The Forget-Me-Not Summer (2 page)

So now Miranda, finding herself abruptly awake, remembered the quarrel and thought it was a miracle that she had ever managed to get to sleep at all. Indeed, it had taken her quite a while to drop off, but having done so she had slept so deeply that for a moment she wondered what on earth could have woken her, apart from a trumpet call, or a brigade of guards marching through the bedroom and exhorting her to get up at once. But judging by the dim light coming from between the curtains, it was still the middle of the night. So what had woken her? Miranda lay down again, but sleep would not come. Suppose her mother had been so upset by the quarrel that she had failed to lock the door, and burglars had entered the house? The Lovages lived in Sycamore Avenue, near Prince's Park, for Arabella Lovage believed appearances were important, and if a thief did ransack their home it would be a major expense. Worse, even, than the increase in the rent and school fees, to say nothing of the smart uniform.

Miranda took a deep breath, slid out of bed and crossed to the window. They were having a hot summer so the casement was up and the night air, warm and scented, came pleasantly into the room. She peered up and down the street, examining their neat little garden and those of the neighbours on either side, but saw no sign of any living soul except for a cat which appeared on the pavement opposite and made its way down the hill, no doubt on some nefarious business of its own.

Miranda squatted on the comfortable bench beneath
the open window trying to guess what had disturbed her. Suddenly it came to her. It must have been the front door closing; she guessed that Arabella, to calm her nerves and forget their quarrel, had decided to take a walk before coming up to bed. Miranda knew she sometimes did this and was reassured by the thought. But perhaps she really ought to go downstairs and make sure that Arabella was all right, and had locked the door against night-time intruders.

But the annoyance she had felt over her mother's arbitrary decision to take her away from her school or present her with Gervase as a stepfather still rankled. Arabella had no right to change their whole way of life without consulting her. Well, all right, she had consulted her, but it wasn't much of a consultation! Live in penury or accept that ugly old man as a stepfather. Drowsily, she decided that there was no need to investigate. If her mother needed a period for quiet reflection and had chosen to go walking in the middle of the night, that was her affair. Miranda got off the bench and returned to her bed, suddenly conscious of chilled feet and the flimsiness of her white cotton nightie. She cuddled down, pulling the sheet up round her ears, and this time, as her body warmed into a delicious glow, she slept.

Afterwards, she could never decide at what moment her life had truly changed. Had it been when she heard the sound which had woken her from her deep and peaceful sleep? Or had it been next morning, when nobody woke her, and she was left to wash in the tiny bathroom on her own and to struggle into her clothes whilst her heart beat a wild tattoo, for when she had put her head round
her mother's door there was no one there and Arabella did not answer Miranda's shout. Galloping down the stairs, she had burst into the kitchen expecting to see her mother turn from the stove with a smile and apologise for not waking her even as she spooned creamy porridge into two small earthenware bowls, before exhorting her daughter to eat her breakfast whilst it was hot.

But the kitchen was empty, nobody stood by the table, the curtains were still drawn across the windows and when Miranda ran to the back door, to check that her mother was not in the garden, it was unlocked.

Miranda stood in the cold kitchen and big tears welled up in her eyes. Arabella must have gone for a walk, and something must have happened to her! Suppose she had fallen, or been attacked by some wicked person intent upon stealing her fine gold chain with the locket, or her thin little wedding ring, who had then left her unconscious in the gutter? Suddenly, their quarrel seemed of no significance; what mattered now was the whereabouts of her beautiful, talented mother. That she was beautiful had never been in question and now Miranda told herself, loyally, that only jealousy and spite had prevented Arabella's talent from carrying her to the very top of her profession.

Miranda burst out of the house and looked wildly up and down the street. What should she do? She must go to the neighbours, get help, contact the police. She knew she should do one or all of these things, but she was, after all, only thirteen, and had never had to take a decision without consulting an adult in her life. So she returned to the kitchen and simply sat down at the table, put her head on her folded arms and began to weep in earnest.

When someone knocked on the back door she flew across to it, wrenching it open and almost falling into the arms of the girl standing there. ‘Miranda! What on earth's the matter? You don't look as though you're ready for school; aren't you well?'

