“When she is playing a part she somehow becomes that part and we all have to get used to it. At the moment she is Countess Maud.”

“And what is Countess Maud like?”

“She’s a shopgirl who is really a countess and she can’t make the simplest statement without bursting into song.”

He laughed. “It’s a musical play then?”

“That is my mother’s forte. She does very little else. It’s perfect for her. It is dancing and singing mostly, which she does to perfection. I shall be glad when Maud gets going. She’s always in a state of tension beforehand, though she knows, and we all know, that she is going to be marvellous on the night. Afterwards, it settles down and in due course she will become a little bored. Then it comes off and the whole business starts again. I like the resting times. Then we are more together and have lots of fun until she gets restless and Dolly turns up with a new play.”

“Dolly?”

“Donald Dollington. You must have heard of him.”

“The actor?”

“Yes, actor-manager. I think he goes in for producing more than acting now.”

The clock on the mantelpiece started to chime.

I said: “I have been here nearly an hour. And I only came to deliver a letter.”

“It’s been a most agreeable time.”

“They will be wondering what has happened to me. I must go.”

He took my hand and held it for a few moments.

“I have enjoyed meeting you,” he said. “I’m glad you came to deliver that letter.”

“I expect your father will bring you over to see us now that you are in London.”

“I shall look forward to that.”

“You must come to the first night of Countess Maud.”

“I shall.”

“I’ll see you later then.”

“I’m going to take you home.”

“Oh, it’s not very far.”

“I shall certainly come.”

He insisted and, as I was enjoying his company, I did not protest.

When we reached the house I asked him to come in.

“I look forward to meeting your mother,” he said. “She sounds delightful.”

“She is,” I assured him.

As we went into the hall, I heard voices coming from the drawing room.

“She’s home,” I said. “Someone’s with her. But come up.”

My mother had heard my arrival. She called out. “Is that you, darling? Come and see who’s here.”

“Shall … ?” murmured Roderick Claverham.

“Of course. There are always people here.”

I opened the door.

“Your journey wasn’t really necessary,” began my mother.

Charlie was sitting beside her on the sofa. He stared at my companion and I could see at once that he was deeply embarrassed.

“I was just telling Charlie that I had written him a note and you had gone to deliver it,” said my mother.

She was smiling at Roderick, waiting for an introduction.

Charlie said: “Desiree, this is my son, Roderick.”

She was on her feet taking his hand, smiling at him, telling him how delighted she was to meet him.

But I could see it was an awkward situation and I had made it so by bringing Charlie’s son face to face with him in my mother’s house.

My mother was very good at gliding over awkward situations. I felt this was like a scene in a play. Conversation seemed rather stilted and for some time Charlie himself seemed unable to speak at all.

My mother was saying, “How nice it is to meet you. Are you staying long in London? The weather is rather lovely now. I do enjoy the spring, don’t you?”

I fancied she was rather enjoying the situation, slipping with natural ease into the part she was called upon to play.

I said to Charlie: “I have been hearing about the wonderful discoveries on your land.”

“Oh yes, yes,” said Charlie. “Very, very interesting.”

My mother had to hear about them. She said how absolutely fantastic and how proud they must be and how wonderful to think of finding something that had been there all that time.

Then she asked Roderick if he would like a glass of sherry or something. He declined and said he really had to leave and how much he had enjoyed meeting us both.

“It makes me laugh,” said my mother. “There was I, sending a note to your father, when all the time he was on his way here.”

Charlie left with his son soon after that.

When they had gone, my mother lay back on the sofa and grimaced at me.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” she said. “What have we done?”

“What is this all about?” I asked.

“Let’s pray it never comes to the ears of the formidable Lady Constance.”

“I’ve learned this morning that that is Charlie’s wife. I never thought of Charlie’s having a wife.”

“Most men do have … tucked away somewhere.”

“And Lady Constance is tucked away in this wonderful old mansion with the Roman remains.”

