‘But I’m spending nothing,’ he declared. ‘Just a few pennies here and there. What’s the point of coming if we don’t try things?’
He was so enthusiastic, and clearly enjoying himself so much, she didn’t like to raise the subject again. At the hoopla stall he declared he would win her a prize, and to his delight he did indeed win a tin of butterscotch. The fact that it had cost him far more in hoopla rings than it would have done in a shop did not worry him.
‘Look, it’s got roses on, to match your hat,’ he observed as he presented it to her.
Peter’s confident manner wavered only once, when he had met some people whom he knew. Mercy was conscious of hard, disapproving stares in her direction, and would have tried to melt into the background, but Peter firmly took her arm. Raising his boater with a flourish he said, ‘I don’t think you know Miss Seaton, do you?’ There was an air of bravado about him when he spoke which reminded her of her brother, Joey, who always put a bold face on it when he was caught doing something wrong. And I suppose I’m the something wrong in this case, thought Mercy. His family are going to have something to say when they hear that he’s been out with a common working girl.
At last the haughty woman and her party swept away, muttering something about it getting late.
‘Is it?’ asked Mercy in alarm after they had gone. ‘Late, I mean? The omnibus goes at half past eleven.’
‘You needn’t bother about the omnibus. I’ll take you home in a cab—’
‘No thank you,’ she cried, horrified. The thought of Peter seeing where she lived was too terrible to contemplate. Then she added more calmly, ‘You’ve been so kind already. I must catch the omnibus. Dolly might be there and without me she wouldn’t have anyone to walk home with.’
To her relief he did not argue, instead he consulted his gold pocket-watch.
‘If that is what you really want then I won’t insist. But it is only a quarter to; we’ve time to have something to eat before you disappear like Cinderella. Where would you like to go?’
‘Somewhere quiet, please,’ said Mercy, remembering the encounter with the haughty woman, if you’re sure…’
‘I am quite sure. I have not the slightest intention of parting from you one second earlier than I must. Besides, I’m starving.’
‘Me too,’ agreed Mercy.
‘Good, that’s what I like to hear.’
They found a small restaurant in Torwood Street, well away from the crowds at the fair. Mercy had read somewhere that in London these days it was considered very smart for ladies to dine out late in the evening. Now she was doing just that. She tried hard to behave as though entering a restaurant was an everyday occurrence for her, but it was difficult. The cutlery, in particular, impressed her, laid out as it was with gleaming precision. And it all matched! So unlike the motley collection of implements which she was used to. The table-linen, too, was of such a snowy whiteness she had to restrain herself from showing a professional interest in how it had been laundered. Thoughts of the laundry reminded her of the lie she had told Peter. A small lie, it was true, but it cast a disproportionately large cloud over her enjoyment.
A waiter shook out her napkin for her and handed them both menus. Mercy thought he looked alarmingly dignified, but Peter was clearly quite undaunted. He scanned the list of dishes and said, ‘We’re in rather a hurry. What do you recommend?’
‘The lamb cutlets are extremely good, sir.’
‘Would you like the cutlets?’ Peter asked her. She nodded her head. ‘Very well, we’ll have the lamb, please, and hurry. Oh, and bring a bottle of the Bordeaux—’ Peter suddenly looked at her quizzically, then said, ‘On second thoughts, bring a bottle of Muscadel… Have you ever had wine before?’ he asked when the waiter hurried away.
‘No, never.’
‘Then I think you will like this one I’ve chosen. It’s sweet.’
Mercy was struck by his thoughtfulness, choosing a wine to appeal to her taste sooner than his own. Such consideration prompted her to confide, ‘I’ve never had lamb cutlets, either.’
His brows rose in astonishment. ‘Haven’t you?’ His expression turned into a beam of pleasure. ‘Then I’m happy I’m the one to introduce you to two new experiences – wine and lamb cutlets…You really are an extraordinary young lady, you know. Not many girls would have been so honest. But I’m glad you are. I shall watch you eat your supper with all the more pleasure.’
As he mentioned her honesty Mercy hurriedly put her gloved hands out of sight in her lap, as if to hide away her lie.
When the meal arrived it was not the decision of which knife and fork to use which prompted near-panic inside her, she knew she had only to follow Peter’s example – it was the fact that if she took off her gloves to eat she would reveal the coarseness of her hands. In the end she attempted to eat with her gloves on, though her fingers slipped on the polished cutlery.
‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you took your gloves off?’ asked Peter gently.
For a moment she wondered what to do – suddenly her deceit seemed so silly. She liked him very much; he was amusing and good-humoured, above all, he was kind; it didn’t seem right to tell him even the smallest of lies. Putting down her knife and fork Mercy pulled off her gloves.
‘I haven’t been truthful with you,’ she said.
‘Haven’t you?’ Peter looked at her warily.
‘No. I don’t work in a shop. It was a stupid lie. I suppose I wanted to impress you. I work in a laundry. I do ironing…’
She waited, tense in case he was angry.
All he said was, ‘Do you really? That must be awfully hard work,’ in a tone which combined sympathy with curiosity. For the first time it occurred to Mercy that this evening was as much a novelty for Peter as it was for her.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve had supper with a laundress before?’ she asked. And was gratified when he grinned at her.
‘No, I haven’t. What an evening this is for firsts! It won’t be the last, will it? If you would not object…’
It was there again, the youthful uncertainty masked by pretty speeches. Mercy caught her breath, not quite believing what she had heard.
‘You would like to see me again?’ she asked.
‘Yes, very much. Would tomorrow…?’
‘I must work tomorrow.’
‘Ah, yes, I had forgotten.’
He stroked the rough skin on her hand with cool fingers. Mercy had never seen a man with such hands, long and slim, with clean manicured nails. She sat very still in case any action others should spoil the beauty of the moment.
‘I’m off this Saturday, in the afternoon,’ she said at last.
‘Then, Saturday it is! At about two-thirty? Shall I come to fetch you or would you prefer us to meet somewhere else, the Strand, for example?’
So he had noticed her reluctance for him to come to her home. Grateful for this consideration Mercy replied thankfully, ‘The Strand would be best, I think.’
‘Good.’ Peter smiled at her and released her hand with obvious reluctance. ‘Perhaps we had better finish our supper, unless you want to miss your omnibus.’
The wine should have tasted like nectar, the lamb cutlet like ambrosia from the gods, but Mercy hardly noticed them. Her attention was all for Peter. At that moment nothing else existed. She must have eaten the meal, however, and drunk the wine, for Peter rose. He dropped a pile of coins on the table in a casual manner, which would have made Mercy gasp at any other time, but on this occasion she was completely absorbed by her companion and by bewilderment that anything like this should be happening to her. It was the sort of situation she had dreamed of. It didn’t, it couldn’t be happening in real life, could it?
Together they left the restaurant; hand in hand they hurried back through the thinning crowds to the fair. The omnibus, already full, was waiting for the last stragglers in the queue to squeeze themselves on board. Mercy caught sight of Dolly peering from the upper, looking to see where she h
ad got to.
‘Until Saturday,’ said Peter as they reached the omnibus. Swiftly he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. It was such a romantic gesture, and to Mercy it was the perfect climax to her evening.
The omnibus was already moving away as willing hands pulled her on to the platform. Looking back she saw Peter waving, then they turned the corner into Fleet Street and he was lost from sight.
It was the last omnibus, put on specially for the Regatta, and so packed with home-going revellers that Mercy had no chance of a seat. She did not mind; she was happy to stand, clutching her precious tin of butterscotch, reliving every moment of the evening as they chugged their way back up the Newton Road. When they reached the stop nearest to the village she got off and waited for Dolly to join her.
Dolly jumped down, more rosy and considerably more crumpled than when she had set out.
‘Where’d ’ee get to, then?’ she demanded jovially.
‘We went to the fair and then had supper.’ Mercy struggled to keep her voice casual, as if the evening had been nothing out of the ordinary. ‘We didn’t see much of you.’
‘That’s not what Freddie said,’ giggled Dolly. She had been drinking, but she was not drunk.
‘Well, at least, you should do your buttons up properly again afterwards,’ said Mercy.
Dolly looked down at her plump bosom and gave a shriek of laughter. ‘My, I’m at sixes and sevens, baint I?’ she said, quite unconcernedly arranging her dress as they began to walk down the lane to the village. ‘That Freddie, ’e was a real scream. Laugh! Us didn’t stop all evenin’…! What was ’is friend like?’
‘Very nice. I’m seeing him again on Saturday.’
‘You baint!’ Dolly stopped in astonishment. ‘You sly maid! Well, don’t do anythin’ I wouldn’t do. Mind, that’ll give ’ee plenty of rope…’ And she shrieked with laughter.
