conversations between Beatrice and Ambrose and Mercy, between Ambrose and his brothers and sister-in-law, and between Beatrice and her sister, brother and mother. Judith received Avis’s letter, but although it explained that her Father was now in charge, and she would not be writing often in future, was so like one of Mother’s ordinary letters that it did not disturb her. She had a long affectionate letter from Charles, which told her that she was for the time being remaining with the Carlyles, but would spend her summer holidays with her Grandmother. When she had finished with the stage school he hoped, and so did Marion, she would visit with them. She had a weekly letter from Alice Winster saying, amongst other things, how nice it was she was living in England, and how she was looking forward to having her for the summer holidays.

  Nothing worried Judith, not even the news that she was living indefinitely with the Carlyles, for she was existing in a dream. She had not known it was possible to be so happy; she so treasured every minute spent with Lance that the one letter which she received at that time which did worry her was from Miss Simpson, and that only troubled her because her arrival in Kensington, lovely though it would be to see her, might mean giving up time which she could spend with Lance.

  Miss Simpson’s life in Rome had not been happy. Her sister, Mary, was part of an intimate little group, which, though willing to accept Agnes as a visitor, had no wish to see her permanently. Mary’s flat was small, and though she had agreed she must take her sister in, she did not attempt to hide that it was inconvenient having her, and that she missed her privacy. Agnes would have felt better if she might have helped in the tea room, but Mary would not hear of it. “What could you do? You are no use in a kitchen, and I use girls as waitresses.” Mercy Stratford-Derickson’s offer, though it had come fairly soon after Agnes’s arrival in Rome, had not been sufficiently definitely worded to cheer Mary up. “It’s all right I suppose, if it happens, but is it going to happen?” Even when Agnes knew she had been given the position Mary was not cheered as she might have been, because Mercy, before going abroad, had persuaded the woman she was replacing to stay on until her return. “Not until July!” said Mary’s friends in poor-old-Mary voices.

  It was not so much outstaying her welcome with Mary that troubled Agnes as that she was worrying about Judith. Having been so close to her for so long, she could not help knowing from her letters that the child had changed. Though she had done her best neither to see nor hear evil, Agnes had come to suspect that Avis had lovers, and so, in talking to Judith, she had always been careful to lead away from the subject of men. There had been nothing about Judith to make her suspect she was taking after her Mother, but with her history you could not be too careful. So when Judith had asked: “Has any man ever proposed to you, Simpsy?” or had stated she thought a male film star handsome, she got shutting-out replies. “That’s not something we want to talk about.” Or “I never think about him, dear.” Judith, quick to sense an uneasy atmosphere, had decided Miss Simpson and men should be kept apart, so as a matter of course she had left Lance out of her letters. Without Lance there had been nothing to write about, and so her letters had become shorter and shorter. But even the short letters had puzzled Agnes. So strange, she thought, to have changed from deep depression to great happiness with no explanation, and that though Judith was still with the Carlyles, which she said she hated, and was receiving no letters from her Mother. But she comforted herself with the thought that she would soon see Judith, and then would hear everything there was to hear.

  Two days before Miss Simpson’s arrival Judith had a shock. After school she and Lance ate a large tea, then walked across Hyde Park. It was a warm sunny evening after a week of rain, the earth smelled delicious, and Lance was at his nicest. They did not talk much, but Lance put his arm through hers and held it tight to his side. Judith felt drowsy with contentment, and managed by thinking of Lance to hold her happiness all the way to Hampstead on a bus. Beatrice was working, but she called Judith to her.

  “Your Grandmother says that there are to be some holiday dances and parties, to which you are invited. You’ll need some clothes, I’m too busy, but I’ll send Catherine with you to shop on Saturday. You won’t need any ready money, you can pay by cheque.”

  The next day, over mid-morning coffee, Judith told Lance what had happened.

  “She thinks there’s masses in the bank, because she doesn’t know about you, but there’s hardly anything. I’ll have to see Uncle Basil somehow, and tell him.”

  Lance had got so used to an income of ten pounds a week that he had come to look upon it as his own. He felt a stab in the solar plexus as he imagined Basil’s reaction to Judith’s news of what had happened to her money. Those sort of city types went mad if they thought money was escaping out of the family. Quickly he decided on the best way to handle Judith. He made himself sound sulky and offhand.

  “All right, if you want to, but all it will mean is that he will look after your money in future, and that means good-bye to us having fun.”

  “It needn’t, there are lots of places I’ve never seen we can go to free.”

  Lance thought of the suit a tailor was making, which he was paying for week by week, and of returning to empty pockets and sordid economies, and refused to face such a future. He had not been with Judith for weeks on end without learning how to hurt her. He turned his lips down at the corners and scowled.

