Dancing the Charleston, page 23
‘Thank you, Mr Berner,’ I said politely, and walked out.
‘I wish I had some money. They’re such lovely little dolls,’ said Marcella. ‘You can pretend they’re twins.’
‘I bought one for you,’ I said, pressing it into her hand.
‘Really? Oh, that’s so lovely of you! And it’s not fair at all, because I know you’re very poor – Barbara said.’
‘We’re not poor any more, actually,’ I said, stung. ‘Aunty has a special contract with Harrods in London. And I’ve got my very own bank account.’
‘I think you’re fibbing,’ said Marcella, cradling her doll in her hand.
‘No, truly. I’m not allowed to spend it yet though.’
‘I’m not allowed to spend anything. Barbara and Stanley are so stingy. We’ve got hardly any toys. The only person who buys us lovely things at Christmas is Uncle Benjamin. Can we visit all the other shops too?’
Marcella was interested in them all, but thought Mr Berner’s by far the best. Nigel liked the butcher’s shop, and dragged Marcella inside.
‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry,’ she said as he scrabbled eagerly in the sawdust, trying to jump up at the hanging rabbits.
‘Come on the scrounge for a bone or two, have you?’ said Mr Samson, looking at me.
I blushed, but Marcella didn’t understand. ‘Oh, yes please, I think Nigel would love a bone! Thank you very much.’
Mr Samson shook his head at us, but gave Marcella a parcel of bones, all with quite a lot of meat on them. They would have made Aunty and me a stew to last all week.
‘I do like this village,’ said Marcella happily. ‘It’s going to be absolute heaven staying here this summer. We can play together again, can’t we, Mona?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said.
We headed homewards. When we passed the Higginses’ cottage Bertha was still tethered to the pram, but Maggie was indoors, which was a relief. Aunty asked Marcella in for a cup of tea. ‘But hang on tight to Nigel. I’ve got a kitten,’ I said proudly.
‘Oh, you lucky thing!’ said Marcella. ‘Please let me see it, I simply love kittens.’
We left Nigel in Aunty’s care while I took Marcella up to my bedroom. Aunty didn’t look very thrilled about it, but didn’t object.
Sixpence was curled up dozing in the middle of my pillow.
‘Oh, she’s adorable!’ said Marcella. ‘I’d swap Nigel for her any day of the week.’
Sixpence yawned and stretched and purred, delighted to have company. We played with her until Aunty called to say the tea was ready. We went running down. Aunty had set the good china out neatly and opened a packet of Petit Beurre biscuits too, laying them in a little fan on the best bluebird plate.
‘What lovely dainty biscuits,’ said Marcella. ‘Oh, they’ve got French writing on them. It says they’re “little butter” biscuits!’
I hadn’t known that petit beurre meant ‘little butter’. I don’t think Aunty knew either, but we both nodded. A cup of tea and a biscuit was hardly a feast, but Marcella was very complimentary.
‘It’s such fun eating in your kitchen,’ she said.
‘We don’t have a parlour because Aunty has a special workroom,’ I explained.
‘Can I see it?’ Marcella asked.
Aunty hesitated, looking doubtfully at Nigel. She was worried he’d jump up at the clothes hanging neatly from their racks.
We left him tied to the kitchen table leg while Aunty led Marcella into her workroom. I watched from the doorway as she wandered around, staring at all the dresses. She looked awed, as if she was tiptoeing around a church. She asked questions in a whisper, examining the tiny stiches, the lace collars, the embroidery.
‘Do you always make your dresses in very small sizes, Miss Watson?’ she wondered.
‘I make my dresses in ages two, four and six,’ said Aunty.
‘I’m nine,’ said Marcella dolefully.
Aunty didn’t even hesitate. ‘I’ll make you a dress in your size, if you like, Miss Marcella.’
‘Really? But I dare say they’re very expensive. I’m not sure Barbara would want to pay a lot,’ she said.
‘I wouldn’t dream of asking for payment,’ said Aunty. ‘I’ll make it as a present.’
‘I can’t believe you’d make such a lovely kind offer! I expect I should say no you mustn’t, but I’m going to say yes please!’ said Marcella, clasping her hands against her blue-smocked chest. ‘Oh, I should just die of happiness if I could wear a frock like that.’
