The New Moon with the Old (10 page)

The bus broke down soon after ten o’clock, in deep country two miles from the nearest village. Never, according to the driver, had it done such a thing before and he could not find out what was the matter with it. Merry could have told him: she was aboard. Obviously she had no more chance of getting to London than the three sisters in Chekhov’s play had of getting to Moscow.

By then many passengers had got off the bus. Of those who remained, four were bound for the next village; they decided to walk on. The driver decided to walk back for a mile, to an inn from which he could telephone for a relief bus. Only Merry and a fat, elderly woman were bound for London. They would just have to wait.

The fat woman sat in the bus, reading a paper. Merry, attracted by the sunny morning, strolled along the lane for a little way. As she sauntered hack towards the bus, the fat woman lowered her paper and stared; then ducked behind the paper. Merry walked past the bus for a few yards, then turned her head quickly. The fat woman had turned hers too, and was again staring. Instantly she turned back to her paper. Merry was close enough to see it was a Suffolk paper and there was a photograph reproduced on its front page. She went on walking away from the bus.

‘Keep absolutely calm,’ she told herself. ‘Remember how your hair has changed you.’ But might not red hair look the
same as brown, in a photograph? What photograph was it? She tried to recapture her glimpse of it. A girl in a white dress – that last snapshot, taken in the summer. Oh, she’d never forgive Richard!

She must escape – but not without her suitcase, and let that fat woman try to stop her taking it! She turned and marched towards the bus. Just before she reached it she noticed a weather-beaten signpost saying: ‘Green Lane to Crestover’. If she could get between the high hedges of the green lane without being seen getting there, she would have vanished as if by a conjuring trick. The woman was at the front of the bus, the suitcase was at the back. Merry
tip-toed
forward, seized the case, and sprinted for the green lane. Before dashing into it, she gave one look back. The woman had not turned back.

Marvellous! And such a beautiful green lane. Merry had always loved them and there were so few left now, when farm workers cycled to work instead of walking. Soon ‘Green Lane’ would be as obsolete as ‘Bridle Path’. And the hedges would either be cut down or just grow together and form a thicket. But this lane was obviously still used. The hedges, though tall, scarcely encroached on the grass, which was as lush as summer grass. And the mild, windless day might have been a summer day. Only the hedges, tangled with bryony and old man’s beard, were autumnal.

She swung along quickly, barely troubled by her suitcase – at first; within five minutes it had become, as it always did, an exhausting burden. How far was Crestover? The signpost had given no clue; and as the lane kept twisting and the hedges were too high to see over, there was no chance to get the lie of the land. She might have to go on for hours, and she was hungry and very thirsty – with every right to be. The voice of the adult in charge of a child told her: ‘Since dinner at home nearly forty hours ago you have only eaten two
sandwiches, some chocolate and biscuits, and only drunk a glass of milk, and some water from the palm of your hand. It is not enough!’

Suddenly weak, she sat down on the grass. It was thirst that troubled her most. If only she could find a stream! She must struggle on while she still had a little strength left.

Round the next bend – and still the lane continued. But now one of the hedges was broken by a gate. It only led to a ploughed field but across the field and a stretch of parkland she could see a large house, which must surely be near some road where she might get a bus – or a lift from a passing car (strictly forbidden but no holds were barred now Richard had betrayed her). And she would go to the house and ask for water; no one could grudge her that. Climbing the gate, she quoted from
The Taming of the Shrew
: ‘Beggars that come unto my father’s door, upon entreaty have a present alms’; then choked with self-pity.

Walking across the ploughed field was hell and she had to scramble through a deep ditch to get into the park surrounding the house, which she could now see was a really vast house. On the side nearest her, tall sashed windows looked onto a terrace. No doubt anyone needing alms ought to go to the back door, but she couldn’t see a back door and she could see the double flight of steps which must lead to the front door, so she went straight to them. She found they were of white marble and the door at the top of them stood open onto a white marble hall. The grandeur was intimidating. Still, she rang the bell – or rather, hoped she had rung it; she heard no sound but, with a house of this scale, it probably rang a quarter of a mile away.

