Dear Trustee Page 3

  For some minutes she walked along slowly, reviewing the extraordinary way in which her life had changed since she had entered that office an hour or so ago.

  It was characteristic of Gregory Picton, she felt sure, that he should instruct her to wait until he decreed the time for a meeting between her and her mother. It was equally characteristic of Cecile that she determined to do nothing of the kind.

  In fact, having glanced at her watch, with an air of obstinate determination which would have given Mr. Picton food for thought, she quickened her steps until she came to Fleet Street once more. Here she hailed a taxi and drove straight to the theatre where she had been with Maurice Deeping on the previous evening.

  She was trembling as she entered the foyer, but whether with excitement or an obscure sense of guilt she was not sure. Here she briefly studied the list of the cast which hung near the box office.

  Mrs. Edenham—that was the name of the character in the play! And opposite it was the disconcertingly unfamiliar name—Laurie Cavendish. Her stage name, of course. But it seemed an incongruous name for one’s mother to have, even for professional purposes, somehow.

  Cecile approached the box office and, in as confident a tone as she could manage, asked for the telephone number of Miss Laurie Cavendish.

  “We don’t give the phone numbers of the cast,” replied the indifferent young man framed in the small opening. “You can write in.”

  “But this is urgent!” Suddenly, it seemed to Cecile that it was.

  “I’m sorry,” the young man said, without any sign of regret.

  “But I—I know her very well.” Strangely untrue, of course, and yet with a sort of moving rightness about it.

  “I’m sorry,” said the young man again. “Next, please.”

  And Cecile realized that someone was standing behind her, no doubt waiting impatiently to enquire about tickets.

  Slowly she moved away. And, as she did so, a door at the end of the foyer opened and a man came out. Her glance passed over him without interest in the first moment. Then sudden, unmistakable recollection came to her. Even without make-up he was easily recognizable. This was Lucas Manning who was walking towards her.

  Afterwards Cecile wondered how she found the courage and resolution to address him. Perhaps the sheer necessity of catching the movement or forever losing it prompted her. At any rate, she stepped boldly forward in his path and said, pleadingly, “Mr. Manning—” too late she remembered that Maurice Deeping had said he was Sir Lucas—“please could I speak to you?”

  “Yes?” He paused and gave her his famous smile.

  “I want to get in touch with someone in your cast—” she spoke quickly, breathlessly—“Miss Laurie Cavendish.”

  She was aware suddenly that the famous actor-manager’s glance travelled over her with increased attention and interest.

  “If you send in a note at the stage door, it will be given to her,” he said.

  “But that means quite a lot of delay. I wouldn’t see her until tomorrow then.”

  “And is it so necessary to see her today?”

  “Yes. It is,” Cecile insisted, and waited hopefully.

  To her surprise, there was quite a pause before Sir Lucas replied. And then he neither denied her request nor granted it He asked, in a rather odd tone of voice:

  “Are you a relation of hers?”

  “Why, yes.” Cecile was slightly taken aback.

  “I thought you must be. You are so like her.”

  It was the second time this fact had been remarked upon, and it gave Cecile the extraordinary feeling that she wanted to cry.

  “Don’t think me inquisitive,” Sir Lucas went on, “but what relation are you?”

  Cecile swallowed, hesitated, and then said, “I’m her daughter.”

  “I see.” Sir Lucas bit his lip. “Is she expecting you?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Then I think,” he glanced at his watch, “you had better come with me into my office for a moment. As a matter of fact, she is here in the theatre now.”

  “Here?” Cecile felt her throat and mouth go dry.

  “Yes. We have just had a run-through of the second act. But I don’t think it would be fair, either to her or tonight’s performance, to spring an unexpected daughter upon her without notice.” As he spoke, he had shepherded Cecile through the door at the back of the foyer, along a narrow passage, and into an unexpectedly large and pleasant office.

