David turned to see poor Evelyne standing awkwardly at the powder-room door. Angry at Ridgely’s insinuation that Lady Primrose wouldn’t even consider him, he snapped.
‘That’s unfortunately with me, some wretched charge of my aunt’s, if you want her, for goodness’ sake take her . . .’
At that moment a fuzzy blonde swept into Ridgely’s arms and demanded a dance. He departed, giving David a lewd wink.
‘Another time, what?’
David sighed and walked across to Evelyne. Begrudgingly, he gave her his arm and led her towards the ballroom.
The next disaster was the dancing. It had never occurred to Evelyne that at this sort of dance they didn’t do jigs, and gallop around like they did in the Salvation Army Hall. David led her to a small couch and told her to sit there while he fetched her a glass of champagne. He then disappeared into the throng of dancers. Most of the young men were in uniform, and everyone seemed to know everyone else, calling out, waving, and whizzing past on the dance floor.
Evelyne sat waiting, looking and waiting, and eventually David came back to her side with champagne in a delicate, fluted glass.
‘Don’t gulp it, Flamehead, just sip.’
Lady Primrose danced past, giving David another flickering, darting glance, and he turned and gazed after her pink, floating figure. Then he moved away without another word, and Evelyne wrinkled her nose as the champagne bubbles fizzed, but she quite liked the taste. It was sharper than lemonade, and icy cold, and she drained the glass and sat twiddling the stem.
David danced past with Heather Warner. The girl was sweating, swathed in tulle and net, and while she looked like a powder puff, David made her feel like the most important girl at the dance. He leaned close, feeling her plump, jelly-like body quiver.
‘Tell me, Heather, that girl in pink, is it Lady Primrose? Only I am sure I know her family . . .’
Heather trod on his foot as she peered round, then blinked up into his handsome face.
‘Yes, Lady Primrose Boyd-Carpenter. She’s very pretty, isn’t she?’
David smiled into the buck teeth and held Heather closer, placed his cheek against hers. She sighed, her frustrated passion mounting. ‘Oh, she’s all right . . . I must say, you’re very light on your feet, Heather.’
The poor girl nearly swooned, unaware that David was slowly manoeuvring her closer and closer to Lady Primrose, until she was forced to introduce him.
‘Primrose, this is David Collins, David, Lady Primrose Boyd-Carpenter.’
David bowed, kissing the delicate, white-gloved hand, and asked if he would be permitted a dance. Lady Primmy excused herself to Freddy, who was glowering at David, and they moved off to the centre of the floor. She was so fragile, so delicate, and he held her as if she were precious glass, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She smelt so fresh, her hair shone and her wondrous eyes sparkled, and dancing with her was like twirling a feather. Neither of them spoke, they just looked into one another’s eyes, then smiled as Freddy huffed and puffed past, pushing Heather around as if she were a wheelbarrow.
A butler approached Evelyne with a large silver tray, and bent low towards her. She wasn’t sure what he wanted, and she looked, licked her lips and placed her empty glass on the tray. He still waited, so she took another full one and smiled her thanks.
At the far end of the dance floor sat a group of uniformed soldiers. Two of them wore arm bandages, one had a large pad on one eye. Another sat in a wheelchair. They seemed out of place, holding the fluted glasses with care, afraid to drop them or snap them in their big fists, as they watched the dancers gliding past. Evelyne could tell they were as uncomfortable as she was.
Lady Sybil Warner looked over at Evelyne then searched the ballroom for David. The poor girl was still sitting alone on the sofa. Lady Sybil weaved her way towards Evelyne. More beads and feathers than ever floated around her, she was like a ship in full sail. ‘Now, dear, are you enjoying yourself? Come along, come along, let me introduce you to some young men, can’t have you sitting all alone, now can we? Follow me, come along.’
She introduced Evelyne to the young soldiers. Her feathers tickled their noses and she got everyone’s names wrong, but they were all so nervous they didn’t like to correct her. Evelyne sat and tried to think of something interesting to say, but nothing would break through her headful of pins and bows.
‘Would you like to dance, Miss?’
