Set Me Free

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Victoria longs for romance, but is stifled by her mother and sister. She escapes to Paris and a loveless marriage, and begins to understand, possibly too late, what true love is all about.

Release date: October 16, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 409

Sample

Mrs. Waide walked into the sitting-room carrying a large cretonne bag which contained her knitting, and was duly impressed by the sight of her eldest daughter seated by the window, bent over a pair of stockings which she was darning.

Mrs. Waide’s eyes, always a little weak and watery, had in them a perpetual expression of anxiety, but they mellowed with the pride which she could not conceal when she looked at Freda. Dear Freda! Always a model girl! Never wasted time or money. There she was, using the last vestige of light for her work. Although it was not yet dark this mild May evening, it was high time the lights were put on and the curtains drawn. But dear Freda was so thoughtful about the electric-light bill. Thoughtful, too, about expenditure, knowing that her parents were not over prosperous.

Mr. Waide ran a bookshop and library in Norman Park. One of South London’s garden cities. But in no profession is it easy to make or save money, these days. Freda appreciated that, and was never extravagant.

She looked up from her darning as the older woman entered the room.

‘Hullo, Mother,’ she said in a voice which was as lifeless as her appearance. She then bent over her work again.

When Mrs. Waide settled herself on the window-seat beside the girl, any onlooker would have been struck by the strong resemblance between mother and daughter. Both gave out that extraordinary suggestion of lifelessness.

It might have been that forty-five years of domestic struggle, indifferent health, and lack of any real excitement or change accounted for the devitalising of the mother. Yet her daughter, aged twenty-four, seemed to possess little more vitality.

Both were fair and had anæmic complexions. The blondness of Freda’s hair which waved naturally and was her one beauty, had in the mother’s case turned to ashen hue.

Both women had ‘buns’ in the nape of the neck, and affected the same kind of clothes. Nondescript, neat, chosen generally for economy rather than beauty. During the daytime they often wore the rather ‘arty’ type of cotton smock, in which they did their share of domestic work.

Neither of the women used make-up; and since Freda’s lips were naturally pale, it enhanced her ‘dead’ look. She considered herself superior because she avoided artificial colour. She shared her mother’s opinion that lipstick and rouge were either fast or theatrical. Yet Freda considered herself up-to-date. She was of a hard-working disposition and had delighted the family by getting a diploma at a big London Domestic Economy school.

She was a domesticated, practical young woman. Mrs. Waide never quite understood why she was still unattached. She felt sure her Freda would make a perfect wife. She could never see that the overdose of efficiency in Freda and that touch of cold superiority in her were what kept most men away.

‘Where’s Vicky?’ Freda asked her mother, looking up from her darning again.

At once Mrs. Waide sighed. That sigh was ever ready at the mention or thought of her other and younger daughter, Victoria.

‘In her bedroom, I think.’

‘Mooning about as usual, I suppose,’ said Freda.

‘She’s in one of her “moods”,’ said Mrs. Waide. ‘And as I told your father, before he went to business this morning, I am quite sick of Vicky’s moods. Why can’t she be more like you?’

Freda shrugged her shoulders.

‘She isn’t like anybody in the family. When Tom Collinson was here on Sunday, he said it was hard to believe that she was a Waide.’

Mrs. Waide sighed again.

‘I really get worried about Vicky, Freda. Tom’s right. She isn’t like any of us. Your father seems to think she takes after his mother. I never saw her, of course. She died before I married. But you know she was a mixture of Irish and French, and there you are—it’s a wild strain and it’s skipped a generation and come down to Vicky. She ought to have been a boy—I say so every day of my life. Then her father could have thrashed some of the nonsense out of her. I don’t seem to have any control over her these days.’

‘It’s a shame,’ said Freda. ‘Poor Mother!’

‘Well, I’ve always got you,’ said Mrs. Waide. ‘And I must say I need some backing up. Your father is much too inclined to be soft with Vicky. He says she has an artistic temperament, and ought to have gone on the stage.’

‘A lot of rot,’ said Freda. ‘I’m surprised at Father. And I think its frightful, the way Vicky goes on about films and film stars, and the rest of it. She never seems to me to want to sit down and do anything sensible.’

Mrs. Waide’s face once more creased with anxiety. Vicky was such a worry! Her mother had never understood her even when she was a small girl. Instead of being an easy little thing like Freda, subservient to control, the second daughter who had arrived when Freda was four, had speedily shown herself the antithesis. Difficult, passionate, different … with a superabundance of vitality which at times had taken her listless mother’s breath away.

When, as a small child, Vicky had been naughty or shown temper, she had received the stereotype treatment—nagging, slapping, petty punishments. And always Mrs. Waide hoped that Victoria—thus named after her paternal grandmother—would quieten down and develop some of Freda’s quiet, studious tendencies.

