The Hidden Dance

by Susan Wooldridge

  But what spare comfort she found brought no glimpse of joy. For with Nickie so far from her, her loneliness was now hounded by despair; her despair, a terrible private secret, imprisoned by the rigours of her upbringing. ‘It’s not done, Lily, to reveal one’s feelings. It is, frankly, bad manners.’ Though one person did know. Mary, her maid and her true friend. Mary, the keeper of all secrets; Mary, the confidante; Mary, who had watched the carefree bride turn into a sad despairing middle-aged woman whose only passions now were anger and disappointment. And today Mary was getting married. Lily felt dazed by the abyss of loneliness that yawned before her, she felt sick and frightened.

  She stopped the car and got out. She lit a cigarette and, inhaling deeply, leant back, one foot on the running board, and looked across the string of open fields towards Melsham Woods.

  She tried to think back to a more contented moment in her marriage. Had it ever been? She tried to remember the Charles of her wooing, her wedding. Charles before he had hit her that first time, when she had finally known the marriage was over. Five years before. The terrible memory, old and wretched, hovered, ever ready to rear into life…

  She made herself breathe in the lovely young spring air and forced all thoughts of Charles from her mind. And watching the golden light, bright against the dark sturdy trees, the green wheat, frisky as it danced in a playground of breezes, she slowly felt the fear and fierce chaotic anger leave her. It was the perfect day for a wedding. Dearest Mary, you have won the heart of your Sam, your prayers have been answered.

  She thought of Nickie, laughing, lying in the long grass, buttercups tickling him, glinting under his chin. ‘Nickie loves butter, Nickie loves butter.’ And she caught the moment her breath came at a calmer pace. She got into the car and, very sedately, drove into the town of Freston.

  The bustle of market day pulled her from her thoughts and she became aware that, up ahead, the road was crammed. A delivery van trying to overtake a wide bullock cart filled with a flock of beige woolly sheep had resulted in both vehicles becoming wedged amidst the Saturday-morning shoppers. Lily sat waiting, her engine ticking over.

  Everywhere people thronged the little pavements, ambling and chatting. On this bright sunny day all along the High Street, striped awnings, flapping and cracking in the sharp breeze, were pulled down over the shop windows. At the far end, she could see the market place equally teeming: pens packed with cattle and pigs, an auctioneer’s bidding rising on the air. And high above the roofs stood the stone turret of the Norman church, square and sturdy. With no hope of moving further towards it, Lily pulled across to the pavement and parked.

  Suddenly with so many people around, she became aware of her tear-stained face and, looking in the tiny car mirror, encountered her rather extravagant hat. She removed it and realised to her relief she was parked opposite the Crown Hotel. Collecting her hat, gloves and bag, she quickly crossed the road.

  A hush greeted her as she entered the elderly inn, a strong scent of dusty tobacco enveloping the low-beamed rooms of the bar. She looked around for help, placed her things on a chair and became aware of the only sound: the stately ticking of a grandfather clock. Half past eleven. Damn, now she was too early.

  ‘May I get you something, madam?’

  She jumped. ‘Um…yes, why not? A gin and French, please. Oh, and where’s the ladies’ room?’

  It was while she was repairing her face that she suddenly realised she’d left her hat and gloves in the bar. Returning, she was greeted by an anguished cry and the sight of a smartly dressed man holding her squashed hat, an aghast expression on his face.

  ‘I’m most terribly sorry – I didn’t know it was there – and I’m afraid I must have sat on it.’

  He looked so stricken, holding the damaged hat as if it had just done him the most terrible injury, that Lily burst out laughing.

  ‘It’s all right. Very little harm done.’ She took the hat from him and, with a quick smooth movement, remoulded the crown. ‘Look, see? Good as new.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. You see I was so busy ordering a drink—’

  The waiter appeared, a glass on his tray.

  ‘I think you’ll need that now, rather more than ever.’ Lily grinned at him.

  The man sank down into the chair. ‘I’m very glad I ordered a large one.’ Despite himself, he was smiling. ‘Rather a shock – oh, I’m sorry, forgive me.’ He pointed to a drink already on the table. ‘Is this yours?’

  ‘Yes, I’d completely forgotten— Oh, my goodness – what time is it?’

  ‘Twenty to.’

