So much to be done – and so little she could safely do until the household settled for the night, as someone might ignore her request that she shouldn’t be disturbed. She could write her farewell note but felt it would be unlucky to do that before she was ready to leave. It would be best to pass the time by making an entry in her journal, particularly as she had said she was going to; even the shortest entry would turn that lie into the truth. She disapproved of lying and even of ‘acting a lie’. But she sometimes gave herself a dispensation by feeling she was ‘playing a part’. She would have to play a continuous part for the next six months.
She unlocked the drawer where she kept the journal, settled at her desk, and wrote:
‘I am not in the mood for journal writing so I will only say that this is the most important night of my whole life. Soon, when the house is sleeping—’
She broke off. The mood for journal writing had come on with such a rush that she knew she would write for hours if she let it have its head. She therefore concluded:
‘But no more now. When – and where – shall I next take up my pen? What a cliché’! I apologize, Posterity!’
Posterity, frequently addressed, had become for her a composite creation made up of herself when old and famous, biographers of her famous self, the British Museum, and some critic who would one day write: ‘Publication of the journal proves she was as great a writer as she was an actress.’ But she never visualized this composite Posterity without rebuking herself for conceit which she already recognized, if only occasionally, as her most menacing sin.
Posterity, anyway, was located in the far-away future. She would be outraged if anyone but herself read the journal now. Suppose her family searched for it, even broke open her drawer, in the hope of finding clues to where she’d gone? Could she take the journal with her? Well, hardly; not twenty-two exercise books.
Inspiration descended. At one time she’d had a passion for sealing her letters. Yes, she still had her sealing-wax set – complete with matches and a fat red candle. (What a child one had been at twelve!) She also had some string. After tying the exercise books together, she sealed the string at the knot and every criss-cross; then wrote a note in red ink:
‘There is nothing in this journal which will help anyone to trace me. Please respect my privacy. I have complete confidence that I shall find the seals unbroken on my return. Thank you.’
That, she felt sure, would prove a potent message.
By the time she had put the journal back in its drawer, the party below was breaking up. She waited a full half-hour, then tip-toed onto the gallery. No light could be seen under any door. The real business of her night could begin.
First, she got out one of her recent purchases, a bright blue packet on which was the picture of a Titian-haired beauty. According to the instructions, you first washed your hair and then poured over it a jug of water into which part of the contents of the packet had been stirred. ‘Enough for three rinses, unless a very deep shade is required.’ She did require a deep shade, the rich auburn of the wig she had worn as Juliet, so she would use the whole packet.
Thanking God and her grandmother for her fitted wash basin, she began washing her hair. But even this part of the operation did not prove easy. Usually Clare did the job for her, while she held a towel to her face. Now the soap got into her eyes and she kept banging her head on the taps. The tinting was still more difficult; so much of the mixture went into her ears or down her back. And her hair emerged merely looking dark instead of mousy – but one couldn’t really judge until it was dry. She pinned up some curls, put on a setting net and hoped for the best.
Now she would pack. This would need the most careful consideration as all clothes taken should be suitable for adult wear. She feared that few things would pass the test with flying colours except her one pair of high-heeled shoes and her superb running-away outfit which she had tried on before dinner.
In the spring Clare had misguidedly bought a thick white polo-necked sweater, a boldly checked black-and-white skirt, and a very full black coat. The neck of the sweater made her head look too small, Drew insisted the skirt was a stolen horse-blanket, and the coat was generally held to indicate imminent motherhood. Clare’s Folly – swiftly so named – had soon been relegated to the box-room cupboard, where clothes intended for rummage sales were kept. Before dinner, while surreptitiously getting her suitcase, Merry had abstracted Clare’s Folly, replacing it with her school uniform.
It was pleasant to reflect that if any search was made for her it would be for a mousy, uniformed schoolgirl, not for a Titian-haired adult in dashing clothes. And the clothes, Merry was sure, would suit her splendidly as she was tall enough to carry them, nearly four inches taller than Clare. True, the skirt would be short but not so very as it had been too long for Clare. Anyway, short skirts were dashing – and only grown-ups wore them; schoolgirls wore their skirts drearily long.
After spending over an hour going through her clothes, Merry found their juvenility so depressing that she took a long look at Clare’s Folly just to cheer herself up. It really was splendidly mature. But she must not only look mature; she must feel it – and a first step towards that would be to sound it. She would now decide what voice to use.
It must be more sophisticated than her normal voice, and she must be more than usually careful to speak what she believed Drama Schools called Accepted Southern English – not to be confused with what she and Betty called Affected Southern English, as spoken by many radio announcers. Merry had once mimicked this by saying: ‘In this perm, the pert speaks of his longing for herm.’
An inner monologue in mature Accepted Southern English now began, while she packed the least-juvenile of her clothes and selected stockings, handkerchiefs and many small possessions. The monologue became so interesting when she heard herself coping with various imagined situations – such as the amorous intentions of admiring theatrical managers – that she sat entranced, just listening to herself. This would never do. The night was passing. Sternly she concentrated on packing. What books should she allow herself? Only Shakespeare. It was agony to leave all her other plays but the suitcase was already overflowing.
