Anna and Her Daughters Read online

  “Oh, I may look it,” said Mother with a little smile. “But I’m not really.”

  “If we’ve got to find jobs —” began Helen.

  “You won’t have to. We shall manage quite nicely.”

  “On five hundred a year!” exclaimed Uncle Leonard. “It would be hopeless. You couldn’t afford a maid.”

  “I can cook,” said Mother.

  To my knowledge Mother had never cooked so much as an egg. Even during the war we had had a staff composed of a few elderly servants who kept things going fairly comfortably. Mother was the sort of person who could always get people to work for her.

  “It’s not fair!” cried Helen with blazing eyes. “It’s all very well for you to talk of ‘going back to Scotland’ but it isn’t ‘going back’ for us. It’s going away from London — leaving all our friends — burying ourselves in a miserable little country-town!”

  “You aren’t thinking — of us — at all,” added Rosalie with a little sob in her breath.

  “Poor lambs!” said Mother gently. “I know it’s hard, but it won’t be as bad as you think. It won’t be nearly as bad as staying in London; living in a poky little flat with no money for nice clothes and entertainments; seeing your friends drifting away and forgetting all about you —”

  “They wouldn’t!” cried Helen.

  Mother was silent.

  “They wouldn’t,” repeated Helen. “And anyhow I’d rather be in London. Uncle Leonard says I can get a job — and he’s right. I’m sure Madame Peridot would have me as one of her mannequins; she always says my figure is perfect.”

  “She says that to all her customers,” murmured Rosalie.

  “She means it when she says it to me,” retorted Helen.

  “I shall get a job too,” declared Rosalie. “If I can’t be a mannequin I can get some other kind of work. Anything would be better than leaving London.”

  Mother sighed. “Oh well, you can try it,” she said sadly. “I’m afraid you’ll be very unhappy but I won’t stand in your way.”

  “Oh Mother — darling!” cried Helen in delight. “I’m so glad you’ve changed your mind! I’m sure it’s the best thing!”

  “Very sensible,” said Uncle Leonard nodding. “Very sensible indeed. It would have been the height of folly to take the girls to Ryddelton.” He collected his papers hastily and rose.

  “I’ll take Jane, of course,” said Mother.

  Uncle Leonard hesitated and gazed at her in astonishment. “Anna! What on earth do you mean?” he exclaimed. “You don’t mean you’ll go away and leave Helen and Rosalie alone in London!”

  “If that’s what they want,” nodded Mother.

  It was not what they wanted. They wanted us all to remain in London. Helen saw herself as one of Madame Peridot’s assistants, wearing beautiful clothes and showing them off to Madame’s ‘clients’. It was not an unpleasant picture (she had begun to think it might be quite tolerable) but she certainly did not want to be left alone in London. Rosalie’s visions of the future were not so clear; she did not know what she wanted.

  When they realised the fact that Mother intended to go to Ryddelton with or without her daughters the argument started all over again and everyone repeated what he or she had said before: Mother with unvarying sweetness and good temper; Uncle Leonard more and more crossly. At last he went away, pausing at the door to say that Aunt Thelma would come along at tea-time.

  The way he said it sounded like a threat — or at least it sounded like that to me — for Aunt Thelma is a large woman with a knobbly forehead. She wears her hat on the back of her head and talks in a loud voice. Aunt Thelma likes people to do exactly as she tells them and usually they do.

  “Thelma will come along at tea-time,” repeated Uncle Leonard.

  “That will be lovely,” said Mother cordially. “I’m always delighted to see Thelma. Give her my love and tell her I shall expect her at half-past four.”

  *

  I went into the hall with Uncle Leonard to see him off.

  “What a woman!” he was muttering. “Soft as silk and hard as granite — that’s your mother, Jane. How do you like the idea of going to Scotland?”

  I hesitated and then I said, “I think Mother is right. It would be awfully difficult to economise here, where everyone knows us, and the girls wouldn’t like going to parties without new frocks.”