  ‘I must be going.’ She gathered her handbag and hat. ‘I’m actually on my way to a wedding.’

  ‘St Joseph’s?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, perhaps I might escort you. I’m on my way there too.’ He waved at the waiter. ‘And please, as reparation for nearly ruining your beautiful hat, may I stand you that drink?’

  ‘Done.’

  Lily crossed to the mirror and, putting on the hat, caught the man watching her. Tall and slender, perhaps in his early forties, he was dressed in a dark blue double-breasted suit, which he wore with casual ease. An elegant man, she thought, and had an image of an Elizabethan courtier in doublet and hose. Beneath the brown thinning hair, cut short, she saw his face was tired and lined, and she would have thought his expression cynical, weary of life, had not deep creases served to emphasise his eyes. It was these eyes that made her glance a second time. Soft laughter eyes, eyes that made you want to smile back. (Dear God, I had such a hangover that morning, Johnnie told her much, much later.)

  Turning to him, she questioned her appearance with a look.

  ‘Despite my best efforts,’ he said, ‘you look delightfully damage free.’

  Walking up the High Street, she said, ‘I’m Lily Sutton, by the way.’

  He stopped. ‘Of course! I knew I recognised you. I met you and Sir Charles at the County Fair; two years ago I think it must be now – a memorable occasion for me as my piglets won the Blue Ribbon. Probably not such a memorable occasion for you.’

  The memory, like a dancing wave, rippled across her mind and came to rest. ‘But I know exactly who you are! You’re a friend of Dolly Barton. And the piglets, if I remember rightly, were enchanting. Are they well?’

  ‘Adorable. Though I’ll be the first to admit I’m biased, having witnessed their birth and the progress of their somewhat undramatic lives. Is Sir Charles not with you?’

  ‘No, he was suddenly called up to London. Why have we not met more often?’

  ‘I’m a miserable old recluse, I’m afraid. Happy only when I’m immersed in my books and talking to my pigs.’

  ‘And what has got you away from such pleasures today?’

  ‘My good friend, Sam. I’ve been roped in as his Best Man.’

  ‘Mary’s Sam?’ She stopped.

  ‘Of course, how stupid of me,’ said Johnnie, stopping also. ‘Mary works for you and Sir Charles, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Though sadly not after today – and oh, I’m going to miss her so terribly, she’s been such a good friend. But,’ she said to distract herself from the dark shadow wilfully hovering at the side of her mind, ‘she does seem to be wonderfully happy, don’t you think?’

  A large woman dipped out of a shop door backwards and nudged into them, sending up a flurry of apologies. Johnnie tipped his hat. They moved on.

  ‘And how do you know Sam?’ Lily asked.

  ‘We farm together.’

  ‘Well, as they say, what a small world! Of course, Mary’s told me all about your farm. She’s brought Sam over to us quite often, with Melsham being just down the road.’

  They flattened dutifully against a shop-front as a lingering line of boy scouts passed in front of them, the scout master obsequious in his bobbing manner. Waiting, Lily carried on, ‘How do you and Sam come to farm together?’

  ‘Do everything together – have done. The war, y’know. Sam was in my Company. Then after Armistice,
we were both at a loose end, so we joined forces, read a few books and, bingo, we became pig farmers! Though truth be known, Sam’s the expert.’

  ‘They’re going to live in one of your estate cottages, aren’t they?’

  Johnnie nodded.

  ‘Mary doesn’t want me to come over just yet. Not until it’s quite finished.’

  ‘It was a bit spartan but she’s cheering the place up no end. I’m sure you’ll be invited to tea very soon.’

  They crossed the road, Johnnie skirting behind her to take the outside edge. The church and a small crowd came into view.

  ‘I have to confide I’m rather nervous.’ He smiled awkwardly and her attention was caught by a pair of front-teeth, crooked, a tiny chip in one. He looked like a schoolboy and the wearied look had vanished. ‘I’ve got to do a bit of a speech later on and, to be quite honest, at this moment I’d rather be in the thick of battle, about to go over the top.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘And there was I going to slip away after the service. Now I shall have to stay and see how you do.’

  ‘Just keep wearing that hat and fingers crossed, I might even get through it in one piece.’

  They arrived at the cluster of people and immediately Johnnie greeted an elderly gentleman distinguished by a gleaming pair of brown gaiters and a bright yellow stock.

