The New Moon with the Old by Dodie Smith Page B

soft; it felt just a bit like a birdcage.
    If only her hair wasn’t spoiling everything! But wait – might it not be turned to advantage? Might it not be just the hair to escape in, a far more effective disguise than the one she had planned? But she must dress up to it – or rather, down to it. Off came the white sweater, on went an old pink blouse. She would pin a wilted rose to the black coat and – yes, she had some blue earrings from a cracker. She now looked superbly common, a word she had always been discouraged from using but exactly right for her present appearance. And as well as common, she was common-place; no one would give her a second glance.
    What sort of voice should she use now? At that instant, a girl called Mavis was born. She spoke sloppily, called everyone ‘dear’, very frequently said ‘honestly’ and ‘definitely’. From now on Merry’s inner monologue was mainly spoken by Mavis. Accepted Southern English was in abeyance.
    Mavis required make-up. Out of the suitcase came Merry’s newly acquired cosmetics. Blue shadow on the eyelids; orange lip-stick; too much pink powder. Merry was enchanted by her skill but shocked that she could look so awful.
    Creative effort had given her an appetite. She ate some of the chocolate and biscuits she had bought that afternoon; then brushed her teeth. Mavis remarked: ‘Fussy, aren’t we, dear?’ Merry said: ‘God’s given me good teeth and I intend to keep them.’ Mavis then said: ‘Well, get a move on, ducky. And take the envelope that had the hair stuff in it. We don’t want anyone to know what we’ve been up to.’ Merry was gladto find Mavis was no fool; they would get on well, sharing a mind and a body.
    She glanced at her clock. Heavens, how fast the night had gone! It was time to begin her farewell letter. (A job for Merry; Mavis went off duty.) She wrote:
    Dear Richard,
    When you read this I shall be far away. I refuse to waste dear Jane’s money – or my own time – on any school. Don’t worry about me. I shall be absolutely all right. I am older, in myself, than any of you know.
    If you want a good explanation for my absence, say I have gone to stay with an aunt. Not Aunt Winifred – no one would believe I’d go to stay with her. Just say I’m with an aunt of mother’s. She never had one. I think Betty’s conscience will allow her to pretend she believes the aunt story. Give her my love and tell her I only kept my plans from her because I felt knowing them would make it difficult for her if you questioned her.
    I implore you not to ask the police to find me. They wouldn’t manage it, anyhow – remember I am a master of make-up. If I read in the papers that they are after me, I won’t be answerable for the consequences. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED . I might even slip out of the country with a troupe of dancers and you know what that could mean. But if you leave me alone I will take the greatest care of myself and come home unblemished – in six months.
    Goodbye, good luck, and lots of love to you all from your prodigal sister
    Merry.            
    P.S. I have quite a lot of money and am taking my diamond brooch. If pawned, it would get me home even from Land’s End or John O’Groats – neither of which places I intend to visit. Trust me – and LEAVE ME ALONE .
    She read through the letter and carefully blocked out ‘Remember I am a master of make-up.’ Why give such a possibly valuable clue? Besides, it was conceited.
    Now she was ready to start but it was still too early. The most tricky part of her escape was choosing the exact moment to leave. She must go before it was light but if she tried to cross the fields at the back of the house while it was dark she might sprain an ankle or fall into a ditch. Her objective was a road travelled by an early-morning bus to London. She had worked it all out: the time the sun would rise, the time the cross-country walk – around four miles – would take, the time the bus would