  “Wouldn’t they?” asked Leonard, standing in the hall and looking at me with an odd sort of expression. “The girls wouldn’t like it — eh? What about you?”

  “I don’t mind so much about clothes. It would be much harder for them.”

  “I see,” he said. “But what about Oxford?”

  “Oh well, of course I’m disappointed, but it can’t be helped.”

  “What can’t be cured must be endured — eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder if we could manage —” he began doubtfully.

  “No,” I said. “It’s frightfully kind of you to think of it but Oxford is off.”

  As a matter of fact it was easier to make up my mind like that than go on wondering and hoping and having the matter discussed — and I knew Aunt Thelma would never let him pay for me to go to Oxford without a lot of unpleasantness. Last but not least if Mother was going to Scotland she would need me to go with her.

  “You’ve made up your mind definitely?” asked Uncle Leonard.

  “It wouldn’t be fair,” I explained. “If the girls have got to give up things …” There was a lump in my throat so I could not complete the sentence.

  Uncle Leonard nodded. “Perhaps you’re right — and perhaps it doesn’t matter very much. You can learn a lot of important things without going to Oxford. Don’t forget that, Jane.”

  He gave me a little hug and went away. I think he was relieved that I had said ‘no’ so firmly.

  Chapter Three

  When Uncle Leonard had gone I looked for Mother and found her sitting at her desk writing a letter.

  “I’m writing to my cousin,” she explained. “He lives in Edinburgh. He’s a Writer to the Signet.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Mother did not seem to hear my question. “Don’t go away,” she murmured. “I want you to run along to the post. I’m writing to ask him to find us a little house at Ryddelton.”

  I stood and waited. I wondered what Writer to the Signet meant — it sounded strangely old-fashioned. Perhaps it had something to do with swans (I had been reading about the swans on the banks of the Thames and about the men called swan-uppers who look after them and mark them to show that they belong to the Crown. A cygnet is a young swan of course).

  Then I began to wonder about this mysterious cousin, whom I had never heard of before. I wondered if he would be able to read the letter, for Mothers writing was difficult to decipher at the best of times and her pen was dashing over the paper at such a terrific speed that it would be even more difficult than usual … and I wondered what he would think when he received a letter out of the blue asking him to find us a house at Ryddelton.

  Mother was always ready to do things for other people so she took it for granted that other people would do things for her.

  “You haven’t seen him for years, have you?” I said.

  “No, not for years.”

  “He never came here, did he?”

  “No?” said Mother. “As a matter of fact your father never liked Andrew. They have nothing in common. They spoke a different language. Your father was a business man and —”

  “Does he speak Gaelic?” I asked.

  Mother looked up in amazement. “Gaelic!” she exclaimed. “Do you mean Andrew? What on earth put such an extraordinary idea into your head?”

  “You said they spoke a different language.”

  “I only meant they didn’t understand each other,” said Mother with a sigh of impatience. She added, “Do be quiet, Janie dear, I’m trying to write this letter.”

  I waited until she had finished and t
hen ran to the pillar box at the corner — the postman was clearing it so I was just in time — and as I handed him the letter I could not help noticing that it was addressed to Andrew Firth Esq., W.S.

  Various thoughts passed through my mind as I walked back to the house. Firth had been Mother’s name before she married, so he was that kind of cousin … and of course the W.S. after his name meant Writer to the Signet. I realised that he could have nothing whatever to do with swans — it had been a silly idea anyhow — because a young swan, or cygnet, is spelt with a C. I wished I were not so ignorant about The World. You can learn a great deal at school but not things like that. You have to live in The World to learn about it … perhaps that was what Uncle Leonard had meant!

