Jane smiled with relief. Everything would be all right. But the languid voice was continuing.
‘Not that I shan’t be more than happy to lose her as a pupil. How does she propose to finish her education?’
Jane’s smile froze and her nervousness returned. ‘We hoped … I believe you do sometimes award scholarships?’
‘A scholarship? To Meriella?’ Miss Willy looked astounded. ‘Is this her own idea?’
‘I think her friend Betty suggested—’
‘That poor girl! She was doing well at both lessons and games until Meriella infected her with a desire to act – which, believe me, was not God’s plan for her; she has a marked resemblance to a suet pudding, in figure as well as face. Well, I may yet salvage her if I can get her away from Meriella. No, Miss Minton, I can award no scholarship.’
‘Not even for two terms – until Merry’s fifteen?’
‘I find that an outrageous suggestion. This is hardly a school for pupils who finish their education at fifteen. My scholarship girls stay till they’re eighteen and usually go on to college.’
‘I’d hoped, if you were willing to have her, that I could persuade Merry to stay until she was – well, say, seventeen.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t persuade her to do that, whatever school she goes to.’ Miss Willy now sounded less severe. ‘As a matter of fact, I advised her father to let her finish with school as soon as she legally can.’
‘Did you want to get rid of her so much?’ Jane asked coldly.
Miss Willy’s quick glance showed that the coldness had been noted. She was silent for a moment. Then she said: ‘I must defend myself a little. I’ve told you I think Meriella brilliant. The trouble is, she’s slanted her brilliance in only one direction: acting. Ordinary lessons bore her and she refuses to play any game. What’s more, she can be embarrassingly precocious. Let me tell you what happened at our Midsummer theatricals – always rather a feature with us. This year we decided on scenes from Shakespeare, and Meriella and Betty wanted to do the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. They gave me quite a charming audition – Meriella was exquisite – but I said, frankly, that Betty wasn’t the right shape for Romeo. They assured me she would be tactfully draped in a cloak and the scene would be dimly lit, so I gave in. Well, I had to be away at a conference during the last days of rehearsals and when I retuned, on the day of the performance, I heard the balcony scene had proved impracticable on our little stage and Meriella and Betty were substituting the farewell scene. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember the implications of that scene. You recall it?’
‘I think so … “Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.” – isn’t that how it begins?’
‘It is indeed. Of course our drama mistress should never have allowed it but she was flurried by the last-minute change and let Meriella take charge. Imagine my horror when, before a packed audience, the curtain rose to reveal a large mattress where Meriella and Betty were reclining among dishevelled bedclothes. Meriella was wearing a red wig she’d hired; and by means of make-up and sheer acting ability was managing to look fully adult – helped by the fact that she’d padded the bust of her white silk nightgown to quite Hollywood proportions. Betty, whose bust needs restraining, not amplifying, was wearing a thin, open-necked shirt and very fully-filled black tights. The two of them proceeded to throw themselves about on the mattress, Betty a very female, amorous dumpling of fourteen, and Meriella a voluptuous woman of at least twenty-five – if anything, too mature for Juliet. You can imagine the impression they gave.’
‘Did people laugh?’
‘Not at first – I assure you, it was too shocking to laugh at. Then, mercifully, one side of Meriella’s false bust slipped round under one arm. She tried to hitch it back and, for a moment, her mask of maturity dropped and she looked just a painted child. The audience roared and I can only hope the previous impression was forgotten in laughter – in spite of which, and though the Capulets had only the haziest notion of their parts, Meriella ended by being deeply moving, even though her false bust was still under one arm. Oh, dear, I still laugh when I think of it.’
