The Tower Room, page 17
Before she went downstairs she pirouetted before her mirror, delighted by the way the spangled skirt swirled, revealing several inches of thigh as it rose and fell. It was perfect for dancing the charleston, twisting, kicking, leg-swinging. She would make sure the band played it a lot once the outdated numbers, for the benefit of the older generation, had been got out of the way — the polkas and valetas and military two-steps. Then on to the quicksteps and the foxtrots and the sambas and the rhumbas and the charlestons and the black-bottoms and the shimmies. Come to think of it, this dress could be even more effective in the shimmy. She practised briefly, shaking her body from shoulders to bottom and thanking God she’d been born in time for the roaring twenties.
A final glance in the mirror and a last adjustment of the sequined bandeau across her brow, a final touch of rouge and a further slash of bright red lipstick to prevent the brilliance of gold from eclipsing her colour, and she was satisfied.
‘You’ll do very well, my dear,’ said her husband from the door.
Do? she thought. She wanted more than that.
‘You will “do” too,’ she answered, and was surprised when he laughed.
‘Sorry. It was an understatement. “Beautiful” was the word I should have used. But you are well accustomed to hearing that and you will certainly hear it a lot tonight.’ He gave her his arm and together they descended the abbey’s wide stone stairs and took their places to greet the guests.
*
Later, when she had recovered from shock, Cynthia resolutely dismissed the cause of it. The fracas which followed some time later, at the table seating the local constable and his brother with their respective wives, was as nothing compared with it. That vulgar little scene even had its pleasing side because it focused on the Willcox girl and humiliated her — which served her right because it was she who was responsible for the initial shock which took place the moment she walked in, her hand beneath her grandmother’s elbow and looking for all the world as if she were concerned only for the lame old woman and totally unconscious of herself.
She couldn’t have been, of course. Not in a gown like that and looking the way she did. Her shining black hair hung loose over bare shoulders which rose from a gown of dazzling peacock-blue slipper satin, a costly affair designed by an artist to emphasise every line of a young and lovely body — small-waisted and slimhipped, young breasts thrusting, long and shapely legs subtly suggested by a flowing skirt which clung delicately to her thighs as she walked.
Cynthia hissed in an aside to her husband, ‘Where on earth did the Willcox girl get that dress from? Who bought it for her? Someone must have done!’ But he didn’t seem to hear. He was holding out his hand to Kate and greeting her warmly, then the same with Sarah, smiling that special smile of his when the sight of something particularly pleased him. My God, thought Cynthia, he bought it! Who else?
‘I’m delighted you have come,’ he was saying, and the old woman smiled and nodded in the way of old people when hard of hearing.
‘I’d curtsy if I could, Master Danny, but me old bones won’t bend much these days.’ She said it with an echoing cackle. Inwardly. Cynthia shuddered, but betrayed no sign as she held out a cool hand and inclined her head graciously. Kate touched the hand and said politely, ‘Ma’am, we appreciate the invitation,’ almost as if she had rehearsed the words beforehand.
Then Sarah stood before her. Cynthia scarcely touched her fingertips but the girl seemed to expect no more. Her eyes were shining, her excitement genuine. Her face was lightly made up (applied by neighbourly Pru, though the abbey’s hostess didn’t guess that) and the youthful glow of her skin was beautiful. Cynthia had never seen her at such close quarters so she had never seen the quality of that young complexion, or the sweep of long lashes surrounding remarkable eyes, or the lovely curve of her lips when she smiled.
Envy sparked in Daniel’s wife. Here was no gawky apprentice. Here was a creature on the threshold of womanhood. How old was she now? Sixteen? Seventeen? Old enough for Daniel to be attracted to her and buy her costly dresses? Cynthia did a swift calculation. Daniel was now in his thirties, but age differences were no barrier where sex was concerned.
The couple passed on, and as they did so Cynthia noticed a necklace round the old woman’s throat. Her dress was obviously her Sunday best, like many another in this motley crowd, but whereas some workers had dolled them up with fake ostrich feathers and spangly beads, this old woman’s necklet was of garnets in an antique setting. Cynthia recognised good jewellery when she saw it.
