The New Moon with the Old (8 page)

She was also cautious. It was still too dark to venture into the fields. She sat down on her suitcase and waited. Soon she heard a cock crow – and almost as if on cue, the darkness began to pale. She could start now, if she went carefully.

It proved to be a gruelling walk, for the suitcase, though not particularly heavy, soon seemed so. But she spurred herself on by reciting speeches from
Henry V
, and the village church clock, chiming the quarters, repeatedly assured her she had enough time for frequent rests. She heard it again as she reached the road, a faint, farewell chime which now told her she would have a twenty-minute wait for the bus.

It had begun to rain and she had forgotten to bring her raincoat. But there was a barn close to the road and no nearby farmhouse whose occupiers were likely to see her. She went in, set her suitcase close to a bale of hay which would provide her with a backing, and sat down thankfully.

Soon she would be on the bus. She saw herself hail it, jump on, then off it would go at full speed. She’d be miles and miles away before anyone missed her. And soon, soon – in not much more than two hours – she would be in London.

Her head jerked forward. She was instantly, guiltily aware she had been asleep. Only for a moment, of course.

She looked at her watch and panic struck. The time shown was two-thirty. Two-thirty? Already she would have been missed for hours and hours! And suppose Richard had ignored her warnings? Already the police might be after her. And was there an afternoon bus? She doubted it.

Grabbing her suitcase, she hurried out of the barn – and saw, not a hundred yards away, a bus approaching. It was travelling in the wrong direction for London but she instantly hailed it; at least it would take her away from where she was. It stopped. She sprang on and found she was the only passenger. Quickly she made her way to a front seat, behind the driver. Anyone who got on now would see only the back of her head.

The conductress approached and said: ‘Where to?’ Where to, indeed – Merry had no idea where the bus was going and was determined not to draw attention to herself by inquiring. Handing a pound note, she said in the voice of Mavis: ‘All the way, thanks, dear.’ She got back only fourteen shillings change, so all the way was obviously going to be some distance. But she would get off as soon as she reached a town with a railway station. Meanwhile she was at least getting further from home and was also in out of the rain.

Soon the bus pulled up in a village she recognized. She knew no one who lived there; still, she partly covered her face with her handkerchief, ostensibly blowing her nose. The bus acquired two more passengers – to be heard but never seen by her – before it went on through the village, which seemed unusually quiet, with none of its shops open; presumably it was early closing day.

As they came to the church, a bus travelling in the opposite direction passed them. One of the passengers said: ‘London bus.’ At the same instant, Merry caught sight of the church clock. It stood at 7.52. Frantically she looked at her watch. It still said 2.30. Then it had stopped – in the middle of the night! She had forgotten to wind it, depending on her bedroom clock and then on the church clock’s chimes. That was
her
London bus which had just thundered past. Soon it would be passing the barn where she would have hailed it – but for that disastrous nap which could not have lasted five minutes. Oh, maddening watch! No: maddening, careless Merry. And maddening, most reprehensible panic.

But all was not lost, all was very much not lost. A whole half day had been given back to her – and she was now speeding in the opposite direction from which her family would expect her to speed; nobody looking for a job on the stage would plunge into the depths of Suffolk. This was a most subtle method of escape, as subtle as disguising herself as Mavis. And she would get a train that stopped at some London suburb. The police might be waiting for her in London, at both the station and the bus terminus. Clever Merry! Resourceful Merry! She leaned back and relaxed.

Soon she was travelling through villages that were unfamiliar, all too small to possess a railway station. People got on and off the bus, always remaining voices, never faces, to her; for she kept her own face averted. It was fun, listening without seeing; she made a game of it, trying to pick up
where she was and where she was going. It was a game she never won, not even when the bus reached its terminus soon after nine o’clock, for the conductress announced the name of the place in a blurred roar which conveyed no information whatever. But at least Merry could see this was a small market town, not a village, and it was likely to have a station.

Tidying up in the Ladies’ Room she was shocked at her appearance. That awful hair! The sooner she got to a London hairdresser, the better. She must ask her way to the station but not here – the bus was a link with her own locality, someone might remember her later. She would walk a little way into the town.

The rain had stopped now and the day, though not sunny, was whitely bright. Her spirits rose. This not knowing where she was gave her a sense of adventure and freedom – and also security; for surely a person who didn’t know where she was would be particularly difficult to find? This idea was pleasant but also confusing. She even felt a little dizzy; but most cheerfully dizzy, with a tendency to giggle.