Evelyne bit her lip, then hedged, and finally admitted it – she actually couldn’t dance. The soldier boy laughed, throwing back his head.
‘We all thought you was a duchess sittin’ over yonder, too good for the likes of us. Yer can’t dance, girl, is that true?’
Evelyne nodded. These lads weren’t the same as the young officers on the dance floor, they were her own kind, like her brothers.
‘Well, I’ve never done this fancy two-and-two-step, but can you polka?’
Evelyne nodded, she could do a polka all right. Lizzie-Ann had taught her that. So they waited for a polka and now they were talking freely to her and asking questions. They came from different parts, but they all had families working the mines.
As the boys talked Evelyne’s eyes kept straying to the dancers. David was dancing yet again with Lady Primrose, they looked perfect together. Heather appeared with small beads of sweat along her upper lip, her dress stained at the armpits.
‘Are you enjoying yourselves? Food will be served in a moment.’
‘Would you like to dance, miss?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Dance, you want a dance?’
Heather licked her rabbit teeth, nonplussed, and stuck out her arms. The young soldier, wearing heavy boots, guided her on to the floor. All the boys sniggered and whispered about her teeth.
‘Always the way, ain’t it, eh? All this money an’ she got a face like a buckin’ bronco, she looks like she’s been eatin’ too many of these toffees her family makes.’
Evelyne knew she shouldn’t but she couldn’t help laughing with the lads.
One boy, the boy in the wheelchair, didn’t smile, he sat staring into the dancers as if they weren’t there. His eyes were glazed, dead, empty. Evelyne moved to the seat next to him. The boy seemed hardly aware of her. A red-haired soldier with bright red cheeks moved along to sit beside Evelyne.
‘He’ll not talk, he’s shell-shocked, he don’t know where he is, been like it for two days since they brought him home.’
Four more soldiers pulled their chairs closer, forming a protective circle with the vacant-eyed boy in the centre. They started to talk as if they needed to, the dancing and the champagne were all very well, but they had seen things, terrible things, and none of them wanted to go back. Their stories gushed out like rivers in flood, and Evelyne listened. She wanted to hold them in her arms, she felt their fear and confusion, and thought of Dicken and her darling brother Mike; they had gone off to a war she knew nothing about. The more the lads talked about what they were up against, the more Evelyne feared for her brothers. War was a long way from this elegant house, the orchestra, the young, dashing men in their cavalry uniforms. Evelyne realized that many of the so-called officers had never been to the Front. They were all show, like peacocks, in their braid and polished boots.
‘Wait ’til they see what the Germans are like, lot of them won’t be dancin’ then, be lucky if they still got their legs.’
The tight group was suddenly aware that couples were drifting into a large side room where a long trestle table had been laid out, the weight of the food bending the legs. Food! The lads rose in unison, then they remembered they were with a lady and turned back, but she grinned at them. She stood up and moved to the silent one, bent over him, touched his face. The lads moved off towards the food and Evelyne took hold of the silent boy’s hand.
‘Would you like something to eat, lad?’
The vacant eyes stared towards her – so empty they frightened her. Slowly the boy lifted his hand. It was a strange move, his h
and wavered, moving to her face. Then she felt his rough hand touch her cheek. She held his hand and kissed his fingers. The sad-eyed boy was so helpless, so cut off from reality, and his mouth moved, he was trying to speak. She moved her head closer.
‘Mama . . . ?’
Evelyne piled up a plate with chicken and ham, sweet rolled things with bacon wrapped around them, and tiny sausages on wooden sticks. The plate was so full, she dared not heap on any more. She was unaware of anyone watching her, of the nudges and the smiles or of David’s eyes, bright and angry. He was ashamed, it looked as though the girl had never eaten in her life. Lady Primrose at his side ate with delicate, bird-like movements. She smiled up at him with her rosebud mouth.
‘Do tell me, David, who on earth is that creature, and where exactly did you find her?’
David was very angry and flushed with embarrassment, he glared at Evelyne and then turned his back on her.
‘My aunt works in a school in one of the mining villages, she’s some sort of orphan, one has to do one’s bit.’