Now to assemble her money – from three boxes: spending money in the first box, savings towards Christmas presents in the second, savings towards theatre visits in the third. Grand total: nearly twelve pounds. She would also take the diamond brooch which had been her share of her mother’s jewellery, though she hoped she would have no need to part with it. She was confident she would find a job before her money was used up.
Her hair would certainly be dry by now. She removed the net in front of her looking glass, then gasped in dismay. The colour reminded her of badly polished mahogany and combing did nothing to improve it. Had she time to wash it again? No – and what would be the use? The tinting was said to remain for several shampoos. Perhaps a hairdresser could help her but for the present she was stuck with this horrible thatch and could only hide it with a head scarf.
To cheer herself up she put on her new brassière. This was no make-shift bust such as had let her down when she played Juliet. She had told the astonished shop-assistant it must be earthquake proof and it certainly seemed so. Now for the checked skirt and polo-necked sweater! Magnificent effect! A soft white woollen prow jutted in front of her. Unfortunately it oniy looked soft; it felt just a bit like a birdcage.
If only her hair wasn’t spoiling everything! But wait – might it not be turned to advantage? Might it not be just the hair to escape in, a far more effective disguise than the one she had planned? But she must dress up to it – or rather, down to it. Off came the white sweater, on went an old pink blouse. She would pin a wilted rose to the black coat and – yes, she had some blue earrings from a cracker. She now looked superbly common, a word she had always been discouraged from using but exactly right for her present appearance. And as well as common, she was common-place; no one would give her a second glance.
What sort of vo
ice should she use now? At that instant, a girl called Mavis was born. She spoke sloppily, called everyone ‘dear’, very frequently said ‘honestly’ and ‘definitely’. From now on Merry’s inner monologue was mainly spoken by Mavis. Accepted Southern English was in abeyance.
Mavis required make-up. Out of the suitcase came Merry’s newly acquired cosmetics. Blue shadow on the eyelids; orange lip-stick; too much pink powder. Merry was enchanted by her skill but shocked that she could look so awful.
Creative effort had given her an appetite. She ate some of the chocolate and biscuits she had bought that afternoon; then brushed her teeth. Mavis remarked: ‘Fussy, aren’t we, dear?’ Merry said: ‘God’s given me good teeth and I intend to keep them.’ Mavis then said: ‘Well, get a move on, ducky. And take the envelope that had the hair stuff in it. We don’t want anyone to know what we’ve been up to.’ Merry was glad to find Mavis was no fool; they would get on well, sharing a mind and a body.
She glanced at her clock. Heavens, how fast the night had gone! It was time to begin her farewell letter. (A job for Merry; Mavis went off duty.) She wrote:
Dear Richard,
When you read this I shall be far away. I refuse to waste dear Jane’s money – or my own time – on any school. Don’t worry about me. I shall be absolutely all right. I am older, in myself, than any of you know.
If you want a good explanation for my absence, say I have gone to stay with an aunt. Not Aunt Winifred – no one would believe I’d go to stay with her. Just say I’m with an aunt of mother’s. She never had one. I think Betty’s conscience will allow her to pretend she believes the aunt story. Give her my love and tell her I only kept my plans from her because I felt knowing them would make it difficult for her if you questioned her.
I implore you not to ask the police to find me. They wouldn’t manage it, anyhow – remember I am a master of make-up. If I read in the papers that they are after me, I won’t be answerable for the consequences. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. I might even slip out of the country with a troupe of dancers and you know what that could mean. But if you leave me alone I will take the greatest care of myself and come home unblemished – in six months.
Goodbye, good luck, and lots of love to you all from your prodigal sister
Merry.
P.S. I have quite a lot of money and am taking my diamond brooch. If pawned, it would get me home even from Land’s End or John O’Groats – neither of which places I intend to visit. Trust me – and LEAVE ME ALONE.
She read through the letter and carefully blocked out ‘Remember I am a master of make-up.’ Why give such a possibly valuable clue? Besides, it was conceited.
Now she was ready to start but it was still too early. The most tricky part of her escape was choosing the exact moment to leave. She must go before it was light but if she tried to cross the fields at the back of the house while it was dark she might sprain an ankle or fall into a ditch. Her objective was a road travelled by an early-morning bus to London. She had worked it all out: the time the sun would rise, the time the cross-country walk – around four miles – would take, the time the bus would pass. She ought to wait a while. But she was getting nervous. Better too early than too late and she wasn’t sure what time Cook and Edith got up.
She put on the black coat, with its dangling pink rose, picked up her suitcase and her handbag, and then gave a last look around the room. Conscious of a slight catch in her throat she told herself not to work things up – ‘You’re not going to execution.’ The voice of Mavis said cheerfully, ‘Bye bye room.’
