Jill, disclaiming all knowledge of Art Nouveau, thought that the ‘private’ talk the girls wanted to have with her was likely to be something of an anti-climax after the long build-up it was getting. What could they have in mind?
At last the waitress brought the chocolate. Robin, obviously guarding against interruption, said, ‘And we’ll pay for it now. Then you won’t have to come back again.’ This transaction finished, she poured the chocolate carefully, spooning whipped cream onto each cupful. Jill thought, ‘I will not prod them again.’
But at last they prodded themselves, though Robin made only a tentative start by saying, ‘I don’t quite know how to begin.’
‘I do,’ said Kit, favouring Jill with a sweet, if cat-like smile. ‘And what I want to say first is how very, very much we like you, dear Mrs Quentin, and how earnestly we hope you’ll go on being friends with us when we all get back to London.’
‘Well, of course I will,’ said Jill.
‘There’s no “of course” about it,’ said Kit. ‘You might well not have any time to spare for us. But will you, please? I mean quite a lot of time, enough to see us often?’
Jill, aware of the gravity of Kit’s tone, stopped herself from answering with another rather perfunctory-sounding ‘of course.’ Instead, she said with great seriousness, ‘I will, indeed. And not just because you’ve asked me to. I shall want to.’ Then, as she noticed the intense gaze of Kit’s greenish eyes, it flashed through her mind that these were motherless girls. She found herself adding, ‘Perhaps I can even be a bit motherly.’
‘No!’ said Kit, loudly.
Jill was reminded of the tone in which Miles’s offer of a crème de menthe had been refused.
‘You really mustn’t bark at people like that, Kit,’ said Robin, then turned to Jill. ‘But I think we both feel –’
Jill put in hastily, ‘Of course I know I couldn’t really be like your own mother.’
‘We devoutly hope not,’ said Robin, ‘which brings us to what we wanted to talk to you about. If you really are willing to be friends with us, you need to know more about us than you do now or it will make for awkwardness later. You see, our mother had an unfortunate weakness.’
‘Let’s not beat about the bush,’ said Kit. ‘Our mother was a dipsomaniac.’
Jill murmured a protesting ‘Kit, dear!’ then looked at Robin for reassurance. But none was forthcoming.
‘I’m afraid it’s absolutely true,’ said Robin. ‘She drank and drank for years and years and finally – about eighteen months ago – she drank herself to death, that is, into one of the illnesses which come from prolonged alcoholism. I suppose she couldn’t help it; we believe she inherited it. But whether she could help it or not, it made life hell for Father.’
‘Please don’t worry about it, Mrs Quentin,’ said Kit. ‘It’s over now and we’re all trying to forget it. But you need just to know, otherwise you’ll find out later and feel embarrassed in case you’ve asked Father awkward questions or said the wrong thing or something.’
‘As I did, that first day we met. How awful.’
‘You mean when you said Father would never be faced with any alcoholic problem in his family,’ said Robin. ‘None of us minded a scrap, but you mind, now. And that’s the sort of thing we want to avoid for you. Besides, we’d like you to understand why our whole lives are dedicated to helping Father. You can’t imagine what he went through.’
‘It almost wrecked his career at the Bar,’ said Kit. ‘Though he did just manage to carry on. Of course we didn’t know about that at the time; I was only two when the trouble with Mother began.’
‘We knew about that all right, because we were with her. Though we didn’t quite understand what being drunk was.’
‘Julian did. He was six,’ Kit explained to Jill.
‘Is Julian a brother?’
‘Oh, haven’t we mentioned him? He’s two years older than Robin. We heard from him this morning. He’s staying in a Scottish castle with some rather fancy friends. Yes, Julian always knew the truth about Mother. But Father asked him not to talk to us about it. We came to believe that she was ill, which was what we were told when we were hurriedly brought here to our great-grandmother.’
‘How long were you with her?’
‘Until she died, a little over two years ago. There was nowhere else for us to go as Father’s parents were dead. Later we went to boarding school, but we came here for the holidays.’
Robin said, ‘And all those years Father had to cope with our mother. She’d inherited an old country house and nothing would get her away from it.’
