Death of an Old Girl Read online

  ‘Male or female?’ enquired a ringing young voice.

  In the outraged and delighted silence which followed, Margaret West seized her opportunity.

  ‘I’m afraid I must rule you out of order, Miss Baynes. Now, may we have a proposition from the meeting, please?’

  Not without noise and flippancy, a donation of twenty-five pounds was agreed upon.

  ‘Is there any other business?’

  None was raised. Struggling to keep the relief out of her voice, the President declared the meeting adjourned.

  ‘I suggest a drink before lunch,’ Helen Renshaw said to the committee.

  Two

  ‘Quiet on the stairs, please.’

  Notice in School Wing

  To most old Meldonians the unorganised afternoon was the best part of Festival. After lunch there was a general dispersal. A fair number of people made for the hard courts, to watch the annual tennis-match in the intervals of chatting to friends. The fine weather had encouraged the young to bring bikinis and swimsuits, and their suntanned bodies in gay, exiguous garments sprawled decoratively on the concrete surrounds of the swimming bath. Everywhere small groups sat and talked, or wandered about visiting old haunts, noting the minutest changes with unfailing accuracy.

  In the background Jean Forrest and her staff moved between kitchen and dining-room with the precision of automata, as they cleared up lunch and prepared to launch a buffet tea.

  Ann Cartmell had gone straight up to the studio. It was a large room on the top floor of School Wing, at the far end, with a big north light, below which a door gave on to a fire-escape. To convert the room into an exhibition gallery its normal equipment had been stacked away. Easels and drawing-boards were propped under the windows, and stools, chairs, puppet-theatre, paper press and laden tables jostled each other round the walls. Screens on which drawings and paintings were mounted were grouped about the floor, and a centre table carried specimens of pottery, leatherwork and other crafts practised at Meldon.

  Ann looked round critically, and went on to the little platform at the top of the fire-escape to await visitors. She leant her arms on the iron railing and looked across the games pitches to the hills. She was aware of a medley of thoughts and emotions. The attack on her work that morning had shaken her, in spite of its almost ludicrous source and heavy defeat. It had brought back nightmare memories of hopeless failures and hostile classes … but then there had been the praise from Rennie for everyone to hear… Thrilling, even if slightly daunting, was the prospect of next Thursday at London Airport, and what lay beyond… He’d said he might be able to run down and say goodbye… Mummy and Daddy would be there of course. She really couldn’t try to choke them off, they’d be so hurt. Still … every lineament of Clive Torrance’s face was visible to her, blotting out the summer landscape.

  Footsteps and voices roused her sharply, and she turned and re-entered the studio, a little taut at the prospect of possibly critical strangers. She felt suddenly clumsy and defensive as a group of people came in. Then she recognised the O.M.S.’s President. Margaret West smiled and held out her hand.

  ‘Miss Cartmell? I’ve managed to escape for a few minutes. I was absolutely determined to get up here after all I’d heard from Sarah and Kate. Do show me everything.’

  Immediately warmed, Ann lost her self-consciousness.

  ‘How nice of you to come,’ she said. ‘There are two things of Kate’s in the exhibition. She and Sarah are awfully nice to teach.’

  The publicity which the art department had received at the Annual General Meeting brought a constant flow of curious visitors during the afternoon. To her surprise Ann soon found that she was enjoying herself. They were all so unexpectedly friendly, interested about her scholarship, and some really quite intelligent about modern methods of teaching art. Her pale, sensitive face became attractively flushed, and when absorbed in a discussion she made the characteristic gesture of rumpling her short dark hair.

  ‘Yet, these are all by Form I, — eleven-plus,’ she told an enquirer. ‘No, none of the children are particularly gifted. It’s just that most children have a natural sense of form and significance, and if you don’t fuss them too much about technique at the early stage, they often express ideas astonishingly well. Look at this one — A Windy Day. Can’t you just feel that tree tugging at its roots?’

  ‘Well, Miss Cartmell, I think they’re very lucky to be taught by someone like you. D’you remember trying to copy those ghastly urns outside Old House, Molly? I gave up drawing by persuading my people to let me learn the clarinet, and that I’d need extra time for practising.’

