Miss Simpson gave Judith’s cheek an affectionate pat.
“We never say ‘she’, do we?”
Judith was back in the schoolroom.
“Sorry. Well, Aunt Beatrice said I could take my cheque book to pay, but I’ve nothing in the bank.”
“Didn’t you tell her so?”
“I didn’t dare. Oh, Simpsy, you can’t think how frightening she is, like Aunt Lucy Stratford-Derickson, only worse.”
“What about your Uncle?”
“I did think of explaining to him, but although he’s awfully nice I don’t think he’s a giving-away-money sort of man. He might be cross, and I’d hate that for with Robert and Cynthia away he’s the only one who likes me.”
“But you were going to tell your Aunt Mercy.”
“Yes. She’d understand at once, she never stops helping people. But when I heard she was away I thought I’d ask you.”
“Ask me what?”
“Oh, Simpsy, you haven’t changed a bit. Here’s me explaining and you haven’t understood. Will you lend me money to shop with on Saturday, so nobody knows I haven’t any in the bank?”
Miss Simpson and her brothers and sister had been brought up on the principle that lending killed friendship, and borrowed money paved the way to Hell.
“Lend, dear? I would much rather give it to you.”
Judith laughed.
“Silly, Simpsy! Of course you can’t give it, it’s forty pounds.”
To Miss Simpson forty pounds was a considerable sum; she herself had never been able to give away more than ten pounds at a time, and that to her was a large almsgiving. It seemed to her amazing that Judith, who a few months before had existed on rather scanty pocket money, could be in a position to lend so much.
“Forty pounds! My dear!”
Judith hugged Miss Simpson’s knees.
“Oh, Simpsy, you do sound so exactly like you. I’m rich, Daddy sends money for me, I have fifteen pounds each week paid into my bank. It’s for clothes and travelling and everything of course. So you see it’s idiotic to talk of giving me money.”
Miss Simpson looked lovingly at Judith, and wished her conscience would let her lend the money, and ask no questions. But she knew it would not.
“Is this friend hoping to return the money some day?”
Judith had not expected to be asked that. She scrambled to her feet, turned her back on Miss Simpson and marched to the window.
“I don’t know. Goodness, Simpsy, what a fuss! I thought you’d say ‘Of course I’ll lend it, come to-morrow and fetch it’.”
Miss Simpson havered. She was desperately anxious not to alienate Judith. The girl seemed to her far too young to be cut adrift, living with relations whom she did not like, attending what she was sure was a queer school. If only she was with her Aunt Mercy it would have been different, then she would not have felt responsible, but as things were was it not more important to keep Judith’s affection than to probe into this loan to a friend? She got up, came across to Judith and put an arm round her.
“Don’t be cross, dear. You must remember forty pounds is a lot of money to me, and I was brought up to think lending money wrong. But, of course, I will lend it to you, if you are here at this time to-morrow I will have it waiting.”
Judith flung her arms round Miss Simpson’s neck.
“Angel Simpsy. I knew you would, and I tell you what I’ve thought about giving it back to you. Holidays start in two and a half weeks, and I have to stay with Granny, worse luck, well, I can’t spend much money there, so I thought I’d send you ten pounds for four weeks, would that be all right?”
“Quite. But, tell me, dear, don’t you want to go to your Grandmother? You enjoyed it so much when you were with her for that wedding.”
“Yes, but I was only young then. I expect it will be all right, but really I’d rather be in London, but it’s got to be Granny’s, Daddy has fixed it. I’m just not thinking about it until it happens.” She gave Miss Simpson another hug. “Good-bye, Simpsy, it’s gorgeous you being in London. I’ll be here to-morrow.”
