by Caron Allan
‘Well, yes. To lose the love of one’s life so young. I’d never recover, I’m certain of it.’ He looked at Dottie, who blushed and looked away. But she gave a light laugh and said:
‘You can depend on me to prattle on and on and not give her a second to worry or feel poorly.’
He took Dottie’s hand, kissed it lightly, half-laughing, and released it. For a moment she thought he was going to say something, but in the end the moment passed and his original words went unsaid, replaced by the rather more conventional, ‘Thank you. Now I must go and check that Penny’s finally ready.’
They left a little later than intended and, Dottie noticed, Gervase was showing signs of temper. She saw that Penny was inclined to cling, and was in the habit of relying on Gervase to make every single decision and every single arrangement. She hadn’t even packed her suitcases. It transpired that Gervase had arranged for this simple task to be done by a maid at the hotel. Then he had to arrange for someone to take the suitcases down to the car and strap them on the parcel shelf at the back. When he asked Dottie what help she required, he was astonished that she had seen to her own packing, and even brought the suitcase, as well as her small overnight bag and her hat box down to the hotel’s reception area.
‘You really are such a breath of fresh air, my dear!’ he told her. His smile was warm and just for her.
Dottie felt all aglow inside. Gervase had already begun to dominate her thoughts and inspire deeply romantic feelings. He was so... she couldn’t think what he was. She had calculated, from something he’d said the previous day, that he was in his early to mid-thirties, and ordinarily she’d feel that a man twelve or fifteen years older than herself was too old. But it didn’t seem to bother him, and from Dottie’s point of view it only seemed to add to his appeal. He was mature, he was confident, experienced and capable. He was good-looking, appeared to be in good health, vital and vigorous. He was everything a man should be. More importantly he was single, and he was making it very, very clear that he liked her more than just a little.
If only they had been driving off together, Dottie had the scandalous thought, just the two of them, on some wonderful trip to the country. Perhaps they would have had a picnic, parking the car in some winding rural lane, beside a flower-strewn meadow. They could sit on a blanket surrounded by nothing but the beauties of nature and Gervase would lean across and kiss her, and...
‘Golly, what is that awful pong?’ Penny asked, suddenly nearby. She pinched her nose and looked about her. ‘Oh, the dreyman’s horse has just relieved itself. Golly, you’d think they’d close the doors, wouldn’t you? No one wants to smell that in the hotel. Shall we go and get in the car, Gervase?’
Dottie, wrenched from her amorous daydream, made a face at the offending horse that had deposited the steaming heap just four feet away from her, and turned her attention to what she was supposed to be doing.
Gervase’s car was a small one. The entire back was given over to the conveyance of luggage rather than people, and the three of them were squashed together in the front, with Dottie in the middle trying to keep her knee out of Gervase’s way when he had to change gear. Once or twice—surely by accident—his hand had lightly knocked against her knee as he moved the gearstick.
They were on their way. She spared a few minutes’ solemn thought for the awful events of her time in Scarborough. She was overwhelmingly relieved to be leaving. Poor Diana would soon be laid to rest in the family plot on the Gascoigne estate, but Dottie’s memory would always be torn between Diana smiling and enigmatic, talking about a woman’s duty at the New Year’s party, and her lying there in the squalor of that room, punishing herself for her sin, asking with her last breath to see her new-born child. As the car left the coast road behind, the filthy pink façade of that hotel taunted Dottie, and her eyes prickled with tears. She would never, ever go back to Scarborough.
But as they headed inland, along field-lined lanes, winding towards the major road leading south, Dottie’s mood lightened. It was done. It was over. New things awaited. And on that thought, she cast a sideways glance at Gervase. Seeming to sense her eyes on him, he gave her a brief look, and a wink, accompanied by a rogueish grin. She smiled and looked straight ahead. A little bubble of happiness warmed her on the inside, like a wonderful secret for just herself alone. Penny kept up a babble of chatter about anything and everything, and it took all Dottie’s patience and energy to say at intervals, ‘Oh absolutely’, or ‘You’re quite right’.