This time she made no comment because the Petersons were next in line, Ruth clad in the latest fashion — an ankle-length, tube-style evening dress of eau-de-Nil net lined with matching satin, trailing loops of moire ribbon at the sleeveless shoulders and straightedging the hemline. The colour set off her white hair beautifully. Charles was as immaculately tailored as ever and Annabel looked charming in a white chiffon dress slit to the waist at the back, the skirt consisting of rows of silk fringe terminating above the knees. It was a typical flapper dress and highly becoming.
Cynthia was forced to acknowledge that the girl was attractive, but was glad that Bruce preferred more mature women. And he didn’t share Annabel’s socialistic ideas or approve of her attendance at that art school where students were not of her class. A silly young thing was Annabel, and easy to dismiss.
Cynthia was turning to receive the next arrivals when Annabel cried, ‘Sarah F and went racing to a table where the Willcoxes were seating themselves with two couples already there. All tables were unreserved, except the top one for the hosts and their personal friends, but this one wasn’t so far away and Annabel’s voice travelled clearly.
‘How great to see you! Do come and join us — the parents will be delighted, I know. And, golly, you look gorgeous!’
Great heavens, thought Cynthia, can’t she see the types the girl is with — the local constable and his flashy young wife (ostrich feathers in shrieking red) and one of the foresters and his wife, pregnant yet again? Annabel really should snap out of her silly all-are-equal ideas. As for inviting the Willcox girl to join the top table, she must know it’s quite out of the question.
Mercifully, the Willcox girl did, for after returning Annabel’s spontaneous embrace, she shook her head in smiling refusal.
All this time Cynthia continued to shake hands and exchange polite greetings, presenting her cheek to those with whom she mixed socially but not to others, and all the time watching for Bruce and wondering why he was so maddeningly late. Not that punctuality was one of his most reliable qualities, and she knew he wasn’t keen on mixed affairs like this. ‘Nor am I, darling,’ she had said, ‘but duty calls … ’ To which Bruce had said, ‘Not my duty, but I’ll put in an appearance to please you.’
And at last he did, taking his place at his brother’s side and muttering something about being sorry he was late but traffic had made it the devil of a job to get back from the Leicester flat races. ‘Too many charabancs on the road, laden with trippers … ’ Then he caught sight of Annabel in the distance and, to Cynthia’s chagrin, said, ‘This looks about the last of the line so you don’t really need me, do you, Daniel?’ and headed straight for the girl — except for a quick sidelong glance and an exclamation of, ‘My! You’ll certainly wow ’em tonight, Cynthia!’
At last the covers were off the food and the serving staff were getting busy. Waiters attended the top table, although Daniel couldn’t see why they shouldn’t queue up at the buffet like everyone else. ‘This isn’t a state occasion and we’re not royalty.’
But his wife was in charge of things and knew exactly how they should be run, and the swift success of the evening proved her right. In no time at all there was that swinging atmosphere which made a party memorable.
Even some of the workers’ rowdiness didn’t matter. There were always a few who imbibed too freely — like that constable’s wife. She became shrill in no time but it made no difference to her dancing, which she did well once the old-fashioned numbers were finished with. She danced the charleston so energetically that some of her cheap ostrich feathers were flying, and she was calling out to her sister-in-law to join in and let herself go, and that young woman was laughing and calling back, ‘After the baby comes, I will. I don’t want to bounce the little mite out of me!’
*
Bruce was momentarily without a partner. Cynthia was dancing with Charles Peterson and Annabel with a good-looking chap from the potbank — Le Fevre, the chief thrower who had replaced that lout Boswell. He was one of the personnel invited by Daniel tonight and Bruce had quickly observed that he and Annabel were dancing together almost constantly. That displeased him, though he had nothing against the man personally. They frequently came in contact at work because Le Fevre visited the export department every time a load from his shed was to be packed. He was meticulous about that, and tonight he had been equally meticulous about his appearance.
