by Jane Arbor
‘It’s one of our face-saving rescue operations. You know—rallying round and all that—You know the Golden Strand?’
‘Who doesn’t? When I’m in funds, my favourite hostelry. What about it?’
‘They’re having a Gala Night on December the second, and—’
Bob cut in, ‘And that rings a bell. Your birthday—no?’
‘Yes, so it happens. But about the Gala—I rather specially want to go to it, and I wondered if you’d take me. If you aren’t doing anything else, of course. With Rosemary, for instance?’
‘The second? Just a minute—diary forward.’ There was a pause. Then Bob said, ‘Saving emergencies, which are always with me, that’s all right. Anyway, in such a good cause I’d ditch even Rosemary. But am I to hear what the cause is, or not? Is it just that you feel a need to kick up your heels, or am I being deployed as your partner in Intrigue with a capital I? Above which I’ve never yet set my face on your behalf, as your experience should tell you.’
Verity laughed. ‘I know, bless you. But this isn’t intrigue. It’s just that I—boasted to someone that I’d be going and now I’ve got to be seen there. Bob, dutch treat, of course?’
Bob scolded, ‘Naughty, naughty vanity! And dutch be blowed!’
‘Dutch, please! I asked you!’
‘Insist on dutch and you can find someone else to take you,’ threatened Bob, and rang off.
Verity replaced her own receiver, feeling both grateful and guilty. Grateful that he had taken her reason at its face value; guilty because she knew it had deeper roots than she had probed before ringing him. Her boast to Ira wasn’t nearly as important as she had let Bob think. The truth was that she needed him, not as a face-saver for her pride, but as her gesture at the gossiping tongues; at Jane Dysart, busy at detraction; even perhaps at Daniel himself in case he believed her mother really had matchmaking in view. To be seen about with Bob once or twice should fog the issue, she had thought. But now she doubted her right to make use of him so, however little she encroached on his devotion to Rosemary Baird in the process.
Fortunately Bob himself suffered no such doubts, to judge by the showiness of his birthday present to her. It was a magnificent spray of tiger-tinted orchids, delivered express from a Norwich florists’ and accompanied by Bob’s card scrawled boldly, ‘Love. Till this evening. I can hardly wait.’ Verity herself took it in from the messenger, just as Daniel was crossing the hall. Hearing him, she turned quickly. Bob’s card skittered from her hand to reach the floor almost at his feet and he was before her in stooping to retrieve it.
He gave it back, its ‘Love’ in the black ink Bob favoured staring up from it, then glanced at the orchid spray in its transparent be-ribboned box.
‘That’s rather lovely,’ he said. ‘When do you mean to wear it?’
She traced the edge of the box with a forefinger. ‘Tonight, I hope. It’s from Bob—Dr. Wales, and he’s taking me to the Gala thing at the Golden Strand.’
Daniel nodded. ‘So your mother said when I told her I’m going myself in the Dysarts’ party. And isn’t this a gala day for you too—your birthday?’
‘My? Why, yes, but I didn’t think you knew. Oh!’
‘Exactly. You’re a Sagittarius and your mother furnished the date. I was able to calculate for myself that you’re a newly minted twenty-five and I hoped you might find an everyday use for this—say, when orchids might be a shade too dressy?’
As he spoke he produced a small jewellers’ box which she took from him, her heart lurching with pleasure at the gift, whatever it was. It proved to be a lapel clasp in dull silver, a replica of Clere’s emblem which every Clere boy wore on cap and blazer pocket—linked hands above a stylized ripple of sea, surrounded by the wording of the school motto—Fide et Amore—By Faith and Love.
Nothing could have pleased her more, and her face must have showed it as she looked up to thank him.
‘You approve?’ he smiled. ‘Well, put it on. It’s meant to go—there, isn’t it?’
Jabbing a forefinger at the lapel of her jersey suit, he took the clasp from her and pinned it in position. He stood back. ‘There, now you’re labelled and shouldn’t get lost,’ he said, his crisp tone making a triviality of a gift which, coming from him, meant more to her than he could possibly guess. When he had left her she fingered its shape lovingly. ‘Everyday’? And so it should be, she vowed. She would wear it always—and defy anyone to recognize it as secret treasure masquerading as a school badge!