Just after three o’clock they halted at the mill Gervase had mentioned. It was a little less picturesque than Dottie had imagined. In her mind it had been a watermill in a tranquil spot, surrounded by trees and the necessary river, and of course a lily-covered millpond.
But in reality it was a former cotton mill, a huge red-bricked edifice situated on a very busy street, surrounded by little shops and houses and all the busyness that modern life required. Admittedly there were plenty of flowers—in window-boxes, front gardens and even in tubs and pots along the front of the mill. And behind the mill Dottie could see trees and fields stretching away over a hill. She blotted out the roar of motor cars and horse-drawn vehicles, the shouts of drivers, delivery boys and shop-keepers, and followed Penny inside.
They were welcomed warmly by the host. A table had been laid for them on a shady terrace at the back of the mill, and here there was water, the narrow fast-moving stream that had once powered the mill, and all around were flowers and plants and the chatter and song of birds.
‘Better?’ Gervase asked her softly.
She nodded at him and smiled. He squeezed her arm as he held her chair out for her to sit. Looking across at Penny, whom he’d already seated, he said, ‘Miss Manderson approves.’
‘Oh good,’ Penny said, but she was already looking about her for the waitress. It was only two hours since lunch, and Dottie had little appetite, but an early high-tea was served anyway. Gervase said he was starving and demonstrated that by piling up his plate, leaving the ladies to help themselves.
Penny continued her incessant chatter. Dottie had almost no chance to keep her promise to Gervase to distract Penny with conversation, as she’d barely managed to get a word in edgeways. At one point, as Dottie raised her teacup to her lips, she caught Gervase grinning at her and had to look away so that she could give a serious reply to Penny’s remark, and not burst out laughing.
She had realised by now that Penny had little interest in the world around her, and was completely absorbed by her own affairs and those nearest to her. What Penny liked, what Penny did, how Penny felt and who Penny knew were her only concerns. Try as they might, neither Gervase nor Dottie could shift Penny’s thoughts from how dreadful it was going to be to return to her home, now bereft of Artie. And doubtless the decorators would have used all the wrong colours in all the wrong places, created mess and caused damage, and her home would be a home no longer. No matter what Dottie or Gervase said to try to cheer, encourage, reassure or console, Penny was determined to be gloomy. Only time would change this continual fixedness of her thoughts upon her loss.
By the time they arrived at the house, Dottie was exhausted. The afternoon had been hot, and she didn’t know which was worse, driving with the roof up and being stuffy and hot, or driving with the roof down and being constantly buffeted by the wind and dust, but still being hot. Towards the end of the journey, Penny had become increasingly agitated and tearful, and Gervase had become increasingly irritable and monosyllabic. Dottie, literally between the two of them, had then to draw on all her patience to calm first one then soothe the other. For her, the journey couldn’t end soon enough.
But at last they arrived. Gervase drove through a village, not especially pretty but at least it appeared quiet, and halted outside a large house, square and plain, in the middle of a short row which marked the end of the village. The house was surrounded by lawns with a few shrubs here and there, but otherwise had little to soften its square, hard features.
A maid bustled out to meet them. Dottie was surprised at how very pretty the woman was. She was not merely good-looking, but had a noticeably good figure, unconcealed by her uniform, and a calm, competent way about her that was appealing.
The maid introduced herself to Dottie as Margaret Scott. It seemed she was expecting the extra arrival. She immediately began to give Gervase a hand with the luggage.
‘Go on into the house, Miss Manderson,’ the maid said, ‘I’ll be just a moment, then I’ll get the kettle on, I’m sure you’ll be ready for a drink.’ Dottie smiled and nodded. She was about to take her suitcase when Penny grabbed her arm in a vice-like grip and exclaimed, ‘Oh Dottie, I don’t know if I can bring myself to go inside!’
Dottie resisted the urge to say, ‘Nonsense!’ very firmly just as her mother would have done, but patting Penny’s arm, she swallowed her annoyance and said simply, ‘Come on, it will be all right, you’ll see, I’ll be with you. It’ll be exciting to see the new colour scheme. And you’d like a cup of tea, wouldn’t you?’
