‘It’s all right, don’t mind me,’ said Jocelyn. ‘It’s only my first dance, there’s no need to spare my feelings.’
‘All right, I won’t. Do you girls want any punch? I warn you, I’m not spending the whole evening slaving for you, so you might as well say yes.’
‘Yes please,’ said Margot. Maybe they weren’t here yet. There was the usual shortage of men. The invitation had asked them to bring a partner; easy enough, of course, since Stephen was home – but clearly not everyone had managed. She reminded herself to find George and make sure he asked Jocelyn to dance.
Dance one with Stephen. Perfectly pleasant – Stephen was a pretty decent dancer when he put his mind to it.
‘Better go and cheer up Jos,’ he said, as the number finished, leaving Margot standing there, looking around the room. Betty and Annabel – she should probably go and say hullo, she supposed. Mrs Henderson, talking animatedly to a cluster of new arrivals – how did she do her hair like that? She must look when she got a bit closer. Mr McNamara—
‘Hullo.’
A tap on her shoulder. She started. And there he was. Harry Singer. In full evening dress. He paid for the dressing, as Nana would have said. His easy confidence was a rarity in this room, she realised.
‘Harry! You’re looking rather dashing, I must say.’
‘So are you.’ His glance was openly admiring. ‘Your mother didn’t make that, did she?’
‘She did. It’s not so dusty, is it?’
‘You could do worse.’ He looked her up and down. ‘No, not too bad at all. Do you have any free, or have I come too late?’
‘No, of course not.’ He smiled at her, and she gazed frankly back, drinking in the simple pleasure of his smiling face.
She displayed her dance card to him, with a frankness which would have appalled the Women’s Weekly articles on the subject of feminine coyness.
‘You see. I am yours for the taking.’
A quick flick of his eyes towards her, then down again. Three years ago, he would not have let that pass. He really was on his best behaviour.
‘Well, then...’ He took out his pencil and scribbled something on the dance card. Quite a lot of somethings. ‘There you go. I must dash – I’ve sworn I’ll dance with both my sisters, and there are a couple of other duties I must fulfil – the mater was very firm – but I think we might make something of the evening nonetheless.’
He handed back the card and she looked at it – with trembling hands, said the Girl’s Own serial writer in her head, but no, they were perfectly steady. He’d signed himself up for six dances, including number three – was that a good sign? Too presumptuous of him? Not presumptuous enough? She was trying to work out how pleased she ought to be, when he reappeared.
‘We needn’t dance them all, of course,’ he said. ‘We should sit out at least one, for the sake of the gossiping mamas, oughtn’t we? And of course –’ That smile was back – ‘alterations can be made at a later stage in the proceedings.’
‘Increases or decreases,’ she said, keeping her tone light to match his.
‘As you say.’ He inclined his head, and disappeared again into the crowd. She sat, smiling to herself. It will be all right, she told herself. It will. It must. And then, Oh lord, is anyone else going to ask me?
But almost immediately: ‘Care to dance?’
It was Mr Phillips. One of her father’s curates – heavens! Still, he wasn’t so bad-looking as all that, though he must be nearly thirty. And she felt suddenly that she would like to dance. The band were playing a brisk foxtrot.
‘Thanks most awfully,’ she said. ‘I’d love to.’
The First of Six Dances
A ball. A real, live ball. It was rather glorious really, especially now her card didn’t look so fearfully empty. After Mr Phillips she was asked again, by a shy-looking boy with a stutter who she knew from Sunday School and was evidently determined to Do His Duty.
She smiled as graciously as she could and said, ‘Of course. I’m booked for number three, but how about number four? And could you possibly ask Jos as well? It’s her first ball, and I think she’s a little windy about the whole thing.’ The boy gave her a shy smile and said he’d be very glad to. And then there was Harry again.
‘I believe the next dance is mine.’
A waltz. Oh, how divine to be waltzing with Harry! She could see others in the room watching her, wallflower heads bending close to whisper. Stephen grinned as they went past, and one of the Henderson girls scowled – was she jealous ? No, surely not!
