Judith

by Noel Streatfeild

  Early though it was Beatrice could not wait to tell the rest of the family what was happening. She got a poor reception. Bruce lived in Birmingham, the telephone was in his hall.

  “All right, so Judith’s going to join her Father. From all I’ve heard it’s a good riddance of bad rubbish. But why telephone at this hour? No, of course I can’t do anything, she’s Charles’s daughter, and, if you ask me, it’s time he took charge. I’ve only seen the girl twice, once at Charlotte’s wedding, and the other week at Mother’s funeral. Both Daphne and I thought she’d gone off a lot, she was a pretty child.”

  It was Edward who answered Beatrice’s call to his house. He had been deep asleep, but by custom was wide awake the moment he had the receiver to his ear.

  “What! Who? Beatrice! What’s the matter?” Beatrice began to tell him, but he interrupted her. “Look, I’ve been called out the last three nights, if you want to gossip here’s Charlotte.”

  When Charlotte heard what the trouble was she was angry.

  “Well really, fancy waking Edward, he’s been out all night. What do you want us to do? She’s Charles’s daughter, why shouldn’t she go to live with him?” There was a mutter from Edward. “Edward says he thinks it’s a good idea. As a matter of fact so do I. I tried to talk to her after the funeral, and she was deadly dull, which she never was, she used to be such a lively affectionate little thing. I should think living in America, where nobody has ever heard of that awful young man, would do her good. After all, she couldn’t have stayed at that school much longer, she’ll be nineteen this summer.”

  Basil watched Beatrice thump down the receiver.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do. Except, of course, let the school know. I’ll book her a seat on a plane.”

  “Let the school know! And that’s another thing. You would think, considering all the trouble we have taken over that girl, that we should at least be allowed to explain things to the school, but not at all. Charles rang the Castle before he rang us. As a matter of fact it’s only a fluke he found Judith there, she was off to Switzerland for a ski-ing holiday in a couple of days. If only I could talk to Charles for five minutes I’d make him understand how wrong he is to move her.”

  Robert, on leave from the army, smiled with amusement as, passing his mother’s door on the way to the bathroom, he learnt what was going on. His bath over, he went to Cynthia’s room. She was not yet up, and as he came in she shoved a book under the bedclothes. Then, when she saw who it was, drew it out again.

  “Goodness, I thought you were Mother. Robert, do I look dedicated?”

  “Not so as you’d notice it.”

  “I ought to, I’m going to be a missionary. Do you know, this is the eighth book I’ve read about them. I think I’ll go to an island where I’m the only white woman . . . What did you come in for?”

  “Judith’s Father has sent for Judith to go to America. She’s flying at once. Mother’s in a proper blaze.”

  Cynthia hugged her knees.

  “And so’ll Catherine be. They think Judith ought to go to a sort of prison place, and make mail bags or whatever they do. I suppose this isn’t the sort of thing somebody who’s going to be a missionary ought to say, but I rather wish I was Judith; the Pusey girls are frightfully envious that she’s my cousin, they think, and so do I, that being really bad is almost as glamorous as being a film star.”

  Robert got up to go.

  “She didn’t look glamorous at the funeral.”

  Cynthia’s eyes gleamed with interest.

  “You’ll never tell me what happened that time, but when Mother said it was nothing we talk about, I knew the sort of thing it must be. When you saw her again didn’t you find your heart beating like a sledgehammer?”

  Robert bent down and pulled one of her plaits.

  “Idiot. There was nothing like that about Judith and me. As a matter of fact, quite soon now I may be able to tell you what it was about. And if you’re interested I don’t mind admitting to you I hardly said a word to her after the funeral, not only because it was difficult with all the family staring at her, wondering what awful things she would do next, but because she’s changed. Somehow I thought someone who did what she did would look exciting, but all she looked was dull, and she never asked me about the thing I was sure she would want to know about.”

  Judith accepted the news that she was to fly to America without comment, just as without comment she had accepted everything else that had been arranged for her since that September night when the police took Lance away. Aunt Beatrice, and Aunt Beatrice’s friend who said that she need not be shy of talking to her as she was used to girls who got into trouble, had made it clear to her that she was different from other girls, and must not expect to be treated as they were. Loving people as she had loved Lance was wrong, you must never love anyone so much that you lost what Aunt Beatrice called “your moral values”.

  It was not said in so many words, but it was made clear to Judith that for her Gling Castle was instead of something worse. Aunt Beatrice’s friend, who was used to girls in trouble, spoke of the Castle with awe; it was, she said, a wonderful place in which to turn over a new leaf, she only wished all the other girls she tried to help could be sent there too. Aunt Beatrice, on the other hand, made it clear, though she approved of Gling, she did not approve of it for Judith. To her it was not a place to send girls who needed to turn over new leaves. It was a place to polish the best type of girl, especially girls whose parents voted conservative, to fit them to serve their country. With such girls Gling was a hundred per cent successful, but Aunt Beatrice made it clear she could not see the Gling magic working on the wrong type of young woman.

