The New Moon with the Old (28 page)

He closed the door of his music room and flung himself down on the divan. Just how long would it be before he went raving mad? An idiotic question, of course, as madness implied escape and he felt quite sure that, in no form, would escape come his way. His father had escaped. Merry, Drew and Clare had escaped. But he, Richard, was obviously doomed, as Jane so often and so cheerfully put it, to ‘hold the fort'; the fort being a large and now very uncomfortable house which, it seemed, he had to maintain chiefly as a roof for five women.

Jane, Cook and Edith were contributing generously towards expenses. But their contributions did not enable him to settle outstanding bills, some of which could hardly remain outstanding much longer if the house was to be kept open. Then there were the bills looming ahead: rent, rates, electricity, telephone – the list was interminable. And already he had doled out half the money his father had left, just in order to ‘keep the flag flying' – Jane again; recently she had taken to bucking him up with a fine line in military metaphors.

Aunt Winifred paid not one penny and had this morning borrowed a pound. According to her, she had been mainly
dependent on her now non-existent allowance; and the rent paid to her for her house had already been spent. He doubted if all this was true but was inclined to think she believed it was, just as she now believed she and Clare had been devoted to each other. During his great-aunt's regime at Dome House he had several times stood up to her. But how could one stand up to this frail, slightly dotty old woman? She was now, he felt, more wispish than waspish.

Violet, of course, was a guest. She had offered to pay, saying she still had some money, but he had waved the suggestion aside. It was now just a week since she had arrived – without warning; he had answered the front-door bell to find her standing outside with two suitcases. She had said: ‘Oh, Richard, I just had to see you!' Then he had taken her to his music room and listened to her story. She had felt so lost, so lonely, and something had gone wrong about the rent of her flat. Yes, she had thought it was paid, that day he had so kindly come to see her. He asked how much she needed. But she had let the flat go; it was a furnished flat, so expensive, she'd just have to take a room somewhere. And the idea had come to her that she might find one near Rupert's family so that if there should be any news of him … And anyway, she'd so much wanted to see Richard again. She'd felt that there was … well,
ec
tually, a sort of sympathy between them.

Richard had felt this too, from their first meeting. Back in the summer he had gone up to London for a concert at the Albert Hall, taken a walk in Hyde Park and run into his father and Violet. She had suggested they should all have a drink at her flat. There was evidence there – possessions strewn about – that his father was staying at the flat; and afterwards his manner, when speaking of Violet as a charming woman he had known for a couple of years, made it clear that she was more than a casual friend – so clear, in fact, that Richard had not hesitated to call on her after his father's flight, to see
if she needed help. And her behaviour then had confirmed all he had thought.

But now he was not so sure. Once invited to stay at Dome House she had turned into his father's fiancée and she sometimes gave the impression of having been a perfectly respectable fiancée. Also she'd recently, though very vaguely, mentioned her investments. Richard began to wonder if his father
had
been supporting her. She was certainly most unlike his own idea of a ‘kept woman'. True, it had been implicitly accepted by them both that his father had paid her rent, but might not a man offer a little linancial aid to his perfectly respectable fiancée? And anyway, did her exact status matter?

It mattered extremely. Because Violet had already made it clear to Richard that she was falling for him; and though he trusted he had
not
made it clear to Violet, he was undoubtedly falling for her. The idea of falling for one's father's ex-girl friend was distasteful, whereas falling for one's father's respectable fiancée was merely dishonourable and far preferable. Hence he favoured a respectable Violet.

Not that he'd yet decided how far he would let himself fall. He was careful not to meet her half-way – quarter-way, rather, that being all she'd left room for. But he did freely admit to himself that having her around made life more interesting. And she pulled her weight in the house, helping him to make beds, cook, wash up; whenever he had a job to do she was ready to join him. Also she did quite a lot for Aunt Winifred and got on well with her. This morning, the two of them had gone to have their hair washed and set. Jane, before going to Miss Willy, had driven them the necessary ten miles and he was to bring them back in time for lunch. That gave him … he reckoned he had two clear hours before he need start. Should he attempt to work?