Now she was in the little town’s High Street. A glance at the roof line and the upper storeys showed her that the houses were very old, but they had all been turned into shops and most of the shops, refronted, were very modern indeed. Their contents struck her as being unusually highly coloured – such yellow loaves, such emerald vegetables, such scarlet meat! As for the clothes’ shops, they were displaying the most dazzling shades, with a preponderance of turquoise, flame and canary. Nothing looked quite real; it was like walking through a dream. No, not a dream, for her dreams were always dimly coloured. This was like walking through illustrations of nursery rhymes.

She pulled herself up. These were the thoughts of Merry. Mavis had not been heard from since she’d said, ‘All the way, thanks, dear,’ on the bus. And it was Mavis who must ask where the station was. She came back on duty by saying:
‘Stop dreaming, ducky. Shouldn’t wonder if you’re a bit
light-headed
. How about some breakfast?’

Not that Merry was really feeling hungry. And the only café she passed was not yet open. Better get to the station at once or she might miss some good train. She would ask her way now. There were few people about but two fat women were approaching. Mavis rehearsed her question to them. Then Merry decided they were looking at her curiously. She would speak to no one who looked at her curiously. Mavis said: ‘Oh, don’t be daft, dear. Ask the next person you see.’ Merry looked for the next person – and saw her, not in the street but in a shop window, picking up a fallen showcard. She was young and pretty, with hair just the colour Merry had hoped to achieve; and the showcard, now righted, said:

Without consciously making any decision, Merry found herself in the shop.

The red-haired young woman emerged backwards from the window. Mavis said: ‘Could I consult Madame Daurene, please?’

‘I’m her,’ said the young woman. ‘Just Daurene – everyone calls me that. What can I do for you, dear?’

The voice was the
perfect
voice for Mavis. Merry, subtly adjusting her tone, said: ‘Do you do
de
-tinting?’

‘Pardon, dear?’

‘Well,
un
-tinting.’ Merry pointed to her hair.

Daurene got it. ‘Went a bit far, didn’t you? Well, let’s have a look.’

She ushered Merry through pink plastic curtains into one of four cubicles gleaming with chromium, looking-glass and glossy pink paint. Everything looked new.

‘Only opened last week,’ said Daurene. ‘Oh, I’ve been in the trade since I was sixteen but this is my first venture on my own. Sit down, dear. Whatever did you use?’

Merry told her, adding, ‘I wanted it to look just like yours.’

‘Well, thanks, dear.’ Daurene flicked the hair about with a comb and then passed judgement. ‘You won’t get rid of this muck for at least six washes. And you’ll never get a shade like mine out of a packet. Let me give you a proper bleach and tint.’

‘That’d be permanent, wouldn’t it?’

‘Oh, definitely – except for touching up the new hair as it grows.’

‘Suppose I wanted my own colour again?’

‘You could be tinted to it, while the new hair grew – but you won’t want to be. Girls usually want to go redder and redder, or if I give them a blonde tint, they want to go blonder. None of them want to go back.’

Should she risk it, and arrive in London ready for the fray? But before deciding, she asked the times of the trains.

‘Only two good ones a day and you’ve missed the
nine-twenty
. The other’s not till two-thirty so you’ve lots of time. Oh, come on, dear – I’m in the mood to do you a lovely job. And I’ll style it for you, too. A windswept might suit you or an urchin. I’d rather not decide until I’ve got the colour right. Okay if I go ahead?’

‘Okay.’ Merry, looking at her reflection disgustedly, had decided almost anything would be an improvement.

‘Then that’s the last you’re going to see of yourself until I’m through,’ said Daurene, swinging Merry’s chair round so that it faced away from the looking-glass. ‘You’d be surprised how many girls lose their nerve the first time and want me to stop. They say children and fools should never see a job till it’s finished – not that I mean you’re either, dear, still … Take your coat off and put this on.’ She produced a surplice-like overall. ‘We’ll start by getting the soap out.’

A shallow metal bowl was fixed to the chair. Merry was tilted backwards so that her head rested on it. Full-length, with her feet supported by a stool, she felt as if about to be guillotined – face upwards.

