It Ends with Revelations (7 page)

So it was when she saw the show again next day. It seemed more and more a pity that cuts and changes were to be made.

These were to be rehearsed on Thursday morning. After seeing Miles off to the theatre she joined Robin and Kit in the hotel lounge, prepared to be taken to see the New Town.

‘We’re all taking you,’ said Robin. ‘Father’s gone to get the car.’

‘It’s our great-grandmother’s 1937 Rolls-Royce,’ said Kit. ‘Father keeps it here at the hotel. We think of it rather like a retired race horse. Old horses like to be visited and old cars like to be driven.’

‘Not that it’s old enough to be funny,’ said Robin. ‘In fact, we think it’s beautiful.’

Jill, when she went out to the car, thought it the most beautiful she had ever seen. It was a silver-grey Sedanca de Ville, the lines of its elegant, clean-cut coachwork
surprisingly
modern in spite of the car’s height. Paint, chromium and upholstery seemed still to be in perfect condition.

Geoffrey Thornton, helping Jill in to the front, said, ‘My grandmother had the body specially built for her, and travelled up to London twice to see how the work was going on. I remember going with her when I was about twelve.’ He went round to get in beside Jill. The girls, at the back, drew her attention to the small glass-topped tables that could be pulled down for picnic meals, and to the little cupboards with mirrors inside, where lights went on when the doors were opened.

‘And the glass screen between the front and the back goes up and down when you press the button,’ said Kit. She demon strated this, then added, ‘I must say it’s a terribly class-conscious car. Before the war, I understand, our great-grandmother sat in the back, here, with her pekinese, completely protected from the weather, while her chauffeur and maid sat in front, utterly exposed.’

‘They could shut the top if they wanted to,’ said Thornton, ‘but they seldom did unless it poured with rain. The chauffeur, who adored the car, thought it looked smarter with the front open – as it does. But please say, if you find it too draughty. It closes easily, and then both looks and feels like a completely closed car.

‘It’s lovely as it is,’ said Jill, looking up at the sky.

Thornton asked her if she drove.

‘No, and we haven’t a car. It wouldn’t be very much use in London. And Miles has never driven since he was involved in an accident ten years ago.’

‘Was he hurt?’

‘No, but a friend of his was killed.’ Why had she mentioned that? She quickly spoke of something else.

They were proceeding – it seemed the suitable word – along Spa Street at a snail’s pace, so that the girls could point out various shops and buildings. And after only a couple of minutes she noticed that people looked towards the car with smiling recognition.

‘I’d never dare drive a modern Rolls here,’ said Thornton, ‘even if I could afford one. The Spa Town would think it ostentatious, though there’d be no resentment of the money spent on it. The New Town wouldn’t give a damn about the ostentation but would strongly resent my being able to afford it. But my grandmother’s Rolls is popular in both towns. I even think it won me quite a lot of votes.’

Soon they turned into a street which, Jill remembered, led into the New Town; she had walked it often enough during that long-ago week. The eighteenth-century terraces here showed signs of having come down in the world, and soon the car was passing semi-detached Victorian villas and then rows of small houses with bay windows and stained glass in their front doors.

‘I stayed somewhere near here,’ said Jill.

‘Can you remember the address?’ asked Kit. ‘We could make a pilgrimage.’

‘No, thank you. It was a horrid place.’ She had a sudden memory of a linoleumed bedroom with a cold, sagging bed … though perhaps it was a composite memory. Life, in those days, had achieved a general average of discomfort.

Already they were entering one of the busy streets of the New Town. Jill gazed with dislike at the gaudy shops.

‘Now you must look about you carefully,’ said Kit, ‘or you’ll miss interesting bits. Ignore the shops – these are some of the worst – and look up at the roofs. Lots of these buildings are Queen Anne or older.’

Jill did as she was told and was surprised to note the jumble of tiled roofs and little attic windows, some of these cobwebbed and indicating unused rooms.

‘My grandmother told me that shop assistants used to live in, up there,’ said Thornton. ‘Now very few of the attics are used even for storage; too many stairs and rickety at that. From a hard-headed point of view, all this property should come down. And will, eventually.’

Jill said, ‘I suppose, when buildings are so badly spoilt …’

‘But I like them spoilt,’ said Robin. ‘I mean, I like the mixture of old and new. Anyway, I like it better than having the old buildings pulled down.’

Kit said, ‘You don’t think keeping them like this is a bit like keeping old people alive when they’ve got one foot in the grave?’

‘No, I don’t. And neither do you,’ said Robin.

‘True enough. I was just airing the idea.’

‘And anyway, we do keep old people alive as long as we can. And when you’re old, I bet you won’t think you’ve got
one foot in the grave, even when you’re dangling both feet into it. And you’ll want to go on and on. Most people do.’

The sisters continued to bicker amicably until the car reached the large market square which was in the middle of the New Town.

Robin said, ‘Now you see what happens when the old buildings
are
tidily pulled down and replaced.’