  It was empty. But on the desk was a photograph of the girl Cecile had seen in the box the previous evening, and there was also, Cecile noted with the sharpened sense of clarity which goes with intense excitement, a photograph of two little boys. The younger one angelic and unruffled, the older one grave and responsible looking.

  “My wife and my two boys,” explained Sir Lucas, as though he were introducing them. “Sit down and relax.”

  Cecile sat down, but it was beyond her to relax. She gazed anxiously up at Sir Lucas and asked:

  “Wh-what did you want to say to me?”

  “I’m not quite sure.” He gave a short laugh. “Only I feel some sort of preparation is necessary before what might be called the big scene. How long is it since Laurie—since your mother—has seen you?”

  “About fifteen or sixteen years. I don’t remember her at all. But my father died recently and I found out about—about my family circumstances. And this afternoon I discovered that my mother is alive, instead of dead, as I imagined. And—and I want to see her.” Cecile gave an unexpected little gulp which shamed and surprised her.

  “Yes, of course. I do understand.” Sir Lucas gave her the look of sympathetic understanding which he used with immense effect in the third act of his current play. "But you will—”

  He stopped speaking as there was a knock on the door. And, after a second’s pause, he called out, “Come in.”

  Even before the door opened, some instinct warned Cecile what was going to happen, and, although her heart beat unevenly, she was not really surprised that the woman who entered was uncannily like herself. Older, of course, and with an indefinable air of knowledge and experience quite at variance with Cecile’s rather artless expression.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Sir Lucas. I thought you were alone—” The woman broke off suddenly and stood staring at Cecile.

  There was the most extraordinary moment of complete silence, which seemed to press on one’s ears as acutely as sound. Then she said, slowly and rather huskily:

  “Who are you?”

  CHAPTER II

  For a cowardly second Cecile half hoped that Sir Lucas was going to reply for her. Then, when it became obvious that he was not, she drew a quick breath and said:

  “I am Cecile.”

  “Cecile?” Her mother came slowly over to her, the expression on her face so complicated that it was difficult to tell what emotion predominated. Then she took her daughter by the hand, though she did not attempt to kiss her, and said, “Why have you come?”

  “Why, because I—I wanted to see you, of course—to know you. I didn’t even know you were alive until this afternoon, when the lawyer told me. It’s an immense discovery for me.”

  “I suppose it must be.” Her mother smiled faintly at last, though she still looked, in some odd way, wary and on the defensive.

  “Laurie—” Sir Lucas intervened at this point—“I’m going to leave you both now. This is your big scene, not mine. But stay on in the office if you like. It’s more private than a shared dressing room. And—try not to be too emotional over this, or you’ll be unfit for tonight’s performance.”

  “I’m not being emotional over it at all,” Laurie Cavendish replied. “At least, I don’t think I am.” She pushed back her hair. “All the emotion was years ago. But thank you, Sir Lucas. We shan’t stay long, I imagine.”

  “Well, do as you like.” The actor-manager patted Cecile on the shoulder as he passed. “Come and see Laurie in the show one night. She’s good.”

  Then he went off,
leaving Cecile wondering what she was to do next.

  “Aren’t you going to sit down?” She gestured rather diffidently towards a chair. “There’s quite a lot to talk about, isn’t there?”

  “I don’t know. Is there?” But her mother sat down in one of Sir Lucas’s comfortable armchairs.

  “I suppose you knew that Father died recently?”

  “I saw the announcement in the papers.” Incredibly, her mother contrived to sound quite indifferent. “Does that leave you alone in the world, Cecile?”

  Cecile hardly liked to say, “Except for you.” So instead she said, “Except for three trustees Father appointed.”

  “Three trustees!” Her mother laughed contemptuously. “How like him to overdo things. Why three, for heaven’s sake? And who are they?”

  “Aunt Josephine is one of them.”

  “Josephine?” An amused, half-reminiscent glint came into her mother’s handsome eyes. “I’d forgotten her very existence until this moment. Who else?”