  “You may like that sort of thing, but I loathe it. You know I only take your money so that I can take you about decently. One has one’s pride. If it means eating buns on buses, and queueing up for art galleries, you can go on your own, when I go about with a girl I do things properly or not at all.”

  Judith almost flung herself across the table.

  “But, Lance darling, I couldn’t live without you, you know that I’d die if we didn’t do things together. But if I don’t tell Uncle Basil, what am I to do?”

  “Can’t you say you don’t
want the clothes, you’ve got bags of things to wear.”

  Judith was appalled.

  “Tell Aunt Beatrice I don’t want them when she says I do! I couldn’t, Lance! Nobody could, people never talk like that to Aunt Beatrice.”

  “It’s up to you. All I say is that if you want to go on seeing me outside this place you can’t tell your Uncle about the money.”

  Judith looked like a spaniel in pain.

  “I’ll do whatever you say, Lance, but I can’t say that to Aunt Beatrice, and it wouldn’t do any good if I did.”

  Lance continued to scowl and look sulky, but inwardly he accepted Judith’s statement.

  “How much money will you need?”

  “I don’t know exactly. It’s a frock for afternoon things, and two for the evening, grown-up clothes. Aunt Beatrice says you can get awfully nice clothes quite cheaply, but cook said she wouldn’t wonder if I didn’t spend forty pounds, she says Aunt Beatrice is sure to send me to one of the good stores.”

  “Forty pounds! ’Strewth!”

  “It’s not my fault, I don’t want to buy clothes, you know that. Besides, it’s a whole morning when I won’t see you.”

  “Well, think of something then. Can’t you borrow the money?”

  The idea was new to Judith.

  “Borrow it! Who from?”

  Lance changed his tactics. He stopped scowling, and looking sulky, and instead wore a hurt small boy look he knew to be effective.

  “If I sound cross it’s because I’m upset, we’ve had such fun, darling, I hate to think it’s over.”

  “It can’t be over, it shan’t be over. I’m sure I can get more money if only I could think where.”

  Behind his small boy expression Lance was planning hard. It was a tiding-over business only, Judith could always raise money when she wanted it. There were other relations beside the Carlyles.

  “How about the Aunt you said you liked, Lady Mercy Stratford-Derickson?”

  In a moment Judith’s mood swung from despair to happiness.

  “Of course. How silly of me not to think of her. She’s sure to say yes.”

  “What’ll you tell her?”

  “Just that I lent it to someone who needs it. She’ll understand, because she’s always doing that herself for patients when they come out of her hospital.”

  “When can you see her?”

  Judith sobered down.

  “I’ll have to telephone her. You see, Daddy’s and Mother’s families don’t know each other, except about me. As a matter of fact I haven’t seen Aunt Mercy since she came home. She’s been to Japan, but she’s telephoned me lots of times, and I was going to see her soon anyway. I’ll ring up from a call-box, Aunt Beatrice might think it odd if she heard me say I wanted to see her specially.”

  Lance got up.

  “Why not do it now, may as well get things settled.”

  The students’ call-box was in endless demand, and no one made any effort to hurry when they saw Lance waiting in the queue. When finally Judith and Lance squeezed into the box there were only a few minutes left before the next classes began. It was not Mercy who answered the telephone, but the parlour maid. She recognised Judith’s voice.

  “Oh, Miss Judith, she’s gone away. She had a message about her Father, his Lordship has had an accident, fell off his horse, they think he’s broken his hip, she had to go at once.”

  Judith was sorry for her Aunt, but frantic for herself.

  “When will she be back?”

  “Hard to say, very nasty broken bones can be at his Lordship’s age. But she gave me a message for you, I rang Mrs. Carlyle, she has it.”

  “What is it?”

  “About Miss Simpson, she arrives at the old people’s home to-morrow. Your Aunt wants you to go and see her directly you’ve finished with your classes.”

  Lance had heard a lot about Simpsy, and was quite undismayed by Mercy being away. He put an arm round Judith and gave her a squeeze.

  “Don’t look so worried, you can get the money from Miss Simpson. Her sort always has savings.”

