Читать книгу The Brading Collection - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 7

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In the car Stacy told herself that she had behaved like a mesmerised rabbit. But what on earth could she have done? Impossible to go on saying no without giving a reason. Impossible to explain in the interested hearing of Theodosia Dale, a fat woman, and three children eating chocolate. She hastened to make amends to herself. Much better to do as she had done. She could go up to Warne House, put the case quietly before Mrs. Constantine, and catch a morning train. It wouldn’t hurt her to spend the night in Lewis Brading’s house. She need not even come down to dinner. Much better and more dignified than having a scene at the station.

Lady Minstrell’s voice came through her thoughts.

“Dossie and I were at school together. Her father was the Rector. She has a little old house in the village, and she knows all about everyone. I have asked her to come up this evening. My mother likes to know about everything too.”

Stacy couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Lady Minstrell flowed on—schooldays, Dossie’s good heart, Dossie’s sharp tongue.

“She really is the best friend in the world, but of course she wants knowing. She never wears anything but those thick coats and skirts winter and summer. I don’t know how she does it in this heat. There—we’re coming to Warne now—down in the dip. Such a pretty village. Really it was a pity Dossie was having tea in Ledstow, or we could have given her a lift, but there is quite a convenient bus service. Look—that is Warne House, half-way up the slope on the other side among the trees. It is very tiring travelling in this heat, don’t you think? We shall both be glad of some tea.”

Stacy felt as if it was going to take more than a cup of tea to get her through arriving at Warne House. Lewis Brading was the sort of cousin who had always been there. She and Charles had dined with him, driving over from Saltings on a summer evening, turning in between the trees as they were turning now, and just as they came in sight of the house Charles had taken his hand off the wheel and touched her lightly on the cheek.

“Cheer up, darling, it’ll be all the same by tomorrow. Anyhow, what’s the matter?”

“He doesn’t like me.”

His smile flashed out, fleeting, impish, charming.

“He doesn’t like anyone—much. What used to be his heart is completely bunged up with the Collection—there really isn’t room for anything else.”

“How grim.”

She could hear him laugh.

“Cheer up! It takes all sorts to make a world.”

The whole scene came back in a flash, the two of them all warm and happy, and sorry for Lewis Brading who was out in the cold. That cut deep, because two days later Stacy was out in the cold too—the bitter freezing cold that kills your heart.

“Here we are,” said Lady Minstrell in a tone of relief. “We’ll go straight up to my mother. She is longing to see you.”

Mrs. Constantine’s sitting-room looked over the tree-tops to the sea, unbelievably blue and still under a cloudless sky. Mrs. Constantine herself sat well up to the window in the largest armchair with her feet resting upon an embroidered footstool. They were pretty feet, and she was inordinately proud of the “only bit of prettiness I ever had, so no wonder”. Stacy saw them before she saw anything else—pretty, elegant feet in pretty, elegant shoes. And then a shapeless incongruity of figure, and the clever, ugly face with its flattened features, big chin, wide mouth, and astonishingly brilliant eyes.

In that first glance she was reminded of a toad—something about the big hunched body, the forward thrust of the head, the wide mouth, and the eyes, not bulging like a toad’s but with something about them, something that reminded her—

All at once she knew what it was. Words flowed into her mind: “But like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head.” Myra Constantine’s eyes were like the fabulous jewel, full of black fire. A voice that was almost as deep as a man’s said,

“Well, Milly?” And then, “How do you do, Miss Mainwaring?” She put out a hand that felt square and strong. “I don’t get up, because it is rather a performance. Come and sit down and have a good look at me. I’m an ugly old devil, but I daresay you get tired of painting pretty-pretties. Girls are all too much alike, especially nowadays—clothes, figures and complexions planned, controlled, and mass-produced. Het, ring for tea!” She waved a hand. “My daughter Hester.” Then, with a grimace, “Miss Constantine.”

Stacy shook hands with a tall, limp woman. There was a look of Lady Minstrell, but no more—older, meek, bullied, without colour or individuality. Stacy gave her a glance, and realised that that was all Hester Constantine would ever get from anyone whilst her mother was in the room. If she had worn scarlet to old Myra’s black, she wouldn’t have been noticed. But it was Myra who flaunted the loose coat of cherry silk over a gay flowered dress. She fixed her brilliant eyes on Stacy.

“Well, what about it? Are you going to paint me?”

This was the moment to explain that she simply couldn’t stay, and it was quite impossible to do it. Myra Constantine had asked her in so many words if she was too ugly to paint, and if she came out with “I’ve got to get back to town”, it was as much as to say, “Well, yes, you are”. And it wouldn’t be true. She’d be the most marvellous subject, just as she was, in that red coat, with the fuzz of white hair standing up in a golliwog frill. The artist in Stacy took charge. Her eyes shone as she leaned forward and said in most convincing tones,

“Oh, may I? I’d love to! You’d be marvellous to paint!”

Myra Constantine chuckled.

“That’s the stuff! And now you and me’ll have a talk.” She turned her head for a moment. “Milly, you and Het can go and have your tea in the lounge. Me and Miss Mainwaring’s going to have a talk.”

The tall, imposing Lady Minstrell came to lay her hand on her mother’s shoulder, and said, “Yes, Mama”, in the voice of an obedient little girl. And then the tea came in and she and her sister went out.

Mrs. Constantine took charge. It was a substantial tea. When she wasn’t pouring out she was eating with gusto, and whether she was pouring or eating she hardly ever drew breath.

