No Greater Love - Box Set

by Prowse, Amanda

  Momentarily dazed, Dot was aware of several shouts of ‘Oh no!’ and the collective gasps of thirty of London’s finest watching as she went sprawling. She lay back and looked up at the ceiling, noticing for the first time that it was painted with the most beauti­ful mural. Fat-bottomed cherubs played harps and lutes in each corner and there was a gold table stacked high with bowls of fruit and flagons of wine. Clouds parted to reveal a heavily bearded God with his arms spread wide and beams of sunlight shining through the gaps. She was captivated. Lowering her eyes from the ceiling, she saw a circle of faces above her. Dolly-peg lady, greedy bastard and the dust-and-fish-paste gang were among them. Someone reached into the circle and held onto both her hands, then she felt herself being pulled swiftly upwards.

  Finally upright, her attention was drawn to her right and the smeared khaki and tarnished brass of a uniform that had met with an unfortunate accident involving a platter of eggs. Dot bit her bottom lip. What had she done? Joan would go mad.

  She looked up at her rescuer. Her breath caught in her throat and her knees buckled slightly as she swayed. She was staring into the face of a black man and he was holding her hands. She was caught somewhere between fascination and fear; she’d never seen a black person up this close before, let alone held hands with one. But what surprised her more than anything was that it was the most beautiful face she had ever seen. He was the piano player.

  ‘Are you all right?’ His voice was like liquid chocolate, deep, smooth and with an accent she couldn’t place, like Ameri­can, but different. His big eyes, framed with thick curly lashes were so dark, she couldn’t see where the pupil stopped and the iris started.

  ‘I’m fine. You all right?’ she countered, looking at him through lowered lashes and wishing she had put more lipstick on.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, thank you, but I’m not the one that’s been wrestling on the floor with men old enough to know better!’

  ‘D’you think anyone noticed?’ She smiled

  The pianist cast his eye over the mess and the bemused onlook­ers. ‘No, I don’t think anyone noticed a thing.’

  Dot exhaled though bloated cheeks and tried to smooth her pinafore.

  ‘Me mother’ll kill me.’

  ‘Accidents happen.’

  ‘Yes, but they always seem to happen to me. I better get this cleared up.’

  Bending, she gathered up what she could of the gloopy mess, flicking her hand over the floor to rid it of blobs of mayonnaise and egg residue. The doily that had lined the plate sufficed as an improvised floor cloth. Dot stood and held the mess in front of her. She hovered with a confused expression as though she couldn’t remember what came next.

  The piano player took the platter from her hands and placed it on a small table within reach.

  ‘I think we need to get you some fresh air. Did you bump your head?’

  Dot nodded. ‘A bit, but I’m supposed to go back for the vol-au-vents.’ She pointed in the general direction of the kitchen.

  ‘Voller what? Don’t worry; I’m sure nobody is going to starve if you take five minutes.’

  She followed as he led her through the muttering crowd and out into the crisp January air. The sky was cloud free and the stars seemed particularly bright and numerous.

  ‘What a beautiful night!’ She stared up at the sky.

  ‘Yes it is.’ He stared at her, transfixed by the pale skin at the base of her throat.

  Dot sat down on the outside steps that led from the back of the grand ballroom to the walled garden below. She fingered a long ladder in the side of her newly acquired black stock­ings. Damn. She leant against the ornate iron railings that ran the length of the staircase, drank in the damp and breathed heavily. The pianist stood a couple of steps down and watched her with his hands shoved into his trouser pockets. He was of average height, slim, muscular. For the first time, Dot noticed his highly polished brown Oxfords, the khaki twill trousers with their razor-sharp creases, the button-down cream shirt and thin, knit­ted tie under the ribbed, khaki jersey.

  ‘You look like a soldier on his day off.’

  ‘Maybe I am.’

  Dot snorted. She doubted it, unable to picture any soldiers she had ever met moonlighting as a cabaret act. They were always too busy soldiering or boozing.

  ‘You’re incredible on the piano, really good. Mind you, I love that song.’