He had absolutely no urge to. It might come if he forced himself to begin, but he felt incapable of forcing himself.
Should he play the piano? But he played it so badly – and no other instrument any better. Drew had once said: ‘You criticize yourself out of existence, Richard. Be more tender to your imperfections.' But could one lower one's standards deliberately? And Richard disliked the word ‘tender', equating it with sentimentality – anyway, as regards himself. Drew could be tender without being sentimental; some astringent quality in his nature stopped the rot.

He had heard from Drew that morning. He took the letter from his pocket and re-read it. Well, Drew certainly seemed dug in at Whitesea. He'd now won the confidence of Miss Whitecliff's solicitor. Her niece, described as a trying girl, had come and gone without upsetting the
ménage
. Miss Whitecliff and her two ancient maids were lambs. (Ghastly old crones, Richard felt sure.) Life at White Turrets was getting more and more comfortable …

Yet Drew was unable to work on his novel, missed the family, longed for news: ‘I wrote to Clare but she hasn't answered. It's hard to imagine her on her own in London. You don't think she'll get run over or kidnapped? Such a dithery girl, and her kind of prettiness seems to demand a top-hatted, black-moustached villain. As for Merry, I wake in the night and worry about her. If I'd got this job before she bolted I could have asked her to stay …'

Richard, too, worried about Merry, but not about Clare. They knew where Clare was – in the lap of luxury, incidentally, though it seemed unlikely she'd be there much longer. Jane had come to him with some fantastic story about … well, it sounded rather like Drew's top-hatted villain, but Jane herself had thought it was nonsense. Anyway, he'd at once written to Clare, saying how sorry he was that her old gentleman had died, suggesting she might come home for a few days when she was free, assuring her that Aunt Winifred was no longer a serious menace, and positively begging for
even a postcard from her. Well, if she didn't want to write, that was that. She was twenty-one and not too much of a dithery girl to have pulled down a job. No, he wasn't worried about Clare.

But Merry! Had he and Drew been wrong in not notifying the police? In two days she would have been gone three weeks – a child of fourteen! Surely she could have sent one line of news? Just the words ‘All's well' would have reassured him. But perhaps all wasn't well. Oh God, worrying would get him nowhere … and he was frittering away his rare two hours of peace.

He would play his gramophone – a Beethoven quartet: the 9th, the Third Rasoumovsky, a particular favourite of his. Not as great as the Last Quartets, but he did not this morning feel entitled to any of the Last Quartets; he was not sufficiently in a state of grace. Perhaps he didn't even deserve the 9th … but he found the record and put it on; then opened the door and looked down at the wreckage of the autumn garden. It needed to be decently put to bed for the winter but they had been without a gardener since the late summer and could not now consider employing one. He must do some tidying up; perhaps Violet would help him, though he doubted if she had any shoes with heels less than three inches high. Anyway, he wasn't going to think of Violet now or of anyone or anything else except the music.

He went back to the divan, lay down, and listened intently, more analytically than emotionally. But soon analysis and emotion fused for him. The music simply
was
, and while it was, nothing else was, not even himself.

He was brought back to earth, shortly before the end of the first movement, by a voice saying: ‘Richard!' He looked quickly towards the door. A tall, red-haired young woman was standing there. ‘Richard!' she said again. ‘Oh, darling Richard!'

‘Merry! My God!' He sprang up and dashed to her.

They hugged ecstatically.

‘Merry, darling! Are you all right?' He hastily switched off the record-player.

‘Well, I'm still a virgin, if that's what you want to know.'

‘Of course you are,' he said heartily.

‘There's no “of course” about it. Lots of girls my age aren't. And I needn't have stayed one – anyway, not much longer. If I hadn't run away last night I'd soon have been married – to an earl.'

He laughed appreciatively, so thankful to have her back that her nonsense amused him. Still, he hoped she wasn't going to be at her most inventive.

‘That happens to be true,” she said, coldly. ‘And it wasn't at all funny. I'll tell you about it later. Where are the others? I couldn't find anyone in the house. And what about Father? Any news of him?'