There were chain stores, cut-price supermarkets
plastered
with advertisements, two gaudy cinemas, a particularly hideous town hall. Buses painted blue, green, orange and even striped, were bringing people in from the surrounding countryside.

‘I’ll admit this is awful,’ said Kit.

‘But the market itself is rather fun,’ said Jill. ‘Somehow the crude colours look all right there.’

Racks of bright dresses, rolls of materials, blankets, towels, nylon nightgowns and negligées swinging in the breeze, inflated plastic toys, hardware … even the food looked brighter than food normally looks.

‘I sometimes buy things here,’ said Robin. ‘Shall we go and explore?’

‘No, you don’t,’ said Thornton. ‘If I park the Rolls here it’ll get mobbed. Oh, affectionately mobbed, but I don’t want the market boys climbing all over it. When you girls go market shopping, you go on your own.’

They drove on, slowly because there was much traffic. Interest in the Rolls was as lively as in the Spa Town but there it had been greeted with smiles, and occasional bows from acquaintances of the Thorntons; here, the populace
waved. Robin and Kit waved back and, presently, Jill waved too; it seemed discourteous not to. She said, ‘Really, we might be royalty.’

‘Well, it’s a queen of cars,’ said Kit. ‘And you look exactly right for it, with your grey suit and your lovely
not-quite
-grey hair.’

‘You must have a wonderfully clever cut,’ said Robin. ‘It doesn’t at all mind an open car.’

‘I wouldn’t care if it did; I’m enjoying myself too much.’ The day, the car, the interest of seeing the town from a different point of view, the companionship of the three Thorntons, all were giving her pleasure – though she found Thornton quieter than on their earlier meetings; perhaps he was letting his chattering daughters have the floor. It occurred to Jill that he must be unusually lacking in egoism; he seldom spoke of himself unless in answer to some question. She felt she ought to show interest in his political career but was dubious about plunging into a subject about which she knew so little. She had no political views beyond a vague sympathy with the underdog – and these days, who
were
the underdogs and which party their champion? Here, certainly, the prosperous New Town might house more top dogs than the Spa Town. Anyway, judging by Thornton’s majority, both towns had accepted him as their champion. She would have liked to say this, making it a compliment, but felt it safer to keep off politics altogether. Also she found his quietness a little inhibiting. She remembered her first impression of him as veiled. The veil was still there.

After they had driven through a number of ancient alleys which linked the main shopping streets (the latter pretty hideous, Jill thought, though she gave due recognition to all the survivals that were pointed out to her) Kit said, ‘Let’s show her a bird’s-eye view from above. It’s fascinating, like those old prints called “A Prospect of ….”’

They left the town behind and headed for the hills. ‘I always enjoy doing this,’ said Thornton. ‘The car likes to pretend we’re merely ambling up a gradual rise, but you’ll be surprised, looking down, to see how steep this hill is.’

She was. In only a few minutes they had risen high enough to see the town spread out beneath them. Thornton drew up at a grassy plateau obviously intended for a
look-out
. A modern pay-telescope was mounted there.

‘Oh, good, we’ve got the place to ourselves,’ said Robin. ‘So we can hog the telescope. You look first, Mrs Quentin. But it’s best to get your bearings in advance, with the naked eye.’

Jill saw that the New Town began at the foot of the hill, its modern suburb of detached houses merging into streets leading to the town centre. Then came the streets leading to the Spa Town, with its squares, terraces and crescents. The hill on which Queen’s Crescent was built seemed only a little hill when viewed from here. The whole length of Spa Street was visible.

Thornton, after pointing out various landmarks, said, ‘One’s apt to forget that for nearly a hundred years after the Spa Town was built,
it
was called the New Town. Still was, when my grandmother was a child. I suppose one day
it’ll be as spoilt as what used to be the old town has become.’

‘Come and look through the telescope now,’ said Robin. ‘It’s a wonderfully clear day.’

Jill, who had never before looked through a telescope, was startled by the way Spa Street seemed to leap towards her. She could see each shaving-brush chestnut, distinguish individual shops. She spotted the café where she had met Thornton; then, swinging the telescope slightly, found herself looking at the golden lion outside the hotel. Just beyond it was her bedroom window and there was someone standing there. Miles? He had not expected to come back for lunch. The figure moved – and before she had even made out for certain if it was a man or a woman; but it had seemed too tall for a maid. She handed the telescope over to Robin and looked at her watch.

Thornton said, ‘Are you anxious to get back? We were hoping we might take you out to lunch. There’s a good country hotel, just a few miles further on.’

Why not? If Miles
was
back he wouldn’t in the least mind her staying out to lunch; he had known she was spending the morning with the Thorntons. All the same, she said, ‘I think, perhaps … you see, they’ve been making cuts and that can be tricky. Miles may want me to run through them with him.’

‘We could get you back by, say, three o’clock,’ said Thornton. ‘Still, if you’d rather not …’

‘It’s just that I suddenly felt guilty, out here enjoying myself when they’re all working so hard at the theatre.
By the way, would any of you like to come with me tonight? I’ve got tired of standing so they’re keeping me a box.’

