So Well Remembered (9 page)

As for Livia, she immediately connected Mr. Standon in her mind with the
secret, or the mystery, or whatever it was—the more so as he was always
whispering privately to her mother—MORE secrets, MORE mystery. And
Emily, who had romantically set store on Livia liking him, was chagrined that
the girl didn’t, and told her (truthfully but far too outspokenly on one
occasion) that OF COURSE she wasn’t going to marry Mr. Standon. Whereupon
Livia, surprised at the denial of something that had not been suggested,
could feel only extra certainty that there WAS something between them—
SOMETHING, at any rate. A few terms of Cheldean had even given her a vague
idea of what, and because she did not like Mr. Standon, she did not like the
idea of that either. Whereupon a rift opened between mother and daughter,
more insidious because neither would tackle it frankly; it was as if they
understood each other too well, but also not enough. Anyhow, Livia went back
to Cheldean with thoughts that cast a shadow over a term that happened to be
her last. The shadow made it hard for her to write home, and once, when she
had composed a letter in which she tried to be affectionate, a feeling of
guilt, almost of shame, made her tear it up.

It was Livia’s last term at Cheldean because of another unpleasant thing
that happened.

For some time there had been an epidemic of minor thieving on the school
premises—money and small articles missing from dormitories, coats left
in the locker-room, and so on—the sort of thing that, if it for long
goes undetected, can poison the relationships of all concerned— pupils,
teaching staff, and school servants. Miss Williams, the Cheldean
headmistress, had done all she could to probe and investigate, yet the thefts
continued, culminating in the disappearance of a wrist-watch belonging to
Livia’s best friend. When news of this reached Miss Williams she summoned the
whole school into the main hall—an event which, from its rarity, evoked
an atmosphere of heightened tension.

Miss Williams began by saying that, being convinced the thefts had been
perpetrated by one of the girls, she had decided to call in a detective who
would doubtless discover the culprit, whoever she was, without delay. She
(Miss Williams) therefore appealed to this culprit (again WHOEVER SHE WAS) to
come forward and confess, thus avoiding the need for distasteful outside
publicity, and also—here Miss Williams began to glare round the room
—earning perhaps some remission of penalty.

This appeal was followed by a long and, to Livia, terribly dramatic
silence during which the word “detective”, as spoken by Miss Williams, turned
somersaults in her mind.

Then: “Well, girls? How long is one of you going to keep me waiting?”

Still silence.

Miss Williams glared round again before raising her voice a notch higher.
“Girls… GIRLS… I simply cannot believe this. Surely I am to get an
answer?… Remember—I am particularly addressing myself to ONE of you
—to one of you who is a THIEF—HERE—NOW—in this hall!
Some of you must be so close that you could TOUCH her…”

Suddenly Livia felt herself melting into a warmth that seemed to run
liquid in her limbs; she could not check it, and in excitement let go a book
she was carrying; everyone near her turned to stare, and she knew that her
face was already brick-red.

“Come now, girls… I will wait for sixty seconds and no longer…” Miss
Williams then pulled an old-fashioned gold watch on a long chain from some
pocket of her mannish attire and held it conspicuously in the palm of her
hand. “TEN seconds already… TWENTY… THIRTY…” And then, in a quite
different voice: “Dear me… will somebody go after Olivia?”

Somebody did, and presently Livia was sitting, limp and still, on the
couch in Miss Williams’ study, while Miss Williams, stiff and fidgety,
drummed her bony fingers on the desk-top.

“But, Olivia… why do you keep on saying you didn’t do it?”

“I didn’t, Miss Williams. You can punish me if you like—I’m not
afraid. But I really didn’t do it.”

“But nobody’s even accusing you—nobody ever HAS accused you!”

“They thought it was me—they all saw how I looked—and then
when I dropped the book—”

“My dear child, if they did think you behaved suspiciously, whom have you
to blame but yourself? What made you run out of the hall like that? Surely,
if you knew you weren’t guilty—”

“I knew, Miss Williams, but I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t guilty, and yet
—and yet—”

“Yes, Olivia?”

“I FELT guilty.”

