Anna and Her Daughters Read online

  Anna and Her Daughters

  D. E. Stevenson

  © D. E. Stevenson 1958

  D. E. Stevenson has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1958 by Fontana Books

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter One

  “Are you asleep, Jane?”

  It was Helen. She hesitated in the doorway for a moment and then came over and stood beside my bed. There was no need to answer the question for she could see I was not asleep; the lamp on the table beside me was still lighted and I was sitting up writing my diary. I had just written:

  Uncle Leonard came to dinner. We had clear soup and chicken and peas and a cheese savoury. Mother knows that Uncle Leonard likes savouries better than puddings so she had it specially for him. Afterwards we sat in the drawing-room and it was so warm that we opened all the windows. I sat on the window-seat and looked out on to the square. There was not a breath of wind to move the leaves of the trees in the gardens. Every now and then people passed beneath the window and I could hear the click of their heels on the pavement and their voices talking as they went along. (Sometimes you hear funny scraps of conversation and you can make up stories about it, but there was nothing very interesting to-night.) Wintringham Square is a quiet place but you can always hear the hum of London in the distance and to-night it seemed louder than usual. I felt restless and uneasy. Perhaps there was thunder about, or perhaps the queer feeling was inside the room and not thunder at all. From where I was sitting the lighted room looked like a stage …

  “You still write your diary!” exclaimed Helen. “What on earth do you find to write about?”

  She held out her hand for the book but I did not give it to her. There was nothing very secret about it but it was my own private thing — and Helen would laugh. Now that I could see Helen properly in the light of the lamp I realised that it had not been thunder — something had happened. Her face was as white as a sheet.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What did Uncle Leonard come for?”

  “How do you know he came for anything special?”

  I did not reply. Helen had come in on her way to bed to tell me about it — so of course she would — but Helen liked to keep you guessing; she liked the feeling of power. I knew her too well to try to hurry her.

  “How did you know?” she repeated.

  “I didn’t. It just felt — thundery. That’s all.”

  “Thundery!” she said scornfully. “What a child you are! Nobody would think you were seventeen.”

  The gibe did not worry me as it would have worried Rosalie. Helen could always get a rise out of Rosalie whenever she liked.

  “I suppose Rosalie is asleep,” I said.

  “Why should you think so?”

  “Because you would have gone in and told her — whatever it is.”

  “It’s not thunder. It’s an earthquake,” declared Helen. She sat down on the end of my bed and added, “Uncle Leonard came to tell Mother that we’re penniless.”

  “Penniless!”

  She nodded. “He waited until you and Rosalie had gone to bed and then he said, ‘Anna, I’ve got something very unpleasant to tell you. I scarcely know how to begin.’ He began in such a roundabout way that I didn’t know what he was driving at. Mother said, ‘You mean we shall have to economise? Perhaps we had better sell this house. It costs a lot to run it properly,’ and he said crossly, ‘Of course the house must be sold. You’ll have to move into a small flat.’”

  “A small flat! But that would be horrible!”

  “Horrible,” agreed Helen. “Mother thought so too. Mother said, ‘But I don’t understand! Where has the money gone? I thought we had plenty of money.’”

  Helen stopped and for a few moments there was silence.

  “Go on,” I said. “Can’t you remember —”

  “Of course I remember! How could I possibly forget? Uncle Leonard was annoyed with Mother. He said rather crossly that the money hadn’t ‘gone’ anywhere. There was none to go. He explained that all Father’s money came from directors’ fees. Father was a director of several important companies in the City.”

  “We all know that.”

  “Yes, we all knew that,” said Helen bitterly. “If we hadn’t been idiots I suppose we might have known that when Father died there would be nothing for us to live on. Uncle Leonard said, ‘He ought to have insured. You should have made him do that,’ and Mother never answered. She had never thought of it, of course. She had just gone on spending money like water.”

  There was nothing I could say.

  “Why don’t you speak?” cried Helen angrily. “I’ve told you we’re ruined and you just sit there staring like an idiot! Don’t you understand what it means? You can’t go to Oxford, for one thing, and of course Rosalie can’t go to Paris. That’s bad enough but it’s far worse for me. It’s absolutely devastating for me.”

  “It’s worst of all for Mother.”

  “Worst for Mother! Oh no, it isn’t. She’s old; she’s had her fun.”

  “She isn’t really old.”

  “Well, anyhow, she’s had a jolly good innings,” declared Helen bitterly. “Lots of clothes and parties and as much money as she could spend! That’s been Mother’s life — and now, just when I’m looking forward to coming out and being presented and having a good time, we’re ruined! It isn’t fair!”