‘Alas, we’re all going out to dinner,’ said Thornton. ‘But we were wondering if we could buy seats for the first night in London – or is it too late?’

She said she could arrange it – ‘And now, if we’re to get back in time for lunch … Oh, I have enjoyed myself.’

The Thorntons, too, expressed their pleasure in the morning. Jill, taking a last look round at the rolling hills and the town below, found that going back when she didn’t really want to took the edge off her guilt. But some not quite identifiable sense of guilt remained.

5

Shocking Disclosure in a Cosy-Corner

It
had
been Miles at the window and he had been on the look-out for her. The rehearsal had been trying and he wanted to talk about it. Peter’s cuts had irritated the whole company – ‘I don’t mind clean cuts but small, niggling cuts are so difficult to learn.’ He described them fully, and niggling they certainly were, but they would shorten the play by some minutes without taking anything of value out of it. In Jill’s opinion, that was the right way to cut; but she did not say so, nor did she remind Miles that ‘clean’ cuts usually removed whole speeches which actors did not care to lose.

She worked with him after lunch, got him to eat an early tea, and then went to the theatre with him for a last-minute run-through with the company – which gave the
impression
that the evening performance would be disastrous. But it wasn’t; the cuts went in smoothly except for Cyril’s; and
Miles was able to cover up for him. The play went well. Jill, after arranging with Frank Ashton about the Thorntons’ first-night seats, asked how he felt about London and found he was wildly optimistic – ‘We just can’t fail, judging by the reactions here.’

‘Yes, they’ve been splendid,’ she said heartily.

‘Our young author’s walking round in a daze of bliss. Such luck to get your husband in his first play.’

‘And to get such a kind management.’ She did not think Frank Ashton knew anything about the theatre but he had been unfailingly pleasant, also generous.

At supper Miles was his usual cheerful self and freely admitted he had been wrong about the cuts. ‘They’re really very skilful. Naturally they upset the boy, but I can do a little private rehearsing with him during the photo-call tomorrow. He’ll be steady as a rock by the evening.’

The photo-call meant that Miles would be in the theatre most of the day. Jill decided to take sandwiches down to him. She ordered these as soon as she had seen him off and then went to the bedroom intending to spend the morning typing thank-you letters for Miles’s first-night telegrams; she was often glad that she had learned to type during her days as an assistant stage manager.

She had just settled down at her portable typewriter when the hall porter brought up a note. He handed it to her, saying, ‘The young ladies are waiting in the lounge.’

The note read:

Robin had written the note. Kit had merely signed her name – Jill marvelled that anyone could get so much individuality into three letters: they were large, angular, and faintly suggestive of Egyptian hieroglyphics.

Well, one could hardly ignore ‘particularly’ and ‘privately’. Jill got her handbag and went downstairs.

The sisters rose to meet her and, on hearing that she would be happy to come out with them, thanked her with a touch of gravity. She had been about to say, ‘Well, this sounds exciting,’ but it seemed too flippant for the occasion.

‘If you don’t mind the little walk we’ll go to the Spa Street café,’ said Robin. ‘We have a specially private table there.’

Gravity, Jill decided as they walked along Spa Street, made both the girls seem younger, not older. But they retained sufficient social sense to maintain what could only be described as polite conversation, on their way to the café. Jill found herself both touched and amused – not to mention curious.

As they entered the café Robin said, ‘This is where you met Father, isn’t it?’ to which Kit added, ‘We feel grateful to it.’ Jill smilingly said, ‘So do I!’ It was merely the
called-for
, con ventional reply and she wished she had managed
something better. The formality of the outing was having a paralyzing effect on her spontaneity.

The sisters conducted her through the shop into the tea room, and on into a small, circular alcove which was the cosy-corner to end cosy-corners. It reminded Jill of a miniature bandstand, but a bandstand with curtains. Once inside it the tea room could only be seen through a heavily draped arch.

‘We always come in here unless we’re with Father,’ said Robin. ‘He says it gives him claustrophobia. I’ll admit it’s a trifle airless.’

‘Pure imagination,’ said Kit. ‘Enough air comes through that arch to supply a regiment.’

A waitress appeared who obviously knew the girls well.

‘We usually have hot chocolate,’ Robin said to Jill, ‘with lots of cream. But I expect you prefer coffee.’

‘No, indeed; chocolate would be marvellous,’ said Jill, wondering how long it was since she had drunk any.

The order was given. The waitress departed. A silence fell.

‘Well,’ said Jill, at last, looking hopefully at the sisters.

‘Let’s wait until the chocolate arrives,’ said Kit and then proceeded to chat about the Edwardian decoration of the café … ‘Once people thought it was hideous and now it’s coming into fashion again. By the way, are you interested in Art Nouveau, Mrs Quentin?’

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 post
master
, 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 stirrings, hadn’t you, Robin?’