But nothing like that had happened. Vicky had been a rebel from birth. A rebel she remained. She did not seem to be able to fit in with this life which the rest of them were prepared to lead in their quiet suburban home. And for the last year, since her twentieth birthday, she had been pestering the family to allow her to go out and take a job.

Now had Freda wished to leave home and get a job, Mrs. Waide would not have minded. She was sure Freda was to be trusted and would be as excellent and decorous in her work as she was at home. But Vicky! … Heavens! … They’d be crazy to allow her to escape the shelter of her home and the authority of her parents. Her head was far too full of foolish romantic notions. And she was much too pretty. Mrs. Waide had to admit that Vicky scored over Freda in looks; although Vicky possessed the type of beauty which Mrs. Waide understood and appreciated as little as she did her younger daughter’s gay, impulsive nature. No amount of nagging prevented Vicky from using a lipstick, and some powder. But even without it she had so much warmth and colour that it made Mrs. Waide quite uneasy to look at her. She had a mysterious flame-like quality that drew men to her as swiftly and readily as they were chilled by Freda.

Take Tom Collinson, the mother thought, now, as she embarked upon the wool-cardigan which she was knitting for her husband. Tom was a good, steady fellow, the son of one of Mr. Waide’s oldest friends, and with a flourishing poultry farm down in Sussex. One would have thought that he would have seen in Freda the ideal wife. But, no! It was Vicky who had attracted him since she left school. He had proposed to her half a dozen times and been turned down. More was the pity. Tom was an optimist if he thought Vicky would make him happy, but at least if she married him the family could feel that she was out of harm’s way, in safe keeping for the rest of her life! And perhaps marriage and one or two children would calm her down; knock a few of those absurd, independent ideas out of her head.

The droning sound of a mowing machine made Mrs. Waide open one of the casements and thrust out her head.

Into view came the small coatless figure of a thin little man with shirt-sleeves rolled up, and a hat set incongruously on his head. He was pushing the mower doggedly. His wife screamed above the noise of the machine:

‘Stan-ley! You ought to come in. The dew is falling, and you will get your bronchitis again.’

Mr. Waide paused. He pushed the hat back on his head, wiped his streaming forehead, and nodded to his wife. Under shaggy brows he had small sad eyes, like a monkey’s. He was a kind little man, easily managed. At his business he showed an efficiency and superiority worthy of his eldest daughter. But at home he was retiring and dominated by his wife—and Freda.

He did not want to leave his work. He enjoyed mowing the lawn on a mild May evening. He liked to see the stars come out in the tranquil sky, and to gaze upon the fine Darwin tulips which he had planted with his own hands, and which were flaunting their gay colours in all the beds. He liked the peace of the garden, and the promise of the spring. But he was too used to doing what his wife wanted to dream of making a protest when she called him. Besides, there was his bronchitis. He had had it two years running, and he did not want it again.

‘Stan—come in!’ Mrs. Waide called again.

‘Yes, dear,’ he said, and turned the mower in the direction of the tool-shed.

Then from an upper window came another voice. Not a sharp, nagging voice; but a warm vibrant one which had music in it.

‘Daddy, darling! I’ve got a surprise for you. Go into the drawing-room and see what you shall see!’

Mr. Waide looked up at the window. That was Vicky. He could just discern the outline of her face and figure. He was too short-sighted to see more, but his whole face softened.

‘Just going in now, dear,’ he called back.

He was so fond of Vicky. Fonder of her than of anyone else. She was warm and pretty and alive. He knew, of course, that she was difficult; a little too modern and go-ahead, maybe. And he knew that her mother and sister were good, God-fearing creatures. But there were times when he had to confess to himself that his young Victoria was the one human element in the home. Like his lovely, madcap Irish mother whom he remembered in the days of his boyhood. Ah! But she’d had a wild streak in her. It made one feel a bit anxious about Vicky who was so like her. He hoped the child would come to no harm. She had a generosity and a sense of humour which those others in there did not possess, though he felt guilty for admitting it. There were plenty of times when he longed to back her up during some of the rows, but he dared not. It wouldn’t be loyal to her mother, and Freda had such a sharp tongue. Peace at any price was his motto.

He washed his hands and joined the family in the drawing-room. The curtains had been drawn now and the lights switched on.

‘Well, well,’ said Mr. Waide, sinking into a chair, and feeling in the pocket of his coat for a pipe. ‘It’s a grand evening. Vicky says she has got a surprise for us and is just coming down.’

‘What does she mean?’ asked Freda.

‘I don’t know, I am sure, my dear,’ said Mr. Waide.

‘Perhaps she is bringing down a bit of mending,’ said Freda; ‘that would be a surprise.’