  “A Mr. Deeping. But he is ill and elderly, I understand. So, in actual fact, I think only one trustee will take an active interest, and that is Gregory Picton. He’s a barrister.”

  “Gregory Picton?” Again there was that defensive, almost wary look in her mother’s face. “Oh yes, I suppose your father might well choose him.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Slightly. I don’t like what I know.”

  It was on the tip of Cecile’s tongue to say that was her own position exactly. But some obscure sense of loyalty to her trustee, which surprised herself, held her back. Instead, she said, “I have only just met him.”

  “Did he mention me?”

  “Oh, yes. He told me I had seen you last night in the play.”

  “You saw me last night?” For the first time, her mother displayed lively interest. “What did you think of the show?”

  “I thought it was wonderful,” said Cecile sincerely.

  “Did Gregory Picton bring you?”

  “Oh, no. A—a friend of mine did. Mr. Picton happened to be sitting just in front of us.”

  “He didn’t suggest you should come and see me, did he?”

  “Oh, no!” said Cecile again, but this time with emphasis—more emphasis than she had intended—and her mother asked quickly, “Did he tell you not to come and see me?”

  “He wanted me to wait until he had talked to me first.”

  “And why didn’t you do what he told you?” her mother asked curiously.

  “I thought,” Cecile said simply, “that I was a better judge than Mr. Picton of the right time to go and see my own mother.”

  “You’re rather sweet,” exclaimed Laurie Cavendish, amused and not displeased, Cecile saw, and at last she leaned forward and kissed her daughter. “How would you like to come home with me now and see where I live?”

  “I should love it!” Cecile looked eager. “Is it far?”

  “Not by taxi. Come along.”

  Together they went out of the office, but not through the foyer this time. A door at the other end of the passage took them out into a side street, and here Cecile’s mother hailed a taxi.

  During the short drive very little was said between them, but Cecile kept on telling herself, “It’s all right. It’s going to be all right. It was a shock for her. But she’s pleased really.”

  Presently Cecile realized that they were quite near her own hotel. And then they stopped before a tall house in a quiet but otherwise unattractive street near Lancaster Gate.

  “Here we are.” Her mother paid off the taxi and led the way up the shabby stairs. “It’s expensive here, of course,” she said, to Cecile’s surprise. “But one has to live somewhere reasonably central, or else one drops out of everything.”

  As she was walking on ahead Cecile could not see her expression, but there as a discontented note in her voice, and Cecile thought, with sudden and dismayed conviction, “She isn’t at all a happy person.”

  The flat to which she was presently admitted, on the top floor, proved to be unexpectedly spacious and attractive, and for the first time Cecile realized why her mother had added “of course” to the statement that it was expensive.

  “It’s charming!” Cecile went to the window of the big living room, and looked out through a gap between houses to a beautiful view of the Park. “And even if it is expensive, it’s worth it for the view.”

  “If you happen to have the money.” Her mother laughed drily, “But I’ll have to get someone to share it, now they are putting up the rent. And I shall hate that.”

  “Oh, yes. That would spoil it,” Cecile agreed. “Unless—” A sudden, breath-taking idea made her stop. “You wouldn’t like—I mean—I’m probably coming to London to live, and I’ll have to find a place. You wouldn’t like me to share it with you, would you?”

  “Your trustee, or rather, Gregory Picton, wouldn’t agree.”

  “They haven’t the final say, I mean, he hasn’t. Both he and Mr. Carisbrooke kept on saying the trustees could act only in an advisory capacity. Well, I don’t have to take their advice, do I?”

  Her mother laughed, and actually patted Cecile’s cheek. “You don’t believe in the family tradition, then? This isn’t just a visit of curiosity, to be followed by complete ostracism?”

  “Of course not. How could you think so?”

  “Because it would be the most natural thing,” her mother said drily. “Very few people ever outlive their early upbringing or prejudices. I don’t know why you should be different.”