  Grandmother, with whom Judith had stayed between the dreadful night in Hampstead and leaving for Gling, was gentle and loving, and never mentioned what had happened. But the night before Judith left she had repeated at greater length what she had said before about not needing props, and being able to get through life alone. Mrs. Killigrew had not said anything about Lance either, but not because she did not want to but because she had been told not to. At intervals she had muttered phrases such as “Lot of nonsense”, “I was always one to speak my mind”, and “No good crying over spilt milk, it’s not the end of the world, you know”. Though Mrs. Killigrew had not said anything direct about what had happened she had tried to show sympathy, pressing dainties on Judith she was too miserable to eat, and before she left presenting her with a much-treasured small gold brooch with a horseshoe on it.

  “My husband gave it to me for luck. You wear it, and keep your chin up. I’m no hand at letter writing, but I’ll be thinking of you.”

  Grandmother, just before seeing Judith on to the train, had put her arms round her, kissed her, and said twice over that if she was not happy at Gling she must let her know, and she would fetch her away.

  Judith was not at that time capable of feeling anything acutely, but as the train moved out of the station faint surprise stirred in her. It was odd Grandmother saying that, hadn’t they told her that it had to be Gling for the alternative was something worse.

  The first months at Gling had passed for Judith in a haze. She was kept constantly busy, and, as at The West End School, found it hard to remember where she ought to be and at what hours. It was only at night that she had time to think, then, alone in her room in the Warden’s house, she had tried to puzzle out what had happened, and that was difficult because all such thoughts led to Lance, and for a long while she could not think of him without crying. Poor Lance, so frightened that he could say things he did not mean. But after Lance’s trial and sentence her tears grew less frequent, and when they fell they were for herself. She had not talked to Lance, but she had heard what he said, and it was clear he had stopped loving her. Why? Because she had given him money? Because she had given him the latch key? But he had never used it. Because she had not said the jewellery was
hers?

  The other girls at Gling knew all about Judith, and looked upon her as an exciting oddity.

  “It will be better for you not to talk about what has occurred,” Aunt Beatrice’s friend had said. “Make a real fresh start, forget it ever happened.”

  To Judith “it” was part of the puzzle. What was “it”? Did Aunt Beatrice’s friend mean giving Lance money, or about the key, or about just loving him? But Judith had been brought up to be obedient, so she obeyed. When at classes, out riding, or playing games the girls tried to get her on one side to talk to her, Judith refused to be drawn.

  “I’ve got to forget what happened,” was all she would say.

  This phrase excited the girls, and Judith’s fame as a sinner on a giant scale grew and grew.

  The Warden realised there was gossip, but decided to disregard it. She knew the Lance story, not only from Beatrice but from reading the papers. Beatrice had told her she had had trouble with Judith over Robert. From what she had been told Judith must be a weak over-sexed girl. But she was not a woman to accept second-hand accounts, so she waited until Judith had settled down sufficiently to tell her story herself. That moment never came, for in her private musings Judith had worked out an explanation of why Lance was angry and had stopped loving her. Granny was right, she had needed people too much, Lance proved it. Mother had vanished. Father had gone back to America, and she had never seen him since. Simpsy, who she had been certain would always, always love her, had changed, there wasn’t a word in any of her letters saying how much she missed her, and how badly she wanted to see her. Everybody she had ever known seemed as if they did not want to come too close to her. That was a terrible thing to happen. In her prayers, whether in French, Italian, German or English, the theme was the same.

  “Dear God, please help me never to be fond of anyone again.”

  Judith had no idea the Warden was trying to show her she had a friend. She took invitations to coffee after dinner, tea on Sundays, and drives with the Warden in her car as part of the school round, and was polite but no more. She was not conscious that she was being questioned in the hope of finding some subject on which she would open up. Particularly she was scared and shied away from questions about The West End School and her imitations. She knew the Warden knew about Lance, but did she know what had happened when she read the part? She could never remember clearly what had happened, but Aunt Beatrice, on that terrible morning after Lance was taken away, had made it clear she had disgraced herself. She did not know how, it was all muddled up with Lance.

  Deeply distressed about the girl, the Warden had decided Judith should leave Gling, for it was doing her no good, and throwing her in on herself. She tried various experiments before she gave up. She moved Judith into the Castle and tried to get her to mix more with the other girls. She made her attend the weekly dances. She gave her responsibilities, and asked girls she could trust to be nice to her and to try and draw her out. Everything was a failure; Judith was docile and did exactly what she was told, but she refused all offers of friendship. My prayers are helping, she thought, I’m not getting fond of anyone. The Warden, at last accepting defeat, wondered what she should do. If she told Beatrice Gling was doing no good to Judith, Beatrice would suppose it was a polite way of saying Judith was not good for Gling. She could not throw Judith back to that Aunt, it would be cruel, but what else? There was the Grandmother, but she had gathered from Judith after her holiday there that she was ill. There was, she knew, a Father in America and a Mother somewhere, but she could not write to them, for she had no addresses, and it might alarm Judith if she asked for them. Besides, which should she write to? There was a Mrs. Killigrew, her Grandmother’s maid, for whom she thought she detected Judith had some affection; she wondered if she should take time off to try and have a talk with her, she probably knew who would be the most suitable member of the family to deal with. It was while she was turning over this plan in her mind that she heard Alice was dead, and that Judith was to attend the funeral.