‘This particular design? With the rainbow smocking?’ Aunty asked.
‘Actually, I’d rather not have the smocking – maybe just a plain bodice? I’m rather sick of smocking, though you do it so beautifully. Barbara always makes it pucker unevenly,’ she said, plucking at her own dress.
‘I think she does it very well,’ said Aunty, plainly fibbing. ‘Of course, she’s not a trained dressmaker.’
Marcella blew upwards through her fringe to indicate her agreement. ‘Could the dress be a lot shorter too? This one keeps bunching up around my legs and getting in the way.’
‘Of course. Knee length? Maybe just above the knees?’ Aunty suggested.
‘Oh yes!’
‘Then we’d better include matching knickers.’
‘Oh goodness! Look at the ones I’m wearing.’ Marcella hitched up her coarse blue smock to show an ancient pair of white drawers – now an unattractive grey, with a distressing droop. ‘They weren’t even new when Esmeralda had them. They were cut down from a pair of Barbara’s, can you imagine!’ she said.
I’d have died rather than show off such a pair, but Marcella seemed to be enjoying herself. Aunty clucked sympathetically and got out her tape measure. ‘I’ll just jot down a few measurements, Miss Marcella, but you seem a pretty standard size to me.’
‘How soon do you think you could make my dress, Miss Watson? By teatime?’ she asked hopefully.
I knew that this was ridiculous. It would take Aunty much, much longer, and she had all her Harrods orders to get through first. Marcella would be lucky to have her dress made in a week – several weeks.
‘Pop back tomorrow teatime, dear, and let’s hope for the best,’ said Aunty.
‘Oh, you’re a positive angel,’ said Marcella. She gave Aunty a hug, and to my astonishment Aunty hugged her right back, pink in the face. I felt a strange twinge. She was trying to please Marcella much more than she ever had me.
Marcella went skipping off, holding up her dress so that she wouldn’t trip over it.
‘How on earth will you get her dress ready by tomorrow, Aunty?’ I asked.
‘Oh, it won’t be the first time I’ve stayed up all night stitching,’ she said cheerfully.
‘I know you did for Lady Somerset, but at least she paid you for it.’
‘Goodness, Mona. I thought you’d be thrilled that I was putting myself out for your new friend,’ said Aunty. ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing’s the matter,’ I said. ‘And I am pleased Marcella wants to be friends. I just don’t see why you’re being so nice to her. You never offered to make Maggie a dress, and she’s been my friend for ages.’
‘Well, Maggie!’ said Aunty, in a need-I-say-more kind of way. ‘Marcella’s different. She’s a Somerset.’
‘Hello, Mona.’ He’d remembered my name!
18
Marcella was thrilled with her new frock. Aunty chose a pale green muslin with a slight silver shimmer. She’d fashioned perfect puffed sleeves, and two pockets edged with darker green lace. There were knickers to match, as promised, and they had green lace too, three layers. Aunty had even cut a satin hair ribbon in the same shade of green.
‘Oh, Miss Watson, you’re the most heavenly angel ever!’ said Marcella, dancing around her. ‘I love you to bits!’
‘Now, now, Miss Marcella, no need to get carried away,’ said Aunty, but her eyes shone behind her glasses.
I couldn’t help wondering whether Marcella would ever come calling again now that she’d got her pretty green frock – but she knocked on our door nearly every day. Bruno came too. He managed to mutter a polite greeting to Aunty.
‘Hello, Fishface,’ he said to me.
‘Don’t tell me you’re after a new frock too,’ I said.
Bruno pulled a hideous face. ‘Don’t be stupid! I want to see the big pig in someone’s back garden.’
‘You could eat six puddings a day, and in a week or two you could be the pig in your uncle’s back garden,’ I said.
‘Mona! Watch your tongue! Don’t talk to Master Bruno like that,’ said Aunty, shocked.
‘Yes, don’t talk to me like that,’ Bruno echoed.
I didn’t want to take him to the Higginses’ cottage, but when Marcella and I wandered down to the village arm in arm Bruno tagged after us, even though we kept telling him to go away.
Bertha was once again tied to the baby’s pram outside the cottage, and Johnnie and Bertie were making mud pies, but Maggie was nowhere in sight. I grabbed Marcella’s hand and we ran past, but Bruno wasn’t fooled.