Miranda stared at her friend, who often called for her so that they might walk to school together. ‘Oh, Louise, it's you. I thought it was my mother . . . oh, Lou, I heard something in the night which woke me up, and when I came down for breakfast this morning, Arabella had gone.'

‘I 'spect she ran out of milk or bread or something and has gone down to the shops to buy some more,' Louise said cheerfully. ‘Why are you in such a taking? But for God's sake make your own breakfast or we'll be late for school.'

‘But there's no note; if my mother means to go anywhere she always leaves me a note,' Miranda said, but she was insensibly cheered by the other girl's easy acceptance of the situation. Perhaps Louise was right and her mother had simply slipped out to buy milk; there was a delivery every morning but sometimes it came too late for breakfast. Hastily, Miranda went to the pantry, and her hopeful heart dropped into her neat button shoes once more; there was a good three quarters of a loaf and a whole pint of milk left, besides all the usual things: porridge oats, butter, jam and a couple of the little milk rolls she always took to school for elevenses.

Turning, she saw that her practical friend had filled the kettle, put it on the stove and lit the gas, and was looking at her expectantly. Then Louise seized the loaf from its place on the shelf and cut two rather chunky
slices, buttered them briskly, and pushed them and the jam pot across to her friend. ‘Come along, Miranda,' she said impatiently, ‘we've not got all day. Your mam will be back in time to get your tea. Did she take the key with her? We don't want to lock her out.' Miranda crossed the room and checked the hiding place: no key. She returned to the kitchen, went across to where her school blazer hung on its peg, and checked again. Her key was in the pocket. She said as much to Louise who nodded with satisfaction. ‘There you are then!' she said triumphantly. ‘Your mam realised she needed something from the shops, unlocked the back door, tucked the key in her jacket pocket, and went off. That means that when we leave – do eat up, Miranda, or we'll be late for class – we can lock the back door and know we're not shutting her out.'

Miranda stared doubtfully at her friend's bright, self-confident face. Louise was almost a year older than she and far more worldly wise. She must be right; her own abrupt awakening in the night must have had an innocent cause. Miranda finished her breakfast and tidied round quickly so that her mother would not have to do so on her return, for during the quarrel the previous evening Arabella had claimed, with justice, that her daughter never helped in the house, made her own bed or offered to do the messages. When she sees the nice tidy kitchen she'll know she misjudged me, Miranda told herself defiantly. And I'll make our tea just as soon as I get home from school; that'll show her!

‘Come on, slowcoach,' Louise said, helping herself to a round of bread and butter and shoving it into her mouth rather less than delicately. ‘Here's your blazer.'

‘Thanks,' Miranda said, shrugging it on and locking the back door carefully behind them. ‘What's our first subject, Lou? Oh,
not
French! I didn't learn that poem last night – Mum and I had a bit of a disagreement – but if you'll hear me when we're on the tram I'll get it lodged in my brain somehow, before Mamselle asks awkward questions.'

When Miranda returned home from school later that day, however, it was to find a deputation from the theatre awaiting her outside the house in Sycamore Avenue. The manager, Tom Fox, Miss Briggs the wardrobe mistress, Lynette Rich, who was a member of the chorus, and Alex Gordon, the theatre's leading man, had all come along. They wanted to know if Arabella was ill because there had been a matinée performance that day and she had neither arrived at the theatre nor sent a message to say she was unwell. Miranda nearly fainted, but fortunately Louise was with her and between the two of them they explained the little they knew.

Arabella's colleagues gazed at one another before saying that the police must be informed and ordering Miranda to unlock the door so that they could search the house to see if there were any clues as to why on earth their bit-part player and assistant stage manager should suddenly disappear. Only the wardrobe mistress seemed to realise that this was a body blow for Arabella's daughter. ‘You can't stay here tonight, chuck,' she said kindly. ‘Not all by yourself, at any rate. Got any aunties, have you? You could move in with 'em for a few days, just till your mam turns up again, which she's bound to do.'