  ‘I love it too.’ He smiled, revealing brilliant white teeth, like those of a film idol.

  ‘How long have you played?’

  ‘As long as I can remember – since I was two, I think. I had lessons until I’d mastered it and then pretty much taught myself after that. I should practise more, but you know…’ He pictured the ebony grand piano in the entrance hall of his family home, the Jasmine House. He could always find an excuse not to practise.

  ‘So they have pianos where you’re from then?’

  He looked perplexed. ‘They have pianos everywhere, don’t they?’

  ‘Dunno, I suppose so. I’ve never really thought about it, but I can’t imagine there being many pianos in Africa. Not plonked in the middle of the jungle. They’d get damp, wouldn’t they?’

  He ran his fingers around his mouth to stifle a laugh and any sarcasm that might slip out. It wasn’t the first time some­one had assumed he was African. ‘They probably would, yes, but I’ve been told there are one or two pianos in Africa, although that’s not where I’m from.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh. Fancy that.’ Dot was stumped, unable to think of another place on earth that black people might come from. ‘I wish I’d learnt an instrument; imagine being able to make music whenever you want to, just because you can.’

  ‘You talk like it’s too late; it’s never too late, you could learn now!’

  ‘Oh, you’re joking! I’d be useless. Look at your lovely long fingers.’ She reached out and pulled his hand from his pocket and took it into hers; both were stilled by the surprise and pleasure of physical contact. Dot studied his hand before drop­ping it sharply. She was fascinated by his palm, which wasn’t dark like the rest of his skin but pink, with dark creases criss­crossing it.

  ‘Your hands are all pink underneath!’

  He glanced at her with his head drawn back on his shoul­ders, from beneath furrowed brows, unable to decide if she was thick or sarcastic. ‘It would appear so.’

  She held up her own palms for scrutiny. ‘Can you honestly see me bashing away with this bunch of pork sausages?’

  ‘You have lovely hands and I’m sure you’d make a fine piano player…’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t know your name?’

  ‘Dot.’

  ‘Dot? As in dash, dash, dash, dot, dot—’

  ‘Yep, as in Dot.’ She smiled.

  ‘Is it short for anything?’

  ‘Ah, well, there’s a tale. Apparently me dad was one over the eight when he went to register my birth in Canning Town. Mum was still lying in and when they asked him my name, he couldn’t remember that it was supposed to be Dorothy – after Dorothy Squires, no less! – and so he said “Dorothea”, but I’ve only ever been known as Dot. That’s me, I’m just a Dot!’

  He studied her face, her wide smile, the peachy skin with the smattering of freckles across her straight nose. Her eyes were wide and sparkling – whether from her bump on the head or something else entirely he couldn’t be sure.

  ‘But I think you are more than just a Dot. If you hadn’t been there to provide the evening’s entertainment, I’d still be stuck in there trying not to look bored. You have been the highlight of my evening so far – although the night is young.’

  ‘Ha! Let me tell you, I’ve met the whole gang up there and I am definitely the highlight of your evening.’

  ‘I think you might be right.’ He gave an almost imperceptible wink.

  ‘And when you are calling me Dot, what should I call you?’

  ‘Sol, short for Solomon. My dad wasn’t one over the eight when I was regist
ered.’

  ‘Well, lucky old you. And what does Solomon mean?’

  ‘It means “Peace”.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Dot felt the twist of unease in her gut that she always felt when confronted with someone who was clever; she didn’t know anything about anything.

  ‘Apparently so. I am a bringer of peace.’

  ‘Well, that’s very comforting coming from a soldier on his day off.’

  Sol laughed. ‘So what do you do when you’re not lying on the floor in a pool of eggs?’

  ‘I don’t do this very often. My mum’s the cook here and calls me in when they need a waitress; the money’s quite good, but to tell the truth I’d rather not. Poncing around looking like this for some unappreciative idiots who just want to fill their faces with anything that’s going spare, and my mum never gets a mention or a thank you and she works so hard…’ Sol laughed a deep, throaty chuckle.