  * * * * *

  Agnes, back in a world in which she was Miss Simpson, unpacked her belongings with such happiness that it was like a pain in her heart. Her bedroom had distempered walls, the colour of a strawberry ice. The furniture was painted deal. But there was a gas fire and ring which could be lighted whenever she wished, and there was a comfortable chair in which she could rest when she had time off, and, above all, there was a lock on the door and a key which turned. Her months in Mary’s flat over the tea room in Rome had made her prize these signs that the room was her own above any luxuries she had known. It was so good to arrange her photographs and small treasures collected from all over the world, knowing no one would say: “Why have you bothered to put all that stuff up? You’ll only have to pack it again.” It was a delight to take her small framed picture of Saint Jude out of the box in which it had been concealed in Rome, and place it boldly on the table near her bed, knowing no one would think it being there meant she had become a Roman Catholic, which in Mary’s Protestant circle was a crime. It was rapture to look at her clock and realise that any time now there would be a knock on her door, and Judith would fly in. She turned grateful eyes to Saint Jude. It was he who had pleaded her cause and arranged these things. It was sad that poor Lady Mercy had to go to her Father, but even that showed Saint Jude’s thoughtfulness, he knew that the first person she would want to see would be Judith, and alone, which might not have been possible had Lady Mercy been there to show her around as arranged. But she would reward his goodness, not only with candles but with her life. In so far as lay in her power she would make the old people happy; no work for them should be too hard, and she would never forget that they had known homes of their own, and so must suffer as she had suffered in Rome, from being unable to call even a bedroom their private property.

  The unpacking was finished and the box of Maritozzi, which Judith when in Rome had loved, waiting on the table, when Miss Simpson heard, to her, the unmistakable sound of Judith’s feet rushing up the stairs. The door was knocked on, but almost before she could answer it was opened, and Judith, sounding exactly like her own Judith, was hugging her, saying over and over again “Simpsy.” “Simpsy.” “Darling angel Simpsy.”

  But when the first joy of reunion was over, Miss Simpson knew her instinct had been right. Judith had changed. She even looked different. There was a quality about her, almost a radiance, which she had not seen before, and which could not be accounted for by their being reunited, nor by her mouth being full of Maritozzi.

  Judith was truly happy to see Miss Simpson again, far more happy than she had expected to be. She had, of course, known it would be nice her being within reach, but everybody now had to be considered in relation to Lance. She could not hurt Simpsy, but what was she to do if she expected her to see her every day, and spend Sundays with her? But when she reached the old people’s home, and put out her hand to ring the bell, happiness had swept over her, and as the door opened she had barely waited to be directed to the right room before she was up the stairs and in Miss Simpson’s arms. And for quite a while it was as if the past months had not been lived, and she was back in one of Mother’s houses on the old affectionate terms in which neither could imagine life without the other. Then, just as she was helping herself to another of the Maritozzi, Miss Simpson asked a question about The West End School and she remembered what she had to say, and hated having to say it. But time was passing, Lance had to be met with good news, so pushing Miss Simpson’s question aside she plunged straight into the heart of the matter.

  “Oh Simpsy, I had meant to ask Aunt Mercy, but as she’s away would you be a darling angel and do something for me?”

  It sounded so like the beginning of so many requests Judith had made over the years: “Darling angel Simpsy, instead of our usual wal
k couldn’t we . . . ?” that Miss Simpson laughed.

  “If I can certainly, but I’m not in charge of you now remember.”

  Judith slipped on to the floor at Miss Simpson’s feet, laid her arms on her knees and looked up into her face. She spoke carefully to avoid mentioning her friend was a man.

  “At The West End School I’ve got a friend. They’re terribly poor now, but when the Father was alive there was lots of money. Imagine, Simpsy, when you were only fifteen your Father dying, and you being taken away from the school you liked, and sent to one you hated. Well, my friend needed money for something, and now I have my own I have heaps, much more than I can use, so I gave them some.”

  Miss Simpson had no money sense. She had never used all her earnings. She paid year by year for an insurance for her old age, and had banked what she could spare, but from the money she kept by her much had been given to the needy. She had not of course spoken to Judith of her almsgiving in a vainglorious way, but often Judith had been present when the story of somebody’s need was told to her, and she had discussed with Judith how best help could be given. What more natural then that Judith, when she had money of her own, should help a friend in distress.

  “I am so glad you were able to help. What was the trouble, and what can I do?”

  Judith had prepared for this.

  “It wasn’t a sort of sudden thing like you help, Simpsy. I mean, not like those children whose Mother had leprosy in Greece, or the Veuve Martin who needed that money for the funeral, it’s a sort of going on thing. You see, outside the fees lots of things cost money at the School: food and books, and at the end of the term if it’s a modern play we’ve worked on there’s clothes for the performance before the whole School, oh lots of things. Well, this friend was so poor I almost think they would have had to leave if I hadn’t helped.”

  “I still don’t understand, dear, what it is you would like me to do.”

  Judith took a deep breath.

  “Well, this week something awful happened. Aunt Beatrice said I was to get new clothes on Saturday for staying with Granny in the holidays, she said . . .”