The Game

by Amanda Prowse

  Dot drew a deep breath and faced the double swing door that would reveal her in all her shame to the awaiting guests. ‘I’m never going to be old,’ she offered over her shoulder.

  ‘You’re right, Dot. If you carry on defying me and those canapés spoil, you won’t make twenty-one – I’ll bloody kill ya!’

  Mother and daughter laughed until they snorted. Dot shook her head to compose herself. It was bad enough having to go out looking like a prize plum, trussed up like a Christmas pudding, without snorting her way through the crowd as well.

  ‘What are you waiting for now?’

  ‘I’m just composing meself!’

  ‘Composing yourself? Christ alive, Dot! Just get that food out now!’

  ‘All right, all right – I’m going.’

  ‘And come straight back for the vol-au-vents!’ Joan bellowed at her daughter’s disappearing back.

  Dot pushed against the plushly padded velour door with its brass studs, which reminded her of a sideways sofa. She strained to hear the music that was coming from the grand piano in the corner; the sultry tones of Etta James drifted from the gramophone and the musician played along with the record. She glimpsed the bowed head of the black pianist, who with eyes closed and neck bowed was tickling the ivories.

  ‘At last

  My love has come along

  My lonely days are over

  And life is like a song’

  She loved the song and she hummed it inside her head as she wandered among the thirty or so guests. This room had always fascinated her: the polished dark-wood floor and the light from the huge chandelier meant everything sparkled. Vast oil paintings hung on the walls, each one of a military man either on horseback or with his weapon of choice held aloft. It intrigued her how such a large group of people could be gathered in one room and yet the loudest sound was the chink of glass against glass, with only the faintest hum of background chatter and the odd tinkle of delicate laughter. In the Victorian terrace where she lived with her mum, dad and little sister it was never quiet. If not loud music from the radio and the bashing of pots and pans in the kitchen, then the whistling of the kettle and the shouts of questions and instructions up and down the stairs:

  ‘CUP OF TEA?’

  ‘ONLY IF YOU’RE MAKING!’

  ‘WHERE ARE MY CLEAN SHIRTS?’

  ‘IN THE AIRING CUPBOARD!’

  The fact that someone might be a whole floor away from you was no reason to exclude them from the conversation.

  ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’ Dot lowered her natural volume and used her posh voice, just as she had been taught.

  A bushy-moustached man in naval uniform with flash gold epaulettes practically dived onto the tray. She watched him scoop a handful of delicate white ovals from the platter and cram them into his gob. At least she could tell her mum that someone appreciated her cooking.

  ‘Not for me, dear.’ His wife raised her white-gloved hand. A pity; the poor woman looked like she would benefit from the odd devilled egg. She was stick thin and her paisley-print, bat-wing frock hung off her tiny frame. She had drawn her eyebrows way too high on her forehead; like a dolly peg, Dot thought.

  Next she infiltrated a group of elderly men and women who collectively smelled of dust and fish paste. ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’ She proffered the tray in the direction of one old bloke.

  ‘Would I what?’ he yelled at her.

  Dot bit the inside of her cheeks, praying she wouldn’t get the giggles and immensely glad that Barb wasn’t around; if she had caught her friend’s eye, she would have been in hysterics. She gave a small cough and tried again in her low, posher-than-usual voice. ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’

  ‘Is it something about my leg?’ he yelled again.

  ‘Your leg? NO, NO. WOULD YOU CARE FOR A DEVILLED EGG?’ This time she over-enunciated every word. It took a monumental effort to stop her from laughing out loud.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t care for much, lost my brother in the war y’see.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but can I tempt you?’ This time she lifted the tray until it was practically under his schnoz.

  ‘What is that?’ he asked, prodding at the softened offering.

  ‘They are canapés, sir.’

  ‘Cans of what?’

  Dot felt her shoulders begin to shake. A ripple of laughter was working its way up her throat and down her nose; she felt fit to explode.

  ‘Excuse me a mo, I’ll be right back.’ She thought it best to make a hasty retreat to the kitchen and compose herself. Turning quickly, she failed to see that another devilled-egg seeker in military uniform was standing not a foot behind her. It was a collision of comical proportions.