‘Did you never see her?’
‘Oh, yes, we were taken several times, when she was supposed to be better. But she never stayed better very long.’
‘She threw a log at me once,’ said Kit. ‘Just pulled it out of the log basket and hurled it at me.’
‘It was only a very thin log or she couldn’t have hurled it. Anyway, it missed you.’ Robin turned to Jill. ‘Kit picked it up and fetched Mother a fierce blow across the shins. They had to be separated. We weren’t taken to see Mother again for a very long time. Indeed, I don’t think you ever went again, did you, Kit?’
‘No. I refused.’
‘After the log-throwing incident Father told us the truth about Mother. He discussed it with me first and we wondered if we should still keep it from Kit – she was only ten. But though she’s two years younger than I am she’s more than two years cleverer, so it seems best to treat us as if we’re the same age, though that’s flattering me a bit.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Kit. ‘I’m merely a bit precocious. Robin is a highly talented dress-designer, Mrs Quentin, and she has a very fine character. You know, the queer thing is that, once I knew the truth about Mother’s so-called illness, all sorts of things came back to me, and even more so when we compared memories with Julian. I’ve always counted it against myself that I was fobbed off with that illness story.’
‘But didn’t you say you were only two, Kit, darling?’
‘Still, even at two …’ Kit shook her head disapprovingly.
Jill said, ‘My dear, dear children, what a terrible time you must have had.’
‘Oh, we’ve been all right,’ said Kit. ‘It was Father who had the terrible time. He’s never told us very much about it but we do know some things he doesn’t know we know. For instance, our dear mother wasn’t only a dipsomaniac; she was also a nymphomaniac.’
‘Now there I think you exaggerate,’ said Robin, judicially. ‘In my view a woman doesn’t qualify as a nymphomaniac unless she rushes at almost every man she meets, even visiting tradesmen.’
‘Well, Mother rushed at the postman.’
‘It was the postmaster, Kit.’
‘What a very snobbish distinction.’
‘Not at all. I was merely being exact. It was just the village postmaster, Mrs Quentin, not the Postmaster General or somebody. He’d called about a lost parcel. Mother certainly twined herself round him. We were watching from the stairs.’
‘Anyway, she had lots of men, Robin. And you know you believe she did. That’s why you’re so scared even to –’
‘Shut up,’ said Robin, blushing violently.
‘Nonsense. Mrs Quentin, as a woman of the world, will you please tell my sister that, though dipsomania may be inherited – which is why we won’t touch one drop of alcohol – she’s not likely to turn into a nymphomaniac if she so much as lets a young man hold her hand?’
Robin, tossing back her wings of hair, looked at Jill with anxious eyes. ‘Of course I don’t think that but, since we’re onto the subject, I am a little scared of getting carried away by my lower instincts, particularly as I’m determined not to marry for ages. Father must be able to count on me.’
‘He’ll always be able to count on me, because I shall never marry. It’s rather sad, Mrs Quentin, but it begins to look as if I shall be frigid. Of course it’s early days yet, but when Robin was my age she’d felt sexual s
tirrings, hadn’t you, Robin?’
‘Well, yes. But I knew about Mother by then, so I repressed them. And now I’m always nervous in case they dash at me all the worse for being repressed. Oh, dear, you haven’t drunk any of your chocolate, Mrs Quentin. Has it gone cold?’
‘No, no.’ Jill took a hasty drink. ‘It’s just right.’ She drank some more, gratefully, feeling slightly battered by the conversation.
The girls had punctuated their disclosures by chocolate drinking and were now refilling their cups.
‘We haven’t meant to harrow you, Mrs Quentin,’ said Kit. ‘Everything’s set fair now. Already Father’s a new man, and doing very well at the Bar though he’s really more interested in his political career.’
Robin said, ‘What we’d like most is for him to marry again, if we could find just the right person.’
‘Someone like you,’ said Kit. ‘Really, from our point of view, it’s a great pity you’re married. And very happily married, I’m sure.’
It had been a statement, not a question. All the same Jill thought there was a hint of a question in the slowly raised smiling eyes. She answered, with great firmness, ‘Very, very happily married.’