Miss Williams’s eyes and voice, till then sympathetic, now chilled over.
“I cannot understand how you could FEEL guilty unless you WERE guilty,” she
said after a pause.

“But I did, Miss Williams. I feel guilty—often—like that.
Punish me if you like, though. I don’t care.”

After another pause Miss Williams replied: “Suppose we say no more about
it for the time being.”

And there the matter had to remain, for the plain fact was that Miss
Williams did not know whether Livia was guilty or not. She rather liked the
girl, who had never been in any serious trouble before; yet there was
something odd about her, something unpredictable; yet also something stoic
—which was another thing Miss Williams rather liked. She could not
avoid thinking of the secret that Livia did not know, and perhaps ought to
know, at her age… or DID she know already… partly… in the half-
guessing way that was the worst way to get to know anything? That feeling of
guilt, for instance (assuming there had been no grounds for it at Cheldean)
—could it be that Livia suspected something in her own family to which
guilt attached, and (by a curious psychological twist) was becoming herself
infected by it? Miss Williams had not received a very good impression of Mrs.
Channing from the correspondence they had had; she seemed a weak, dilatory
person, incapable of facing her own or her daughter’s problems with any kind
of fortitude. Whereas fortitude, and problems, were Miss Williams’s
specialties—whether, for instance, a head-mistress should tell one of
her girls something she had promised not to tell, if she believed it was in
the girl’s best interest? For several weeks Miss Williams debated this
problem with herself, while she continued to find things likable in Livia;
she even admired the girl for the way she faced up to the deepening mistrust
with which the school as a whole regarded her; she admired the girl’s proud
yet stricken eyes as she continued to take part in games and lessons; but she
had had enough experience as a schoolmistress to know that nothing but
absolute proof of someone else’s guilt could ever put things right, and if
this did not soon appear, then there would arise a final problem— could
Livia remain at Cheldean without harm to herself and to the morale of the
school?

One day towards the end of term Miss Williams reached a decision. She
called the girl into her room and very simply told her the plain truth about
her father. There was no scene, but after a long pause Livia said: “Can I go
home now, Miss Williams?”

“HOME? You mean—to your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you want to go home?”

“I—I MUST go. Everything’s different. I said it would be. Nothing
can ever be the same again.”

Miss Williams did not ask when Livia had made this cryptic prophecy; she
merely remarked: “I hope you’re not angry with your mother—she did what
she thought was for the best.”

“I’m not angry with anybody. Not even with Mr. Standon any more.”

“And who’s Mr. Standon?”

“The man my mother goes with.”

“Oh, come now…” And Miss Williams, colouring a little, felt the ice
getting thin even under her own experienced feet. (But not, perhaps, so
experienced in certain directions.) She added hastily: “Livia… I think we
had better not discuss this any further for the present. And I’m not sure
whether you ought to go home now or wait till the end of term. I’ll think it
over and let you know in a few days.”

Miss Williams planned to write Mrs. Channing a long letter of explanation
which would arrive ahead of Livia; but this intention was frustrated by a
much simpler act by the girl herself. She ran away from the school that same
evening, taking nobody into her confidence, but leaving for Miss Williams a
note in which there was, perhaps, just a whiff of histrionics:

“DEAR MISS WILLIAMS—I am going home, and since you
think I am a thief, I have stolen money for the fare from Joan Martin’s
locker. I took a pound. Please give it back to her out of my bank-money.
—OLIVIA.”

The note was not discovered till the next morning, by which time Livia
would have reached home. All Miss Williams could do, and with great luck, was
to replace the pound before the loss of that was discovered also. She knew
Joan was Livia’s best friend and would willingly have lent the money had she
been asked… A strange girl, Livia—perhaps not a bad girl; but still,
it was just as well not to have her back at Cheldean.

Livia reached Browdley before six o’clock on a windy March
morning.
Throughout the night-long train journey she had thought out the things she
would immediately ask her mother; she wanted to know ALL the secrets, all the
details that Miss Williams had not told because she probably had not known
them herself. The list of these was mountainous by the time the cab came
within sight of Stoneclough, grey and ghostly in the first light of dawn. In
the yard beside the stables she was startled to see a new motorcar, with her
mother in the driver’s seat and Mr. Standon hastily stowing bags into the
back.