  The tray of canapés flipped from her arm and stuck to the front of his tunic. Squashed eggs and mayonnaise sat like a cloying, liquid blanket on his jacket. One hollowed-out egg was actually lodged on a brass button. Almost immediately the silver platter hit the floor with an almighty crash. Both parties bent to retrieve the tray and, with perfect timing, bashed their heads together, sending her flying along the newly polished wooden floor and leaving him clutching his forehead with mayonnaise-smeared palms.

  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.’

  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. He
r 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 registered.’

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

  ‘It means “Peace”.’

  Available 1st July 2013

  A Little Love — Preview

  Read on for the first chapter of

  Is it ever too late to find the love of your life?

  1

  Pru donned her dressing gown over her pyjamas, stretched the thick socks over her feet and tiptoed through the hall, closing the flat door quietly so as not to disturb her cousin Milly, who slept soundly in her bedroom further down the hall. She slipped down to the basement. This she did on occasion when the bakery was closed, usually in the dead of night when sleep proved elusive and always with the snap of excitement at her heels as she did so, covertly.

  Her alarm would not pip-pip for another three hours, yet instead of resting her head on her plump, feather pillow there she was, wandering along corridors and punching alarm codes into locked doors, looking over her shoulder and tip-toeing like a thief.

  Using only minimal lighting, eschewing the wealth of machinery around her and the complicated recipes that she and Milly had honed over the years, she set about doing what she always did on these night time jaunts, running up a batch of fairy cakes using a wooden spoon and a ceramic bowl, just as she had been taught.

  Pru fastened the apron around her waist before laying her ingredients and tools in a row on the counter top. She felt the familiar jolt of happiness, knowing that she was about to begin and had everything she needed to execute her plan. It felt exactly the same now as it had all those years ago, casting her eye over the white flour, the bowl of sugar and the greasy lump of margarine splayed on the saucer where it sat next to the shining, clean bowl, awaiting her attention.

  She smiled as she tipped the margarine and sugar together and began creaming them into a thick paste. She savoured the gritty crunch on the back of the spoon as it smashed the crystals against the crackle-glazed side of the china bowl, pushing and churning until the mixture billowed with tiny bubbles of air and her fingers ached. Next came the spoonfuls of plain flour, a drop of essence, baking powder, the egg and gradually more flour. Pru couldn’t fully describe the lift to her spirit or the bounce to her step as she watched the dry ingredients transform into a pale golden batter that passed the dropping test. There was no great science to knowing when the mixture was ready, instead she used this tried and tested method, lifting the spoon and watching to see how the cake mix fell, too quickly meant it was too thin, calling for more flour and more mixing. Whereas a blob that refused to shift from the back of the spoon, required more liquid and a light mix. The perfect consistency, meant the batter dropped slowly into the bowl with jaw clenching expectancy.

  The anticipation as they baked filled her stomach with butterflies. While they cooled, she made a strong cup of coffee to go with, before decorating them true to her Nan’s instruction, sparsely, and with hundreds and thousands that sat on a tiny misshapen pond of white icing, both of which had been a luxury. She would then pop the soft, vanilla scented sponges into her mouth and allow the sugar to spread its warm satisfying sweetness across her tongue and the icing to stick to the roof of her mouth. She gobbled them greedily and quickly, all of them.

  ‘I know you are shaking your head and tutting at me, but don’t judge me, Alfie! I could have far worse habits.’ This she uttered into the ether with her eyes raised skyward and a smile about her mouth as she licked a stray blob of icing and a couple of sprinkles from her lip.

  As proprietor of the world renowned Plum Patisserie, Pru had access to any number of delicate, iced fancies and sweet, sugar-dusted morsels each and every day, and yet none of them came close to the sensation of eating a warm fairy cake, gobbled illicitly in the wee small hours, made to her Nan’s exacting recipe and method. The parcel of moist cake not only made her mouth water, but if she closed her eyes, she was back in their grotty kitchen in Bow, a little girl again, working diligently at their wobbly enamel-topped table. It was a time before she knew of the world beyond their front door, before drive and aspiration had yoked her to the winding upward path on which she climbed. Her nan, stood at the shallow, china sink, wearing a pink wrap-around overall which had worn thin at the seams and her brothers, with pinched cheeks and a ring of grime against the back of their necks, hovering around the large, china mixing bowl, with dirty fingers scooping at fine lines of cake mixture that they deposited into their eager mouths. The smell of the fluffy, little ingots baking would almost drive them to tears. Clustering around the stove, unusually silent, waiting.