  It struck me that I knew surprisingly little about Mother’s relations. I knew that her father and mother were dead and her only brother had been killed in the First World War. His picture stood on the chimney-piece in her bedroom. It was the picture of a boy in uniform, and there was a strange look of tragedy in his eyes. Somehow you knew at once, without being told, that he had been killed. Unlike Mother he had dark hair and hazel eyes. His face was too thin and bony to be good-looking but there was something very attractive about him and I was always pleased when Mother said I was ‘like Robert’. Mother had no sisters and, this being so, I had imagined she had no relations. I had never thought of cousins. I wondered what ‘Andrew Firth Esq., W.S.’ was like and why he and Father had not got on well together.

  By this time I saw clearly that nothing would prevent Mother from going to Ryddelton — neither Aunt Thelma nor anyone else — it might be right or it might be wrong, but at any rate it was settled.

  *

  It would have been interesting to know whether Helen ever thought of Basil Romford but she never mentioned him and Rosalie and I did not dare to ask. We had known Basil since we were children; he lived in Wintringham Square with his mother and we often met him in the gardens exercising his dog. At first he had not taken much notice of us for he was much older than we were but when he had come back from the war, badly wounded and lame, it had been different. He often spoke to us — and we were full of hero-worship. Then he began to come to the house (Mother knew Mrs. Romford) and when Helen was nineteen he fell in love with her. We all thought Helen would marry him and we were all pleased … and then Helen changed her mind. She told Basil that she wanted a Season in London, perfectly free, and if he still wanted to marry her next year he could ask her again. Perhaps she did not put it quite so crudely but that was what she meant.

  Basil tried to persuade her to marry him at once — or at least to be properly engaged — but Helen thought he was selfish and told him so. Helen said she wanted a good time before she settled down. There was a great deal of discussion and eventually they quarrelled and Basil went away. Rosalie and I thought Helen was sorry when he had gone but she was too proud to say so and in any case she was looking forward to her Season as a ‘deb’.

  “Perhaps he’ll come back,” said Rosalie when we talked it over together. “Perhaps she’ll write to him and tell him what’s happened.”

  I did not think so. I thought Helen would be too proud to write.

  “Why do you want to stay in London?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she replied doubtfully. “Helen wants me to stay.”

  Helen and Rosalie could not make up their minds what to do; they talked and argued interminably. One moment they thought they would both get jobs and take a little flat together and the next moment they decided not to. Helen went the length of asking Madame Peridot about a job as mannequin and Madame agreed to take her, but when the salary was discussed, and the hours of work, Helen was somewhat damped.

  “There’s plenty of time,” she declared. “We needn’t rush into anything. It will take ages to sell this house and Mother isn’t likely to find a house at Ryddelton.”

  Rosalie could have got a post as receptionist to a doctor, who was a friend of Uncle Leonard’s, but she hesitated and he took someone else.

  Then suddenly everything happened at once. The house was sold for a very good price and Cousin Andrew Firth wrote and said he had found a house at Ryddelton — a house called Timble Cottage about half a mile out of the town. He added that it was not too bad and in reasonable condition, with a pleasant little garden and an extensive view. Most important of all it was cheap.

  “That’s splendid, isn’t it?” said Mother happily, and she wired to say she would buy it.

  “Without seeing it!!” cried Helen when she heard the news. “Without having it surveyed! Aren’t we going to have it papered and painted?”

  “Andrew has seen it,” Mother pointed out. “Andrew says it will suit us. We can’t afford to have it redecorated. Andrew says there are two public rooms and three bedrooms. One of the bedrooms is quite big so Helen and Rosalie can share it if they decide to come.”

  “I’d rather have a room of my own,” objected Rosalie.

  “We can’t help it,” Mother replied.

  It was unreasonable of them to expect Mother to buy a larger house when they could not make up their minds whether or not they were coming.

  “If I can’t have a room of my own I’d rather share with Jane,” said Rosalie crossly.

  “That would be much better,” agreed Helen. “I’m the eldest,” she added.

  “Then you’ve decided to come?” asked Mother.