* * * * *
The end of term seemed to Judith to pounce on her, as if it had been hiding. Suddenly she found herself tied up with dress rehearsals and end-of-term performances before the staff and pupils, and beyond these lay eight bleak weeks without Lance. Until the holiday was almost on her she had managed to push aside the thought of what those eight weeks would be like. Her upbringing had taught her there was no escape from what was planned. From America her Father had written she would spend the holiday with her Grandmother. The Carlyles spoke of her staying with her Grandmother as if it was as much a certainty as the coming of Christmas Day. Miss Simpson wished that some of the holiday might be spent in London so that she could see something of her, but she never supposed the plan could be altered even by a day. Judith knew Lance would not understand that some people had to do what they were told, he never seemed to have had that happen to him. Way down inside her she was afraid that Lance would be angry when he knew she was going away for eight weeks, and would tell her to refuse to go. It would be terrible if he did, because she would have to go to Grandmother just the same. If only Aunt Mercy were at home she might have helped, perhaps she would have asked her to stay in her house for part of the time. Luckily, as Judith thought, Lance had not asked where she was spending the holiday, she supposed he guessed she would be going away and did not want to talk about it any more than she did. It was Judith’s class performance of As You Like It that forced the word “holidays” into the open.
Judith, in her own way, had been a delightful Phoebe, and had looked quite delicious in her shepherdess dress. As her class and teacher knew, there was nothing of herself in the performance, she merely recalled flawlessly every inflection and gesture she had been taught, there was no depth in her performance, but then there was no depth in Phoebe, so that she was not acting was scarcely noticeable. The West End School had a good name, and it was quite usual for stage directors, talent spotters or theatrical agents to drop in now and again to see if there was anyone worth watching. It so happened that an agent named Bing was present at the class performance of As You Like It, and that he was on the look out for a young girl. After the performance he asked the principal about Judith.
“There’s a kid wanted in the autumn, quite a nice little part. I was taken with the little fair Phoebe.”
The principal had not yet read the pupils’ term reports, so he did not know that all those who taught Judith to act made it clear that she was a mimic, and appeared to have no acting ability whatsoever, but without the reports he had pigeon-holed her performance under “well taught”. He replied with caution.
“She’s new, this is her first term. I don’t even know if she wants a stage career.”
The agent laughed.
“You let me speak to her, you’ll find she’s keen as mustard, they all are.”
Judith, still in her shepherdess dress, though surprised to be summoned, smiled politely and when introduced to Mr. Bing shook his hand. He was amused by her composure.
“Quite a nice Phoebe you made, young lady. Now I’m not promising anything, but if you give me your address and telephone number I’ll put you on my books, and it’s just possible you might hear from me around September. Got any photos?”
Judith, who had no idea what Mr. Bing was talking about, or who he was, nipped gratefully on to the last question.
“I’ve not any new photographs. The last were taken when I was fourteen.”
Mr. Bing gave her his card.
“Have some done and send me one right away. Put your name and address on the back, mind.” He got out a notebook. “Where do you live?”
Judith gave the Carlyle address and telephone number.
“That’s where I’m living now. I don’t know whether I’ll be there next term or not, I do
n’t think they’ve decided who’s to have me.”
Mr. Bing was not interested in Judith’s movements.
“But this address will find you?”
“Oh yes, even if I’m not there someone would take a message.”
The whole school knew Mr. Bing was in the building, and that he had seen Judith. Although she was new, and any chances of stage work were supposed to be the perquisites of the top class, the students were sufficiently generous to gather round Judith patting her back and offering advice, so it was some time before she was free to join Lance in the canteen, where they were meeting for lunch. When she did her heart sank. Something was wrong, he was drooping over the table, his shoulders were hunched and he was eating nothing.
Lance was in an evil mood. Every term and each day of the term he expected a call such as Judith had received that morning. Not that he wanted stage work, his mind was still turned to television or films, for in either world he believed he could earn easy money. He had kicked himself many times for having chosen a school where the principal admitted that he thought three-quarters of his students would do better in careers which had nothing to do with the stage, and blamed him because he had not already been snapped up. He had held this frustration beneath the surface, and since he had been kept by Judith it had scarcely worried him, but the news which reached him within a few seconds by the school grape vine brought his frustration into the open, and wrapped itself round him as if it were a cloak. “It isn’t fair,” he thought, “she’s got all she wants, she doesn’t need a job, why should the ruddy agent pick on her? I suppose she thinks she can romp off next term and leave me on my backside, but she’s got another think coming.”