  “Couldn’t you still —”

  “No, of course not. Oh, Jane, you are a donkey! It costs money to be a ‘deb’. You’ve got to have masses of clothes; you’ve got to give parties — and you simply must have a proper background. This house would have been just right — but who’s going to bother about a girl living in a cheap flat? A horrid cheap flat in a horrid cheap district!” cried Helen wildly. “A dirty little hole — dark and dingy and smelling of cats! That’s the sort of place it will be … with a brick wall for a view.”

  “Is it all settled?”

  “Of course it isn’t settled. You can’t settle things all in a moment — besides Mother said she didn’t like flats.”

  “But I thought you said —”

  “I told you what Uncle Leonard said,” interrupted Helen. “He said we must find a flat. Mother said she didn’t like flats. They’re arguing about it now.”

  *

  When Helen had gone I took up my diary and read what I had written only about half an hour ago. It seemed like years and I felt like a different person. You can become a great deal older in half an hour: ‘Clear soup and chicken and peas and a cheese savoury!’ As if it mattered what we had had to eat!

  I had written, ‘the lighted room looked like a stage …’ That was not quite so silly for it had looked just like a stage. I could see it now in my imagination. Uncle L
eonard had been sitting in Father’s chair and I had thought at the time he was very like Father — but of course he was younger. He was sitting there turning over the leaves of Punch but obviously finding nothing to laugh at. Mother had opened the piano and was playing very softly. She often played like that — as if she were talking to herself. Helen was sitting beneath the standard lamp, sewing something frilly; Rosalie was sprawled upon the sofa reading a book.

  Helen was ‘the pretty one’ of the family. Indeed she was more than pretty, she was beautiful and elegant and graceful. Her hair was golden and naturally curly; her skin was white and clear and her eyes were blue. Rosalie was very like Helen but somehow she was just a pretty girl. She did not glow and sparkle, her eyes were paler. They took their good looks from Mother — everyone said so. I was different; thin and awkward with straight dark hair — not pretty at all.

  I put out the light and tried to sleep but there was too much on my mind. One day we had been well-off and secure; the old grey London house had been ‘home’ and we imagined that our lives (which had been running along on smooth lines ever since I could remember) would continue to run smoothly for ever. The next day it was all gone. Helen had said it was an earthquake, and so it was. The ground which had seemed so solid was shaking.

  Presently I got up and knelt at the window and looked out. The night was still and sultry with thunder growling in the distance like an angry lion. The sky was covered with a blanket of cloud so it was dark except for the pools of light beneath the lamp-posts. There was not a creature to be seen — except a stray cat which ran across the road, and paused, and then leapt over the railing and disappeared into the gardens.

  We had always been fond of the gardens. They were unusually pleasant gardens for a London square. We had played in them when we were children so we knew every corner, every tree, practically every stone. There were all sorts of memories connected with the gardens; they were mostly happy, but not all. There was the day when Helen had fallen off the swing and dislocated her arm; it had hung down at her side in a strange helpless way. Rosalie had burst into tears and sobbed uncontrollably, as she always did at the slightest provocation, but Helen merely set her lips and walked back to the house.

  There were other days, summer days, when we had taken our tea and had it in the shade of a chestnut-tree; days when we had played tip-and-run with the other children who lived in Wintringham Square. There was the day Father and Mother had been to a Garden Party at Buckingham Palace and had come out into the gardens on their return; Father looking tall and solemn in his tail coat and grey top hat; Mother gay and pretty in a pink lace frock and a hat trimmed with roses. Perhaps I remembered that day especially because it was the first time I had ever looked at Mother properly and seen her as other people saw her. I had heard two people talking; one of them had said, “Mrs. Harcourt is a pretty creature, isn’t she?” and the other had replied, “Yes, and she’s nice as well. There aren’t any airs and graces about her, she’s the same to everyone.”

  I could have gone on for hours thinking about all the different events that had taken place.

  The gardens were part of our childhood, part of our lives. Now we were going away and they would not belong to us anymore. We would have no right to walk in the gardens, we would not have a key to the gate.

  It was foolish to think of a little thing like that in the middle of an earthquake, but somehow it seemed — sad.

  Chapter Two

  Next morning Uncle Leonard came again and there was a family conclave. We all sat round the dining-room table and Uncle Leonard explained exactly what had happened. It was not difficult to understand. The plain fact was we had been ‘living up to our income’. There were no debts but nothing had been saved. Mother had very little money of her own and when everything was arranged and the house had been sold we should have about five hundred pounds a year.

  “But that’s quite a lot!” cried Mother in surprise. “I thought you said we’d have nothing!”

  “My dear Anna,” said Uncle Leonard. “You’ve been spending more on clothes.”

  “Have I?” said Mother vacantly. “Clothes cost a lot — so perhaps I may have spent all that — but it was necessary, you see. Gerald liked me to be well-turned-out; he said it was good for business. We went to parties and we entertained, so of course I had to have pretty frocks. If I had gone about looking different from other women Gerald wouldn’t have liked it.”