‘Not a word.' Richard gave her a sketchy outline of what had happened during her absence but did not reach the arrival of Violet; mention of Aunt Winifred provoked an interrupting wail.

‘Richard, how frightful! Aunt Winifred here – and Clare and Drew gone! And poor me come crawling home needing to be comforted!'

‘Well, Jane will comfort you and so will Cook and Edith. And I'll do my best. What happened? Couldn't you get a job?'

She sat down, sighed heavily and pushed back her preposterous copper hair. He asked if the dye would wash off.

‘No, never. I could have my hair dyed back to its natural shade but I'm not sure I want to. Don't you like it as it is?'

‘I do not,' said Richard. ‘And it makes you look years older.”

‘That's not only my hair. It's what I've been through. I'd better tell you.'

‘Take your time,” he said, kindly. ‘And Merry, darling, let it be reasonably true – much as I always enjoy your inventions.'

‘This time, truth is stranger than fiction.'

She gave him a world-weary look which struck him as slightly histrionic; but almost from the beginning he believed her story. Had she been inventing she would have told it much more dramatically, and also more coherently. As it was, he had some difficulty in following her. But she did gradually convey an impression of her life at Crestover (he had driven through the village once and seen the house across the park) and painted fairly vivid portraits of Lady Crestover and her brother. (The names, Donna and Desmond Deane, seemed familiar; had he seen them on one of Drew's old
musical-comedy
scores?) The blank in Merry's canvas was Lord Crestover. She did little more than state his age, say he had been very kind, had proposed and been accepted.

‘Then were you in love with him? Richard asked.

‘Of course – or I wouldn't have accepted him.' She went on to describe her two days' engagement, her trip to London, what she had overheard in the library and her discovery that she couldn't legally marry until she was sixteen. ‘After that, I just had to run away, hadn't I?'

‘I think you should have told them the truth,' said Richard.

‘You mean, to their faces? Yes,
I
thought that but only when it was too late. Anyway, I told it to them in my farewell letter. At least, it was the truth when I wrote it. Oh, Richard, such an awful thing happened. The bus I caught was just a local bus, and I needed one that would take me to some station where I could get a train to London. So I got off at the next village but one. The bus I needed wasn't due for twenty minutes so I went into the inn and had a drink – beer, quite beastly, I only like champagne – but there was some pork pie that wasn't bad; I was jolly hungry as I'd run away before dinner. Well, I was sitting there at the bar, wondering if I'd
get to London that night and where I'd sleep if I did, and how long my money would last – of course I never got paid any of my hundred-gainea fee so all I had was six pounds, and I'd left my diamond brooch at Crestover to repay them a bit. Suddenly I heard Claude's voice, out in the passage. He'd driven after me and was asking which road my bus had taken. It was a marvellous moment. I thought: “He'll forgive me and wait till I'm sixteen – everything's going to come right, after all.” I couldn't see him, the open door was in my way, so leaned a bit forward and then I could. He was standing just under a glaring electric light and, oh, Richard, it was as if I really saw him for the very first time. He had practically no chin, and his expression! He's exactly like a codfish – a caricature of a nobleman. I fell
instantaneously
out of love with him. It was ghastly.'

‘Poor Merry! But isn't it just as well?'

‘I suppose so, but it's heart-breaking, too. You see, while I was in love with him I could be miserable in an interesting sort of way. Now I'm miserable in a deadly dreary way. And it upsets me to think I let him kiss me. I can't even like him now, though I'm very sorry for him. His mother never let him have a dog, and his cat got in a trap – though that is a long time ago. Oh, dear! Anyway, after that awful moment – you could call it the moment of truth, really – I dodged back out of sight and heard him say good night, and drive off. I felt
sick
, Richard. I never finished my piece of pie. And I was in no spirits to arrive in London late at night so I asked if they'd a bed at the inn, and they had, if you could call it a bed; it felt like a gate with a sheet spread on it. I scarcely slept at all. And this morning I was a beaten woman – no courage left to conquer London. So here I am. Richard, he couldn't find me, could he?'