  ‘Nobody bothered to find out if I had a natural sense of form…’

  ‘Hul-lo, Miss Cartmell! How’s things? Do show us the nude that sent off the Bayne this morning … why, it’s only a sunbather’s back! What a sell! Fab, though, isn’t it, Micky? Is it one of Jane Winton’s? I thought so. Lumme, that girl can paint! Surely that’ll win something?’

  ‘Is there anything of my young cousin’s, Miss Cartmell? Mary Foxworth? I’m Annette Moresby. Before your time, of course.’

  ‘When do you let them start oils?’

  Absorbed in answering questions Ann did not notice the Sixth Form girl at her side until she touched her arm.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, Miss Cartmell, but there’s a phone call for you. Mrs Kitson says take it in the inner office — it’ll be quieter.’

  ‘Oh! Thanks, Diana. I’m so sorry, Mrs Annersley. I shan’t be long.’

  Slightly startled, she ran downstairs. Home? Something come unstuck about Thursday?

  ‘Did Mrs Kitson say who it was?’ she asked, catching up the girl who had brought the message.

  ‘A personal call from London, I think she said?’

  Surely ticket agencies were shut on Saturday afternoons? Ann ran into Old House, dodging groups of people standing about in the entrance hall, and arrived breathless in Joyce Kitson’s office.

  ‘Take it in there,’ said the secretary, indicating a glass partition. ‘Endless interruptions here.’

  Ann dived in and took up the receiver, her hand trembling a little.

  ‘Ann Cartmell here… Yes, I’m here to take a call.’

  There was a click and a short pause. Then a man’s voice came through. Her heart gave a single painful leap.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘It’s you … oh, but that will be marvellous. Are you quite sure you can spare the time? About eight? I may not be out of Festival supper until just after, but will you go straight up? You know the way… Yes, they’re all on show, and we’ve got to choose three… Yes, I’ll tell her … of course she’ll understand… Oh, it’s super! Yes, I will … on the table. It’s most frightfully good of you to come in… Goodbye, Mr Torrance.’

  She stood for a moment trying to control her excitement, and then, feeling an urge for immediate action, thrust open the unlatched door and dashed into the main office, almost knocking down an elderly Old Meldonian in black who was standing by Joyce Kitson’s empty desk with Beatrice Baynes… Snooping, I bet, thought Ann, making a perfunctory apology and hurrying out. To hell with the old hag, anyway… He’s coming tonight … in only a few hours from now…

  The buffet tea was always an informal, protracted affair, and on this occasion it seemed endless to Ann Cartmell as she hovered impatiently for a chance to speak to Helen Renshaw. At last there was a brief lull in the slow stream of departing O.M.S, and she bore down on the headmistress.

  ‘Oh Miss Renshaw,’ she said speaking rather hurriedly, ‘Mr Torrance rang up just now. He’s passing near here about eight this evening, and offered to come in and tell me what he thinks about the final choice of paintings for the competition. I’d be awfully glad of his opinion. He said he didn’t want to bother you on such a busy day, so I said it would be all right for him to come. I hope it is?’ she ended, on an anxious note.

  ‘Of course,’ Helen Renshaw answered, observing Ann’s flushed cheeks and excited eyes with interest. ‘
It’s good of him to take so much trouble over us. I shall be sorry not to see him myself, but Mrs West is staying overnight in the flat, so I’m rather tied this evening. In any case it’s an art department matter which I’m sure you’ll cope with very nicely. Give him my thanks, naturally. The entry form’s signed, by the way. It’s in Mrs Kitson’s office.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Miss Renshaw. I’ll file in the names and do up the parcel before I go.’

  ‘When are you getting away?’

  ‘Early tomorrow. I want the time at home for packing and everything.’

  ‘Well, as we both seem to be in for a busy evening, shall we say goodbye now? And the very best of luck for America. I’m delighted that you’re having this chance.’