He was a nice chap, a cut above the rest, but what right had he to monopolise Annabel? Bruce noted, resentfully, that she was enjoying dancing with him so he seized the opportunity to cross to Sarah’s table. He had asked Annabel if she knew who the girl in that gorgeous blue dress was, to which she had replied that she was her best friend, Sarah Willcox — a fellow art student.
‘We began together and we’ve vowed to stay together when we qualify. Daniel urged me to study at the Potteries School of Design, which you were against, and I can’t tell you how glad I am that I heeded him.’
Slightly peeved, he ignored that and said, ‘She looks familiar somehow.’
He had been thinking that since he had first noticed the girl, convinced that he had met her some time, somewhere. What puzzled him was how he could have forgotten — she was lovely.
There was a white-haired old lady seated at the table, together with a plump young woman and a man who appeared to be her husband, as well as a man looking thoroughly uncomfortable because his partner was tipsy. She was tugging at his arm, urging him on to the floor, and her voice was as shrill as an empty tin can.
When Bruce bowed to Sarah and asked her to dance, a wan colour flooded her face. Her smile was surprised, and lovely. Then she said, ‘I’m sorry — it’s the charleston, isn’t it? I’m afraid I don’t know how to do it — ’
‘I do!’ screeched the tipsy young woman, and was half out of her seat when her husband pulled her back.
Bruce took Sarah’s hand. ‘Then let me show you,’ he said, leading her on to the floor, and the sound of his voice sent her memory winging back to a cold and windy morning when he had driven her to the Frenshaw potbank. His voice had stirred dreams — of speaking as he did, of living as he did, of becoming somebody. But he had dropped her prematurely and left her to go the rest of the way on foot. But for that she wouldn’t have been faced with Joe Boswell and a threatening blow.
And now he didn’t even recognise her.
He took her right hand, placed his other arm about her waist and said, ‘Watch my feet and do as I do. The great thing about the charleston is that it can be danced on one spot so we can do it right here and avoid the crush on the floor.’
It was difficult at first, but soon she was twisting her feet and kicking her legs in time with his so he speeded it up until they were charlestoning like mad and she was laughing through sheer enjoyment. ‘Faster!’ he urged, and then dropped one arm, spun her away from him and twirled her back, her feet unfaltering. Other dancers stopped to watch and the old lady began clapping in time with the rhythm, beaming all over her face. Sarah’s mane of shining hair was flying and her great eyes sparkled. Bruce smiled down into them and pulled her back to him swiftly, causing something to fly from her wrist and go sliding across the floor to the tipsy young woman’s feet.
Sarah stumbled, stopped, grasped her wrist and cried, ‘My bracelet! Oh, my bracelet!’
The tipsy girl’s ostrich feathers shed more as she stooped and picked it up. There was a moment’s silence as she looked at it, then screeched, ‘My God, Charlie — d’ you know what this is? It’s the bracelet that was caught in Joe Boswell’s clothes the night he were found by the wayside with his breeches down!’
Twelve
The quietness of Stoke-on-Trent’s art gallery was a relief after the street noises outside. Here was peace. Here the question, which had been tormenting Sarah since New Year’s Eve, was stilled, but no doubt it would stir again when she returned home, and found Kate still unable, or unwilling, to answer it satisfactorily.
‘Why did you tell me the bracelet dropped to the floor when I stumbled over your doorstep?’
‘’Cos it did. That tipsy young woman must’ve been talking about some other drunk yanked into her ’usband’s police cell. No wonder the Master Potter suggested the poor chap should take ’er ’ome.’
‘But there were the initials. Mine. She recognised them.’
‘And wot did I say to that, m’ dear?’
The sickening recollection of the moment eased a little with the recollection of Kate’s instant action. Calmly, she had held out her hand for the bracelet and said, ‘Thanks, Mrs Bailey. ’Twere my Christmas gift to Sarah so this be the first time she’s wore it. I’ve no doubt ye’ve got one like it, seeing they’re on sale every week at the Saturday market an’ I can’t see thee missing a bargain, fond of beads an’ baubles the way y’ are.’
It had been a valiant attempt to turn the tables, but it failed. Millie Bailey had screeched, ‘I don’t believe it. Look at her — white as a sheet! Why should she look like that if it weren’t true? Let go of me, Charlie.’
