The Hidden Dance

by Susan Wooldridge

  ‘You’ve gone all moony,’ said Hugh. ‘Everything all right, old girl?’

  She looked at her brother’s tired, thin face and put a hand on his arm. ‘Father won’t let me or Mother read the newspapers; he considers it far too morbid and upsetting for us to follow the war. So please tell me, I want to know. Is it bad in France?’

  ‘It’s worse,’ he said. He shifted and wrapped his long arms around his thin frame; her hand fell away from him.

  ‘Oh Hughie.’

  He sat staring into his mug. ‘What’s so damnable is that the powers-that-be don’t have the faintest notion what’s going on, of what the conditions are like for the men. They’re living in another century. They were prepared for cavalry charges, would you believe it? And sword fighting. Some of the officers even told their batmen to pack evening clothes for Berlin.’ Wrapped round himself, he started to gently rock back and forth. ‘They said it’d be over by this Christmas – well, it’s New Year’s Eve and they’re still pumping millions of munitions and men into France. And what for? Slaughter.’ He looked across at her, his face in shadow. ‘Did you know Toddy’s copped it? I heard yesterday when I went for my walk. One of the other gardeners told me.’

  She nodded mutely but sat frozen, not daring to move. She must let Hughie speak. Since his arrival home, he had been silent.

  ‘Our generation, Lil, all the young men, are going to be destroyed. Ignorantly and thoroughly.’

  She flinched and looked down. ‘I knew it must be pretty awful when you wouldn’t answer Father’s questions at breakfast.’

  ‘No point. If you’re not there you simply wouldn’t believe it.’ She heard again the strange new flatness in his voice. ‘Anyway no one really wants to know the truth. All this “everyone’s got to do their bit”. Ye gods, no one even begins to understand.’ His voice faded and he took a swallow from his mug. Even in the half-light she could see how much thinner his face had become in his three months away.

  Next door, Nanny heaved herself onto her feet. They listened as she moved slowly about her room making encouraging little clucks and talking to herself.

  ‘Actually, that’s not true,’ Hugh sat up. ‘Nanny understands. Do you know what she told me last night? It was five of her brothers and not four she lost in the Crimea. The littlest, Walter, was a drummer boy but he was so young – twelve – his name never made dispatches.’

  The loss of one brother for Lily was too terrible to contemplate but five… ‘Oh Hughie, how could she bear it?’ She closed her eyes.

  ‘Don’t know. But I think it’s one of the reasons she’s so furious about this war, God bless her – and she doesn’t mind who knows it. Bowler came in with her coal bucket just now and she let him have it, poor man. “It’ll be another pointless bloodbath, Mr Bowler, you mark my words.” Hugh caught Nanny’s muscular Norfolk burr. ‘“The Kaiser, he held Queen Victoria in his arms as she lay dyin’, and now they’ve gone and got us into this stoopid mess!” Poor old Bowler didn’t dare say a word in defence of King and Country – scuttled off with his tail between his legs.’

  As if on cue, everything went dark and Nanny arrived in the doorway. At eighty-one, she still stood upright – as tall as she was wide, most of the light was blocked out of the room.

  ‘Lily Robinson, get up this instant. Look how you’ve creased your dress!’ Lily jumped to her feet, ten years old again. Nanny toddled towards her and started to pat and flounce her skirts. ‘Lovely silk tulle like that and I find you sitting about like a scullery maid. And you, my manny, you’re no better. What’re you doing still sitting up here – and in the dark? I thought you’d gone down an age ago.’ Hugh slowly unfolded and got to his feet. ‘Your mother and father have spent good money on this New Year party and you’re hiding away up here. Now get downstairs the pair of you, dinner will be served shortly.’

  ‘Yes, Nanny.’ Meekly Hugh started for the door and then, swooping back, he gathered the old lady into his arms. ‘What would I do without you, dearest Nanny!’

  ‘Ooo, get on with you,’ cried the old lady, scolding and slapping away the boy’s advances.

  They clattered down the wooden back-stairs and then ground to a halt on the first landing, the noise from their feet instantly soaked up by thick oriental carpets. As a child Lily had always loved the mystery of noisily emerging from the nursery into this soft fragrant world, but tonight Hugh’s bitter reluctance at joining the bubbling fray below overshadowed any possible enjoyment.