  ‘And tonight they all seem really old and boring and it’s all in aid of another bunch of freeloaders that are moving into the top-floor flat. Well, they call it a flat, but it’s actually bigger than most houses and twice as posh, y’know the kind of thing, fancy carpet, fluffy towels and loads of books that they prob­ably never read cos they’re all inbred and illiterate.’

  ‘Whoa – harsh!’ Sol shook his head from side to side. ‘Are they always that bad?’

  ‘Trust me, always. It’s where they shove all the waste-of-space top brass that are over here short term. All they seem to do is host fancy dinners or attend fancy dinners and then bugger off back to where they came from. I don’t see much work being done – nice job if you can get it!’ She knew that she was babbling, but this man’s easy smile and open face invited confidences. ‘And in answer to your question, when I’m not doing this, I work in Selfridges three days a week in Haberdashery and I bloody love it!’

  ‘Why do you love it?’

  ‘Have you been?’

  Sol shook his head.

  ‘The building is beautiful and glamorous; it’s been there for fifty-odd years, but it’s really modern inside and apart from that, I love material! I would love to make all me own clothes one day and just to see the new bolts of cloth – the cottons, velvet and tweed from all over the world, stacked in every colour you can think of – it’s fascinating. And I get to meet really interesting people, fashion designers and buyers who have some great ideas, and girls who are getting married, who spend hours holding swatches of lace up to the light, comparing Chantilly and needle lace. I’d love to design my own pieces one day, dresses and posh gowns.’ Dot bit her bottom lip. That had slipped out; she hadn’t told another living soul about that. Maybe the bump on her head had loosened her tongue.

  ‘I look forward to buying an original Dorothea one day.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we’ll see. I’m only mucking about really. It’s just a silly idea. Anyway, I should be getting back.’ Dot ran her palm over the drying mayonnaise and wiped her hand on the step. It felt dangerous to share her dream, almost as if putting it out into the real world made it less likely to become a reality. When her future was in her head, it looked perfect and easily achievable, but when it floated among the rooftops of the East End, it got diluted by the smoke and grime. The many build­ings, spires and paths between E14 and W1 felt like immoveable barriers that blocked her way.

  Dot opened the back door to the kitchen.

  ‘Where in God’s name have you been?’ Joan’s tone was sharp.

  ‘Oh, Mum, I fell over! But no one got hurt. I bumped my head and just had five minutes’ fresh air. I’m all right now though.’

  ‘Oh well, as long as you’re all right, Dot. Blimey, why can you never just do as I ask? There’s always some bloody drama with you.’ She shoved two platters stacked high with vol-au-vents and cocktail sausages into her daughter’s hands. ‘Now get these out.’

  ‘Well, thanks for asking, I think I’ll survive! Gawd, it’s not as if I did it on purpose, Mum.’

  ‘You never do, love!’

  Joan watched as Dot stared at the far wall. She was pictur­ing a shop front painted gold and green, with a shiny brass door plate. Two wooden mannequins stood in the window, each swathed in a silk creation, with dainty pointed shoes in coordin­ating colours on the floor. Models and stars draped in white fur spewed onto the pavement carrying large, glossy bags with the word ‘Dorothea’ written on the side. What would look best, a gold ribbon or green?

  Dot jumped as her mum banged the metal counter top.

  ‘Look lively, Dot!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Good God, what’s the matter with you tonight? You are bloody miles away! Get these out, NOW!’

  Dot smiled and picked up the two large platters. When she was a famous fashion designer and Princess Margaret was wear­ing one of her outfits, she’d remember these moments and con­sider it to be part of the ‘hard life’ that had shaped her creativity. ‘An original Dorothea…’ now that really would be something.

  Through on the other side of the padded door, she watched the small crowd gather round the raised platform on which the grand piano sat. She was rooted to the spot. A sharp-suited man with slicked-back hair and a pencil-thin moustache flung an animated hand around at will, his champagne glass threaten­ing to launch its contents, though it didn’t. He stood to the front and, with his other hand anchored in his suit pocket, was clearly giving some kind of speech. His words were inter­spersed with polite laughter from the great and good standing before him.