  “I know,” admitted Uncle Leonard. “I’m not blaming you for that. You were very ‘good for business’. Gerald would never have done so well if it hadn’t been for you.”

  “Thank you, Leonard,” said Mother with a little tremor in her voice.

  There was silence for a few moments; then Helen said, “But Uncle Leonard, we can’t possibly live on five hundred a year! It’s fantastic!”

  “You will have to get a job,” he told her. “As a matter of fact your Aunt Thelma and I have been talking it over and she thinks you could get a job as mannequin at one of the big fashionable dressmakers’. She knows a lot more than I do about these things and she says it wouldn’t be difficult, with your looks and general appearance. Rosalie had better take a course of secretarial training.”

  “I’ll be a mannequin too!” cried Rosalie.

  “My dear girl we must be realistic,” said Uncle Leonard. “You’re very pretty — nobody could deny it — but you haven’t got quite the — the — um — er — elegance —”

  “I’m like Helen! Everyone says so!”

  “Oh well, we must see what we can do,” said Uncle Leonard uncomfortably. “It’s very upsetting. Very wretched indeed.” He hesitated and then added, “I’m afraid Jane will have to give up all idea of going to Oxford.”

  “Oh no, not that!” cried Mother. “Couldn’t we possibly —”

  “I don’t see how —”

  I did not see how, either. I had realised last night that all our plans must be changed. It would be silly to pretend I was not disappointed — of course I was disappointed — but it was really my own fault. If I had worked harder I might have got a scholarship. Miss Clarke had wanted me to, but it had seemed unnecessary (I was keen on games and you can’t do both unless you are brilliant). I saw now that I should have taken her advice — but it was too late.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I can get a job.”

  “Hair-dressing,” suggested Rosalie. “I mean Jane is frightfully good at hair. She always sets our hair for parties — and does it as well as any proper hair-dresser.”

  “Oh no!” cried Mother. “No, that wouldn’t do at all!”

  I said nothing. It was true that I was ‘good at hair’ and liked working with it, but my idea had been to take a course of training and get a job as secretary.

  “What an ass you are, Rosalie,” said Helen. “Jane has got brains — of a sort. She could get a post as assistant in a library.”

  “That sounds more like the thing,” agreed Uncle Leonard.

  I thought so too. In fact the idea of working amongst books was rather pleasant.

  Uncle Leonard sighed. He said, “I know it sounds grim but lots of girls have to work for their livings, and you’ve got us behind you. Thelma and I will do all we can to help you — I needn’t tell you that. The first thing to do is to sell this house and find a suitable flat.”

  “I don’t like flats,” said Mother.

  “Well then, a small house,” said Uncle Leonard.

  “No,” said Mother. “There’s no need. We aren’t going to live in London.”

  “You aren’t going to live in London!”

  Mother shook her head. “I’ve listened to all you said — and it sounds too frightful. I couldn’t bear it. We’re going back to Scotland.”

  There was a moment’s horrified silence.

  “You don’t mean it!” cried Helen.

  “Of course I mean it,” declared Mother. “I didn’t say anything about it before because you said we were penniless, but with five hundred
a year we could manage —”

  “You couldn’t,” said Uncle Leonard. “You don’t know anything about money. You haven’t thought it out.”

  “Scotland,” said Mother firmly.

  “Listen, Anna,” said Uncle Leonard. “All this has been a blow to you and knocked you off your balance — that’s quite understandable of course — but we’ve got to think of the best thing to do. It’s no good rushing off to the ends of the earth without proper thought.”

  “I was born and brought up in Scotland.”

  “Yes, I know, but —”

  “It’s my home, Leonard.”

  “It hasn’t been your home for twenty years.”

  “It has always meant home to me.”

  “My dear Anna, do please be sensible. Take my advice and make the best of it. I know it will be difficult at first but we’ll find a nice little flat and the girls will get jobs and you’ll all settle down —”

  “No, Leonard,” said Mother softly.

  “You’ve got friends here,” he continued. “Your friends won’t desert you.”

  “Not at first, perhaps, but if you can’t afford to entertain you soon fade out.” She smiled and added, “I’d rather go out with a bang.”

  “You’ve got friends here,” repeated Uncle Leonard.

  “I’ve got friends in Ryddelton.”

  “People you haven’t seen for twenty years!”

  “But they’re real friends.”

  Uncle Leonard was beginning to lose his temper. “I don’t understand you, Anna. Surely you’d never think of going to Ryddelton! If you must go to Scotland it had better be Edinburgh.”

  “Too expensive,” said Mother softly.

  “Ryddelton is a deadly little town,” declared Uncle Leonard. “What would you do with yourself in a place like that? Good heavens, you’d be bored stiff in a couple of months! You’ve lived in London ever since you were married and —”

  “I’m not really a London sort of person.”

  He looked at her — from the top of her beautifully waved hair to her sheer nylon stockings and her high-heeled shoes.