“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?”