“Livia! LIVIA! What on earth are you doing here?”

As her mother spoke Livia noted the exchange of glances between her and
Mr. Standon. The latter dropped the bags and came over with a smile of rather
weary astonishment. He was a very elegant young man, but he did not look his
best at six in the morning; and he had, indeed, received so many
astonishments during the past twelve hours that he felt incapable of
responding to any more. “Hello, Livia,” he remarked; it was all he could
think of to say.

Livia ignored him. “Mother—I’ve left Cheldean—I’ve run
away—I’m never going back there—and I want to talk to you
—I’ve got things to ask you—”

“But Livia… not now… oh, not now…” And a look of panic came over
Emily’s face as she turned again to Mr. Standon. “Lawrence, DO make haste…
we can’t stop because of—because of ANYTHING…” Then: “We’ve—
that is, dear—your mother’s in a hurry—”

Livia knew from experience that Emily always called herself ‘your mother’
to put distance between herself and the facing of any issue; it was like a
shield behind which she could retire from a battlefield before the battle had
begun.

“Mother, you CAN’T go away yet. I’ve got most important things to talk to
you about… ALONE.”

“No, no, dear… Lawrence, put those bags in and let’s be off… If you’ve
got into any trouble at Cheldean, don’t worry… Mother will write to Miss
Williams and have it all put right.”

“It isn’t that, mother… Mother, PLEASE—please will you come into
the house and let me talk to you for a while.”

“Darling, I can’t—I just CAN’T—”

But this was too much even for Mr. Standon. “Perhaps you’d better, Emily,”
he advised. “You can’t let her go in without—without—” And the
look between them was exchanged again.

Emily slowly climbed out of the car, her face pale and distraught. She
walked with Livia a few paces towards the side door leading through the
kitchen into the house. They did not speak, but from the doorstep Emily gave
one despairing look over her shoulder towards Mr. Standon, as if scared of
going out of his sight. Then suddenly and hysterically she cried out:
“Lawrence, I can’t tell her—I can’t, I CAN’T… YOU’LL have to.”
Whereupon she ran back to the car and with almost absurd alacrity jumped in
and drove off, leaving him to shout after her in vain and to turn to Livia
with the faintest possible shrug.

“Your mother’s upset,” he remarked mildly; and then, detaining her as she
stepped towards the house: “I wouldn’t go in yet if I were you. Let’s have a
little chat first.”

Livia shook her head. “It’s cold here. And it’s my mother I wanted to talk
to, not you.”

“I know… but there’s something
I
can tell you, perhaps.”

“You don’t have to. I know. And I don’t think it’s any of my
business.”

Mr. Standon looked nonplussed for a moment, then shifted uncomfortably.
“That isn’t what I… er… well, what I DO mean IS your business. It’s about
your father.”

He draped his hand over her shoulder at that word, as if to lessen the
shock, but the fact that there was none made him so uncomfortable that he
took away his hand before Livia could reply: “I know about that too. Miss
Williams told me. He’s not dead as my mother always said. He’s in a
prison.”

Mr. Standon gulped hard. “No… Not any more.”

This time there WAS a shock, perceptible but well-controlled; the girl
looked up at him enquiringly. “You mean he IS dead now? He’s died?”

“No, Livia. He’s—he’s been released. And—he’s here—
now—in the house. He got here a few days ago.”

“But… but… my mother… why…?”

“I can’t explain all that.”

She stared at him, incredulously, and while she did, the sound of a
motor-horn echoed from the road down below.

He said hastily: “I’m sorry, Livia, but you see… well, that’s how it
is.”

The horn sounded again, peremptorily. Mr. Standon fidgeted as he went on:
“Perhaps you’d like to come along…”

“Come along? Where? With you?”

“Not with me, exactly—with your mother. I’m sure that would be all
right—”

“But with YOU?”

“Well… only in case… in case you wanted to be with HER.”

“But where’s she going? When is she coming back? Why must she go away at
all?”

“Livia, it’s no use asking me these questions. If you want to walk down
the road and talk to her about it, come with me now.”