‘Oh, Stanley!’ said Mrs. Waide in an aggrieved voice, ‘you’ve brought mud in on your shoes. Can’t you ever remember to scrape them properly.’

‘Sorry, dear,’ said Mr. Waide, and looked with a childish dismay at the marks on the carpet pointed out to him.

He was thirsty, and would have loved to have taken a long draught of beer after that mowing. But Gracie did so dislike him drinking. He had become almost teetotal for her sake. He suggested that she might ring for Edith, their maid, and ask for some lemonade.

Mrs. Waide clicked her tongue.

‘You know it’s Edith’s night out.’

Freda laid aside her stockings.

‘I’ll get it,’ she said.

Mr. Waide gave her a timid smile.

‘Don’t worry, dear.’

He was always a little afraid of Freda. She could be surprisingly caustic for one so young. But before Freda reached the door, there came the sound of Victoria’s warm voice.

‘Family! You will not go to the films, so I bring the films to you. Behold!—Dolores Del Rio!’

Mr. Waide looked expectantly at the door. So the ‘surprise’ was to be one of Vicky’s theatrical ‘turns’. She adored dressing up—dissolving herself into some glamorous personality of the film or stage. And very good she was at it. She made him laugh.

Mrs. Waide’s face retained its anxious expression, Freda merely looked bored.

Into the room came Victoria Waide; shut the door and stood with her back against it. The other Waides stared at her. She never seemed to be really one of themselves, and in this disguise she was a stranger. ‘Dolores Del Rio’, she called herself. Well, it was not a bad impersonation. But it irritated Freda: as though that radiance and beauty were a reproach to her own pallor and negativeness.

Grace Waide felt a fleeting pride that she was responsible for so much charm and loveliness. Albeit the pride was speedily tempered by a total lack of understanding, and her inveterate feeling of anxiety.

Against the white-painted door stood Vicky, slim and alluring in an old black velvet evening dress which Mrs. Waide had bought in which to attend a business dinner of her husband’s two winters ago and which she hadn’t worn since. She hardly ever changed into full evening dress. Vicky had drawn it tightly about her, and wound a red scarf about her hips. Over her shoulders was an old Spanish shawl which had belonged to her grandmother. Between her teeth, an artificial rose; one slender hand upon her hip, the other brandishing a cigarette. Her whole attitude was Southern and abandoned. It would have caught and held the attention of any film producer in a studio. It was so full of natural grace.

But all that was alive and magical in her face was lost upon her family, who saw only a ridiculous mask of lipstick and rouge. Yet against the ivory paint of the door, her face was exquisitely chiselled and her hair, parted in the middle and sleekly combed off her ears, looked like black satin. Black hair, wide blue eyes, high cheekbones, and curling red lips, gifts bequeathed by that grandmother who had passed on to Victoria Waide some of the mystery of Ireland, much of the glamour of France, and made of her something that these people to whom she belonged found inexplicable and even embarrassing.

Vicky retained her pose only for a few seconds. During those few seconds she had been Dolores Del Rio, to herself, prepared to enact a scene of passion and beauty for these people who were her flesh and blood, yet strangers to her.

Then the spark grew cold and flickered out, extinguished by what she saw before her. Freda’s cold, pale, rather disgusted face. Her mother’s anxious, uncomprehending one. Her father’s—more kindly than the rest, but with a pathos that hurt Vicky because it suggested that although he could not quite understand her, he, himself, went through life equally misunderstood. Poor henpecked little man!

Vicky’s slim body relaxed. With a sweep of her hand as graceful as any of her gestures, she took the rose from her lips and flung her cigarette into the fireplace.

‘Well, that’s that,’ she said.

And her brilliant eyes took on that mixture of dissatisfaction and defiance which ‘the family’ could always bring into them.

‘Dolores Del Rio’ was gone. In her place was just Vicky Waide, born and bred in Norman Park, educated at a local mediocre ‘school for young ladies’, never having known any of the real thrills of life beyond those which were depicted for her in film and play and book. One in a million girls. Yet one out of a million who could not settle down at home and wait drearily until some ordinary man married her and put her into a similar home; one who could not willingly accept the dull routine, the common tasks, the total lack of originality and colour and warmth, things which she knew life held somewhere—somewhere outside this place, beyond these people.

There was a spirit inside Victoria Waide which was like a wild bird beating its wings against a cage. But now that her moment of thrill, when she had first struck her dramatic pose, had passed, she was just a young, restless, disappointed girl, ‘dressed-up’, out of place, quite aware that she looked a little ridiculous in the eyes of her family.

Freda returned to her darning and said:

‘I don’t know why you waste your time like that.’

‘I don’t know why I do,’ said Vicky coldly.