Jane, too, laughed. Then she said: ‘But, Miss Willy, you said Merry was embarrassingly precocious. Surely such an incident proves just the opposite? Only a very innocent girl …’
‘Quite true,’ said Miss Willy. ‘I ought to have said she can appear to be precocious. It only happens when she’s acting – through some miracle of intuition. At other times she often strikes me as unusually innocent for her age. And she’s not, by the way, sentimental. She has no sentimental attachment to Betty, nor has she ever shown one for any of her teachers, thank heaven. Me, she definitely dislikes. But I don’t dislike her and when I advised her father to let her leave my school it was because I believed it had no more to offer her. She has an absolutely first-class brain, but she’ll work at nothing not connected with her acting, so she should concentrate on it as soon as she’s legally free to.’
‘But that’s not for six months,’ said Jane, beginning to respect Miss Willy. ‘And you do so well understand her. Would you allow me to pay her fees here?’
‘Do you know what our fees are?’ Miss Willy’s tone was ominous.
‘Tell me, please.’
‘I warn you they’re high, particularly for day girls as we don’t care to have many. This is mainly a boarding school.’
Jane was staggered by the sum named – but she could afford it, for two terms. Without hesitation she said: ‘That would be quite satisfactory.’
‘You’re a very generous woman,’ said Miss Willy.
‘Then we’ll consider the matter settled.’
Slowly the head mistress shook her head. ‘This isn’t a question of money. And I’m not going to pretend I’m only doing what seems to be best for Meriella. No doubt it would be a convenience for her to stay here until she’s fifteen. But it wouldn’t be good for my school. I told you she wasn’t sentimental – but others are sentimental about her. There’s quite a Meriella cult and it would increase now. And think of all the publicity if Rupert Carrington gets hauled to trial. I’m sorry but I just don’t want her here.’
Jane’s tone became frigid. ‘Then there’s no more to be said.’
‘Oh, yes, there is. I’ll post you a list of – well, fairly good schools in nearby towns, all of which would cost you far less than you’re prepared to pay me. You could, of course, just let matters drift for six months but some village busybody might inform the authorities. As soon as she’s fifteen, let her try for a scholarship at some London drama school. Some scholarships include maintenance allowances.’
‘But she couldn’t live in London, alone,’ said Jane. ‘She’s just a child, Miss Willy, and to me she seems a normal child.’
‘Which Meriella have you been treated to? The pert, voluble one?’
‘Voluble, certainly—’
‘Well, that’s somewhere near the real Meriella, except that she dramatizes the normality. You should see her when she’s working on Shakespearean tragedy and speaks mainly in blank verse – yes, really; it’s very bad blank verse but it scans. My least favourite times are when she’s studying what she calls character parts and uses phrases like “Pardon” and “Thanks ever so”. Oh, don’t worry about her, just drag her through the next six months as best you can – not that 1 see why you should be involved with the Carrington problems. Now let’s talk about you. I do need a secretary. Would you like to work for me?’
Jane doubted it. But it would mean she could remain part of the Carrington household, unless she would be expected to live at the school; she inquired about this.
‘No, indeed,’ said Miss Willy. ‘We’re full to overflowing. How much was Rupert Carrington paying you – or should one say, owing you?’
Jane named the figure hoping it would impress Miss Willy as much as she herself had been impressed by the school fees.
‘Well, it’s enough,’ said Miss Willy. ‘But you’re probably worth it. Having your own car’s an
advantage and I like the way you dress.’
‘Merry said you would,’ said Jane; then regretted it.
But Miss Willy took it in good part. ‘Shrewd of her. And a compliment to both of us, if you think it out. I’ve an idea we should get on tolerably well. Of course I expect hard work, just as I expect it of myself.’
And thrive on it, thought Jane. Weary Willy, in spite of her nickname and languid voice, was certainly not weary. Aloud, she said: ‘Oh, I fancy I could stand up to the job – if I’m able to accept it.’
‘You can’t decide now? My temporary help is hopeless and the new term starts on Monday. Well, when can you let me know?’
‘Not for two or three days,’ said Jane firmly. Standing up to the job would really mean standing up to Miss Willy and one would get off to a bad start if one accepted too eagerly; anyway, the matter needed thought, and the Carringtons would have to be consulted.