Ira had exaggerated when she had described the Golden Strand as ‘four-star.’ As yet it had earned no such positive distinction, but owed its swift, wide acclaim to knowledgeable management, excellent and imaginative cooking and its welcoming atmosphere at all hours.
It was a restaurant, not a club, but maintained the friendly air of one. It was expensive, but stinted nothing on the value it gave. Tastes and foibles were noted and remembered; everyone was greeted by name at their second visit and always afterwards as a friend who had been missed. ‘This place flatters my ego so much that I feel ten feet tall,’ murmured Bob that evening, and Verity laughed back, ‘I know. The effect on me is that I want to arch my back and purr!’
In the bar, where an outside water-wheel kept an overhead horizontal millwheel in constant gentle motion, they heard of some of the arrangements which were to make the evening ‘gala’. One of these was that guests were to be given the choice of dining as usual at individual tables or of joining others at one long table, in the way of a festive occasion at home.
‘What do you say? Shall we?’ asked Bob.
‘Yes, let’s. It might be rather fun,’ Verity agreed, feeling the fates to be on her side. For if her motive for the evening was to be seen with Bob, this was a way of ensuring that she was. Only one or two elderly couples were electing to dine at private tables; the long table was most invitingly laid with sparkling glass and silver and bronze and gold chrysanthemums, and at Verity’s place, though at no one else’s, there was a gold candle in a flower-sconce and tied to the neck of the half-bottle of champagne which nestled in an ice-bucket was a card saying ‘Happy Birthday to You.’
She turned to Bob with shining eyes. ‘Bob, what a nice thought! But how did they know? Did you tell them?’
He grinned. ‘I—mentioned it, and they seem to have caught on. Let’s open it, shall we? Waiter!’
When the cork popped he invited their immediate neighbours to join in toasting Verity as a birthday girl, and while it lasted the little ceremony made them the centre of attention. All down the table strangers smiled their good wishes and a few places up on the opposite side Daniel said something to Nicholas Dysart, who passed it on to his wife and sister-in-law, and all four raised their glasses to Verity.
Then Ira made a remark which Daniel bent towards her to hear. When he straightened he looked directly at Verity, then away—seeming to dismiss her in the way he had when his thoughts had moved on.
What had Ira said? It seemed likely to Verity, following on their toast, that it had to do with Bob and herself. She would have liked to know—and even more why Daniel had searched her face briefly before turning away, not to glance in her direction again.
The meal got under way to a lot of laughter and friendly gaiety. After the sweet course there were crackers to be pulled and a cascade of balloons to float down. People made up parties to take coffee and liqueurs together, and Verity and Bob were about to adjourn to the lounge when a waiter touched him on the shoulder.
‘A transfer call for you, sir. It’s being held for you at Reception.’
‘Oh no! All right, thanks, I’ll come.’ Bob turned to Verity. ‘I’m sorry, honey. I had to transfer and keep my fingers crossed that I wouldn’t be called. Still, it may be nothing much. Come with me while I find out.’
He took the call in a booth and turned down an expressive thumb when he had hung up. ‘A babe of three has swiped the whole of a bottle of adult cough-mixture—why do parents leave such things about?’ he gr
umbled. ‘I’ll have to go, V. What will you do?’
‘Oh, I’ll come away too.’
‘You’ll do no such thing! I’ll be back, if only in time to do a nuts in May—’
‘A what?’
‘Dumb! “Here comes Bob Wales to fetch her away”, of course. Meanwhile, no reason why you shouldn’t have your fun. Now’—he pinched his lower lip in thought—‘shall I leave you with that couple who shared your bubbly? Or no, perhaps not—the chap was beginning to get a bit high. Better park you with your chief and the Dysarts, if that’s all right with you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
As he refused to hear of her leaving with him, Verity gave in. In the lounge again she whispered, ‘It’s Ira Cusack’s party. You’ll have to ask her if she minds,’ then Bob was explaining what had happened and Ira was all sympathy at once.