  ‘Thank you so much … and for everything. It’s been a marvellous year — I’ve loved it. Goodbye…’

  Back in the Staff House, half a mile away on the outskirts of Trill, Ann soaked in a hot bath after a strenuous hour of getting the studio back to normal. It looked pretty good now, she thought, and as though she were right on top of her job. Suddenly afraid that she had lost count of time, she sprang up, scattering water in all directions and grabbing her bathtowel. She used talcum powder liberally and hurried back to her room. No, it was all right, she had heaps of time. Her hair was awful — if only she’d had it done instead of waiting till Wednesday… Attending to her make-up with unusual care, she decided to wear a very simple frock with a striking abstract pattern in different shades of blue. Anyway, it’s not commonplace, she thought, looking at herself in the glass, and collecting a coat and handbag. As she came out into the landing, the sound of a nearby door opening sent her running downstairs and out to her car. Someone else could give Madge Thornton a lift. She just couldn’t face trying to make sympathetic conversation when she wanted to sing and shout out loud…

  The gathering at supper was comparatively small, as invitations were restricted to long-distance O.Ms and the elderly and infirm who wanted to stay for the night. The staff, however, were expected to be present and help entertain the visitors. Ann controlled her nervous impatience with difficulty. She had chosen a seat with a good view of the Quad, and as the hands of the clock crept slowly towards five minutes to eight she began to feel almost sick with anticipation. He could arrive at any minute now… She refused a meringue with her fruit salad, and became involved in a tiresome conversation about American food. It momentarily distracted her attention, and when her eyes returned to the window she realised with horror that she had almost missed Clive Torrance’s arrival. With a sharply indrawn breath she saw him disappear through the door at the foot of the stairs leading up to the studio, and gave an agonised glance in the direction of the high table.

  Precisely at this moment Helen Renshaw rose to her feet.

  ‘Benedicto benedicatur,’ she said in her clear, controlled voice, as the scraping of chairs died away.

  Without apology Ann slipped out of the nearest french door. Running across the Quad and up the stairs, she paused outside the swing doors of the studio to take breath, pushed them open and went in.

  Clive Torrance was standing in front of one of the screens, his left hand in his trouser pocket and his right arm crooked behind his back, a characteristic attitude which made Ann’s heart turn over. He swung round, smiling, as she came in.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘You’ve escaped then?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, coming towards him and feeling hopelessly tongue-tied. ‘It — it is good of you to come.’

  He cocked an eyebrow at her.

  ‘That frock suits you. It brings out the rather unusual blue of your eyes.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was unusual.’

  ‘Didn’t you? And you an artist? It suggests variations on the theme of blue. I hate those hard, clear blue eyes, especially in women. That’s not an English design, is it?’

  ‘No. It’s Italian. This is one of the frocks I’ve got for America. I don’t want to disgrace you when I’m staying with your friends.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have sent you to them if I thought there was any chance of that, my dear girl, either personally or professionally. By the way, I heard from Ryder Vanderplank this morning, confirming that everything’s lined up for meeting you at the airport and taking you on a lightning tour of New York. Have you heard, too?’

  ‘Yes, I had an awfully nice letter from Mrs Vanderplank. I do think it’s good of them to do all this for me — at least, it’s for you really, of course.’

  Clive Torrance laughed, his eyes still on her.

  ‘It’ll be for you all right when you’ve been with them half-an-hour. Even if you indulge in a bad bout of self-depreciation they’ll put it down to British reserve, and think it’s cute!’

  Ann looked at him in dismay.

  ‘Am I really as bad as all that?’

  He sat down on the edge of the table, and took out a cigarette case.

  ‘May I? You don’t ever, do you?’ He flicked a lighter. ‘Your reaction to life is still almost entirely defensive. Outside your painting and teaching, that is. Take me, for instance, that potentially dangerous thing, a virile male. For two years now you’ve cunningly cast me as a protective father-figure. A prominent role, admittedly, but inhibiting. Granted I’m twenty years older than you are, but not quite in the sere and yellow, I hope.’