‘Naturally – to such a wonderful husband,’ said Kit. ‘One knows at once that Mr Quentin is a good person, as well as a great actor.’
‘He is, indeed,’ said Jill. ‘But reverting to your father, I do advise you not to go wife-hunting for him.’
‘No doubt it is a job he should do for himself,’ Kit conceded. ‘Though he did slip up over Mother. And we are a bit scared of getting a step-mother we dislike.’
‘Still, what really matters is that Father should be happy. Now we’ve talked far too much about ourselves. Do let me give you some more chocolate, Mrs Quentin. There’s still some in the pot. No? Then you have it, Kit. I’m full.’
Kit accepted and spooned the last of the cream onto it. Jill, in a momentary silence, thought how much the girls had left unsaid, in spite of their frankness. She had only a very hazy picture of their lives and scarcely any picture at all of their father’s. How does a man cope with a wife who drinks – and over such a long period of years? If it had begun when Kit was only two, and the wife had died only – was it eighteen months ago? Already, Jill found, various details of the story were eluding her. She would have liked to get them straight and also ask for more details but hardly felt she could, especially as the girls had now let the subject drop and were talking generally.
Fairly soon Robin said, ‘I think perhaps we should go now. We have to help Father entertain some local bigwigs at lunch. Kit, you have a blob of cream on your nose.’
Back at the hotel, the girls went on duty with their father, and Jill, having collected sandwiches, went on duty at the theatre.
She found Miles fairly pleased with the way the photo-call was going. But when, in the late afternoon, he got back from it he had changed his mind. He had just settled down to tell Jill all about this over tea when the three Thorntons, who were returning to London that evening, arrived to say goodbye. Miles at once switched off annoyance with the photo-call and asked them to come round and see him after the London first night.
‘In your dressing room? Oh, marvellous,’ said Kit. ‘You are kind.’
He talked with the utmost patience until Geoffrey Thornton finally shepherded his daughters off – and then reverted to the photo-call while they were walking away.
Peter, it seemed, had treated young Cyril shabbily. ‘Again and again he was in a bad position. Peter insisted on shots that favoured me. It’s not fair, when the boy’s made such a success.’
‘Do be reasonable, Miles. It’s photographs of you that’ll draw people into the theatre, not photographs of Cyril.’
‘Still … Anyway, I insisted on a couple of big heads of Cyril – and he’s been photographed with his own fair hair, which means he’ll be allowed to keep it for London.’
‘Hardly his own, is it? What about that black line at the roots you told me about?’
‘Oh, well … Why shouldn’t the poor kid be fair if he wants to?’
‘Have your tea, darling.’ She had thought of telling him of her outing with the Thornton girls but this was certainly not the moment for it.
The theatre was so fully booked that night that Miles had been unable to buy a box for her and she again stood at the back of the dress circle with Peter Hesper. For the first time, she was faintly dubious about the audience’s reaction. There was some restlessness in the cheaper parts of the house and occasional giggles in the wrong places.
‘New Town people, I gather,’ said Peter. ‘They get their pay packets on Fridays. I’m told tomorrow night will be worse. Apparently Spa Town people shun entertainments on Saturday nights.’
‘Well, one must never be influenced by Saturday night reactions in the provinces,’ said Jill. ‘And the Spa Town reaction’s a much better indication of how London will react.’
‘In these days? I’m not so sure.’
It was the first time, since the triumphant Monday opening, that she had seen him look gloomy.
But at least the Saturday matinee went well. Jill got a seat in the stalls and listened to Spa Town old ladies praising Miles and Cyril across precariously held tea trays. She then went back to the hotel to pack, having made sure that a good dinner would be sent into the theatre for Miles to eat between the shows, and did not return to the theatre until the middle of the evening.
She had arranged to meet Peter Hesper at the back of the dress circle and had some difficulty in locating him as there was a double row of standees. He slipped his arm through hers and whispered, ‘Agony, dear. Sheer agony.’