Lady Primrose muttered, ‘Poor thing’, and her sweet voice trilled, agreeing that of course one simply had to do one’s bit.
Several of the guests watched the tall girl in the flowing gown as she walked straight back to the sad, vacant-eyed boy in his wheelchair. They watched her place the napkin across his knee. Then she sat next to him and gently fed the boy with her own hands.
If anyone felt guilty they didn’t admit it, but they remembered then the reason for the dance. It was not for flirting and courting, it was to give the boys who had come from the Front a night to remember. They were aware that the number of boys actually from the Front was exceedingly small, but then they knew mostly young officers anyway. Lady Primrose murmured, and it was hastily passed on, that Evelyne was a poor orphaned soul and all the gels there would react the same way if the officers they danced with came home wounded.
The ballroom had become very hot, the hundreds of candles and the great chandelier in the centre of the room shimmered and cigar smoke hung in a haze from the small smoking room. David seemed to have disappeared. The red-haired soldier pressed his face up against the window and rubbed the condensation clear as he gazed out into the garden.
‘Eh, there’s a big bird yonder with a long feathered tail!’ Two more of the boys scrambled up to stare out of the windows. They were becoming a trifle rowdy, having discovered that there were spirits to drink. Evelyne excused herself, she could feel her dress sticking to her body and could hardly breathe in the heat of the room.
There were several couples standing outside the gilded doors that opened on to a flower-strewn balcony overlooking the gardens with steps that led down either side to the velvet lawns. Evelyne was grateful for the cool night air and breathed deeply; no smoke, no soot here, the air was fresh and clean. She wandered down the garden, bending to smell the perfume of the roses, pure sweet fragrances in comparison to the ladies’ scents.
The peacock screamed and it made Evelyne jump, then the bird swung its head and turned. As if dancing for her, it spread its tail, the colours shining in the twinkling lamplight. She laughed, thrilled by the sheer beauty of the bird, and moved closer and closer, and was suddenly knocked right off her feet by the most enormous dog she had ever seen. She sprawled face down, and the dog licked her cheek.
A small, rotund gentleman in rather ill-fitting evening clothes came rushing round the rosebushes. Red-faced, puffing with exertion, he made a grab for the dog’s trailing lead and landed with a thud next to Evelyne.
‘I apologize profusely, Madam . . .’
The dog stood over him and licked his face, making the gentleman’s snow-white hair stand on end. Evelyne was on her feet first, and helped the gentleman to his feet. He bowed, and with one hand holding the dog’s lead he apologized again, but his eyes twinkled and his arm was jerked back and forth. He whispered that he was just giving his friend a spot of exercise before he had to parade like the peacock he’d just scared off.
The gentleman’s manner was so warm and friendly that Evelyne found herself automatically linking arms with him, and together they walked around the wonderful gardens. He pointed out various flowers to her, he knew almost every one by name. He asked her name, repeated it, and then wanted to know all about her and where she came from. Evelyne told him, and when she started to explain about her gown, and Bertha and Minnie, the laughter shook his whole body, his right arm still constantly being jerked by the massive St Bernard.
‘But you can polka, is that right? Well then, may I ask you to give me the honour of a polka, or would you like me to give you the fastest dancing lesson? I’m not what you might call a light one on my feet, but by God I can and would love to waltz with you.’
There on the lawn, with his dog tied to a privet hedge and instructed to sit, the white-haired gentleman began to teach Evelyne the simplest one-two-three waltz step. He kept up a funny commentary about ‘Now you move back, now you come forward, not on my foot, young lady, turn yourself around, that’s a girl, by God you’re light on your feet, just like a fawn . . . round you go again . . .’
The strains of the orchestra drifted down to the lawn as they danced, the old gentleman with his head full of white hair, and the tall skinny girl in the old-fashioned gown.
The St Bernard was then dragged off, and Evelyne returned to the house. She examined her face in the powder-room mirror. Her skin was shining, her cheeks rosy from the fresh night air, and Bertha’s coiffure about to tumble down from its hundreds of pins. The orchestra stopped playing, and two girls rushed out of the room. The attendant peeked around the door.