‘But of course we’ll look after her for you! Won’t we?’ a right and left turn of her head appealed to both other men, then she patted Bob on the arm. ‘So kiss her goodnight if you want to. We aren’t looking—Oh, you’ll be back for her later? Fine!’
Daniel and Nicholas stood. Daniel pulled forward a chair and Verity, murmuring her thanks to Ira, slipped into it and accepted the cup of black coffee which Ira poured.
There was dancing in the hall beyond an archway, but Jane Dysart did not dance; owing to her strapped foot Ira could not, and neither man invited Verity. The talk was general for some time until Jane moved away to speak to a friend. Then Nicholas suggested adjourning to the bar and did so with Daniel when Ira said, ‘We’ll stay here. You know you’d rather go stag,’ adding to Verity when they had gone, ‘Poor lamb, Nicholas. He does enjoy an innocent noggin, and once out of range of Jane’s eye, one feels one must make things easy for him’—She broke off to stub out her cigarette. Then—‘And talking of sister Jane, how come you’ve made such an enemy of her?’ she asked.
‘I?’ The sudden question took Verity aback. ‘An enemy? How do you mean?’
Ira’s lifted hand expressed perplexity. ‘I wouldn’t know how! I was asking you!’
‘I meant, how do you know? That is, what makes you think?’
‘Because she’s so waspish whenever your name comes up.’
‘But—’
‘Just so.’ Ira spoke Verity’sown thought. ‘Let’s face it, Jane is waspish at times. But she always seems so intent on carving you up that I wondered if you knew you had given her any special cause. For instance, a while back when you and Dr. Wales were cracking your bottle together, I did my bit for you by pointing out to the assembled company what a nice pair you made. Whereupon Jane chipped in, all pursed mouth and outraged decency and wanting to know just how man-crazy could a girl get to be quite so blatant about it. I quote.’
Verity gasped. “Man-crazy? Me?’
Ira nodded. ‘You, dear. She waited for someone to ask her for details, and when nobody did, she supplied them. There was that young man last term. He had jilted you when you began to do the pace-making, and now look at you! Trying to snatch Bob Wales from some Norwich girl he’s supposed to be courting. Goodness knew where you’d set your sights next—No, sister Jane was being distinctly short on charity. I suppose I should have waded in to your rescue. But how could I, without telling her that, whatever you might appear to be up to with Doc Wales, I’d take a bet it was something else.’
This was crazy! If Daniel had believed Jane, that was enough to brand her. Had the searching look he had sent her across the table said as much?
Meanwhile she evaded Ira’s question. ‘If I had been doing that, I suppose you would call it technique?’ she said.
‘Of course!’ Ira agreed. ‘That particular gambit doesn’t always work, but it’s usually worth a try. Just too bad, in your case, that Jane had to be around, putting the worst construction on it—’
She broke off as Jane returned to ask sharply where the men were. They came back a few minutes later and presently they all joined the concerted move to watch a firework display from the hotel terrace.
Verity was on tenterhooks for Bob’s return. But, facing the display, she neither heard nor saw him come up behind her until his arm went across her shoulders and stayed there. ‘There’s my girl,’ he said, and laughed as she started at his touch.
‘Oh, Bob, it’s you! I’m so glad. How is the baby you went to see?’
‘Fine now, though I had to use a stomach pump. My, that’s some squib, isn’t it?’ he said, his eyes on the fantastic arcs of red, blue, green and gold stars which were raining down the sky. Bob had the same uncomplicated attitude to fireworks as he had to holes in the road and clockwork trains. They all afforded him pleasure which it was refreshing to share.
When the display was over there was a short cabaret to watch. Then it seemed time to go home. The Clere party broke up—Daniel and Ira for his car, the Dysarts for their Mini, Verity and Bob for his. Bob was first out of the car-park and was well ahead of the others all the way back to Clere.
He alighted with Verity. Not making a question of it, he said, ‘I dare say you’d just as soon I didn’t come in.’ And then, ‘Operation Keeping Up With the Joneses successful—hm?’
When she stared, missing his meaning, he flicked a finger under her chin. ‘Well, that was the idea, wasn’t it? The Golden Strand this particular night was a status symbol you’d bitten off and then found you couldn’t chew?’