“I should imagine she is rather like an old Roman matron herself.”

“What are they like?”

“Oh—those women who know everything, can do everything, never put a foot wrong, obey all the rules and expect everyone else to do the same … and very likely make ordinary people’s lives miserable.”

“Charlie must have told you about her.”

“I knew there was a Lady Constance and that’s about all. The boy’s nice. He takes after Charlie, I reckon.”

“Charlie is one of your best friends, and he has never told you much about his wife!”

She looked at me and laughed.

“Well, it’s a little awkward. Lady Constance would never allow her husband to have a friendship with a flighty actress, now would she? That’s why she’s never heard of me and we don’t talk of her!”

“But when Charlie comes to London so often …”

“Business, my darling. So many men have business which takes them from their homes. Well, I’m just a bit of Charlie’s business.”

“You mean she would object to his coming here if she knew?”

“You can safely bet on that.”

“And now the son knows.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have asked you to take that letter. I realized it as soon as you’d gone. I thought you would just drop it in.”

“I was going to, but the maid took me into the drawing room. I thought Charlie would be there and then Roderick came. I’m afraid it was my fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t. Mine if anyone’s, for sending you. Come. Don’t let’s worry about it. Charlie’s not a child. Nor is this Roderick. He’ll understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Oh … he’ll be discreet, that young man. He’ll sum up the situation. I liked him.”

“I liked him, too,” I said.

“Trust Charlie to have a nice son. Nice man, Charlie. Pity he had to get hitched up to the high-and-mighty Lady C. Well, perhaps that’s why …”

“Why?”

“Why he comes here, love. However, it’s a storm in a teacup. Don’t worry. Roderick will keep his mouth shut and Charlie will get over the shock of seeing his two lives touching each other for a minute or two. And then all will be as it was before.”

I was beginning to understand, and I was wondering whether it would be as it had been before.

Roderick Claverham’s visit to the house and the effect it would have on Charlie was soon forgotten, for the first night of Countess Maud was almost upon us. The house was in chaos. There were feverish misgivings, momentous last decisions about changing this and that; there were fierce refusals from Desiree, impassioned appeals from Dolly and noisy reprimands from Martha. Well, we had had it all before.

And then the night itself. The day that preceded it had been one of especially high tension, when my mother had to be left alone and then suddenly demanded our presence. She was worried. Should she change the bit of business at the end of the first act? Could she try something else at that stage? It was too late, of course. Oh, what a fool she had been not to think of it before. Was the dress she was wearing in the first act too tight, too loose, too revealing or simply plain drab? This was going to be the end of her. Who would want to see her after the flop this was going to be? It was a ridiculous play. Whoever heard of a countess serving behind a counter in a linen draper’s shop!

“It’s because no one has that it makes a play,” screamed Martha. “It’s a fair play and you are going to make it a great one— that’s if you can put a stop to your tantrums.”

Dolly strode around striking dramatic poses, his hand to his head appealing to God to spare him from ever working with this woman again.

“Almighty God,” he cried. “Why did You not let me take Lottie Langdon?”

“Yes, God, why didn’t You?” said my mother. “This silly Countess Maud would just have suited her.”

Then Dolly put on one of his Garrick poses and, with the resignation of a Pontius Pilate, cried out: “I wash my hands of this affair.” And with an appropriate gesture he turned to the door.

He did not mean it, of course, but carried away by the drama, my mother pleaded: “Don’t go. I’ll do everything … everything you want of me … even Maud.”

And so it went on. In earlier days I might have believed it was all coming to disaster, but now I knew they were all too professional to allow that. They did not mean what they said. They were placating Fate. Theatrical people, I had discovered, were the most superstitious on earth. They did not say beforehand: “This is going to be a great success,” because if they did, Fate, being the perverse creature it was, would make sure that it wasn’t. You had been arrogant to think it was your decision. So if you said it would be a failure, Fate would jeer: “Well, it won’t be—it will be a success.”