‘He’s here, he’s here himself, be quick or you’ll miss him.’
Evelyne rushed to the door, not really knowing who it was she might miss.
A crowd had gathered at the ballroom doors. Sybil Warner was on the bandstand, and to thunderous applause she introduced Lloyd George himself. Evelyne could just see his shock of white hair above the heads of the group listening by the door. He gave a short, rousing speech, thanked Sybil for her efforts, and toasted ‘The Boys in Uniform’, wishing them God’s luck and telling them to enjoy themselves while they could. Then he turned to the waiting orchestra, and in his enormous, mellifluous voice, demanded to know if they could play a polka, he was exceedingly fond of the polka . . .
Lloyd George stepped down from the bandstand, and searched the faces of the guests. He caught sight of Evelyne and gave her a bow, held his hand out to her as the orchestra struck up a polka. He led the blushing Evelyne to the centre of the ballroom, whispered to her that she was doing just fine, and they danced. For the first few bars they danced alone on the huge floor, then other couples joined them. Lady Sybil complained to David, her nose completely out of joint, that she should have opened the dancing with Lloyd George, it was outrageous. David didn’t seem to hear her, he just stared at Evelyne. How in God’s name had that come about? Captain Ridgely passed David and whispered to him from the side of his mouth.
‘Old boy certainly can pick ’em, what? Stunning-looking gel.’
David glanced at Evelyne and raised one eyebrow slightly.
‘Takes all tastes, old chap, but then he is notorious for his rough side, gel’s an orphan from the valleys.’
Captain Ridgely murmured that Lloyd George wasn’t the only one who liked a bit of rough. He nudged David and winked.
‘I did a good turn for you, what you say you arrange something for me with that delicious redhead, is it a deal? What you say?’
David glanced at Evelyne; she made no impression on him whatever, the common touch left him cold. However, David wanted to keep on the right side of Ridgely, and he gave him an equally lewd wink and returned the nudge.
David could see Lady Primrose talking quietly with Freddy Carlton. Now there was someone who really interested him. Not only was she virginal, beautiful and wealthy but, to add icing to the already delicious cake, she was titled. David leaned close to Ridgely and whispered. They bot
h glanced at Evelyne and then put their heads together again.
The dance seemed to end all too quickly, and Lloyd George moved off towards the soldiers, sat with them and talked and listened earnestly. As he got up to leave he touched the top of the sad-eyed boy’s head. He didn’t look back at Evelyne until he reached the main doors, then he smiled to her, and with a wave of his hand he was gone.
The orchestra began to move out of their seats, and a band of colourful gypsy men and women entered the ballroom. The women wore bright skirts and headbands, and were decked out in gold jewellery. They smiled and ‘entertained’ their audience, but their eyes were unfathomable. Smiling lips, friendly gestures, and yet there was an untouchable air to them. They remained aloof, distant.
The fiddlers played well, walking around the room while waiters served tea and brandy. Some guests were already departing, others sat talking. A large group, mostly women, moved into the card-room, where two gypsy women prepared to read fortunes from palms and Tarot cards. There was no need to cross their palms with silver, as Sybil had settled an overall price with them before their arrival. The soldiers were leaving, returning to their barracks, hospitals and rest homes.
Evelyne searched in vain for David, and strolled out on to the balcony. It was very late now, almost eleven-thirty. She was tired, and her mind was full of the events of the evening. She kept biting her lip to stop herself smiling. She had danced with Lloyd George himself! In actual fact, Evelyne had not the slightest idea who he was but she, the outsider, had been the centre of attention for one moment . . . she wished Lizzie-Ann or her Da could have seen her. There was so much to tell them, they wouldn’t believe it. She wondered if she would be allowed to keep her frock. If so, she’d give it to Lizzie-Ann. Evelyne just knew it was her style, she’d just die for it.
Evelyne didn’t notice the boy, she hadn’t heard his step, and he scared her. He was staring up at her from the grass below, head to one side, and he didn’t look away when she looked down. He kept his eyes on her face. Black, cold eyes . . . then he smiled, and she remembered him, it was the gypsy boy from the field.
The Legacy (1987) Page 9