  Completely taken aback, on the brink of tears and yet aware of rising excitement, Ann slowly subsided on to the table, several feet away from him.

  ‘Well?’ he said, cocking an eyebrow again. ‘Producer at the bar, are you guilty, or not guilty?’

  ‘About the father-figure?’ she said, hardly looking at him. ‘I suppose so. I never even thought…’

  He got up and came and stood in front of her, putting his hands on her shoulders. Still at a loss, Ann gazed up into the face which she had so often visualised in her day-dreams … the dark, dominant eyes under the thick brows, the well-shaped nose and the deep cleft between chin and lower lip… With a sudden movement he slipped his hands under her arms and lifted her to her feet.

  ‘It isn’t a father-figure you want, my dear, whether you know it or not…’

  As he kissed her full on her lips, gently at first and then more passionately, Ann’s initial shock passed quickly into ecstatic response. She pressed closely to him, thrilling to every practised movement of his hands, until the sound of a door slamming somewhere in the building made him release her swiftly, swinging her round and depositing her in front of one of the paintings. As their eyes met she experienced the pleasure of conspiratorial amusement.

  ‘A girls’ school is quite the wrong milieu, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Now, when you come back…’

  Ann nodded, still unsure of paradise. Clive Torrance looked at his watch and exclaimed.

  ‘My God,’ he said, ‘I’m late already. We simply must concentrate on these things… This one definitely, I think. Very good flesh tones. How old is this girl? Sixteen? She’s promising — ought to go on. Now this one has got plenty of vitality, but the composition’s top-heavy, don’t you think?’

  They moved from painting to painting, in the satisfying harmony of a common enthusiasm. Clive Torrance’s comments were penetrating, often bearing out her own opinions, sometimes congratulatory to herself.

  ‘Now this one’s the pick of the bunch so far. What’s it called? Midsummer Stream? She’s got a real hint of the shimmer in Manet’s Summer. There’s a very good reproduction in this month’s Artifex: I’ve got it here. Look.’ He extracted the periodical from his briefcase, flicked over the pages and showed it to her.

  ‘Yes. That implied quivering in the air.’

  ‘Exactly. Well, let’s put Midsummer Stream in, anyway. Now for this last lot.’

  Finally, the three paintings he had chosen lay on the table.

  ‘Listen, I can take them up to town for you,’ he said, after a last scrutiny, ‘and save you all the trouble of packing them for the post. Can you just put something round them quick
ly?’

  ‘Yes, of course. That’ll be marvellous. I’m hopeless at doing up parcels.’

  She rummaged in a drawer for brown paper and sheets of cardboard.

  ‘I’ll have to collect the entrance form in the office, though, and just enter the names and ages. Are you sure you can wait?’

  ‘Quite. I’m so late already, a few minutes won’t make much difference. Is this the oil colour-box? I hope Brocatti & Simpson’s packed it properly?’

  ‘Oh, yes, beautifully. Isn’t it simply super? It’s the most wonderful present I’ve ever had.’

  ‘Glad you like it,’ he said, examining the contents critically. ‘You deserved a present — you’re the first protégée of mine to get one of these awards, you know. Ready? Splendid. Put that damn parcel down and kiss me goodbye properly. I shan’t dare embrace you in front of your parents on Thursday…’

  They went down the stairs together and out into the Quad, still discussing the paintings, Ann concentrating with difficulty, her whole being in tumult.

  ‘Have you got your copy of Artifex?’ she exclaimed suddenly.

  ‘Hell! I forgot to pick up! No, of course it wasn’t your fault. I’ll dash back for it while you run on ahead and fill in the form. Meet you in the office.’

  Ann dashed into Old House, her heart singing, her whole world transformed. Joyce Kitson, still at her desk and surrounded by papers, looked up in surprise.

  ‘Can I have the entrance form for the art competition? Miss Renshaw said you’d got it. Mr Torrance is here and he’s going to take the entries up to London. He’s in a frightful hurry.’

  ‘That’ll save a lot of bother,’ Joyce Kitson said, searching in a drawer. ‘Here you are.’