“What’s that?”

“Piskies are the little people. They get up to all sorts of tricks in that part of the country. They’re a sort of fairy … not very good ones. They drive people mad and make them do all sorts of odd things. That’s what they call being pisky-mazed. I went to the old witch in the woods once. People down there are very superstitious. They believe things you’d never hear of in London. They were always looking out for white hares, which mean something disastrous, of course, and knackers in the mines who did evil deeds to warn those who had offended of worse to come.”

“It sounds a fascinating place. I’d love to see it.”

“Some places are fascinating to talk of but uncomfortable to be in. There was one thing I had to do. To get away from it.”

“Tell me about the witch in the woods.”

“She came from a Pillar family. People of Pillar families have special gifts because one of their ancestors once helped a mermaid who was stranded ashore to get back into the sea, and for ever after members of the family had the power to see into the future. There are lots of other wise people down there. There are seventh sons of seventh sons. They can see what’s coming. Then there are footlings, which means they were born feet first. And all these people are supposed to pass the gifts bestowed on them down through the family. So there are no shortage of these wiseacres.”

“It does sound exciting.”

She shrugged that off. “My Pillar told me that I could have a brilliant future. It would be my choice. There were two paths. How it comes back! I can hear her now. ‘There be two paths open to ‘ee, me dear. Take one and it leads to fame and fortune. Take the other and you’ll have a good quiet life … but if you do you’ll never be at peace. You’ll always be telling yourself, that’s what I should have done.’ “

“And you took the road to fame and fortune. Wasn’t that marvellous, and how clever of the Pillar to know it.”

“Well, love, it wasn’t all that profound. There was I, singing and dancing all over the place. Everyone knows what everybody else is doing down there. You can’t keep secrets. I expect I talked. ‘I’m going to London. I’m going to sing and dance on the stage.’

That sort of thing gets round. But that is what she said, and then I knew it had to be.”

“What did Gran’fer say when you went away?”

“I wasn’t there to hear, love.” She laughed. “I just have to imagine. Gone to Satan, I reckon, who was heating up the fires to make my arrival in hell especially hot.”

“You’re not frightened, are you?”

She burst out laughing. “What, me? Don’t you believe it! I reckon we’re out here to enjoy ourselves. We’re the ones who’ll get to heaven, you see … not those who go around making people’s lives a misery.”

“How did you get to London?”

“I got lifts. I worked on the way … mostly in inns. I got together a bit of money … and there I was, on to the next part of the journey. I was working in a coffee shop not far from here. People used to come in from the theatre. There was one man … a regular … who took an interest in me. I told him I wanted to go on the stage. He said he would see what he could do. I used to walk round in my spare time and look at the theatres … seeing the people’s names up there and saying, ‘I’ll be up there one day.’ “

“And you were.”

“And I was. Took a bit of time, though. This man introduced me to an agent, who didn’t look all that excited to see me and was only obliging a friend. I sang for him, and although he pretended not to be impressed, I could see the change in him. Then he looked at my legs and I did a few dances. He said he’d let me know. The result was a place at the back of the chorus. I remember it well. Mary, Quite Contrary. Awful show, but a start. I was told to get dancing lessons. I did. It wasn’t much but it was a start.”

“And that was when you met Martha.”

“That was a good day. She said, ‘You can do better than that.’ Didn’t I know it! They didn’t like my name. Too much of a mouthful, Daisy Tremaston. The agent suggested Daisy Ray. It always makes me laugh when Mrs. Crimp and the girls call me that. See how close it is, Daisy Ray? Well, it’s all right. It sort of slips off the tongue. But is it a name people remember? Then it came in a flash.

Daisy Ray … Desiree. Just that. You can get away with things like that in the profession. So I became Desiree.” “And you took the road to fame and fortune.” “Here! What are you doing, keeping me here talking? It is time I was up! Dolly will be here in a minute.”

I was regretful. The session was over, but I learned a little more from each one, although I was aware that a curtain could come down if I was too curious; and what I wanted most was to hear about my father.