‘You probably have other irons in the fire. Well, join me if you can. Now I must let you go as I’m expecting a parent.’ She rose and escorted Jane to the front door. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t time to show you over the school. We’re rather proud of our new swimming pool. By the way, it will be best if you just tell Meriella I never award scholarships to girls who aren’t prepared to stay on until they’re eighteen.’
‘But suppose she agrees to that?’
‘She won’t,’ said Miss Willy.
They exchanged civil goodbyes and Jane drove away, wondering why Merry so disliked the head mistress, who had obviously treated her with forbearance. Perhaps the star quality in Merry warred with the star quality in Miss Willy – of which Jane had been fully conscious. One could be amused by such a quality in a brilliant child but one was wary of it in a mature woman; and though Jane’s own dislike had decreased, she guessed it would never be replaced by any feeling of warmth.
What worried her now was that all cheaper schools would be a come-down after this one. How much was Merry going to mind?
She came running from the house while Jane was garaging her car.
‘Was it all right? How did you get on?’
Jane was thankful to have the explanation Miss Willy had suggested. Merry accepted it at once.
‘I ought to have guessed that. Scholarship holders are always expected to work for the glory of the school. I’d never do that. Funny, I’ve always wanted to leave and get started on the stage but now … well, I wish I’d known last term that it was my last term and sort of said goodbye.’
As they walked to the house Jane spoke of the list of schools Miss Willy was sending.
‘But they’ll be private schools, Jane. We’d have to pay.’
Jane said tentatively, ‘I wondered if you’d allow me to help, Merry. I could easily afford it.’
‘Darling Jane! I wouldn’t dream of letting you spend money on me. And, anyway, if one can’t go to a first-rate private school, which Weary Willy’s really is, why not go tootling off to school with the village children?’ Merry’s tone was gay but distinctly histrionic. ‘I can pick up a real teenage vocabulary – that’s so frowned on at Miss Willy’s, inhibited little squares that we are; I mean “were” as regards me – it’s like having to change the tense when someone dies. But I do thank you for such a superb offer – and you’ve only known me four days. Seems longer, doesn’t it?’
‘It does, indeed,’ said Jane. ‘Well, let’s talk again when the list of schools comes.’
Merry, after a moment’s silence, agreed cheerfully. ‘All right. Now I must go and tell Betty. She’ll probably ask me to lunch. I’ll just get my coat.’ She sped indoors and upstairs, then called down: ‘Jane, are you sure I need to go to any school?’
‘Quite, quite sure.’
‘Ah, well …’ Still appearing to be extremely cheerful, Merry went into her room.
Already the house felt different. It was colder. The hall fire had not been lit, and economizing on central heating had begun. Through the drawing-room door Cook and Edith could be seen spreading dust-sheets over the furniture.
‘Got to cut down on the housework,’ said Cook, as Jane joined them. ‘So we’ll put this room right out of action.’
‘And of course we’ve closed Mr Carrington’s bedroom,’ said Edith. ‘That was a sad task.’
‘Like as not he’ll never sleep in his bed again,’ said Cook. ‘Well, we’d better scrape a bit of lunch together.’
The lunch was adequate, Jane told herself; but the cold meat seemed noticeably cold in the cold dining-room.
After the meal, Drew said he would work in his room. ‘I shall wrap myself in a blanket and pretend I’m a shivering genius in an attic.’
‘God knows what this house will be like in real winter,’ said Richard. ‘This is merely a brisk autumn day.’
He went to the study, accompanied by Jane and Clare, to decide which bills should be paid. Clare had got the village tradesmen to agree that their accounts should stand over, provided they were, from now on, paid in cash.
In the middle of the afternoon the police called again. Richard interviewed them in the hall and was soon able to report that they had gone. ‘They asked if I knew where Father was and I said I didn’t. Then they said I must let them know if I heard from him. I said “quite” which means nothing at all.’
Drew, coming down to tea, said he had opened his door to listen. ‘Not very impressive, the Law, was it? They order these things better on television.’
The glory that had once been tea at Dome House was a thing of the past, Jane noted, eating bread and margarine.