  As far as Judith was concerned neither Alice’s death nor the funeral appeared to affect her, but seeing her had affected others. The night after Judith returned the Warden had a telephone call from London. The speaker said she was Mercy Stratford-Derickson, whom the Warden vaguely remembered was an Aunt on Judith’s Mother’s side of the family. It was not a long conversation, but it was to the point. Mercy explained that discretion was necessary, but didn’t the Warden think a change should be made? Would she approve of Judith joining her Father in America? Then, for the first time, the Warden learned of the existence of Miss Simpson, and that Miss Simpson had obeyed orders in keeping away from Judith.

  “There has been a terrible muddle over this child, Lady Mercy,” the Warden had said angrily. “But I have been powerless for the person I had to deal through was Mrs. Carlyle. I did think of writing to the Grandmother, but Judith had told me she was not well. I knew she was the child of a divided home, and I was given to understand that, apart from the trouble over that boy, nobody wanted her. I knew of your existence, but not that you took an interest in the girl.”

  “I suppose I should have tried to see her,” Mercy had said humbly, “but you know how difficult family things are. I am afraid her Mother has walked out, so Judith’s Father is now in charge, and he has arranged for his side of the family to look after her.”

  When, three days after Charles’s telephone call, the Warden had seen Judith off on the first leg of her journey to America, she sent for her second in command.

  “Whenever I seem to be becoming God Almighty in my attitude, say to me ‘Judith Winster’, and I shall be humbled. I was lazy, I was given a chance to help that girl, and I did not trouble to find out how to give it. That is something I shall always have on my conscience.”

  * * * * *

  Marion looked at her friend Eunice across the table.

  “All right, you can say it. I know I opened my big mouth too wide. I told you all Judith wanted was love, and understanding. Well, I was wrong. She’s been here over three months and you know how I’ve tried to love her and to show her I love her, and how Charles has ruptured himself showing her how much he loves her, and where has that gotten us? Nowhere. Nowhere at all. Judith arrived acting like a clam, and she’s still acting like a clam.”

  Eunice swallowed an oyster.

  “Why not have her psycho’d?”

  Marion laid down her oyster fork.

  “Eunice Poynter, we have known each other since we went to school, and you think I’m so dumb that I hadn’t tried that one.”

  Eunice swallowed another oyster.

  “I knew you would have thought of that right away, but I wasn’t sure how Charles would react. The British are way behind us in the psychiatric field.”

  Marion accepted that.

  “Well, I certainly had trouble persuading him. He does not know the difference between a psychologist and an attendant in a mental home. He said if she must see a doctor why not the one who looks after us. It took time, but in the end I talked him into it. ‘Charles,’ I said, ‘physically as far as I can see Judith is just fine, though we’ll fix for her to have a check-up. But what’s wrong with her right now is way down inside her, she is suffering an internal experience.’ Anyway I talked him into it. I took her to Prist.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He isn’t through with her yet. He said she was a very interesting study. But you know the way psychos are, they use such words, behaviourism, sublimation, and there was a lot about repression and compensation, but there was nothing much I didn’t know. He told me she was a psychological misfit, and had an inferiority complex, which I could have told him.”

  Eunice had finished her oysters.

  “Kind of disappointing.”

  Marion lowered her voice.

  “Not altogether. We understood Judith had had at least two boy friends, but Mr. Prist says
she needs sexual experience. Then there was something else. To give her something to do she was sent to a theatrical school when she was in London. Well, in some way that experience has snarled her up, in her subconscious the boy who went to prison, and failure to achieve success, are sort of mixed.”

  Eunice waited while the waitress removed the empty oyster plates and had brought the next course before she spoke again.

  “I suppose Mr. Prist wants you to find Judith a boy to go around with.”

  “I think he was thinking of marriage.”

  “Was he?” Eunice’s voice expressed amusement. “No psycho I ever heard of troubled about marriage, what kills them is repression.”

  Marion helped herself to salad.

  “I think he thinks the acting more important. It was her form of self-expression and he reckons it could be the liberating factor, and if she could express herself that way maybe she would loosen up right through.”

  “Is she good?”

  “Not that I know of, but I’m trying. I start quoting, you know, ‘The quality of mercy is not strained,’ and then act as if I had forgotten the rest, and ask her how it continues. Sometimes it’s poetry: ‘Hail to thee, blithe spirit!’”

  “Does she react?”

  “In a way. She’s been very well educated, she speaks four or five languages, and her manners are out of this world. But I can’t see there is talent there. She doesn’t repeat poetry like herself, more like Miss Simpson, that governess who came over, and then she checks herself, and drones away with no expression at all.”