Daughter of Deceit (7 page)

“I reckon we could do without matinees,” persisted Martha.

“Think of all the people who can only get away one half day a week.”

“I’m thinking of
us,
ducks.”

“Our duty in life is to think of others … particularly in the theatre.”

“Can’t say I’ve noticed it.”

The girl on the bed was listening avidly. I had come to the conclusion that she was not badly hurt.

When the doctor came he confirmed this.

“She only has a few bruises,” he told us afterwards. “She’s shocked, of course. She’ll be all right in a day or so.”

“I propose to keep her here for the night,” said my mother.

“That’s a good idea. What about her family?”

“She doesn’t appear to have any.”

“Well, in that case it would certainly be best for her to stay. I’ll give her a mild sedative, which will ensure a good night’s sleep. Give it to her when she’s ready to settle down for the night. Just let her rest till then.”

“And now,” said Martha, “we’d better be getting ourselves ready or we’ll be disappointing our audience. They’ve come to see Madame Desiree, not understudy Janet Dare.”

“Poor Janet,” said my mother. “She’d love a chance to show what she could do.”

“We all know what she can do and it would not be good enough.”

After my mother had left for the theatre, I went to our guest and stood by her bed.

She said: “You have been so good to me.”

“It was the least we could do. How did it happen?”

“It was my fault. I was careless. I was so eager. I didn’t realize the carriage was still moving. I admired D6siree so much. I’ve seen
Countess Maud
three times … up in the gallery, of course. I couldn’t afford anything more. It is so maddening when someone big and broad gets in front of you. She is wonderful.”

“Lots of people think so.”

“I know. She is at the top, isn’t she? And you are her daughter. How marvellous for you.”

“Tell me about yourself. What do you do?”

“Nothing at the moment.”

“You want to be an actress?” I suggested.

“You guessed.”

“Well, there are so many. You know, lots of people see my mother on the stage and think it is a wonderful life. Actually it is tremendously hard work. It is not easy, you know.”

“I am aware of that. I’m different from those people. I’ve always wanted to go on the stage.”

I looked at her sadly.

“I can act, I can sing, I can dance,” she said earnestly. “I tell you, I can do it.”

“What have you done in that line?”

“I have been on a stage. I have sung and danced.”

“Where?”

“Amateur dramatics. I was the leading actress in our company.”

“It isn’t the same,” I said gently. “It doesn’t count all that much with the professionals. How old are you? I’m sorry. I should not have asked. I am acting like an agent.”

“I want you to be like an agent. I realize you know a good deal about it because of your mother. I’m just seventeen. I felt I couldn’t wait any longer.”

“How long have you been in London?”

“Three months.”

“And what have you been doing?”

“Trying to find an agent.”

“And no luck?”

“They weren’t interested. It was always no experience. They wouldn’t even let me show them what L could do.”

“Where do you come from?”

“From a place called Waddington. It’s only a little village. Nobody’s ever heard of it except those who live there. It’s not far
from Hereford. I hadn’t a chance there, of course. All I could do was sing in the church choir and at concerts I was the star turn.”

“I understand.”

“And when I saw your mother in
Countess Maud,
I wanted to be just like her. She’s wonderful. You can feel that the audience is with her all the way.”

“So you left this place near Hereford. What about your family?”

“I haven’t any family now … nor any home. My father rented a small farm and we lived fairly comfortably until he died. My mother had died when I was five years old, so I don’t remember much of her. I kept house and did a bit on the farm.”

“I see, and all this time you wanted to be an actress. Did your father know?”

“Oh yes, but he thought it was just a dream. He was very proud of me when I sang in the concerts. He used to sit in the front row, his eyes on me all the time. He understood, but he was the sort of man who would say it can’t be done and be resigned. I’m not like that. I have to try to make it come true.”

“It’s the only way of course. My mother had a hard struggle.”

“I guessed she had. She would not come to that perfection easily. When my father died I decided I would try my luck. I would never forgive myself if I did not. My father had a stroke. I looked after him for six weeks before he died. Then I sold up everything I had and came to London.”

“And you have been here for three months and are just where you were when you arrived.”

“Only much poorer.”

“I’m afraid your story is not unusual. So many people are ambitious and so few succeed.”

“I know. But I am going to try. How did your mother get on? Fighting her way. And that is what I am going to do.”

I said: “I know how you feel, but just now you ought to be resting. I think you should take the sedative the doctor left and sleep. But have something to eat first. I am sure that’s what you need. Then perhaps you will feel sleepy.”

“You are so kind.”

I
left her and went down to the kitchen. They wanted to hear all that had happened and listened avidly.

“Miss Daisy Ray’s so kind,” said Mrs. Crimp. “She seemed to be in quite a state herself to think that her carriage had run down the poor girl.”

“You can rest assured she will do everything she can to help her,” I said. “Could you send something up for her to eat?”

“A leg of chicken or something like that? Perhaps some soup?”

“That sounds just right, Mrs. Crimp.”

“Leave it to me.”

Jane said: “I’ll take it up.”

I went back to Lisa Fennell and told her that some food was coming shortly. Jane brought it. She studied Lisa Fennell with interest. She wanted to chat. They had something in common: they both aspired to attain that fame which was Desiree’s.