  ‘Hello, how nice to see you again. Lady Sutton, may I introduce the father of the groom?’

  ‘How do you do,’ said Lily. ‘Isn’t it a lovely day?’ And suddenly she realised she meant it.

  Chapter Two

  Kent. 31st December 1914

  The dark room was sliced in half by a shaft of pale orange light shining through from Nanny’s sitting room. It did nothing to dispel the gloom as Nanny still insisted on gas-lamps, not wanting anything to do with electricity and its ‘new-fangled habits’.

  ‘I knew I’d find you here,’ said Lily.

  Her brother stirred in the gloom of the empty nursery. He was dressed in evening clothes though his white tie was still loose and his black jacket slung over the brass bedstead. She stood and watched him from the doorway.

  Hugh sat, a tall lanky form, untidily hunched on a little stool, his knees almost to his ears. He was stirring a small enamel saucepan on a Primus stove and, without looking up, he invited, ‘Bovril. Come and join me.’

  ‘Nanny asleep?’ She nodded towards the open door.

  ‘No fear. She’s up to her eyes in khaki wool. Talk about knitting for England.’

  Lily stepped into the nursery – even in the darkness she knew every inch of the room – and made for the old armchair at her brother’s side. She sank into it. Her evening skirt billowed up and a childhood memory of a similar nest of fluffy chiffon, her feet encased in bronze dancing pumps with elastic crossed over her ankles, stirred at the back of her mind.

  Through the open door, she caught sight of Nanny, a shiny-black bombazine bun. The old woman sat with her eyes half-closed, needles smoothly clicking, her stumpy veined fingers moving with swift delicacy; cocooned in her deafness, she was unaware of Lily’s arrival. On a small table beside the old woman there were neatly stacked piles of newly knitted balaclavas and socks.

  ‘Ears and feet, always Nanny’s prime areas of concern.’ Earmuffs and gloves on elastic and thick woollen stockings. Now grown-up, there was no longer the cheering comfort of being bossed and tucked into layers of scratchy mufflers and bonnets, the treacherous cold, in Nanny’s opinion, always there ready to kill and maim.

  She turned back to her brother and saw him staring intently at the little saucepan. In the half-light his young face was as stern and aquiline as a church carving, his fair hair strictly greased, parted and combed, at odds with his dishevelled evening suit and tie.

  He poured some Bovril into an enamel mug. ‘Want some?’ The salty aroma wafted towards her.

  ‘Mmm, don’t think it really goes with Moselle cup.’

  ‘So Father’s serving the guests German wine this year. Well, good for him.’

  Lily nodded. ‘Dinner’s in twenty minutes. Are you coming down?’

  ‘You been sent to find me?’

  ‘No, course not.’

  The window rattled; the wind was up.

  Lily looked round the room. Here, all the familiar shapes of childhood were wrapped in a cosy orange glow from Nanny’s room, so that in the half-light, she could only just glimpse the large world map commanding one whole wall, the British Empire gleaming, vast and rose-pink. Endless lessons… ‘Where is Timbuctoo? Who is the king of Siam?’

  Across the window, black against the purple night sky, the old rocking horse, ears cocked, nostrils flared, stood sentinel between the two single beds, neatly made. On hers, Baz, an old furry owl; on Hugh’s, a tangle of legs and arms: Koko, his over-stuffed monkey.

  And in the furthest corner, the faint ghostly outline of her doll’s house, its front-door firmly closed on what she knew to be a tiny world of Georgian chaos.

  ‘Why does Nanny keep all these things?’

  ‘She’s not done yet,’ said Hugh. ‘She may be eighty-one but she’s determined to bring up at least one more generation of brats.’

  Far below, a faint gust of laughter rose up from the party, followed by a ripple of bright curt piano music.