  ‘We’re only twelve sitting down to dinner – it won’t be that bad.’

  ‘I can see that Monks man,’ muttered Hugh, leaning over the banisters. ‘And God, there’s Sir John and Lady Padget.’ He sank down onto the top stair. Sprigs of holly had been threaded through the iron filigree of the banisters.

  ‘Their Billy’s joined up,’ said Lily.

  ‘Good for him.’

  They stared down at the wide square hallway below. A Christmas tree stood huge, the warmth from its myriad little candles throwing off a haunting scent of pine and, so tall was the tree, the guests appeared dwarfed as they sauntered past into the drawing room. Beside it, so as not to impose upon the chatter in the drawing room, a string quartet sat playing a chunky gavotte, the frivolous music contributing an unexpected sense of fun to the rather staid interior.

  From her high vantage point, Lily had often mused how the interior of the house reflected her grandfather’s lack of imagination and strong practicality, a Victorian sturdiness prevailing throughout. Standing now at the top of the staircase, she was struck by how the stairs straightforwardly descended and then turned back on themselves rather than lusciously curving, as in other houses of a similar size and age. Arranged round this first-floor landing, glum family portraits were interspersed with classical hunting scenes; her grandfather’s vain attempt to prove himself more than a businessman, though the pictures held no interest for him at all. Off this first floor ran a passageway of bedrooms at each of the four corners, each corridor disappearing into the darkness. Even on New Year’s Eve, Lily’s father maintained the newly installed electricity to be a foolish expense unless publicly enjoyed by one and all.

  And outside, the house, though enfolded in glorious English countryside, stood sturdy in its design rather than imaginative, having been built by Lily’s grandfather in the 1840s. An early investor in the railway, he had chosen the crest of a Kentish hill, not so much for its rolling beauty as its proximity to two newly constructed branch lines taking the adventurous passenger not only south but also west into London in under an hour.

  ‘Come on, we’d better go down,’ said Lily.

  Hugh reluctantly got to his feet.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, you dumbo, you’re half undressed!’ She pulled him towards her and he suffered her to knot his evening tie.

  ‘I hope your young man won’t come and duff me up – for detaining you, m’lady.’

  ‘Don’t be such an ass.’ A glowing heat flowered in her chest at the thought of Charles. She looked down, frowning at the knot between her fingers. ‘Anyway, Father snaffled Charles up the minute he came through the front door. Dragged him into the morning room “to discuss a couple of matters”. I haven’t even seen him to say hello.’

  She’d been desperate to talk to him but had been left hovering like a fool at the top of the staircase. She’d watched through the banisters as the butler divested Charles of his heavy topcoat, and gazed as he’d been revealed: tall and broad and muscled. His thick sporting figure, tonight, appeared to be tautly packed into his evening suit, the stiff white collar and tie serving to emphasise his shiny black-brown hair, the high gloss achieved, no doubt, by prolonged and disciplined double-brushing. Under the light of the hall chandelier, she could see his razor-sharp parting etched ash-white against the dark lustre of his hair. His face was square, shaped by big bones over which the skin was healthy and ruddy, the even features divided by a carefully trimmed moustache and strong immovable eyebrows. But it was his nose that br
ought unpredictability; it had been broken, the central bone weaving a course through an otherwise sensuous profile giving it a clownish tilt. He was already too heavy-set a man to be elegant, his movements constantly reminding one of the muscle and sinew working beneath the clothing, but for Lily, having been acquainted with Charles just six months, his appearance every time they met struck her with surprise and a kind of awe. He had, to her, an almost god-like warrior quality; she was reminded of the vast Achilles statue in Hyde Park, fierce, helmeted and naked. It was a secret she had not even confided to her diary.

  Now it was a whole week since that divine day they’d had together in London, Christmas shopping with his sister, Adele. He’d taken them to the new American soda fountain in Sutton’s – the three of them treated like royalty – and they had indulged in a sublime concoction of ice and cream and raspberry sauce. Ice cream and Christmas carols! But the most exciting moment had been when they’d given Adele the slip and so, unchaperoned for the first time, they’d gone to a matinee of Hullo, Ragtime! Later, looking back, she couldn’t remember a thing about the show; it was a blank. All she’d been aware of was Charles holding her hand and his breath on her neck when he had turned and whispered in her ear…

  ‘You’ve gone all moony again!’ Hugh dug her in the ribs.