Behind her, she heard the low sound of Gervase’s hushed voice as he said, ‘My God, Margaret, you’re a sight for sore eyes.’
Then Dottie heard a soft chuckle from the maid, and the woman said, ‘You’re not so bad yourself, Gerry.’
Dottie felt a pang. Was he one of those men who carried on informal intrigues with the maids? Or was it just the harmless teasing of long acquaintance? Aware of a sense of dismay, and unable to shake off the warmth in their voices, Dottie accompanied Penny into the house.
Chapter Seven
THE HOUSE WAS CHARMING, if a little gloomy and overfilled with ornaments and furniture for Dottie’s taste. Penny’s idea of a home was rather Victorian in that she had a tendency to cram every space with an object of some kind. Dottie found it a bit surprising that someone only ten years older than herself should be so inclined. Later, in an aside to Dottie, when Penny left them to go and fetch her photo albums, Gervase said, ‘It’s a bit claustrophobic, isn’t it? All this clutter. Not my idea of comfort at all.’
Dottie had only time to murmur a noncommittal sound as Penny bustled back, slightly out of breath. Squeezing between the two of them on the sofa, she set down four or five sturdy albums on the coffee table. They’d already sat a long time over their evening meal, then Dottie had had a tour of the house. By now it was just after ten o’clock, and all Dottie really wanted to do was sleep. She felt rather depressed by the sight of so many albums.
‘Dottie’s all in,’ Gervase said suddenly. ‘Cut it short, Penny. Just show Dottie your wedding photograph and let the poor girl get off to bed. She can look at the rest some other time.’ Dottie’s gratitude at this went along way to helping her to overlook his apparent intimacy with the lovely maid, Margaret.
Penny appeared surprised, though not, Dottie thought, offended. ‘Of course,’ she said, pushing aside all but the top-most album. ‘Well here we are, my beloved Artie and I on our special day.’
Dottie leaned forward to look at the little scene. Penny—looking younger, lovelier and radiantly happy—in the fashion of the 20s, her white lace gown very white by contrast with the dark suit of the gentleman beside her. He was unmistakably Gervase’s brother—the same fair hair, the same slightly too-large nose, the same deep-set eyes. He was tall but unsmiling, and coupled with his almost-black suit, had the air of someone attending a funeral rather than his own wedding.
‘Artie did so hate to have his photograph taken!’ Penny laughed.
‘Even on his wedding day?’ Dottie couldn’t help asking.
Penny gave her a wise look. ‘Well you know, dear, the wedding day is really for the bride, everyone knows that. And her mother, of course. It’s nothing at all to the men. Besides, Gervase and Reggie, and my brother Mike had got Artie horribly drunk the night before. As soon as the photographs were over, he ran off to be dreadfully sick in the roses. Mummy was furious.’
It didn’t seem half so romantic now, Dottie thought.
Penny closed the album and set it down. She got up. ‘Very well. Time for bed, then. I assume you’d like a nightcap before you go, Gervase?’
He grinned. ‘Of course. I need something to keep me awake on the drive back to my place. I can have it in here if you like. Sleep well, ladies. I’ll no doubt see you in the morning.’
Penny rang the bell, the cord of which was concealed behind the edge of the curtain. ‘Not too early, I know I shan’t sleep properly tonight. I shall probably have a late breakfast, or else have it in bed.’ Penny patted his arm. ‘Thanks for bringing us back, dear.’
He stood, kissed Penny on the cheek, pressed Dottie’s hand, and said a very solemn goodnight. Feeling rather like a child of five, Dottie gave him a shy smile and followed Penny from the room.
At the top of the stairs, their ways parted. As they repeated the goodnights they’d already said downstairs, Penny turned and said, ‘Dottie, dear, I know we don’t know each other very well as yet, but I’m so glad of your company. I know I’m just a silly old woman, but I was—I still am—quite nervous of coming back to the house, with Artie not being here. Your company is a huge comfort. Goodnight dear, I hope you sleep well.’
Dottie made a half-turn round the top of the stairs to head in the direction of her room, two doors along the hallway. A soft sound from below made her glance over the rail and down the stairs. She saw Margaret heading into the drawing room with a small tray. She heard Gervase laugh softly as Margaret entered the room, and Margaret made a soft response, and closed the door behind her.