  Slightly to his right stood a very dapper black man of about fifty, Dot guessed. A healthy clutch of medals sat on his broad chest, hanging from a variety of striped ribbons. Dot heard the name ‘Colonel Abraham Arbuthnott’ followed by a polite ripple of applause.

  His tall, slender wife was sheathed in a grosgrain silk dress of the palest tangerine with ballooned sleeves of sheer voile that were anchored around her narrow wrists by a band of velvet and a single velvet-covered button. She looked stunning, like an Arabian princess. Her arm was linked casually through his and to her right, looking slightly awkward at being so obviously scrutinised, stood the son of the latest freeloading, military-top-brass waste of space to be taking up residence in the Merchant’s House – Sol.

  ‘Oh shit!’ Dot backed up and using her ample bottom bumped at the padded swing door until she was back in the kitchen.

  ‘All gone already?’ Joan grinned, delighted. ‘Dot? I said do you need more? What are you playing at?’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘If you have to.’

  ‘If someone called you a freeloading waste of space, would you take that as an insult?’

  ‘How else would I take it?’

  ‘Thought so. In that case, Mum, I think my waitressing days might be over.’

  Joan stopped arranging the mini trifles on a tray. ‘Oh no, what’ve you done now?’

  ‘It’s not so much what I’ve done as what I said and who I said it to.’

  ‘Dot, are you having me on, cos this is no time for your shenanigans!’

  Dot exhaled and was considering how best to break the news that she had insulted the son of the guest of honour and in reality her mum’s boss for the next twelve months, when there was a sharp knocking on the door frame.

  The two women stood in silence as the door creaked open. ‘Oh shit!’ muttered Dot for the second time in as many min­utes. It was Sol. He strode over to Joan.

  ‘Good evening.’

  ‘Good… Good evening.’ Joan wasn’t sure where this was heading; guests never ventured into her kitchen.

  ‘I’m Solomon Arbuthnott – Sol.’ He thrust his hand in Joan’s direction.

  Joan wiped her sweaty palm on her pinny before taking his hand. ‘Joan. Hello.’ She was unused to this level of formality.

  ‘Joan, I just wanted to say thank you for the amazing spread that you have prepared for us tonight. The food is delicious, particularly the
devilled eggs, which caused quite a stir earlier!’

  Sol turned and winked at Dot, who found that the power of speech had evaded her.

  Joan felt the creep of a blush working its way along her neck and up over her cheeks. It was lovely to have such a compliment. ‘Oh, well, just doing my job. It’s a pleasure! And if there is anything that you or your family fancy while you are here, just let me know and I’ll do my best to accommodate.’

  Again Sol stared at Dot and raised his eyebrows. ‘There is something actually…’

  ‘Oh, righto, ask away!’ Joan nodded, eager as a pup.

  ‘I’d love to see Selfridges. I come from a very small island in the West Indies…’ This bit of information he said with added volume and precision, informing any interested parties that it was nowhere near Africa. ‘And I’m not sure I can be trusted to navigate the Tube system alone. Do you know anyone that could show me, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble?’

  Joan fanned her flushed face with the tea towel while simul­taneously breaking into a grin. ‘Actually yes! Our Dot works there a couple of days a week, don’t you, love? I’m sure she could point you in the right direction!’

  ‘She does?’

  ‘Yes! In the Hadashaberry—’

  ‘Haberdashery.’ Dot had found her voice.

  ‘Yes, there,’ Joan confirmed.

  Sol grinned. ‘Well, that is a coincidence!’

  ‘Isn’t it just…’ Dot smirked, feeling a flush of excitement and a wave of anger simultaneously. Was he taking the mick?

  * * *

  The Arbuthnotts made their way up the wide staircase to their apartment at the top of the Merchant’s House. It felt incon­ceivable that only a few days ago they had been tripping over packing cases and individually pausing on the terrace, drinking in the view of the sparkling Caribbean Sea and the lush jungle­scape that would be denied them for twelve whole months. They were swapping their island home for the damp cobbles of London because of Arbuthnott senior’s role as military advisor to the British government on Caribbean defence.