  ‘Don’t!’

  ‘This serious, Sis?’

  ‘Um…think so… Oh, I don’t know.’ Despite herself she couldn’t help grinning; it was all so marvellous. Charles, handsome, beautiful Sir Charles St John Sutton of 39 Hay Hill, London W was sweet on her!

  ‘Does he know about Fritzie?’

  The unexpected question instantly crushed every ounce of happiness in her heart. ‘Oh don’t, Hugh.’ She stared helplessly at him. ‘Why mention that now?’

  ‘Because Nanny let slip she’s very worried about Fritz and Lally, that’s why. And I think you and I should talk about it, seeing as Mother and Father have decided to cut them out of the family.’

  ‘Oh Hughie, you know it’s not like that—’

  ‘Well, what is it like then? Blind disloyalty, I call it.’ He turned away from her.

  ‘Now you’re being unreasonable. You must see it’s pretty awkward, the fact that most of Mother’s side of the family are German—’

  ‘Yes, but it’s Lally and Fritzie, for goodness sake. Are we supposed to ignore the fact that you and I are a quarter German!’ His voice had risen; she looked nervously down into the hall.

  ‘Sorry, Girlie. It’s just that it makes my blood boil.’

  She almost smiled; she knew he’d used her pet name as an act of contrition. ‘I know, I do feel the same.’

  ‘Have you heard from them?’

  She shook her head. ‘All my letters have been returned unopened.’

  ‘Nanny’s still got their photograph in pride of place on her bedside table even though they’ve become persona non grata in this house. Bless her.’

  ‘How do you think they are?’

  ‘I expect Fritz is at the Front and Lally is nursing,’ he said evenly.

  She dropped her head; she couldn’t bear the thought that her beloved German cousins, Fritz and Lally, were now on ‘the other side’, the four of them facing each other as enemies across the new world order. ‘I do miss them most dreadfully.’

  ‘Oh, Lil, you don’t still—’

  ‘Love him?’

  Hughie nodded awkwardly, emotional matters always a treacherous terrain for him.

  ‘For goodness sake, I was sixteen.’

  The firmness of this reply seemed to satisfy him. In a lighter voice he remarked, ‘Well, Fritzie may be the devilish Hun but Nanny still thinks you should marry him. When the war’s over, obviously!’

  She ignored the comment.

  He slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and drew out a slim silver cigarette case. ‘Does Charles know about them, that we spent every summer with our German relations?’

  For a moment, Lily was torn between the delight at hearing Charles’s name and the dread at having to tell him about this forbidden side of the family.

  ‘No, there hasn’t exactly been the right moment.’ She pulled a face and for the first time Hugh laughed. He struck a match on the sole of his shoe.

  ‘Sorry, old girl, didn’t mean to put a damper on things. So, come on, tell me, what does this Charles do? Has he joined up?’

  ‘No, not yet.’ She smiled despite herself. ‘Actually, he works in his family’s shop.’

  ‘Good lord, does Father know he’s “in trade”? He’ll have a fit!’ Grinning at her, Lily saw how absurdly young her brother looked.

  ‘No, stupid, not a shop like Mr Blacks the Ironmongers. Sutton’s, the department store in Oxford Street. You know.’

  ‘By gum, he must be worth a pretty penny. Well done, old girl!’

  Lily punched his arm. ‘Pig!’

  ‘Ow! And will I like him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said firmly, patting the finished bow tie. ‘Because he’s very handsome and he likes me!’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose I’d better go down and meet him.’

  In the large drawing room, the guests, having travelled through an icy starry night, had been met, here indoors, by a heat that was fierce. The ladies, mostly in sturdy evening dresses, sat, frothy fans waving, trying to counteract the unexpected warmth whilst the gentlemen stood stuffed into their evening suits surreptitiously dabbing at brow and upper lip.

  As the brother and sister entered the drawing room, a small compact bald-headed man in heavy spectacles made it his business to cross the carpet to greet them, a hand extended expectantly. Lily saw in an instant that Charles and her father were not of the party.