  “What else can we do?” said Helen ungraciously. “You’ve sold this house over our heads; we haven’t had time to look about and find suitable jobs in London.”

  Mother said nothing — she was very patient with them — but I was angry.

  “You could both have had jobs if you wanted them,” I said. “The fact is you don’t know what you want” — and I walked out of the room before they could answer.

  *

  “Why do you let them be rude to you?” I asked Mother. We were in the linen-room together, packing the big hampers which we were taking with us to Ryddelton.

  “Oh Jane, because I feel guilty! Not guilty about going to Ryddelton — I know that’s the right thing to do — but because I should have known about our affairs.” She was standing still, staring and twisting her hands. “I never bothered,” she said vaguely. “Gerald never discussed money with me. I had no idea how much we had. There was always plenty of money. If I wanted money for anything special I just asked him and he gave it to me at once — quite often he gave me more than I needed. It seems extraordinary that I could have been so stupid.”

  “You didn’t know —”

  “But I ought to have known. I ought to have asked. Leonard says I should have known what our income was ‘and regulated the expenditure accordingly.’”

  “He said you were ‘good for business.’”

  “It was nice of him wasn’t it?” she said with a fleeting smile. “But the point is I could have been ‘good for business’ without spending quite so much. I could have saved if I had known there was any need. I should have thought of the future — but I never did.”

  “Father should have thought of the future.”

  “Don’t say that!” she cried. “That’s what Leonard says, and I don’t like it! Leonard says he ought to have insured his life. Why should he? How did he know he was going to die — like that — all in a moment?”

  It was no good discussing the matter. I just said, “Well, I don’t think you should let them be rude. Honestly, Mother, you should speak to them seriously.”

  “Perhaps I should — but I’m sorry for them,” she declared.

  I thought she meant she was sorry because they had had to give up so much, but she meant more than that.

  “Yes, of course it’s hard on them,” she said. “But that’s only temporary. I’m sorry for them because they’re the sort of people they are. Helen has always had exactly what she wanted too easily and she thinks she can go on having exactly what she wants. Perhaps she will, too. And poor Rosalie doesn’t know what she wants which i
s almost worse. You and Helen have played ‘Pull devil, pull baker,’ with Rosalie for years.”

  “Mother!”

  “Oh, perhaps not consciously — but it comes to the same thing. She’s had no chance to develop her own personality. I often wonder what sort of lives they will have,” Mother continued. “Life is so dangerous. You make your bed when you’re very young and you’ve got to lie on it whether it’s comfortable or not. Helen and Rosalie are very different but in one thing they’re alike: they don’t understand.”

  “They don’t understand what?” I asked in bewilderment.

  “They don’t understand anything,” declared Mother smiling at me rather sadly. “They don’t even know that there’s anything to understand. They’re like horses with blinkers — they just see what’s in front of their noses and nothing more. I’m always terribly sorry for horses with blinkers,” added Mother with a sigh.

  She had never spoken to me like that before — as if I were really and truly grown-up — and I realised that she wouldn’t have spoken like that now if she hadn’t been upset.

  By this time the hampers were nearly packed. Mother was putting all the best linen into the sale and taking the plain cotton sheets and pillow-cases with us.

  Horses with blinkers! The more I thought about it the better I understood. In fact it seemed to me that you could divide all the people you knew into two categories: those with blinkers and those without. It had nothing to do with what you learnt at school. For instance Miss Clarke, who had taken honours at Cambridge, wore blinkers, whereas Betty Hammond, my special friend (who was quite stupid at lessons) did not.

  “Jane! You’ve put those sheets on the wrong pile! What are you thinking about!” exclaimed Mother.

  “People with blinkers,” I said.

  *

  Helen and Rosalie ceased to discuss the move to Ryddelton when Mother was present — perhaps she had spoken to them seriously — but they talked about it endlessly to each other and to me. There was a great deal to do and I was busy helping Mother with all the various arrangements, but they did nothing — neither to help nor to hinder.