She was never able to recall clearly all the stages and details of her metamorphosis: the washings and dryings, the dampings and dabbings, the strange smells … Twice, a dryer was lowered over her head and she was handed what Daurene called ‘books’, actually the floppiest of women’s magazines. At first Daurene talked willingly, prodded by questions. Merry was anxious to avoid being questioned herself as she had not yet invented reasons for arriving wherever she had arrived. She learned how Daurene had got backing for her business, ‘And I’m doing ever so well, dear – booked solid from twelve o’clock, couldn’t have taken you if I hadn’t had a cancellation. It’s quite a job, running the place single-handed. Excuse me a minute, dear.’ She dived into the shop to serve a customer, giving Merry time to decide on being a typist about to look for work in London.

Daurene, on returning and hearing this, merely said:

‘Fancy! Well, good luck, dear – and now don’t talk for a bit. I’ve got to concentrate.’ From then on, she spoke mostly to herself, giving advice and encouragement. ‘A bit more – no, don’t overdo it … That’s got it. Now we’re getting somewhere.’

At last the tinting was finished but Merry was still not allowed to see herself. ‘Not till I’ve styled you, dear,’ said Daurene, brandishing the scissors. ‘They say it takes a man to cut hair but don’t you believe it.’

The next quarter of an hour was alarming. Daurene cut, combed, flashed and clashed her scissors, to the accompaniment of remarks such as, ‘My word, you’ve got a lot to get rid of – what a mop!’ Hair flew into the air, the floor was thick with it – or rather, Merry guessed it was; she did not dare to look down, fearing that unless she kept quite still she might lose an
ear. Once she ventured: ‘Surely that’s enough?’ Daurene went on cutting.

But at last she put the scissors down, combed the hair carefully and said: ‘Well, there we are – and if you don’t like it I’ll break my heart.’ She then swung the chair round to face the mirror.

Merry’s first sensation was one of utter astonishment – not at the colour, which she adored, or at the styling; she knew instantly that this ordered disorder was both fashionable and becoming. What astounded her was that she simply did not recognize herself. The face in the glass might have been that of a stranger. But how splendid – especially as the stranger was far prettier than she had ever hoped to be. And she looked
years
older,
quite
grown up. Her delight was so great that she forgot all about Mavis, and it was the voice of Merry at her youngest which exclaimed: ‘Oh, thank you, thank you! It’s marvellous – like a lovely copper cap! Oh, darling Daurene, you’re a great artist.’

She then sprang up and hugged Daurene who looked extremely astonished. Fortunately she then heard a customer in the shop, so Merry was left alone long enough to calm down and grow older.

After gazing at herself again, most blissfully, she opened her suitcase. Now she would change into the white sweater. Daurene, returning after showing the customer into the next cubicle, said: ‘My word, that suits you! Well, here’s your little bill.’

It was a large little bill but Merry grudged not one penny of it. She even added a handsome tip – then wondered if she ought to have tipped a proprietress. Daurene obviously did not share that doubt. She just said, ‘Thanks ever so and ever so glad you’re pleased. Well, bye bye,’ and then went off to the next cubicle. The customer had brought a hairstyle cut out of a ‘book’. ‘Might do a lot for you,’ Daurene pronounced earnestly. Merry knew she was already forgotten. Her magical
transformation had, for the magician, been just a run-of-
the-mill
morning’s work.

Now Mavis must be left behind in the hair-strewn cubicle. Merry unpinned the wilted pink rose and dropped it into the wastepaper basket. ‘But who am I now?’ she wondered, stepping out into the bright little High Street.

She had, when planning her escape, chosen the name she would use: Mary Young – Mary because it would sound to her like Merry, and Young because it seemed to her funnily suitable. But she now thought the name insufficiently dashing for her new appearance. She would be … Mary le Jeune. A charming name – but not right yet; ‘Mary’ was too meek. She could risk sticking to ‘Merry’ now that she looked so different. Yes, Merry le Jeune. And now she must invent a voice.

But could she really sustain any voice but her own? How carelessly she had forgotten to be Mavis! Safer to use her own voice and concentrate on speaking more slowly – and thinking before she spoke. Extreme calmness must be her keynote: confident calmness. And she felt calmly confident now, strolling along with her copper-capped head held high. She also felt hungry – and here was a café open. She went in.

It was a bleak little place, most unlike the glorious and dimly lit Espresso coffee bars she had visited in London. But there was a massive juke-box (to her shame, she did not know how to work it) and the girl behind the counter was obviously a teenager. One might add to one’s sparse teenage vocabulary. Merry made her way through the almost empty café, perched herself on a high stool, and remarked: ‘I guess I’m early. Not many cats around the joint yet.’

‘Haven’t got no cats – nor no joint either,’ said the teenager. ‘Only do ham sandwiches.’