‘Austerity’s set in with a vengeance,’ said Drew. ‘Cook and Edith have even dug out our thick old nursery cups.’
Soon after tea, Merry returned. Jane had told the others of Miss Willy’s adverse decision but not of her own plans for Merry (or of Miss Willy’s offer to herself; no point in mentioning that until she’d made up her own mind about it). Richard had merely said they must find out which school Merry was entitled to attend. He referred to this on seeing her but she said airily, ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow,’ and ran up to her room, coming down only in time for dinner. This, though only a stew of leftovers, was quite good, but when Cook and Edith came in for television, they brought no coffee. Drew protested gently.
‘Coffee’s expensive,’ said Cook. ‘And you’ve got to learn to do without things. People are saying you’ve been spoilt—’
‘Then it’s damned impertinent of them,’ said Richard. ‘And I’ve heard you say coffee doesn’t keep. We’ll have ours while it’s still fresh, thank you, Cook.’
‘Very good, sir!’ Cook glared, but a slight break in her voice on the ‘sir’ turned the speech into a reproach. She stalked out, followed by Edith.
Drew said: ‘Richard, how could you, when they’re being such angels? I’d soon have coaxed coffee out of them.’
‘We’re too old to coax them.’
Jane doubted if Drew would ever be, or if Richard had ever been young enough. And at the moment her sympathies were with Richard. Much as she liked the maids she suspected that circumstances might turn them into tyrants. So she was a little sorry when Richard went on, ‘Oh, I’d better go and make my peace. God knows I’m grateful to them.’
He returned from the kitchen with a mollified Cook and Edith. A compromise had been reached: tea was served instead of coffee.
Burly, offered cold milk instead of warm, showed displeasure. ‘Have to warm it for him tomorrow,’ said Cook. She helped him on to the sofa and gave him the last peppermint cream. ‘We’ll get a few more of these and keep them just for him. Can’t explain to a dog, can you?’
Drew sat between the maids, just as on her first evening, Jane remembered. Indeed, everything looked much the same as then. The fire had been lit and burned as brightly …
But gone was that sense of happiness she had luxuriated in. Well, she’d thought of it as a group product, and now no member of the group could be contributing to it, except the slumbering Burly and perhaps the maids were su
stained by their noble intentions.
After the News, which again failed to mention Rupert Carrington, Merry announced she was going to work on her journal. ‘It doesn’t yet know about Father. Please don’t disturb me, anyone. Good night.’
They all responded affectionately as she ran upstairs.
‘I’ve never known her so quiet,’ said Richard, once her door had closed. ‘It’s hell for her having to change schools just when she needs all her friends around her. Oh, blast Weary Willy!’
A few moments later, some small sound caused Jane to look upwards. Merry had come out of her room and was leaning on the gallery railing, looking down. Their eyes met. Jane smiled. Merry smiled in return, very sweetly; then she gave a little valedictory wave of her hand and went back into her room.
BOOK TWO
Merry
1
According to Plan
She had completed the plan on the previous day, having begun work on it as soon as she knew her school fees were not paid. Then she had shelved the whole idea, convinced by Betty that a scholarship could be had for the asking. On hearing that it couldn’t, she had made her decision within seconds: forward with the plan!
Not a word about it had been said to Betty. The less Betty knew, the better; she was loyal but no liar. Merry had simply told her there would be no scholarship, accepted sympathy plus a good lunch, and then departed – turning to give her friend a beautiful and memorable smile.
The afternoon had been spent in shopping, after a cross-country walk to a village where she had never shopped before and was unlikely to be recognized. Thoroughness in covering tracks was part of the plan.
And now she was alone in her bedroom with the night stretching before her – a night when, for the first time in her life, she would not lie down to sleep. She had just taken her last look at the group below, murmuring to herself Juliet’s words: ‘Farewell! – God knows when we shall meet again!’ She was glad Jane had looked up. Now Jane, as well as Betty, would have a smile to remember.