Lights off, torch on, door opened and quietly closed … Now along the gallery – and don’t bang the suitcase into the banisters. She reached the top of the stairs. No sailing down in the middle now; she put the torch in her coat pocket, grasped the handrail, and felt her way step by step. Placing her letter, addressed to Richard, on the hall table she imagined the moment when he would open it and read it aloud. Poor darlings, would they all be terribly worried? She gave a loving look up towards the bedroom doors. But she must not think about that now – already the dome above her was paler than the darkness around her. Perhaps it was already dawn.
But when she let herself out of the back door it was still so dark that she had to use her torch until she reached the lawn. Then there was nothing to bump into but a herbaceous border – which she did once and felt some tall flower brush her cheek. How terribly exciting this escape was! This thrill of fear that she might be caught, she must store it up to be acted later … The dark mass on her right now was the barn – and ahead, a glimmer of white, was the gate. She opened it quietly, then looked back at the house. No lighted windows, no pursuers … She was out in the lane, free.
She was also cautious. It was still too dark to venture into the fields. She sat down on her suitcase and waited. Soon she heard a cock crow – and almost as if on cue, the darkness began to pale. She could start now, if she went carefully.
It proved to be a gruelling walk, for the suitcase, though not particularly heavy, soon seemed so. But she spurred herself on by reciting speeches from Henry V, and the village church clock, chiming the quarters, repeatedly assured her she had enough time for frequent rests. She heard it again as she reached the road, a faint, farewell chime which now told her she would have a twenty-minute wait for the bus.
It had begun to rain and she had forgotten to bring her raincoat. But there was a barn close to the road and no nearby farmhouse whose occupiers were likely to see her. She went in, set her suitcase close to a bale of hay which would provide her with a backing, and sat down thankfully.
Soon she would be on the bus. She saw herself hail it, jump on, then off it would go at full speed. She’d be miles and miles away before anyone missed her. And soon, soon – in not much more than two hours – she would be in London.
2
The Anonymous Town
Her head jerked forward. She was instantly, guiltily aware she had been asleep. Only for a moment, of course.
She looked at her watch and panic struck. The time shown was two-thirty. Two-thirty? Already she would have been missed for hours and hours! And suppose Richard had ignored her warnings? Already the police might be after her. And was there an afternoon bus? She doubted it.
Grabbing her suitcase, she hurried out of the barn – and saw, not a hundred yards away, a bus approaching. It was travelling in the wrong direction for London but she instantly hailed it; at least it would take her away from where she was. It stopped. She sprang on and found she was the only passenger. Quickly she made her way to a front seat, behind the driver. Anyone who got on now would see only the back of her head.
The conductress approached and said: ‘Where to?’ Where to, indeed – Merry had no idea where the bus was going and was determined not to draw attention to herself by inquiring. Handing a pound note, she said in the voice of Mavis: ‘All the way, thanks, dear.’ She got back only fourteen shillings change, so all the way was obviously going to be some distance. But she would get off as soon as she reached a town with a railway station. Meanwhile she was at least getting further from home and was also in out of the rain.
Soon the bus pulled up in a village she recognized. She knew no one who lived there; still, she partly covered her face with her handkerchief, ostensibly blowing her nose. The bus acquired two more passengers – to be heard but never seen by her – before it went on through the village, which seemed unusually quiet, with none of its shops open; presumably it was early closing day.
As they came to the church, a bus travelling in the opposite direction passed them. One of the passengers said: ‘London bus.’ At the same instant, Merry caught sight of the church clock. It stood at 7.52. Frantically she looked at her watch. It still said 2.30. Then it had stopped – in the middle of the night! She had forgotten to wind it, depending on her bedroom clock and then on the church clock’s chimes. That was her London bus which had just thundered past. Soon it would be passing the barn where she would have hailed it – but for that dis
astrous nap which could not have lasted five minutes. Oh, maddening watch! No: maddening, careless Merry. And maddening, most reprehensible panic.
But all was not lost, all was very much not lost. A whole half day had been given back to her – and she was now speeding in the opposite direction from which her family would expect her to speed; nobody looking for a job on the stage would plunge into the depths of Suffolk. This was a most subtle method of escape, as subtle as disguising herself as Mavis. And she would get a train that stopped at some London suburb. The police might be waiting for her in London, at both the station and the bus terminus. Clever Merry! Resourceful Merry! She leaned back and relaxed.
Soon she was travelling through villages that were unfamiliar, all too small to possess a railway station. People got on and off the bus, always remaining voices, never faces, to her; for she kept her own face averted. It was fun, listening without seeing; she made a game of it, trying to pick up where she was and where she was going. It was a game she never won, not even when the bus reached its terminus soon after nine o’clock, for the conductress announced the name of the place in a blurred roar which conveyed no information whatever. But at least Merry could see this was a small market town, not a village, and it was likely to have a station.
Tidying up in the Ladies’ Room she was shocked at her appearance. That awful hair! The sooner she got to a London hairdresser, the better. She must ask her way to the station but not here – the bus was a link with her own locality, someone might remember her later. She would walk a little way into the town.