  ‘Mendelssohn, eh.’ Hugh nodded down at the music. ‘So the old man’s decided to turn a blind eye to German music and German wine.’ Lily caught the acid bitterness in her brother’s voice; it was a new tone. If she’d hoped for a glimpse of fun away from the guests assembling downstairs, she knew, tonight, Hughie wasn’t going to provide it. But if she was honest she’d known the minute she’d picked him up the day before from the station that nothing was the same. A serious Hugh, gaunt, changed, had climbed up into the pony-trap beside her and as they turned up the drive towards the house he’d jumped down again, saying, ‘You go ahead, Lil. Need a bit of fresh air. I’ll walk from here.’ They hadn’t seen him for hours and when at last he arrived, just as they’d sat down to dinner, his smart uniform was rumpled and his face dirty. He had proceeded to get spectacularly drunk and then pass out. Mother and Father, of course, had pretended nothing was amiss – only asking Bowler to ‘put the young master to bed’. Later, when Lily had gone to see how he was, she’d discovered his bed empty. Climbing the stairs she’d found him up here with Nanny, the nursery landing reeking of tobacco. The smell had brought back a long-forgotten memory. Nanny at harvest one year – ancient even then and I must have been all of five – a clay-pipe between her lips, knitting needles a-dance, sitting atop a bale of hay, bantering with the farmer-boys.

  ‘Do you remember Nanny’s pipe?’

  ‘She still smokes it – when she thinks no one’s looking.’ Hugh gave a short dry laugh. ‘That old baccy of hers. It’s what she sends me. I’ve told her, “that’s what’ll get me in the end, not some old whizz-bang.”’

  ‘Oh, Hughie, don’t – not even as a joke.’

  Since last night she’d been torn between the desire to make her brother laugh, to make everything normal, and the frantic need to ask him questions. As to the latter, she knew any direct approach would yield nothing.

  ‘You’ll never guess,’ she began. ‘Some man came down from London and asked Father if we’d turn the house into a nursing home.’

  ‘Good God, Mother must have had a fit.’ Hugh pulled himself upright and swung towards her.

  ‘We were saved by the plumbing. Apparently our drains don’t come up to scratch, not modern enough.’ She managed a grin. ‘As you can imagine, Mother was immensely relieved.’

  Hugh rubbed his hands and turned the lever on the side of the stove; the little blue flame flared. ‘So I hear you’ve got a young man on the go.’

  ‘Oh, Hughie, don’t you start! Why does everyone keep teasing me?’ She smoothed her pale pink skirt, her hands felt hot and clammy. She tried to sit silent but the need to know more proved irresistible. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Nanny. She says he’s
very nicely put together, by the by – and that he knows it.’ In a softer tone, he added, ‘And you look very nicely put together this evening as well.’

  ‘It took hours.’ She groaned. ‘Martha tonged my hair.’ She turned her profile to let him admire the two hours’ work. ‘It feels like a great big puff-ball’s settled on my head. Anyway, I’m luckier than Lettie and Harriet; with my wavy hair I don’t have the misery of curling rags every night. Can you imagine what a bore! And this is my Christmas present from Mother and Father.’ She bounced out of the chair and twirled for him to see her gown. ‘The belt’s made of moiré with a diamanté buckle and the sleeves are ecru lace. Mother and I bought it in Gooch’s and,’ she lowered her voice, ‘it was 7½ guineas – I saw the price!’ She grinned at him, an enormous wave of happiness engulfed her; Hughie knew about Charles at last.

  ‘So where did you meet this young man?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a pompous ass – you sound like Father. Charles is only a couple of years older than us.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘He’s twenty-three, if you must know.’ She perched on the edge of the armchair. ‘And I met him in the summer, in London, when I was staying at Lettie’s. We met at one of the Sunday concerts at the Albert Hall. Or rather, he wasn’t at the concert, just there collecting his sister, Adele. And then he took us across the Park in his motor car, and we all went and had ices at Gunter’s.’ She longed to tell him everything but sensed this evening wasn’t the moment. To date, she’d only really told Lettie, her best friend, not getting very far as she’d been met with the abrupt response, ‘Well, dear, don’t let him get a pea of his greens!’ After that Lily had clammed up completely. She realised she might be jumping the gun; she and Charles had only met a few times and nearly always in company, but it was a start – of that she felt sure. She wanted – oh, with all her heart! – her friendship with Charles to be the start of a glorious romance. She wanted to be Charles’s sweetheart not some floozy to be trifled with – even now she still felt disturbed by Lettie’s allusions to a sordid liaison. Not that she’d have known how to conduct a sordid liaison, and as far as she could see, neither would Charles, who always insisted on treating her like a china doll. ‘You’re my little girl,’ he’d whispered into her ear that one time they had been alone together, at the theatre.