The Willow Cabin

Pamela Frankau

Description

Caroline is twenty-two, with a promising stage career. Then she meets Michael Knowles, a successful middle-aged surgeon, and her career slips into second place beside brief meetings, midnight trysts and the welcome anonymity of foreign cities, as they seek to evade the shadow of Mercedes, Michael's estranged wife. London of the 1930s gives way to the Blitz and the pain of separation, but the intensity of wartime does nothing to deflect Caroline's obsession with the three-cornered relationship. In America, some years later, she meets Mercedes, the wife, for the first time. Discovering an unexpected bond with her, Caroline begins to comprehend her own misinterpretation of the past...

Sujets

• Fiction
• Romance
• Military

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 11 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774644805
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Willow Cabin
by Pamela Frankau

First published in 1951
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

The Willow Cabin

by
Pamela Frankau
To the memory of
D. M. F.,
H. W.
and
M. V. W.

PROLOGUE (1936)
“Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope.”
Twelfth Night , Act I, Scene II
PROLOGUE
The curtain rose upon the company standing in line. Fromthe third row of the stalls, Margaret Radcliffe-Prestonobserved her daughter Caroline, who was giggling at someprivate joke with the young man who had played the partof the detective. This was entirely to be expected ofCaroline. Obviously she was not in the least impressed withher good fortune.
“At twenty-two,” Margaret thought, “with her smallexperience, it is something to have a part in a Brookfieldplay. And a part that is not unimportant. She looks asthough she doesn’t care. She isn’t even bowing with theothers. She just goes on giggling at that boy; her mannersare terrible.”
She tried to excuse the girl on the grounds that thesuccess of Jay Brookfield’s intellectual thriller might not beapparent from Caroline’s side of the footlights. Yet surely,this solid applause, these rocketing shouts of “Author!”must make it plain. “It will run a year,” said the man onMargaret’s left. “And if it did,” Margaret thought,“Caroline would still be unimpressed.”
“Here he comes,” said Margaret’s husband.
Jay Brookfield stood quite still, facing the crescendo ofsound; a young man with a pale, triangular face, black hairand a long thin body, a sexless harlequin of a young man.When he bowed he bent so low that you could see the backof his neck and the top of his high white collar. Hestraightened himself and spread out his hands on either sideof him, to include the company. His face was unsmiling;set. His voice, hard and clipped, said, “All I can say is thatif you have enjoyed watching it as much as we have enjoyedyour reception of it, you must have had a very good timeindeed.” He ducked again to kiss the leading lady’s hand,fondled the leading man’s shoulder, bowed so low that heseemed about to turn a somersault and strode into thewings. The curtain fell. “Now,” said Margaret, while herhusband folded her chinchilla wrap across her spare whiteshoulders, “we must find Caroline.”
“Is she coming to supper with us?” Leonard asked; he was alarge red man with china-blue eyes and a stubbly moustache.
“I imagine so,” said Margaret. Leonard’s attitude to hisstepdaughter was unfathomable; she did not know whathe had thought of Caroline’s performance. This was not hiskind of play. Leonard’s idea of the theatre was like Mr.Van Koppen’s idea of Paradise, “something with girls init,” something called a Show. He seemed more at homewhen they had followed the crowd through the pass-door.There was an atmosphere of the Stage-Door-Johnny abouthim now and he should properly have headed for one of thetwo main dressing-rooms, whose open doors with thesycophants pouring through showed spectacular glimpsesof flowers, of coloured greeting-telegrams stuck aloft onwalls and mirrors. Only a few people went the way takenby the Radcliffe-Prestons, down a long tunnel of corridorand up three stone steps.
“Hullo, you two,” said Caroline; she shared this restrictedspace with the young woman who played the part of themaid. She was already in her dressing-gown, with a whitecloth tied over her hair; she was smearing off the last of themake-up, her fingers tipped with gouts of cold cream.
To Margaret there was about the small dressing-room anatmosphere at once embarrassing and raffish, two adjectivesthat she often applied to Caroline. She found it hard to lookstraight into the glass at her daughter’s reflection. It wasimpossible to see whether the girl was hideous or beautiful.She had Margaret’s high cheekbones; not Margaret’sarched nose, blue eyes and tiny mouth. Caroline hadgreenish eyes that slanted, a short blunt nose, a mouth thatwas large and square. She could look like a deer or a Mongolor a decadent nymph; at the moment she was just a shinymask. Then she pulled off the white turban, shook her short,brown, curling hair and turned from the glass to grin at themboth. “We’re a hit; blow me down; what a thing. . . .”Caroline said, in her deep, resonant voice that was, Margaretthought, so much more cultivated than its pick of words.