All over the house people were coughing, fidgeting, giggling. They weren’t, she thought, inimical; sometimes they shushed each other. But they simply were not held. Towards the end of the second act, matters improved; Miles was playing superbly. Then came the dramatic climax. Young Cyril delivered his denunciatory speech at the top of his lungs. It was greeted by a huge roar of laughter.
‘And, my God, who could blame them?’ said Peter. ‘Come on, let’s get out.’
They eeled their way through the crowd on the stairs (the only remark Jill overheard was, ‘Still, you must admit Miles Quentin takes his part well.’) and out into Spa Street. The air was sultry. She said, ‘Going to be a storm.’
‘There is, and all,’ said Peter. ‘And you, my love, must now stick to the bargain you made with me on Sunday night.’
‘What bargain? Peter! You can’t mean you’re going to re-direct, now?’
‘Of course I must. Oh, I don’t say London audiences will be as oafish as this one is, but they will be realistic and so, believe me, will the critics. We’ve just let ourselves be lulled by a lot of drooling old ladies. Let’s go round and see how Miles feels.’
‘You lay off Miles until the show’s over – and if you’ve any sense you’ll lay off him until tomorrow. We can talk on the train. Could you make the changes in time?’
‘Of course. It’s largely a matter of different positions and different lighting, plus a general toning down of that ghastly boy. Why the hell didn’t we listen to Tom Albion?’
It began to rain, hard. They went back into the theatre and steeled themselves for the last act – which held rather better than they had expected. – ‘And you know why?’ said Peter. ‘It’s because it’s almost entirely focussed on Miles. And that’s how the whole play has to be.’
There was a fair amount of applause at the end but no real enthusiasm. Jill heard one illuminating remark. ‘Old-fashioned, wasn’t it? Funny, it didn’t seem like that on television.’ So much for Peter’s ultra-modern direction, with its non-realistic sets and lighting. Perhaps they had showed up the play’s old bones, like teenage clothes on an elderly woman.
Peter said, ‘If you don’t want me to start work on Miles tonight I’d better not see him at all. Anyway, I want to take a look at the script and have everything at my finger tips tomorrow. So I’
ll just have a word with the stage management and then clear off.’
It was still raining heavily so they went back-stage through the pass door; it was opened in response to Peter’s thumping. Jill, glancing at the staff dismantling the set as she crossed the stage, thought of the many Saturday nights when she had been up till the small hours seeing the load out of provincial theatres. Thankfulness that those days were in the past made her less depressed about the present – for depressed she was: Miles was going to be worried about this last-minute contretemps.
But apparently he hadn’t yet started to worry. He looked up from taking his make-up off and said cheerfully, ‘Swine, weren’t they? But it doesn’t mean a thing.’
‘Of course it doesn’t,’ she agreed, fervently. ‘There’s a cloud-burst outside. I’d better get the stage-door keeper to ring up for a taxi.’
‘And say a soothing word to our leading lady, next door, will you? She says the audience hit her full in the solar plexus. Young Cyril took it like a trooper and an American trooper, at that. He said, “Just hicks, aren’t they, Mr Quentin?”’
By the time Jill got back from ordering the taxi andsoothing the leading lady’s solar plexus Miles was almost ready to leave. He asked her to see if Cyril and his understudy would like to be driven home. ‘They’re on the next floor, Room 7.’
The door of Room 7 was open. She saw that the boys had gone. Sticking out of a wastepaper basket was the chocolate box with Spa Street on its lid – young Cyril obviously hadn’t cherished it as a souvenir. She went closer and looked down on it, already feeling a whiff of nostalgia for the sunny Saturday afternoon just a week ago. She had thought, then, that the painting on the lid was better than most chocolate box art. Seen under the dressing room’s glaring lights it was woolly and conventional. Perhaps her mood had supplied the touch of impressionistic atmosphere. Curious, that in her mind’s eye, she could still see the picture as she remembered it.
Also in the wastepaper basket was a paper bag containing a few congealed acid drops. She particularly disliked the smell of acid drops and the very sight of them was enough to evoke it for her. They seemed, somehow, highly suitable for Cyril. For the first time, she admitted to herself that she, like Peter, found the boy repulsive. Well, all the more honour to Miles, for being so kind to him. She went down to the waiting taxi.