She had wrenched her arm from her husband’s grasp and dangled the bracelet high before dropping it into Kate’s hand. ‘See those initials? S. W.’
‘Plenty of those about,’ Kate had retorted, but only she knew that the fingers she closed about the bracelet were tense. ‘There be lots o’ women with the same … Sybil Wright … Susan Walker … Stella Wain … an’ plenty more, I dessay, so be careful wot ye hint, or ye could be up for slander from many another quarter.’
The incident had lasted only minutes, but an eternity to Sarah, struggling against a threatening faintness through which she was aware that Bruce Frenshaw had unobtrusively deserted her and Millie Bailey’s tin can voice was rasping, ‘I bet Joe Boswell didn’t buy that gown for her favours. Wouldn’t have enough dough. Must’ve been some other chap!’ Sarah could still recall her shrill laughter as a red-faced Charlie Bailey dragged her away.
Then Pru’s husband was saying, ‘Thank God she’s gone. Poor old Charlie — what a life she gives him!’ and Pru was declaring it was the last time they would ever put up with her, and someone was taking Sarah by the hand and saying, ‘I’m not much of a dancer with this dot-and-carry leg, but can manage a two-step without treading on your toes,’ and Daniel Frenshaw was smiling down at her and leading her back on to the floor. His grasp of her hand was firm, his arm about her waist supportive. Sarah’s faintness began to recede, but not her humiliation. For a while she avoided his eyes but when he said, ‘Look at me, Sarah … ’ she heard something more than kindness in his voice and obeyed.
It was then that she saw him as if for the first time. As an apprentice she had seen him as a man socially far above her and much older. Now she saw him in a new way. Not handsome like his brother but more human, and by no means old. At close quarters his features were finer and stronger, more chiselled — features she wanted to sculpt when she was more experienced. At close quarters she also saw that his eyes were deep-set and observant, his mouth firm and, at this moment, gentle. She was conscious of his deep sensitivity, of his strength coupled with understanding and, gratefully, she relaxed and let her body move with his as if they were one.
When the dance ended he didn’t escort her back to her table but retained her hand, waiting for the music to start again, and in those moments he admired her gown and said how lovely she looked in it. She answered truthfully, as she already had to others, ‘My grandmother made it for me. I mean she made it over for me. It was hers when she was young.’ She was relieved to find her voice so steady when a short a time ago she had been bereft of it.
She expected the answer to surprise him as it had surprised others — some reactions had even been tinged with doubt — but all he said was that Kate must also have looked lovely in it, and then his arm encircled her waist again as the music swirled into a waltz. They danced in silence, and without reason her memory recalled the surprise she and Kate had shared when tonight’s invitation arrived, and how the old lady had promptly ordered her to write a letter of acceptance (‘in your best handwriting, mind’) and then to go upstairs and fetch that box she’d kept under her bed in the almshouse and was now on the top shelf of her closet. ‘The box I wouldn’t let anybody handle when we moved, remember?’
And there, packed within layers of yellowing tissue paper and fragrant with herbs, had lain this gown of peacock-blue slipper satin, rich and beautiful and of such fine quality that time had not diminished it. Kate had lifted it out with pride and an ill-concealed emotion which she tried to overcome by saying brusquely, ‘Ye didn’t expect mothballs, did ye, Sarah? An old witch like me knows nature’s way to preserve fine stuff like this.’
For a moment she had gazed on it as if it were some rediscovered treasure, then held it against Sarah and nodded with satisfaction. ‘As I thought. I knew it would be right for ye someday.’
‘But that isn’t why you kept it.’
‘Well, mebbe not. Once I useter dream o’ wearing it agin but there y’ are — chances don’t alius come twice so ye’ve just gotta be grateful for the once, an’ look back an’ remember … ’ Her faded eyes had clouded, but she’d blinked them clear and said briskly, ‘Now get outa that clay-splashed thing you’re wearing and clean y’rself up afore trying this on. No granddaughter o’ mine’s going to a posh do at Dunmore Abbey wearing only her Sunday best.’