‘I dunno,' Miranda said doubtfully. ‘I've got an aunt and a cousin that live up Old Swan, but I don't know them very well. Couldn't I – couldn't I stay here, if Lou's mum will let her stay with me? My mother can't have gone far. Oh, I wonder . . . does anyone know where Mr Gervase lives? She – she was talking about marrying him, though I can't believe she'd really do it. But she might have gone to his house to talk things over, I suppose.'

‘She could have gone anywhere, lighting out without a word to a soul,' Alex Gordon said irritably, and Miranda saw the wardrobe mistress give him an angry look and flap a hand to shut him up. Alex, however, was clearly more annoyed than worried. ‘Typical of a bloody woman to bugger off without a word to anyone. Arabella's got a contract, the same as the rest of us, but if she's prepared to let us down in mid-run . . .' He turned angrily to Miranda. ‘Do you mean that stage-door Johnny? He's got a service flat in the city centre. I went there once, so I'll nip round and hear what he has to say. If she really means to marry him, though . . . to let us down without a word . . .'

Now it was the manager's turn to scowl at Alex. ‘She's never let us down before, and I see no reason why you should think the worst,' he said angrily. ‘Just you mind your tongue, Alex Gordon, or it'll be you searching for a company prepared to take you on, because you can say goodbye to the Madison Players.'

The man muttered something like ‘That'll be your loss' but said no more, and Lynette Rich cut in before more acid comments could be exchanged. ‘I'll go to the flat, find out what Mr Gervase knows,' she said. ‘If Arabella's not there and he can't help us, I suppose I'd better take
Miranda up to her aunt's house, since she can't possibly stay here alone, though I'm sure Arabella will be home before dark. I'll pack a bag with the kid's night things and that and leave a note for Arabella, explaining what we've done.' She turned to Miranda and gave her a re-assuring smile. ‘Your mam will be home tomorrow, sure as check,' she said. ‘I'm rare fond of Arabella, 'cos I've known her these past six years, and to my knowledge she's never done a mean thing or let anyone down before.' She glared at Alex, then held out a hand to Miranda. ‘Come and help me pack a bag with a few bits and pieces to last you till your mam gets home.' She turned to the rest of the players. ‘You'll do the necessary? I'm sure Arabella will be back tomorrow, but just in case, the scuffers ought to be told, and the neighbours . . .' She glanced uneasily at Miranda. ‘Now don't you worry, chuck, it's just a precaution, like.'

So saying, she led the way into the house and let Miranda take her up to her bedroom where the two of them packed a bag with rather more clothing than Miranda thought necessary, but, as her new friend pointed out, you could never tell what you might need until you needed it. As they crossed the room, Miranda took one last look around her and suddenly realised that she was saying farewell to her own little room, for a while at least. She would have to share not only her cousin's bedroom, but maybe her bed as well, and she knew that her aunt despised her half-sister's feckless ways. But then Beth and Aunt Vi were not beautiful or talented, Miranda reassured herself; they were just ordinary, as she was. Nevertheless she lingered in the bedroom doorway and, on impulse, ran back into the room and
snatched the beautiful old-fashioned looking-glass, with its gilt cherubs and swags of gilded fruit, from its hook on the wall. She loved that little mirror and told herself that it would be safer with her than in an empty house. She tucked it into the top of the bag she and Lynette had packed and set off, leaving the only home she had ever known behind her.

Though she did not know it, she would never again sleep in that cosy little bed, or bask in the solitude of her lovely room. In fact, her life would never be the same again.

For the first few weeks of her sojourn in Jamaica Close, Miranda was so unhappy and so bewildered that nothing seemed real. Arabella neither returned nor got in touch, and Mr Gervase had been as puzzled – and upset – as Miranda herself. She felt as though she were enclosed in a glass case, through which she could see people and movement, but could make no sense of what was said. She had terrifying dreams in which she saw Arabella's body floating in the dock, or cast up by the roadside after a fatal accident. She began to see her mother – or someone very like her – in the street and would run in pursuit, sometimes even following a woman on to a tram or a train, only to realise, with sickening disappointment, that this was yet another stranger whose resemblance to Arabella was so slight that she wondered how she could possibly have made such a mistake.