She laughed then, shakily. ‘Something like that.’
‘Though not quite? More your morale in need of a boost, eh? At a guess, maybe you saw it as a chance to show people you’re currently in keen demand and needing nobody’s toffee-nosed pity?’
‘People?’ Verity echoed faintly.
‘Well, Jane Dysart in particular. You can’t have forgotten how she went out of her way to make that public crack about you and Max Doran. So if tonight’s little charade was aimed at her, count on me, won’t you, any time you want to repeat it.’
‘Oh, Bob, bless you!’ Relief that he was content with so much less than the truth washed over Verity. Relief and gratitude ... And because, momentarily, it seemed as natural to kiss Bob for gratitude as it was to breathe, she kissed him.
‘He looked pleased. ‘Well!’ he said, and kissed her in return—just as headlights raked towards them, then abandoned them again to the darkness as Daniel’s car, on its way to West House, passed by.
As it did so, slowing, Ira rolled down her window, put out a white-gloved hand, raised its thumb and laughed—as if she guessed Verity would understand. ‘And what was that in aid of?’ asked Bob sharply. Verity did not tell him.
Once December was in, the school, to a man, began to count the days to the Christmas vacation, though the staff did so through a haze of disbelief that they would ever survive so far. For the final three weeks of term meant for them a mounting tide of extra work which subsided only when the last individual report had been written, signed and posted, and the last of the boys was on his way home.
Verity’s own crisis began with coaxing staff to deliver exam papers in good time for the deadline at the printers’, then getting them back from the printers’, checking them for errors, counting them and then seeing each set reached the right classroom, in the right quantity on the right day. In between times she typed Report envelopes, typed Matron’s lists of the boys’ next term clothing requirements, began the long task of advising parents on their sons’ travel date and train times, and when she had nothing else on hand, acted as invigilator to exams.
The latter task she rather enjoyed—two hours or more of watching assorted heads bent in fierce concentration over their work, free to allow her thoughts to range elsewhere until they were recalled by a piping request for more blotting-paper or by an eager, ‘I’ve finished, Verity. Can I go now?’ before the allotted time was up.
In the staff-room she grumbled with everyone else that it was all ‘too much’ and that, like them, she hadn’t ‘done a thing’ about Christmas. But being secretly stimulated by the rush was all
part of loving her job; she wouldn’t want terms to end in any other way than with this crescendo of work and the promise of earned leisure as its reward.
She would have no time to do her Christmas shopping until the school broke up, so when Mrs. Lytton went to Norwich to do her own, she went armed with Verity’s list as well. On that morning Verity went to her office, taking a small bet with herself that Nicholas Dysart’s examination-paper copy—always the last—still would not be to hand.
She won. It wasn’t. But just as she was checking the class timetable to see where she could reach him, to bully him with an ‘or else!’ Daniel came in, a sheaf of foolscap in his hand.
He laid it on Verity’s desk. ‘With Dysart’s compliments and apologies, if he’s kept you waiting. That is, you must take the apologies at secondhand. He’s in class all the morning, but when I was over at West House just now, Mrs. Dysart said this copy seemed to be ready for you on his desk, and she asked me if I’d deliver it to you.’
Verity gathered up the sheets from her own littered desk, riffled through them.
‘Thank you. I was waiting for it. I hope it’s all here—’ She broke off, frowning. ‘Oh no! Now that can’t be right, surely?’ she puzzled aloud.
‘What can’t?’
‘Well, this paper he has headed “Political Geography. Lower Third.” They’re all questions on South America, and that wasn’t the Lower Third’s geography syllabus this term. It was—let’s see—Europe, I’m pretty certain.’
Daniel looked his surprise. ‘And how do you know?’
‘I type all the syllabuses at the beginning of term,’ she reminded him.
He smiled. ‘ “All part of the service,” in fact? That card-index memory of yours at work? However, let me look—’
Verity scooped up the whole sheaf and handed it to him.
‘Of course it needn’t be much wrong. It could be that he has just mixed the headings,’ she mused, watching as something floated out from between or beneath the sheets Daniel held.