‘Is this the pig cottage? It is, it is! I want to see the pig!’ He raised his voice and bellowed, ‘I WANT TO SEE THE PIG!’
‘Mum! Our mum! There’s a strange boy with Mona wanting to see Porker!’ the brothers yelled, running into the cottage.
‘Hello, dears,’ said Mrs Higgins, coming out with a rolling pin in one hand, up to her elbows in flour.
‘He’s not with me,’ I insisted.
‘We’ve never even seen him before,’ said Marcella. Mrs Higgins shook her head at us. ‘You’re a pair of fibbers,’ she said, amused. ‘Why are you teasing him?’
‘TAKE ME TO SEE YOUR PIG AT ONCE!’ Bruno boomed.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mrs Higgins. ‘Who do you think you are, young man?’
‘I’m Bruno Somerset,’ he said.
Mrs Higgins didn’t seem impressed. ‘I thought you were. Well, watch your tongue, child. You don’t give orders here, no matter who you are. But if you was to say nicely, Please may I have a peep at your pig, Mrs Higgins, then I might decide to say yes.’
Bruno knew when he was beaten. His urge to see the pig was too much for him. ‘Please may I have a peep at your pig, Mrs Higgins?’ he parroted.
‘Of course you can, my dear. Bertie, take Master Bruno to see Porker, there’s a good boy,’ said Mrs Higgins. ‘Are you girls going to see him too?’
‘Not today thank you, Mrs Higgins. I don’t want to risk getting my new frock dirty,’ said Marcella. She held out her skirt. ‘Do you like it?’
‘I think it’s truly pretty. You look a picture. I think I know who made it for you too!’
I went hot all over, because Aunty had never offered to make Maggie one, but Mrs Higgins was too kind to bear a grudge. She even pretended that Maggie would be sorry she’d missed me.
‘She’s gone to have her tea with a friend,’ she told me.
‘Boyfriend,’ said Bertie.
I knew who that was. I decided I didn’t care. I liked Peter, but Maggie was welcome to him. I liked Roland much better. I wished he wanted to see Porker too.
‘How’s your other brother?’ I asked Marcella as casually as I could as we strolled back, Bruno trailing behind us making snorty pig noises.
‘Roland? He’s still hanging around with the workmen,’ she said. ‘He even likes to share their lunch outside. Which is just as well, because he gets terribly dirty helping them dig and then forgets the state of his clothes. He flopped down on one of Uncle Benjamin’s new blue chairs the other day, and that silly Ambrose went demented because he left marks on the velvet. Uncle Benjamin was a jolly good sport and said you mustn’t blame a chap for sitting on a chair, because surely that was their sole purpose. Ambrose has been in a sulk ever since.’
‘And is Esmeralda still friends with Desiree?’
‘Desiree has gone to London for the week, so Esmeralda’s at a bit of a loose end. She tried painting with Barbara but got terribly bored. I think she’d really like to come with me, but she won’t because she’s too proud. She absolutely loves my new dress but doesn’t want it to look as if she’s asking for one for herself,’ said Marcella.
‘I think my aunty would be happy to make her one too,’ I said.
‘Yes, but we don’t really want her to come, do we?’ Marcella said. ‘She’d only start bossing us about. You have no idea how lucky you are not to have an elder sister, Mona.’
I wasn’t sure I agreed. I was thrilled when we spotted Esmeralda drifting listlessly around the cottage when we got back from the village. She saw us, and started walking rapidly back towards the manor.
‘Esmeralda! Esmeralda, come back!’ I called.
‘Oh, don’t,’ said Marcella.
‘Can’t we just be nice to her?’
‘She’s not nice to me!’
Nigel was straining on his leash, obviously wanting to see Esmeralda too. He pulled so hard that Marcella lost her grip on the lead and he went tearing off.
‘Oh, rats,’ she said. ‘Stupid dog!’
Nigel was leaping up at Esmeralda, licking her bare legs and barking a love song to her. She couldn’t move for Nigel whirling around her.
‘Can’t you control the silly animal?’ she shouted to Marcella, but she bent down and fondled Nigel, tickling him behind his floppy ears. He rolled over onto his back so that she could tickle his tummy too. ‘Honestly!’ she said, but she obliged, her long golden hair falling over him like a curtain.