He was a good dancer. (Of course he was.)
‘All the mamas in this room are talking about us,’ he said, leaning closer, and she giggled.
‘Do you mind?’
‘No, I rather like it. Let’s give them something to talk about, shall we? Supposing we were still engaged – and I don’t believe we ever broke it off, officially, did we? What do you think of a farming life? Would you like it?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know so much about what it would mean. Would I have to feed baby calves and so forth?’
‘Well, you might. And help with the hay-making and all that. It’s not an easy life. Everyone on a farm has to work pretty hard, especially in spring and summer. But it’s a sociable one. My uncle’s farm where I’m living at the moment – there’s all sorts of people there in the summer, labourers and haymakers and milkmaids and so forth. It’s rather jolly in summer. Of course my aunt runs the household at the moment, but I think the idea is I might inherit when my uncle retires – if he’s pleased with me, I mean, but he seems to be so far. You’d like my aunt – she’s a frightful brick. And my cousins, Jilly and Mary. They’re the only ones left at home, but they’re rather decent sorts. And of course there’s always something going on – fairs and hunting and the WI and all that sort of thing. Do you hunt, Miss Allen?’
‘Don’t be an ass. You know I don’t. I’ve never even ridden a horse, unless you count the donkeys at Scarborough. Do you?’
‘Well – a little. They taught us riding in the army, and my uncle’s a bit of a hunting fiend. It’s not so dusty. But there’s hunt balls and things if that’s more your scene.’
He seemed entirely serious. She said, ‘Can you picture me as a farmer’s wife – honestly, Harry? Would I do all right?’
‘I rather think you might. I don’t say it’s all jollification – this winter’s been pretty dismal, though I wouldn’t say the farmhouse is much icier than that vicarage of yours. And it’s a decent life for children.’
She drew in a little involuntary breath. He looked at her.
‘Don’t you want kids?’
‘Yes! Oh, yes. I want a big family. Lots and lots of babies. Don’t you?’
‘You know I do.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘I rather like the idea of making something good out of the mess our parents left us.’
All at once it struck her – what she was giving him if she told him. The awfulness of the last two years, the knowledge that her son wasn’t her son, the tearing, desperate grief of it. That was what she was giving to Harry. She hadn’t thought that a man would mind about it in the same way, had thought he would be angry or disgusted – but perhaps Harry really would mind as much as she had?
Could they possibly live the straightforward, sunlit life he was offering her, if that secret – that grief was between them?
But how in heaven’s name could they live it if she kept it to herself?
They danced the rest of the waltz in silence, and at the end of it, he said, ‘I’m supposed to take Prissy round the room now, but I’ll see you later?’
She nodded, rather breathless, and he gave her a smart bow and headed off towards his sister.
Stephen was nowhere to be seen. Jocelyn – where was Jocelyn? – oh, there. She was talking very earnestly to a middle-aged woman with a close bob and a cigarillo. The woman was dressed in a dreadful black sheath of a dress, but Jocelyn was no
dding her head furiously as she talked. She looked rather breathless. Margot was wondering what they were talking about, when: ‘Hullo, old thing!’
‘Oh, George! How lovely to see you! Where have you been?’
‘Acute appendicitis. Didn’t expect to see you sitting one out.’
‘Not enough partners,’ said Margot briefly. ‘Which reminds me – you will ask Jos to dance, won’t you?’‘With pleasure,’ said George. ‘And happy to do the same for you, if you really have some free? I’m not sure I can face being mobbed by all the mamas of Thwaite, and the thing about being the local doctor, of course, is there are so dreadfully many people one doesn’t need an introduction to. And one can’t refuse without losing custom.’
‘All right.’ They compared dance cards and settled on number five.
‘Any go with the young man?’
‘Not yet. We’re going to thrash it all out later.’
‘Well – jolly good luck and all that. I’m off to get a drink. Cheerio!’
Dear old George. How she liked him. She wished Mary was here – but of course, she couldn’t leave the baby.