‘You look very nice, dear,’ said Mr. Waide.

‘I didn’t say you could put on my dress,’ complained Vicky’s mother.

Through narrowed lids, Vicky looked at them all. Her red lips curved disdainfully. She said:

‘It was just a bit of fun. I tried to impersonate Dolores Del Rio as she looked in that film the other night.’

‘I can’t say I approve of these films,’ said Mrs. Waide. ‘They put a lot of stuff and nonsense into young girls’ heads.’

Vicky folded her arms.

‘My dear Mum, the other day you were saying you were more modern than most people.’

‘So I am!’ said Mrs. Waide. ‘I’m not at all old-fashioned—am I, Freda?’

‘Certainly not,’ was Freda’s retort. ‘But Vicky thinks you’ve got to be thoroughly fast if you want to be modern.’

Vicky crimsoned. She looked lovely with that burning colour on her high cheekbones.

‘Dear Freda! I suppose you wouldn’t enjoy anything but educational films and the Newsreel. You never were romantic, dear. But, thank goodness, I am.’

‘Now you two, don’t start nagging each other,’ said Mrs. Waide plaintively.

‘She makes me tired,’ muttered Freda.

‘Not as tired as you make me, Freda,’ was Vicky’s swift retort. ‘Everything I do or say is wrong, and if I want to have a good time I’m just fast. I’m sick of it! And as I’m always annoying you all, why don’t you let me go away and find a job?’

‘Now don’t start that again, Vicky,’ said Mrs. Waide. ‘We’re not going to have you leaving home, so get it into your head once and for all, please.’

Vicky’s wide blue eyes, which had such big pupils that they looked almost black when she was excited, flashed angrily at her mother.

‘All right! Keep me here if you want to! I shouldn’t have thought you’d want to. But you can’t force me to stay once I’m twenty-one.’

‘Meanwhile,’ said Freda, in her most freezing voice, ‘I suppose we’ve got to put up with this sort of misery for another year.’

‘Well, you’re such a comfort to everyone,’ said Vicky. ‘It ought to make up for what I lack—my God!’

‘Tut, tut,’ put in Mr. Waide mildly. ‘Strong language, my dear.’

Vicky made a gesture of exasperation, turned, and was about to fly out of the room when the door opened and revealed a tall, fair man standing in the hall. He wore a tweed coat and grey flannels and held a hat in his hand. So busy had the family been with their bickering, they had not heard his approach.

‘Why, hullo, Tom!’ said Mrs. Waide, rising from her chair.

Tom Collinson answered her greeting, but his gaze was directed at Vicky. In an astonished way he regarded her theatrical dress.

‘What’s all this?’ he said, with a laugh.

Vicky, still hot with rage against her sister and against life in general, controlled herself sufficiently to speak to the young man whom she knew was in love with her.

‘Oh, good evening, Tom. I was just doing a bit of dressing up for fun.’

‘Sort of Spanish, isn’t it?’ said Tom, and advanced farther into the room.

Freda had put her darning away and was looking at the visitor eagerly. The only time when her face became at all animated was when Tom Collinson appeared on the scene. But only for an instant, then her features resumed their cold rigidity. What was the use of an extra heart-beat at the sight of a man who was in love with someone else? Freda thought it hard and cruel that Tom should love Vicky, who didn’t care a fig for him, and treated him so casually.

Freda would have given much for a chance with Tom. She had always admired him. The fact that he was stolid, dull, and typically British in his reserve, his dislike of betraying what he felt, appealed to her just as much as it irritated Vicky. Freda knew that she would have made a good wife for Tom. He was mad to want that foolish, headstrong sister of hers, with all her queer ideas.

‘I’ll just go up and change my clothes,’ said Vicky. ‘You’ll be staying a while, won’t you, Tom?’

‘You wouldn’t like to come out for a walk, would you?’ he asked, twiddling his hat between his fingers.

Vicky hesitated. A walk with Tom wouldn’t be an excitement. Just another proposal, stammered with his usual difficulty in expressing himself, and followed by her refusal.

Tom was a good sort, but as far removed from the romantic lover of Victoria Waide’s dreams as the earth from the sun. However, she was fed up with the family and staying indoors just to listen to their nagging. She might as well take a walk with Tom.

‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll come out.’

Freda went back to her chair and her darning. She applied her needle furiously, conscious of a jealousy which made her almost hate her young sister.

‘Sit down, my boy, and have a smoke,’ said Mr. Waide.

Tom took the cigarette that was offered, and the two men then entered into a discussion about the price of eggs, which was Tom’s subject of the moment.

He was heart and soul engrossed in his poultry farm. He was returning to it tomorrow, having stayed up here in Norman Park for two or three days with a married sister.

It was at a local Christmas party tha. . .