She was wearing a Barbara-sewn blue smock too, but somehow it didn’t look hideous on her. The bulky material emphasized the slenderness of her wrists and legs, and the tight smocked chest showed she was starting to get a figure. I stared at her enviously.
‘Don’t tickle him like that!’ said Marcella. ‘If he gets too excited he wets himself. You’ll get dog wee all over your smock.’
‘Good,’ said Esmeralda. ‘I hate it. I’d like him to tear it to shreds.’
‘Would you like a dress like Marcella’s? My aunty made it for her – she could make you one too. If you’d like it, that is,’ I said.
Esmeralda looked up from Nigel. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘It would be no trouble at all,’ I insisted, though Aunty had red-rimmed eyes and a splitting headache after working on Marcella’s green dress by lamplight.
‘Go on, Esmeralda. You know you’d love a dress like this,’ said Marcella, stroking her shimmery skirts.
‘I wouldn’t, actually,’ she replied lightly. ‘It’s tremendously pretty and beautifully sewn, and you’re very lucky that Mona’s aunt has been so kind – but it’s far too babyish for me.’
‘I’m sure Aunty could make you something more grown up,’ I said, a little hurt.
‘A dress like Desiree’s?’
‘Well, not exactly like that,’ I said. Aunty disapproved of Desiree’s dress: she said it was downright disgusting, fit only for a woman of the night – whatever that was.
‘That’s what I’d like,’ said Esmeralda. ‘Desiree’s going to bring me several of her old dresses when she comes back from London.’
‘They’ll look stupid on you. You’re only a little girl,’ said Marcella.
Esmeralda raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re just jealous because you’re the little girl,’ she said, and walked off.
Nigel whimpered, feeling rejected. Marcella clutched his lead. ‘No, Nigel. You don’t want to go to her. She’s a silly stuck-up beast. And she’ll look totally ridiculous in one of Desiree’s dresses, won’t she, Mona?’
I nodded, but privately I thought that Esmeralda would look amazing in a short spangled dress. She didn’t come near the cottage again, and Bruno tired of seeing the pig and stayed away too. I’d hoped I might spend the summer playing with all four children – but I was glad that I had Marcella as a friend.
Late one afternoon Aunty sent me scurrying down to the village because we’d run out of flour and she wanted to make a pie. When I came out of Old Molly’s, clutching my paper bag, I bumped straight into Roland!
‘Hello!’ I said, praying I wasn’t blushing.
‘Hello, Mona.’ He’d remembered my name! He was tanned, his hair bleached even fairer, his eyes very blue. I couldn’t quite look him in the eye.
He peered into Old Molly’s shop. It was very dark inside, which was probably just as well. I sometimes heard a scuttling in the corners, and once we’d found mouse dirt in our sack of porridge oats. The cheese smell was worse than usual because it had been a very hot day. Roland wrinkled his nose, hesitating in the doorway.
‘Well, come in or go out, make up your mind,’ Old Molly called out of the gloom.
Roland looked startled. ‘I was wondering if you might sell cigarettes,’ he said.
‘Oh my Lord!’ she shrieked. ‘Cigarettes, is it, young master? Your poor dead grandma would be turning in her grave. As if I’m going to sell cigarettes to a little boy, even if he is a Somerset!’
‘The cigarettes aren’t for me,’ said Roland.
‘What kind of a fool do you take me for? Be off with you!’
Roland’s cheeks were flushed.
‘She is an old fool,’ I whispered. ‘And she doesn’t sell cigarettes anyway. But I know where you can get some.’
‘What’s that you’re muttering, Mona Smith? If you’re off buying cigarettes, I’ll tell that stuck-up aunt of yours and she’ll give you the whipping you deserve!’ Old Molly threatened.
I poked my tongue out at her and then backed away.
Roland came with me. ‘What an old witch,’ he said.
‘Yes, she is. And she smells as bad as her shop. You have to be careful.’ I opened my paper bag and peered at the flour. ‘You have to check for weevils.’
‘Good God!’ said Roland, taken aback.
I hoped to find something wriggling about just to show him, but for once the flour was white and undisturbed.
‘Does your aunt really whip you?’ he asked.