Oh criminy. How was she possibly going to do this?
Ministering Angel
A dance with the boy from Sunday School. A dance with George. Harry blew her a kiss over his shoulder as he tangoed past. Afterwards, feeling rather at a loss, she went looking for Jocelyn. She found her at the buffet, hovering by the punch.
‘Jos!’
‘Oh! There you are! I was wondering.’
‘What have you been doing? I saw you talking to that old goat – you were looking at her like she was the Second Coming or something.’
‘She’s not an old goat!’ Jocelyn looked shocked. ‘She runs an orphanage.’ The expression on her face was almost dreamy. ‘It’s in London – she’s got fifty little children she rescued from the workhouse.’
Margot thought of the woman with the long black dress. An orphanage! At the back of her mind, Margot had always suspected that a lot of the mother and baby home babies had ended up somewhere like that. It was all very well talking about loving couples desperate for a child, but the truth was that there were far more unwanted babies than there were childless young couples. The workhouses were full of them.
Jocelyn read Margot’s expression with her usual speed, and flushed.
‘All right! You needn’t be such a beast about it!’
‘I didn’t say a thing!’
‘You didn’t need to.’ It took a lot to upset Jocelyn, but the combination of the night’s excitement and her usual inferiority complex seemed to have done it. ‘You’ve always thought everything I liked was perfectly dreary. You don’t want to run an orphanage – fine! Don’t! But what exactly do you expect me to do with myself? Stay at home and look after Mother and Father? Spend the rest of my life as a typist?’
‘Like me you mean?’
‘Don’t be absurd.’ Jocelyn was really angry now. ‘Of course you’re going to marry one day, once you’ve gotten over your idiotic self-flagellation—’
‘Self-flagellation!’
‘I’m not going to marry, Margot,’ said Jocelyn. ‘At least – I must assume I won’t. So what’s left for me?’
She had a point, Margot had to admit it.
‘So that’s what you’re going to do then?’ she said, a little sulkily. ‘Jocelyn Allen, Ministering Angel?’
‘You needn’t be such a cat,’ said Jocelyn. ‘It’s good work. If not orphanages, then – I don’t know – being a poor law guardian, or – or something. I need some sort of job to do.’
She glared at Margot. Margot was rather taken aback, and slightly ashamed. She’d always rather mocked the sort of ladies who ran enterprises like the home. But Jocelyn was right, of course. Without people trying to do some good in the world, children like Phyllis’s Robert might well have ended up in a workhouse. It didn’t bear thinking about, really, when you put it like that.
Not quite knowing how to apologise, she said, ‘I think you’d be rather decent at running an orphanage.’
‘So do I,’ said Jocelyn. But her expression did not soften.
Supper
Another dance with Harry.
‘I spread them out a bit on the old schedule so as to give me something to keep me going when I’m whirling Mother’s friends’ ghastly daughters around the room. I say, you really can dance, can’t you? Did you know Basil Henderson said you were the prettiest girl in the village?’
Then a dance sitting out on the stairs with two girls she knew from long-ago dancing classes and who, astonishingly, turned out to be at art school in Manchester, and working as a Games teacher respectively.
Another with Harry.
‘I put you down just before supper, so you’d have to go in with me. Wasn’t I clever? Basil Henderson was right, you know.’
A break for supper. She ate with Harry, Jos and George, and it was perfectly lovely. No one worried about what to say, everyone was pleasant and interesting, and nobody said idiotic things, and she could feel Harry and George liking each other, and Jocelyn relaxing. Was this what being a grown-up might be like? Never having to spend time with bores again?
Stephen had disappeared into a gaggle of brother-officer types. A bit much to expect him to chaperone his sisters to supper, perhaps. He hovered briefly over the table with a whisky and soda in one hand.
‘All right?’
‘Perfectly, thanks, Steve.’
‘Jolly good.’ He stood there a little awkwardly. ‘The ices are rather decent – I’d try one if I were you.’
‘All right. Buzz off now, Steve, you know you want to.’