She waited several minutes. Nobody came. It then occurred to her that the open door might indicate that the house was on view to the public and the custodian might be showing people around. She stepped across the threshold. On her left were tall closed doors and a white marble staircase.
On her right, tall doors stood open onto a room she could not see. A vast mirror above a console table reflected a white expanse of marble walls and floor.

‘It’s like a tomb,’ she thought. ‘Perhaps I shall lie down and die in it.’

But before dying, she must get a drink of water. She approached the open door on her right, then stopped short, staring in amazement.

At the far end of a long room, on a raised platform framed by a proscenium arch, was a group of people in
eighteenth-century
clothes. Her first thought was, ‘Amateur theatricals!’ But the group was completely silent and strangely still, and she saw that the clothes were genuinely old, such as she had seen in a museum, worn and faded compared with modern reproductions of such clothes.

In a flash, she remembered the two Oxford ladies who claimed to have seen ghosts at Versailles. Could she now be seeing …? Her legs went weak. Was she going to faint? A dreadful but interesting feeling; she had never fainted before. Blackness, like a curtain, descended in front of her eyes. She dropped the suitcase, dimly hearing the thud. Blackness became less intense and she saw that the frozen group had turned towards her in astonishment – at which her own astonishment completely vanquished the blackness. She was
not
going to faint. Oh, yes she was! But the blackness in front of her eyes now was an imagined blackness and her collapse onto the marble floor was a graceful stage fall.

Footsteps came running the long length of the room. She also heard footsteps in the hall. A woman’s voice called: ‘Binner, get some water, quickly – and brandy.’

‘Very good, my lady.’ Binner, presumably, was the butler, who had at last deigned to answer the doorbell.

A man’s voice said quietly, ‘What a lovely girl.’

Her dead faint became deader as she thought of the picture she must be making, with her red hair and black
and white clothes against white marble. Still, she must come round before she was doused with water and dosed with brandy. She opened her eyes, looked piteously around her, and murmured, ‘Where am I?’

It was, she feared, a conventional speech with which to regain consciousness and it received a conventional answer. A man’s voice – not the one which had called her lovely – said, ‘Oh, among friends – of course.’

She thought the tone satirical but saw that the speaker was smiling down on her quite kindly. He was a slim, elderly man wearing his plum-coloured satin suit with great elegance.

‘Just relax!’ This was the voice which had sent for water and brandy, and it came from a beautiful but no longer young woman who had knelt down by Merry’s side. Just beyond stood two plain girls, and a pleasant-looking boy who was wearing ordinary modern clothes.

‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ said Merry, weakly.

‘No one can help fainting.’

That was the voice that had called her lovely. She turned her head and saw a tall, extremely fair man in blue brocade. She thought him handsome though almost middle-aged.

‘Seeing you all in those clothes….’ She let the words trail.

‘Heavens, did you think we were ghosts?’ said the woman kneeling beside her.

‘Well, just for a moment.’

‘You didn’t notice our twentieth-century hair?’ Again the elderly man sounded satirical.

‘How stupid of me not to. But I was feeling faint when I got here. I came in to ask for water.’

‘Tom, go and meet Binner,’ said the tall, handsome man. ‘He allows himself ten minutes to walk from his pantry.’

The boy said, ‘Right, Father,’ and hurried away.

‘And could I please have something to eat? Just a little bread …’

Instructions were hurled after Tom. The kneeling woman said, ‘Hot soup!’ The tall man said, ‘Sandwiches!’ The two plain girls said, ‘Biscuits!’ at the same moment and in identical voices. Only the elderly man remained silent.

‘I got up early and didn’t have any breakfast,’ Merry explained. ‘And then the bus broke down and my suitcase was so heavy and the green lane went on for ever.’ She closed her eyes exhaustedly.

The woman beside her slid an arm under her shoulders, saying, ‘Claude, help me to get her to a sofa.’

‘I can walk,’ said Merry, bravely.

But the tall man picked her up and carried her.

‘You must be strong,’ she said admiringly, as he set her down. ‘I weigh a ton.’

They were now in the long room, a library; the walls were lined with old leather-bound books behind gilt grills. Looking at the stage at the far end, she asked if they had been rehearsing a play.

‘Tableaux,’ said the elderly woman. She had magnificent dark eyes and black hair with a streak of white. ‘For an entertainment we give every year. The village amateurs do most of it but we’re expected to put on some kind of an act.’