“Now you must make a good tea. I’ve always liked my tea, and always shall. ‘You may keep your cocktails,’ that’s what I said when they come in. ‘Keep ’em and welcome,’ I said, ‘I’ll stick to a nice cuppa.’” She shot a malicious glance at Stacy. “Vulgar old woman, ain’t I? Well, I can talk common, and I can talk fine if I want to.” Voice and manner altered in a flash. “I’m sure you must have had a dreadfully hot journey, Miss Mainwaring. Let us each take one of these small sandwiches and talk about the weather.” She dropped back with a grin. “There—I can talk exactly like the Minstrells if I want to. Milly’s in-laws, you know—perfectly well bred and damnably dull. She’s made herself over to suit. ‘Yes, Mama. No Mama. Dear Mama, it’s time for your rest.’” The mimicry was perfect.

“Tchah!” said Myra Constantine with violence. And then, “Oh, well, she’s a good daughter, and so is Het. The bother with me is I can’t stand being bored.”

As she tossed off a cup of almost boiling tea, those black eyes of hers were searching Stacy’s face. “Are you going to be any good?” they said. “Are you going to amuse me? I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. Can I shock you? I don’t know that either, but I’m going to see.”

She set down her cup and filled it again.

“Not ready yet?”

Stacy said, “Mine’s too hot.” Her eyes met the questing look, wide and clear with a little laugh in them. What she would have liked to say was “Do go on talking.”

Said or unsaid, Myra Constantine obliged, this time with a sharp question.

“Well, what do you know about me?”

“You are Myra Constantine—”

“So what?”

“The greatest variety artist we’ve ever had.”

Myra nodded.

“I knocked ’em,” she said. “And do you know where I started? In a slum. Drunken father—bullied, worn-out mother—seven kids one after another as quick as they could come. Quads hadn’t been invented then, or I daresay she’d have had ’em. Poor Mum. Nine of us in a basement kitchen—kids getting dragged up somehow.” She gave a short laugh. “If it had been Milly or Het, they’d have stayed there. But I got out—pushed my way into panto. Can you see me as a fairy? That’s how I started. ‘Keep that kid well out of the way at the back! She’s ugly enough to scare the crows’, that’s what the stage manager said. So they put me in the back row, and I made faces at the kids that made fun of me. Like this.” The wide mouth widened and curled up to show remarkable teeth, strong, white, and sharp. The eyes looked inwards in a horrifying squint, the ears under the golliwog thatch wiggled horribly.

“I can still do it,” said Myra Constantine in a complacent voice. “After three kids had had highstrikes they hauled me out and asked me what I’d done, so I did it again. Old Sim Purell saw it—he just happened to be passing. He took his cigar out of his mouth and said, ‘Put her in as an imp, damn her! She won’t want any make-up.’ So they did, and I had a sort of hop-skip-and-jump dance and made faces. After a bit it got worked up into a kind of take-off of the fairy dance. Brought the house down every time. That’s where I got my start, and that’s where I learned that it paid to be ugly so long as you were ugly enough.” She paused, and added in a deep meditative tone, “I was damned ugly. Have another cup of tea, my dear.”

The laughter was clearly in Stacy’s eyes. She said, “Do go on” and passed her cup.

Myra Constantine gave a sort of grunt.

“You’ll have plenty more,” she said. “I couldn’t stop talking if I tried, and I don’t try. Only turn and turn about’s fair doos. Why did you walk out on Charles Forrest?”

Stacy felt exactly as if she had been slapped in the face. She said, “Oh—” and, “You know!” The sort of thing you say, and the minute you’ve said it you can hear for yourself how idiotic it sounds. She had the full cup in her hand. She had to put it down because it shook.

“Know?” said Myra Constantine. “Of course I know! That’s why I went to see your stuff. I said to Het, ‘A girl that can walk out on Charles Forrest, she’s got guts—that’s what. And I’ll go and see her stuff,’ I said. And when I saw it I liked it. There was an old man you’d done—like an old cross tyke snarling over a bone. ‘Clever,’ I said to Het right away. ‘I wouldn’t mind letting that girl do me.’ And she said, ‘Oh, Mama—’ same as she always does. And I rang up Milly and told her to fix it. I’ll say one thing for my girls, they do what they’re told. And now are you going to tell me why you walked out?”

Stacy had got her balance again. She picked up her cup of tea.

“Did you really think I would?” she said.

Myra chuckled.

“You never can tell.”

Stacy’s colour rose. This time it was because she was angry.

“I should never have come if I had known that you were going to be at Warne. I ought to have gone straight back to town from Ledstow.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Miss Dale was there, and the chauffeur. I thought—”

The black eyes were mocking her.

“Yes?”

“I meant to come up here and explain—to you.”

“But just now you were all for painting me.”

“I got carried away.”

The square ugly hands were clapped, a big diamond flashed. The wide mouth grinned.

“That’s how I got where I am—I carried ’em away. That’s better than letting them shunt you, you may take my word for it. Somebody started to hiss me once—a put-up job. Shall I tell you what I did? Stamped my foot and said, ‘Don’t be damfools! I’m a lot better than you think I am! I’ll show you!’ And I showed ’em. I had ’em shouting before I’d finished.” She dropped to an affable conversational tone. “Well, are you going to let ’em drive you away?”

“I don’t see how I can stay.”

Myra shrugged.

“Have it your own way. The job’s be a big advert—you know that as well as I do. Funk if you like, but you’ve got as much right to be here as anyone else, haven’t you?”

Stacy was being carried away again. She didn’t want to be, but she was. She tried to hold on to being angry, but it wasn’t any good. She wanted to paint Myra Constantine in her cherry-coloured coat—she wanted it more than she had wanted anything for the last three years. She threw out her hands and said,

“It’s not fair—and I ought to go. But I won’t. I’ve got to paint you.”