Judith slipped into the chair opposite Lance and, like a mother trying to discover where her small child has a pain, settled down to learn what had upset him.
“Haven’t you decided what you’re going to eat?”
“Don’t want any lunch.”
Judith swung round to look at the menu written on a board.
“I want some, and you must eat something, you’ve a show this afternoon. There’s cold ham and salad, you always like that. I’ll get some for both of us.”
On her return to the table Judith, to distract Lance from whatever was wrong, told him about her morning.
“Such an odd man. His name’s Bing. My class say I’ll have to have my photograph taken, which is a nuisance as good photographs cost a lot, and an awful waste because of course I won’t get the part.”
“Why not?”
Judith spoke to Lance as if he was a fractious small boy.
“You know I can’t act, I can only do imitations, and anyway I don’t want to be an actress.”
Lance wolfed into his ham.
“That’s what’s so unfair. You don’t want to work, and so the ruddy agent has to pick on you; why on earth, while he was here, couldn’t he have had a look round, why look at your lot who are all beginners?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say much, just that if I gave him my name and address I might hear from him in September. I suppose if he telephoned someone would send the message on.”
Lance allowed himself to look a little more pleasant, for the conversation had reached a point where for many days he had wanted it. He had kept off the subject of the holidays for such a moment as this. He was rather looking forward to eight weeks on his own, with money in his pocket he could have quite a lot of fun. It would be a mistake, he had thought, to talk to Judith too soon about money, he had heard she would be away, and he supposed she would send him his usual, but the arrangement must be tied up. He had waited for just such a contrite don’t-be-cross-I’ll-do-anything mood to fix things.
“On? Where are you going?”
Judith’s face quivered.
“To my Grandmother. Isn’t it awful? I simply don’t know how I’m going to bear not seeing you for eight weeks. When I think of it I feel as if I’d die.”
“You die! What about me? Stuck in London with nowhere to go and nothing to do.”
“I know. Poor Lance. Although I don’t want to go because of you, it’s lovely where Granny lives in Kent. I haven’t seen it since I was twelve, but I still remember it . . .”
Lance kept her to his point.
“It’s so expensive when you’re doing nothing. Oh well, the eight weeks will pass I suppose.”
That should have done it. But, to Lance’s horror, it did not.
“Poor Lance, I shan’t have much money either, for four weeks I have to give Simpsy back ten pounds each week, and after that she says I simply must save, because I’m certain to need clothes in the autumn. You see, I’ve always lived in warm places, so . . .” She stopped, for Lance was looking at her in so strange a way she felt frightened. “What is it? What is it, Lance darling?”
Lance found it hard to accept what his ears had heard. He was to be left with no money, none at all, not even from the sound of it a parting fiver. What about his suit at the tailor? God, she couldn’t do this to him, she couldn’t after letting him think ten quid a week was practically his own property.
“I was just wondering what I would do.” His hand went into his pocket and touched his wallet, and in imagination it was empty. Good time! Why he wouldn’t have enough for drinks for himself, let alone for a round.
Judith thought he was feeling as she was.
“I know what you’ll do. Just the same as me, you’ll mark a calendar, scratching out each day, and . . .”
Lance was livid.
“Bitch,” he thought, “gets me used to having money, then slopes off and tells me I can mark a calendar.” He got up so suddenly his chair toppled to the floor with a crash. He leant across the table to Judith.
“Mark a calendar! That’s what you think, is it? You little fool!”