  ‘Oh lor, who’s this?’ Hugh muttered.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Potter,’ said Lily clearly. ‘How are you? I do hope you have had a pleasant Christmas.’ She turned to her brother. ‘Hugh, you remember Mr Potter, chairman of our local Conservative Association.’

  ‘Yes, yes, indeed,’ interjected the little man and, throwing her an abrupt greeting, ‘Good evening to you, Miss Robinson,’ turned greedily to Hugh. ‘Doing your bit for King and Country, I hear. How’s it going out there?’ He started to pump her brother’s hand as if to extract the information he required.

  ‘Well, sir, strictly speaking we’re under orders not to talk about it.’

  ‘Oh come, my boy – man to man.’

  A butler appeared. ‘Moselle cup, Miss Lily?’

  ‘Thank you, Watkins. Hughie?’ Turning, she saw her brother had gone very pale, thin beads of sweat breaking out along his neatly combed brow. ‘Bring Mr Hugh a brandy and soda would you, please?’

  ‘And bring me a refill while you’re about it,’ the Tory chairman cut in.

  The butler slid away and a stout woman, dressed in a swooping gown of chocolate-brown velvet, took his place. ‘Hello, Hugh dear, nice to see you. Still in one piece, I see.’ She leant up towards the young man and proffered a heavily powdered cheek.

  ‘Aunt Violet,’ he muttered and, ignoring the cheek, stood stock-still.

  ‘We were just saying, weren’t we, Frank,’ said Aunt Violet, not noticing the snub, ‘that things seem to be going all our way out there in France.’ She looked with child-like eagerness towards the young man to confirm the point.

  ‘Giving these Boche what-for, eh,’ concurred Mr Potter, removing his spectacles and polishing them vigorously. ‘Teaching the cowardly blighters a lesson.’ He popped the glasses back on his nose and blinked.

  Lily saw Hugh reach into his pocket and, drawing out a handkerchief, pass it over his brow. Watkins arrived with the drinks. Not waiting to be handed his, Hugh swept up the brandy, downed it in one and replaced the glass on the tray.

  Lily looked round the little group. Nobody seemed to have noticed; there were more important things on their agenda.

  ‘Too big for their boots, if you ask me,’ Aunt Violet was lustily continuing. ‘I’ve always maintained the Germans are a greedy lot. Th
ey’ll be wanting our Empire next.’

  ‘I have it on very good authority,’ Mr Potter dropped his voice. ‘The Hun is a monster. Incapable of human feeling.’

  ‘Have you heard the vicar’s dog has been stoned?’ Mrs Henfrey, a small quiet woman, had joined the group. She was decked out in a yellow dress, the shade of which reminded Lily of very strong mustard; it was an unfortunate colour.

  ‘Good Lord, Majorie, why?’ demanded Mr Potter.

  The little woman suddenly looked uncomfortable; all eyes had swung towards her. ‘It’s a sausage dog,’ she muttered by way of explanation.

  ‘And what on earth’s wrong with that?’ boomed Aunt Violet.

  ‘Oh, my dear, you know – it’s a “dachshund”.’ Mrs Henfrey’s voice was now barely audible, the danger of contamination from the German word too terrible to contemplate.

  At Lily’s side, Hugh started to laugh. Vastly relieved, she turned, only to realise the laughter was empty of all merriment as he stood, head thrown back, hands on hips, his face a caricature of amusement. But it was the noise escaping from him that shocked her – an ugly insistent rasping.

  ‘Hughie – oh Hughie, don’t—’ Horrified, she saw tears spring into his eyes.

  Around them, their chattering group silently melted away as all over the drawing room conversation drizzled to a halt; Hugh’s wretched barking laughter commanding attention, the harsh sound growing ever more coarse, more alien.

  As one, the assembly now standing stock-still, stared. The young man flung himself backwards and then recoiled, his body doubling up as though shot. Slowly, very slowly, he sank to his knees, his arms knotted into himself for protection. No more laughter now.

  In the hallway, the music had stopped.

  A sickening silence followed.

  Helpless, Lily dropped to her brother’s side and tried quickly to gather his lanky frame into her arms. But there was a new problem, for the boy was sobbing. She lay across him attempting to muffle the pitiful sound. ‘Shhh, oh Hughie, shhh.’