  “But I wasn’t given any early prejudices. I was just told that you were dead.”

  “Yes. That’s true.” Her mother looked reflective. “So you think you might like to live here with me?”

  “If—if you liked the idea—yes.” Cecile stifled the sudden sense of misgiving which told her she was acting too hastily.

  “There is nothing in the world I should like better,” her mother said slowly, and so totally unexpectedly that Cecile felt the tears come into her eyes.

  “Then of course I’ll come,” she cried. And, without any reservations this time, she flung her arms round her mother and hugged her. “It’s a wonderful solution.”

  “I hope you can make Gregory Picton see it that way,” was her mother’s dry reply. “Would you like a drink, Cecile? I can’t keep you long, because I want to rest before the performance.”

  “I’d rather have some tea,” Cecile said frankly.

  “Very well, if you don’t mind making it yourself. You’ll find everything in the kitchen—through the door on the right. If you are going to live here, you’d better start finding your way about.” And, flinging herself down on the sofa by the window, she seemed prepared to leave Cecile to her own devices.

  Cecile was enchanted, and asked if she would have tea too. “Yes. China tea. And you’ll find some biscuits in the square red tin.”

  To Cecile it seemed that she was being made free of a new home, to replace her old one. In the small but well-appointed kitchen she found all she wanted, and she took the greatest pleasure in setting an attractive tea-tray for herself and her mother.

  “Look, Mother! I found everything.” She carried in her tea-tray and set it down triumphantly.

  Her mother glanced over her handiwork with a faintly indulgent air, but she said firmly,

  “For heaven’s sake! Don’t call me that. You put years on to my professional age.”

  “Oh—” Cecile looked dashed. “What shall I call you, then?”

  “Laurie, I suppose. What else?”

  Cecile did not know what else. Only she felt that Laurie was an absurd name by which to call one’s mother.

  However, she saw that this was neither the time nor the subject for argument. So she changed the subject to the much more congenial one of the play she had seen the previous night.

  “You’re really a wonderful actress, aren’t you?” she said almost naively. “I was simply thrilled.”

  “No. I’m no
t. I’m a good, reliable stand-by. I haven’t even a glimmer of the divine spark. I know that now.” Laurie Cavendish spoke with a sort of bitter candour.

  “Oh, that isn’t true!” Cecile was emphatic. “I just could not imagine anyone playing that part better than you did.”

  “But then you’re not very experienced, are you?” Her mother smiled slightly. “And, anyway, in all essentials, that part is me.”

  “Oh, it isn’t!” Cecile was shocked, and showed it. “Why, she’s rather a—a horrid woman in the play.”

  “Well, I’m rather a horrid woman,” was the cool reply. “You don’t battle with life as I have had to do, and watch most of your hopes wither, without becoming rather horrid in the process.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.” Cecile was distressed. “I’m sure it isn’t true. You’re just posing.”

  “Sometimes one has to if life’s tough,” her mother told her. But she smiled and gave Cecile that half-indulgent glance again. Then, without embarrassment or apology, she said that she must go.

  “It’s later than I thought.” She glanced at her watch. “You can come again sometime.”

  “But when?” Cecile was taken aback at the vagueness of this.

  “Oh—I don’t know. Where are you staying? The Stirling House Hotel? Oh, that’s quite near. We’ll arrange something.”

  She did not offer to kiss Cecile goodbye. But neither did she seem to mind when her daughter bent over and lightly touched her cheek with her lips.

  “Goodbye, Laurie—” Cecile managed it quite well—“I’ll see you soon.”

  “Perhaps,” was the skeptical reply. And then Cecile went. She walked the short distance to the hotel in a turmoil of excitement and agitation. And so concerned was she with all that had happened that she was quite astonished to be greeted by Maurice Deeping as she stepped inside the hotel. He was like another chapter in her life. Quite a distant chapter, at that.