  Her Nan would then turn them out of the bun tin onto a wire rack on the sideboard. The scented steam that they gave off hypnotised them. And it would feel like an eternity before she would allow them to take one each. When they finally got one of those little cakes in their mitts, wide-eyed and with a mouthful of sweet crumbs, it was a moment of bliss in an otherwise bliss-free life and it was wonderful. For Pru, nothing represented success as much as her ability to eat a whole batch made in the kitchen of Plum Patisserie. She never told anyone about her trips down to the big kitchen, it was another little secret for her to keep.

  Pru laughed to herself as she perched on the edge of her bed and applied the Crème de la Mer moisturiser to her face and throat. It was six a.m. but she had the speed of movement and alertness of someone who had been up for many hours, fancy. She touched her fingers to her temples where at the age of sixty-six, her once lustrous locks had now thinned, it was a habit she had acquired along with pushing up her eyebrows with her finger as if she could for a second or two, re-create the wide eyes of her youth, before gravity had done its job and they had taken on their hooded appearance.

  ‘I was lovely once wasn’t I? Not that I really thought so at the time, despite what Trudy said. I never had her confidence, blimey, who did? She was something else wasn’t she? So, so long ago. I don’t know why I’m thinking about that, Alfie, our little flat in Kenway Road, my life in Earls Court. We had some fun, tough times, but happy times. A lifetime ago. You’re the only one I tell everything, but I know you’re a secret keeper, aren’t you my love?’

  This she addressed to one of several silver framed photographs on her bedside table. This particular snap was of a man astride a moped, he was looking over his shoulder, with a roll up hanging from his bottom lip, it was black and white and even though had been taken decades later, could have come straight out of the sixties, he had an air of James Dean about him or maybe that was how just she preferred to think of him, an anti-hero rather than a hopeless, addicted drop-out.

  He smiled back at her with eyes that crinkled into laughter, peeping from behind black-framed Raybans that with his head tilted down towards the camera, had slipped down to the end of his nose. Pru loved this photo. There weren’t that many flying around of her family, owning a camera was never a priority, but his smile and the setting on what looked like a bright, sunny day, meant that she knew he had this one good day or more specifically, this one good moment on this one good day. She hoped that when things got bad for him, the memory of this might have sustained him. As usual, he didn’t reply.

  Pru meandered around the flat in her soft grey, jersey pyjamas and dressing gown, with a cup of hot, black coffee balanced on her palm; she hummed and walked room to room, find
ing it calming to walk around and see that everything was just as she had left it the night before, harvesting reassurance from the order in which she lived and gaining confidence from knowing she was the owner of so many lovely things. The pictures were straight, cushions plumped and object d’art positioned just so. Although she had to admit that barring a messy burglary or natural disaster the likelihood of it not being were extremely slim.

  She sat on the chair at the little walnut desk in the corner of her bedroom and let the bank statement flutter in her palm. She no longer paid heed to the black figures and their commas, lined up in neat rows, it was more of an inquisitive glance to see that payments had gone through and a reminder of where she was in the month. Gone were the days of shuffling balances and debts around to keep suppliers happy, juggling dates and orders to ensure enough money sat in the accounts for wages. The business had reached a point a couple of decades ago where the takings had significantly outweighed their costs and once the scales had tipped in their favour, they had never looked back. She unscrewed the lid of her Montblanc fountain pen and placed a tiny cross by the payment that was referenced CM – one thousand pounds had gone through on the fourteenth, just as it did every month and had done for the last ten years. If she did the maths, it caused a ball to knot in her stomach and a tide of panic to rise in her throat, so it was better that she didn’t. Pru folded the paper sheets and clipped them into the leather file that she stowed back in the drawer.

  After showering and blow-drying her auburn hair into its blunt bob, Pru sat down at her dressing table where she applied the merest hint of taupe lip stain and one wand-slick of mascara. She rubbed her fingers over her temples. She had never thought she would become this older lady. Any imaginings she had in her youth, placed her in her mid twenties, old enough to know best and still young enough enjoy herself. And yet there she was, hardly recognising the face in the mirror and it had happened in a heartbeat. She sighed and pulled her lower teeth over her top lip in the mirror, making her neck and chin taut, the way it used to look. A liberal spritz of Chanel number five and she was set for the day. She accessorized her navy trousers with a white silk blouse and two rows of pearls that hung in differing lengths against her small, high chest. She slipped her feet into navy penny loafers; her foot wear of choice on days like these.