“Everyone is so kind here,” said Lisa Fennell.

“That’s Miss Daisy Ray all over,” said Jane. “She’s always like that.”

Jane went, and Lisa Fennell ate the food with relish. I wondered whether she had enough to eat. I pictured her trying to eke out her money—for I was sure there was not much. She would be wondering all the time how long it was going to last—hopeful, despairing in turn. Poor girl!

I gave her the sedative. “This will make you sleepy,” I said. “It is what you need, the doctor said. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

I sat with her for a little while until I saw that she was becoming drowsy. It was not long before she was asleep. Then I crept out of the room.

I was waiting up for my mother when she returned from the theatre, because I knew she would want to know what had happened to Lisa Fennell.

She always went into the drawing room for about half an hour, as she said, to settle after the evening’s performance. Martha often went to the kitchen to get a drink of some sort. A glass of hot milk
or perhaps a glass of ale—whatever she fancied. She said it helped her to relax.

I could always tell from her mood how the performance had gone. That night I saw that it had gone well.

“What about this girl?” she asked. “What did she say her name was?”

“Lisa Fennell. She’s sleeping now. She had a nice supper and then I gave her the sedative. She was soon asleep after that. I looked in at her about an hour ago. She was not aware of me. She’s going to be all right.”

“I do hope she’s not badly hurt.”

“Of course she’s not,” said Martha.

“You never know. These things are not always obvious at the start. They can show up later. And it was our carriage.”

“She ran into it,” insisted Martha.

“Thank goodness we were not going at any pace.”

“I’ve talked to her,” I said. “She wants to be an actress.”

Martha clicked her tongue and raised her eyes to the ceiling.

“Poor girl,” said my mother. “Has she done anything?”

“Amateur dramatics,” I said.

“God preserve us!” murmured Martha. “And she thinks because of that she’s another Desiree.”

“Not exactly … she thinks Desiree is wonderful. She just wants a chance to do something like it.”

I told them what she had told me.

“The best thing she can do,” said Martha, “is pack her bags and go back, find some farmer to marry her and set about milking the cows.”

“How do you know?” demanded my mother. “She might have talent. At least she had the determination to come to London.”

“Determination is not talent, as you should know.”

“It’s one of the necessary ingredients to success.”

“It’s bread without yeast. You never get it to rise.”

“Since when have you been the culinary expert?”

“I’ve been in the theatre long enough to know about the theatre. And for every one who gets to the top there are ten thousand trying to.”

“Some of us manage it. Why not this girl? I think she ought to have a chance at least. She’s done something in her village.”

“Village audiences are not London audiences.”

“Of course they’re not. But I don’t think the girl should be dismissed as no good before she’s had a chance to show what she can do.”

“So you are going to see if you can give her a chance, are you? Like the others you’ve tried to help. And what thanks did you get, eh? Some of them had the nerve to blame you because they thought you were going to hand them success on a plate, and when they didn’t get it, they thought you’d stopped them. They said you were jealous. The Lord spare us from any more of that nonsense.”

“I think everyone should have a chance,” persisted my mother.

“She did come to London,” I put in. “She’s got the right spirit, and I’ve heard you say that that plays a big part in getting there in the end.”

“We could at least see what she could do,” said my mother.

“Don’t forget you’ve got six shows a week, plus two matinees, before you start setting up the Good Samaritan act.”

“I’ll remember,” said my mother. “But I do think everyone should have a chance.” She yawned. “Good show tonight. I thought they were going to keep us there till morning with all those curtain calls. It’s good when they stand up and cheer. It looks as though
Maud
is here for a very long time.”

“And it looks as though it’s time for your bed,” said Martha tersely.

“I know,” replied my mother. “I’ll never get up in the morning.”

I kissed her suddenly. I thought how good she was, how kind. She really cared about that girl. In the midst of all her success, her first thought had been of her, and I knew she would do everything she could to help her.

The ultimate virtue, I thought, is caring for others. On impulse I went to her and kissed her.

Lisa Fennell had been with us for a little more than a week. My mother had heard her sing. She thought she had quite a good voice. There was nothing that a few lessons would not put right. Her dancing was not bad either. It was arranged that she should go to a singing teacher whom Desiree knew.

Desiree could be wildly enthusiastic about a project. She was, according to Martha, a natural Samaritan and more often than not a bit of a fool over her lame ducks. It was her carriage which had been involved in the accident, she insisted, and it was only right that she should try to make up to that poor girl, who had been terribly upset. She was impecunious; she was struggling; and to my mother it seemed only natural that she should take her under her wing.

Lisa was to stay with us for the time being, until she could be satisfactorily “fixed up.”

Her few possessions had been collected from her lodgings, the poverty of which had shocked both myself and my mother. I shared my mother’s feelings regarding her and was as eager to help as she was. We were both tremendously sorry for Lisa.

After three lessons with the singing teacher, my mother said to Martha and me; “I can’t see why Dolly couldn’t give her a place in the chorus. It’s rather thin, I’ve always thought.”

“Thin!” screamed Martha. “What are you talking about?”

“The girls should be closer in that number when they put their hands on each other’s shoulders and do the high kicks. Some of them have a little difficulty in reaching and it spoils the effect.”

“Nonsense,” said Martha. “It’s one of the best of the dances.”