* * * * *
Judith, sitting in the corner of a railway carriage, decided her life was over, she would never be happy again. Right up to the last minute she had supposed Lance would relent and say something nice. But though he came to the station and saw her off he had not said one nice thing. He had just looked angry and miserable. It never crossed her mind that he had any other motive in coming to the station except to have a last minute with her. Yet Lance had taken an infinity of trouble, even used make-up, to show her how poor and ill he felt, and had been convinced, looking at him, she must be ashamed, and offer something, if it was only three pounds a week. It was outside his powers of imagination to conceive that she did not connect his wretched appearance with money shortage, that she honestly believed that what was making him ill was being separated from her. She had wondered if, suppose she could persuade Miss Simpson to wait for her forty pounds, she dared ask Lance if he would like some money, but she was sure he would say “no”, as she was not there to spend it with him, and she was quite glad when Miss Simpson was firm.
“No, dear, I think we must stick to our bargain, and you must keep your promise to bank all your money, except what you need for yourself, for all the holiday. You really must have some by you for clothes in the autumn. And I don’t think you need worry about your friend, I read in the papers there is a lot of work for students during the vacation, healthy work on the land.”
Lance had tried to think of some way by which, without lowering himself in Judith’s eyes, he could ask outright for money, but no idea had come to him. It was impossible to go back on all those speeches beginning “Well, I wouldn’t take it, only if I’m fond of a girl . . .” At the very last second, just as the guard was raising his flag, he had muttered: “It wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t so hard up.” The train was beginning to move before Judith, her throat aching with tears, remembered what Miss Simpson had said. Swallowing desperately, she hung out of the window and shouted:
“You can get work on the land. Work on the land.”
Judith, sunk in misery in the railway carriag
e, wondered if Lance had misheard what she had said, she would write to-morrow and repeat it. If he had heard he couldn’t have been angry, yet furious was what he had looked.
Grandmother did not seem to have changed at all. She was standing on the platform, in what appeared to be the same clothes she had worn over four years ago; outside the station yard was the same old car, and in the back, fatter and slower-moving but otherwise unchanged, were Shem, Ham and Japhet. The house, too, was unchanged and so was Mrs. Killigrew.
“I can’t believe it, Granny,” Judith said. “Of course I’ve never been in the same place very long, but when I have been back anywhere it’s always changed somehow.”
Alice had smiled and replied vaguely. But when alone she took out Charlotte’s wedding photographs and decided Judith had changed more than four years could account for. Of course last time, when she had first seen her, the child had been with her Father for some while, and had got over any homesickness there had been. Now, behind the pretty soignée young girl, she was sure there was unhappiness. Surely she must have settled down in England by this time. It was true that Charles was now responsible for her instead of her Mother. The child had always been devoted to Avis, had that upset her? Beatrice had reported that Avis had written to explain the change over, and that the girl had taken it calmly. But was that correct? How difficult it was to guess a young girl’s feelings. It was dangerous to rely on memory, for you remembered so patchily. Many moments in childhood were so distinct it was as if you could touch them, and children did not appear to change much from generation to generation; often she recalled what had given her pleasure as a small child, and used the memory to please a child of the present, but would her memory help her in dealing with almost grown-up Judith?
Alice peered through the years to see herself at seventeen. Acute shyness, a reserve so deep that even a suggestion of probing and like a snail she retired into her shell. But that reserve was not with everybody; surely she could remember heart-to-hearts with her closest friends, during which nothing was too sacred or of too private a nature to be discussed, not even, although of course the subject had never arisen, the desertion of a Mother. Secrets. That was it, young girl secrets which no adult must even guess at. Alice struggled to see her ghost self: at that age had she been unhappy? She could smile now at what had been grief then: the dance she was too young to attend, the gloves that split the first time she wore them, there had been tears, sulks perhaps, but not unhappiness, but then she had never had Judith’s reason for being unhappy. What a mercy, Alice thought, that she had remembered herself. Her memory might be faulty, perhaps she was recalling fifteen rather than seventeen, but age did not matter, what did matter was that she could remember enough to know that Judith must not be questioned. If the girl wished to talk about her Mother she would, but there must be no probing, for that she would resent.
Judith Page 18