The supper was wonderful, though. Ices, little cakes, and lobster patties. Margot gulped down an Orangina and felt better for it. A footman came round with tall thin glasses of champagne. Margot took one and looked at Jocelyn, daring her to protest. She hesitated, then took one too, a little defiantly. It tasted just as delicious as Margot remembered. The last time she’d drunk champagne had been when the War ended, and the headmistress had insisted. She wasn’t a bad old bird, really.
The men were having the sort of conversation young men always seemed to be having these days. The War, the War, the War, endlessly circling and recircling.
‘Those hospital trains! Three bunks high – and the smell! I had a chap in the bunk above me with dysentery. Who thought that was a good idea, I’ll never know. Not how you want to be woken up at four in the morning when you’ve just had the first clear night’s sleep in five days.’
Laughter.
‘There was a fellow in my battalion who used to sleep through a bombardment. Pull his cap down over his eyes and drop off there and then. Can you imagine!’
Scoffing and disbelief.
‘He must have been deaf!’
‘Not a bit of it. Said he’d grown up next to an ironworks, and could sleep through the Apocalypse if he had to. If you’re dead, you’re dead, he used to say, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it. Sniper got him in the end, poor devil. Often think of him.’
Murmurs. Then, ‘Any of you chaps remember old Edwards? Did you ever hear the story about him and the boulanger’s daughter? No? Well, what happened was, Edwards, you see...’
Margot caught Jocelyn’s eye and she went scarlet. It didn’t sound at all like the sort of boulanger’s daughter story they’d covered in French class.
The Waltz
Number nine was the brother of the art-school girl, who trod on her toes. Number ten was Stephen, then eleven, twelve, thirteen were Harry – Harry – Harry. He’d made damn sure she couldn’t funk it, then. She’d accepted no more offers after this, telling anyone who asked that she didn’t know how late they would be staying.
Stephen was looking rather tight. He clutched her arm and said, ‘All right, old girl? Jolly good party, eh? Hendersons know how to do a thing, don’t they?’
‘Yes,’ she said. Then... ‘Look here, Ste
phen, don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink already?’
‘Eh?’ He looked at her a little blearily.
‘Oh, Stephen.’ She suddenly wanted to cry. The Stephen in her head was still the little boy who had given all his money box to the beggar woman, and cried because he didn’t want to go back to school. The adolescent who had flown at the prefects in a bate because he’d discovered them beating a fag for the fun of it.
What had happened to that child? Was it the War? Or did this happen to everybody as they grew up?
Did people look at her and think the same thing?
He was frowning at her, his brow furrowed.
‘Don’t...’ he said.
‘Don’t what?’
‘Don’t look at me like that.’ He swayed, then, suddenly vehement, said, ‘I’m sick to fucking death of it! You might let a fellow breathe!’
‘Stephen!’ She was shocked.
He rubbed his hand across his face.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry – you mustn’t mind me, you know. I’m...’ He was still swaying. ‘I’m too old for this,’ he said dazedly. ‘Lived too long.’
He pushed his way past her and through the dancers. She watched him, her heart tugging at her, wondering if she should follow.
‘Jilted already?’
It was Harry.
‘Only Stephen,’ she said, her eyes still on Stephen’s retreating back. ‘He’s tight, I think.’
He looked at her in silent enquiry and she spread out her arms in a gesture of surrender. What, after all, could she do about Stephen?
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s dance away our sorrows. I’m frightfully sorry I’ve been so taken up. You wouldn’t believe the number of girls Mother made me promise to dance with. Thought I’d better get them out of the way. Still, I’m all yours now. Shall we?’
A polka. And then another waltz. Margot clung to him, trying to savour the moment, one last waltz with Harry Singer. If only it would never end! He seemed to catch something of her fervour, for he held her tightly and did not try to speak. The other dancers seemed to part before them, Margot Allen, the pretty vicar’s daughter, looking particularly well tonight, and tall, dark Harry Singer clasping her in his arms once more.
The Silent Stars Go By Page 12