“You are indeed. Congratulations, Caro,” said Leonardheartily. “You were very good,” said Margaret, hearing herselfsound more temperate than she had intended. This wasCaroline’s inevitable effect upon her.
“I don’t think I was,” said Caroline, “I loused up the lastspeech; and that was Bobby’s fault for making me giggle.Know what the bastard did?” she asked. “When he handedme the photograph—and my line, get it, is ‘But she’s exquisite’—itwas just a picture of a baby hippopotamus.”
She passed the powder-puff across her nose and chin,dabbed at her eyelashes, painted her mouth carefully and stoodup, saying: “Do have a drink; there’s some whisky left, isn’tthere, Jenny?” “Ooh, rather,” said the other young woman,appearing from behind the screen. “May I introduce MissWebster? My mother and my stepfather.” “How dew yewdew. Dew let me give yew a drink”; her refinement waspressed down firmly over a Cockney accent; she had flashingteeth.
“No thank you, really,” said Margaret, “I never drinkwhisky. And we’re just going out to supper. You’re coming,aren’t you, Caroline?”
“Me? No. Thank you kindly, but I’m going to Jay’s party.”
“To Jay’s party?” Margaret was impressed in spite ofherself.
“Well, to be accurate, it is his sister’s party. She has amansion off Sloane Square.”
“Do you mean Mrs. Alaric Forrest’s house?”
“Et’s roight,” said Caroline in exaggerated cockney; shedisappeared behind the screen.
“Is the whole cast invited?”
“Couldn’t say. Kate Forrest came in to watch some of therehearsals and gave me my summons. She is fun. Almost a bitch,if you see what I mean.”
“Caroline, must you use that language?”
“I don’t know; that is what I ask myself,” the deep voicegrumbled. Leonard yawned engulfingly. He said: “Well,better be getting along.” Margaret hesitated; it seemed thatthere was something more to be said, something gracious andfriendly, but when she spoke she found that she had asked:“Will you be late back?” The corollary: “You must be tired,”she did not say, and the question sounded hectoring, fussy.
“Probably; and probably drunk.”
Leonard said: “That’s the stuff,” with another attempt atheartiness.
“Good-night, Caroline. And many congratulations.”
“Thank you, Mamma.”
Margaret said to Leonard as they walked toward their car:“At Kate Forrest’s house she will certainly meet the right kindof people; the people she affects to despise.”
“Alaric Forrest’s a good chap,” said Leonard. “Can’t say Icare for Kate; none of those Brookfields appeal to me much.That Jay. . . . They’re Jews, aren’t they?”
“I believe there is some Jewish blood. But Jay and his brotherboth went to Winchester. The brother owns the Brookfield ArtGalleries, you know.”
“M’m,” said Leonard, who obviously did not know. Heopened the door of the car and Margaret settled herself; foronce she could feel a little courageous about Caroline’s future.She could see it only in terms of marriage; the rich, respectablemarriage that so often appeared a forlorn hope. In her mindshe began to conduct one of her periodical arguments withCaroline’s father. “You see . . . the Forrests invite her. That isbecause of me; Kate Forrest wouldn’t invite just any littleactress who had a part in her brother’s play. I have givenCaroline something; something more than this absurd passionfor the stage, inherited from you, with everything else that isawkward about her.”
“Didn’t give her a name, though, did you? I see that sheappears on the programme as Caroline Seward, bless her. . . .”
“By adoption, her name is Radcliffe-Preston; and from thefuss that she makes about calling herself Seward, anyone wouldthink that you were Gerald du Maurier instead of a third-rateperformer in concert-parties.”
The image of Caleb Seward was quite clear now. She sawthe laugh, the hat-brim, the cigarette that clung to the lowerlip. The battered gentleman-of-fortune was laughing at her.
“You’ll never forgive me, will you?” the phantom voicemurmured. “Not as long as our brat continues to shape likeme.”
She blinked his image away. Beside her Leonard was saying:“ ’Must say, Caroline takes it all pretty calmly.”
“She’s spoiled,” said Margaret. “Everything has come tooeasily. Thanks to you.” She patted Leonard’s arm; he said:“Oh, I don’t know,” embarrassed as ever by any reference towhat he had done for Caroline.
ii
Caroline decided that she liked the party. She saw it as on amotion-picture screen; she had no sensation that she belongedto it; it was something to be watched. Jay’s harlequin facecame near; he was carrying a glass in each hand. He said:“Hullo, puss. Would you like one of these?”
“Thank you kindly. Aren’t they bespoken?”
“One for me; one for you. You were very good to-night,” hesaid, emphatic, unsmiling, ramming the point home withdeadly seriousness. “You looked almost as lovely as you looknow and you made that problematic young woman quitedazzlingly clear. But I don’t want you always to play problematicyoung women.”
It was flattering, she supposed, that he should be standinghere, having his drink with her; there was a circle round themnow; still he talked to her alone. This would please her mother,she thought, and at once began to sneer at it inside.
“In future, you will come to me before you decide anythingat all,” said Jay. “Is that a