I was sixteen and quite mature for my age. I had learned a good deal about theatrical life and a little of the world. There were always people coming in and out of the house; they talked continuously and if I was there I listened. Charlie Claverham and Robert Bouchere were constant visitors. They both had houses in London, and Charlie had a home in Kent, Robert one in France. They came to London on business and were devoted to my mother. She had other admirers who came and went but those two remained.

There came a day when Dolly called at the house in that certain frame of mind which I now knew meant that he had found what he called an excellent “vehicle” for Desiree. It often happened that what he considered excellent was in her opinion plain rubbish, and then we were prepared for trouble. It came.

I sat on the stairs near the drawing room, listening. Not that that presented any strain. Their raised voices reached most parts of the house.

“The lyrics are awful.” That was my mother. “I’d be ashamed to sing them.”

“They’re delightful and will please your public.” “Then you must have a poor opinion of my public.” “I know all there is to know about your public.” “And in your opinion they are only worth rubbish.” “You must get this notion right out of your little head.” “If your opinion of me is as low as that, then I think we have come to the parting of the ways.”

“My opinion of you is that you are a good musical comedy actress and many like you have come to grief by fancying themselves too good for their public.”

“Dolly, I hate you.”

“Desiree, I love you, but you are an idiot and I can tell you this. You’d still be in the back row of the chorus if you had not had me to look after you. Now, be a good girl and have another look at Maud.”

“I hate Maud, and those lyrics embarrass me.”

“You, embarrassed! You’ve never been embarrassed in your life! Why, Maud is grand opera compared with Follow Your Leader!”

“I don’t agree.”

“A good title, too. Countess Maud. They’ll love it. They’ll all want to see the Countess.”

“I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.”

“Well then, there’s only one thing for me to do. I shall get Lottie Langdon to do it. You’ll be green with envy when you see what she makes of it.”

“Lottie Langdon!”

“Why not? She’d fit the part well.”

“Her top notes are shaky.”

“That has a special appeal to some people. They’ll love the story. The shopgirl who is really the daughter of the Earl of Somewhere. It’s just what they like. Well, I’ll be off … to see Lottie.”

There was silence.

“All right,” said Dolly at length. “I’ll give you till tomorrow morning. Then I want a straight answer. Yes or no.”

He came out of the room. I watched him go and then I went up to my room. I felt certain that soon my mother would be plunging into rehearsals for Countess Maud.

I was right. Dolly was paying frequent visits to the house. George Garland, the pianist who always worked with my mother, was in constant attendance, and the household was humming tunes from Countess Maud.

Dolly appeared every day with new ideas which had to be fought out; Martha was dashing round finding patterns and buying what would be needed. It was that period with which we were all familiar, and we should all be relieved when the alarms that flared up during it were over and the first night’s misgivings were proved to have no foundations and we were settled for a long run.

We were getting near opening night and my mother was in a state of nervous tension. She had always been uneasy about Countess Maud, she declared; she wasn’t sure of the lyrics and she thought she should be wearing blue, not pink, for the opening scene. She was sure her gown would clash with the costumes of the chorus; she was getting a little husky. What if she should have a sore throat on the opening night?

I said to her: “You are thinking of every calamity which could befall you. You always do and they never have. The audience will love you and Countess Maud is going to be one of your greatest successes.”

“Thank you, pet. You are a comfort to me. There’s something I’ve just remembered. I can’t possibly dine with Charlie tonight.”

“Is he in London?”

“He will be. He’s coming up today. I’ve got a rehearsal this afternoon and I’m not satisfied with the dance routine with Sir Garnet in the last scene, when he sings: ‘I’d love you if you were a shopgirl still.’ “

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I think he ought to come on from the other side … and I’ve got to make sure I don’t drop my feather boa when I do that quick twirl at the end. But the point is, I’ve got to let Charlie know. Take a note to him for me, will you, darling?”

“Of course. Where is he?”