‘Those are genuine eighteenth-century clothes, aren’t they?’ said Merry. ‘Exquisite.’

‘We thought they were rather dowdy,’ said the tall man.

‘That’s because they’re genuine,’ she told him. ‘Clothes from a theatrical costumier would be cruder but more effective.’

The elderly woman looked pleased. ‘That’s exactly what I said. Are you, by any chance, a professional?’

‘Well, I haven’t done much yet,’ said Merry, modestly. ‘Just … er, repertory. I’m on my way to London, to find work.’

‘How delightful! I was on the stage, many years ago. We must introduce ourselves. I’m Lady Crestover. Lord Crestover–’

she indicated the tall man. ‘My daughters, Georgina and Caroline; they’re twins and it doesn’t matter which is which. My brother, Desmond Deane. He was on the stage, too.’

Merry looked at the elderly man, then back at Lady Crestover. ‘But how terribly exciting! You must have been Donna Deane.’

Lady Crestover smiled quite dazzlingly. ‘How amazing of you to know!’

‘I read about you, in an article on actresses who married peers.’ Merry turned towards Lord Crestover.

‘Oh, my husband’s been dead many years. That’s my son. And this is his son, Tom.’

The boy had come back with the water and brandy.

‘Just water, please,’ said Merry. She drank a tumblerful and held out her glass for more.

‘If you
could
lay off,’ said Tom, ‘I’ve ordered some champagne.’

‘Tom, how bright of you,’ said Lady Crestover. ‘It’s just the morning for it.’ Again she smiled at Merry. ‘May we know your name?’

For the first time, she said it aloud, and felt that her new self was now truly alive. ‘I’m Merry le Jeune.’

‘What an enchanting name for a young actress,’ said Lady Crestover. ‘Is it real or did you invent it?’

‘A bit of both,’ said Merry.

‘What repertory company were you with last, Miss le Jeune?’ said Mr Desmond Deane.

She felt herself flushing. She hadn’t had time to invent a history for herself. Then inspiration came. ‘Do you mind if I don’t talk about it? You see, I had … rather a difficult time and had to dash away.’

‘Some brute of a man, no doubt,’ said Lady Crestover.

‘Don’t worry her with questions, Desmond. Ah, here’s some food.’

Binner, who was portly as well as stately, arrived with chicken sandwiches.

‘And bring some more, with the champagne,’ said Lady Crestover. ‘I can never see food without wanting some. But these are all for you, my dear.’ She handed the plate to Merry.

‘How kind you are! I really am terribly hungry. Will anyone mind if I eat rather fast?’ She barely waited for the voices that reassured her.

‘Sit down, everyone,’ said Lady Crestover. ‘We’re standing watching her as if she were a wild animal.’

‘Well, I’m eating like one,’ said Merry, and went on eating. By the time more sandwiches arrived with the champagne, the edge was off her appetite and she was talking with her usual ease, though with an assumption of maturity. (Lady Crestover’s aristocratic tones were beautifully catching; Merry gave herself a dispensation as regards the slurred vowels.) Genuinely interested, she reverted to the projected entertainment.

‘We did tableaux at school, once—’ She added hastily, ‘
Years
ago, of course, when I was a child. They bored people quite a bit. Couldn’t you do a play, or scenes from one? Perhaps Sheridan, if you want to wear those clothes. Let’s see what you have a cast for.’ She assessed the group with a highly professional eye.

‘You should stay and advise us,’ said Lord Crestover.

‘I’d love to – but I have to find a job.’

‘Naturally, I meant on a professional basis.’

She saw Lady Crestover look at him with astonishment which changed instantaneously to warm enthusiasm.

‘What a splendid idea, Claude! Seriously, Miss le Jeune, would you consider it? And you could act with us. A month would see us through our entertainment.’

‘May I suggest a fee of one hundred guineas?’ said Lord Crestover.

‘Oh, goodness!’ How childish that sounded. She added in a more grown-up voice, ‘I don’t earn twenty-five pounds a week yet.’

‘I’m sure you ought to,’ said Lord Crestover.

Could this staggering offer be a trap? The room was littered with London newspapers. If her photograph had been in a local paper, might it not be in these, too? Had she been recognized?