As Dottie shut her door, she couldn’t help wondering how long Margaret would linger with Gervase—Gerry!—and if the whisky and soda was all she was giving him.
DOTTIE SLEPT BADLY and woke with a headache. A maid who was not Margaret brought her a cup of tea at eight o’clock, and she was tempted to send her away and go back to sleep. But she hauled herself into a sitting position, squinting in the bright sunshine that lit up the room as soon as the maid threw back the curtains. The maid bobbed and left. All very Victorian, Dottie thought.
Dottie was aware of a dull ache inside. Not a physical pain, but an emotional one. She dreaded going downstairs. She dreaded meeting Gervase again after what she had seen—or rather what she had thought, or suspected—she had seen the night before. Would he have an extra spring in his step when he next came to visit? A gleam in his eye? Had he even left, or had he stayed with Margaret the whole night? Or had it just been an hour of passion, rather than the whole night? She didn’t want to see the look in his eyes whenever Margaret came into the room, couldn’t bear the thought that this new man in her life—or almost in her life—might be of the sort to carry on illicit intrigues with the servants.
‘How Victorian I sound!’ Dottie said to herself. Clearly Penny’s favourite era was a contagious one. She drank some tea. The sharp tannin revived her. And her next thought was, ‘How very like my mother I sound!’
But she felt saddened. She had perhaps put Gervase on a pedestal; he had seemed so clever, so witty, he was so good-looking. Had she expected too much of him? Men had needs, she knew, something her mother had hinted at mysteriously, and her sister—married, of course—had vaguely alluded to. Dottie had never really considered how those nebulous, undefined needs might be met, and by whom.
She washed and dressed, still pondering these thoughts. In front of the mirror, trying to coax her hair to be both full-bodied and neatly restrained, she also acknowledged, impatiently, ‘Well, we women have needs too! Even if it’s not the done thing to admit it.’
Perhaps, she thought, if a man’s needs were met by the right person, he wouldn’t be forced to look elsewhere for satisfaction. This seemed only logical, and realising there was nothing more she could do about her appearance, she had little choice but to leave her room and go down to breakfast.
At the top of the stairs, continuing to mull these things over, she had the sudden understanding: ‘But that’s how Diana ended up in her terrible predicament.’ She
shook her head. No, she couldn’t bear to end her days like that. Caution and abstinence were the only sane, and safe, courses of action.
No one was in the dining room when she reached it. But almost immediately, Margaret, looking fresh and lovely, came to the doorway and informed Dottie that Mrs Parfitt would be breakfasting in bed. Dottie thanked her politely, and agreed that she’d like some breakfast, and that she’d slept well. As Margaret went through a verbal list of alternatives, Dottie said that she preferred fried eggs to scrambled or poached, bacon to kidneys or kippers, and that she also preferred coffee to tea first thing in the morning.
Margaret gave her a condescending grin and returned to the kitchen. Dottie felt fed up, the brief improvement in her mood had vanished.
The house was quiet. It smelled of paint. It was cluttered. In spite of the new paint, or perhaps because of it, it was dark and gloomy, making the rooms seem smaller than they really were. Dottie longed to sweep all the ornaments and extra furniture aside and have clean empty space around her. Given the choice, she’d paint over the ochres and mustards with soft creams and pastel shades. She had to get out into the fresh air as soon as she’d finished eating. Even London didn’t seem so stuffy and airless as Penny Parfitt’s home.
Margaret returned with a pot of coffee, and a plate containing Dottie’s breakfast—overcooked, dried-up rashers of bacon, and eggs cooked so long the undersides had gone brown, the edges curly and almost black. By contrast the toast was limp and hardly more than slightly warmed bread. For some reason, Dottie felt compelled to thank Margaret for the meal. She thought to herself somewhat sourly, doubtless no one much cared whether Margaret could cook.
‘Do you know what time Mrs Parfitt will come down? I was thinking of going for a walk.’
‘I’ve really no idea.’
‘Oh. Well, thank you, anyway.’