Mercy was glad her friend did not question her further. She was fond of Dolly but the beauty of the evening was too new and precious to be shared.
‘Wait for me, you two!’ a familiar voice called out behind them.
‘Joey, where’ve you come from?’ Mercy asked in surprise.
‘I was on the omnibus. I went to the Regatta too!’
‘Oh, Joey, me ’andsome, I forgot about ’ee,’ said Dolly contritely. ‘’E was upstairs, with me.’
‘Dolly paid my fare.’
‘’Twere nothin’. I ’aven’t lashed out much this evenin’. I’ve bin treated all of the time —No, there aint no call for that,’ demurred Dolly as Mercy took out her purse to repay her. ‘Save it for a time when I be desperate – like Friday…’ and she broke into fresh chuckles.
‘Did you see ’em? Weren’t they splendid?’ demanded Joey.
‘What? The fireworks?’ asked Mercy.
‘Oh, they were good, but I’m talking about the yachts. The yachts, the Shamrock and the White Heather. They were all lit up. Oh, I wish I could have seen ’em race! It would’ve been a lot more exciting than picking tiddies, I’m sure.’
‘Picking potatoes,’ Mercy corrected him automatically.
Joey ignored her. ‘The Shamrock won, you know. Good old Tommy came out on top.’
‘Tommy, eh? I didn’t know you knew Sir Thomas Lipton personal,’ teased Dolly. ‘Fancy, King Edward’s friend, Sir Thomas, being a friend of yorn, too.’
‘We’re great mates, didn’t you know? He invited me in for a glass of champagne, but I said sorry, I’ve got to get ’ome…’
The final word disappeared in a huge yawn, and Joey suddenly leaned against Mercy, overcome with fatigue. She slipped her arm about his bony frame, and Dolly did likewise saying, ‘There, boy, we’m cuddled up like pigs in a sty.’
The three of them stumbled their drowsy way down the dark lane, their mouths full of Mercy’s butterscotch. The air was filled with the scents of honeysuckle and meadowsweet, and invisible creatures scuttled about in the hedgerows as they passed. It was all so far removed from the glittering activity of Torquay that Mercy thought she had imagined the whole evening. Only the cold surface of the butterscotch tin clasped in her hand proved to her that it had been real.
Dolly left them, taking the lane which led to the cottage she shared with her mother. Mercy and Joey continued on until they came to the familiar garden gate. Everything was in darkness. Once inside the kitchen Mercy groped for the lamp. The surge of its glow lit the squalor of the room and at the same time the musty stench assailed her nostrils.
Joey blinked sleepily in the light. ‘I saw the fellow who set you to the omnibus,’ he said. ‘’E was a real toff. You aren’t seeing ’im again, are you?’
‘Yes,’ said Mercy, ‘I am.’
‘Oh…’ was all Joey said, the one syllable expressing his disapproval.
Suddenly the difference between Peter’s world and her own seemed to yawn like a black chasm, and for Mercy the enchantment of the evening disappeared. It had been a wonderful experience – but it wasn’t meant to last. She would meet Peter again on Saturday, as she had promised, and that would have to be the end.
* * *
‘Cab, sir?’ asked a voice hopefully.
Peter shook his head. It was a beautiful night. He had not far to go so he decided to walk, not because he wanted the exercise but because he was reluctant to go home. It was the dread of having to play host at yet another of his mother’s claustrophobic dinner parties that had driven him from the house. The thought of being charming to people he did not particularly like, of laughing at unfunny jokes, and, above all, of being under his mother’s unwavering scrutiny for hours on end had been more than he could stand. However, having made his escape he must now return to face the consequences.
All the same, he had no regrets. He always enjoyed the unexpected, and the meeting with Mercy had been just that. She intrigued him, this lithe girl with hands like nutmeg graters and eyes as huge and dark as wet pansies. He had enjoyed being with her, to see her face light up with delight at the simplest things and to listen to her voice with its carefully corrected diction. Did laundresses usually speak like that? He thought not.
Peter walked away from the crowds, along roads lined with Italianate villas discreetly bounded by trees and stone walls. He was not aware of his pace slackening as he topped the rise and began the sharp descent towards his home. A carriage with its lights ablaze rumbled past him and turned into Hesketh Road. Laughter came from one house, the strains of a piano duet from another. The Regatta was exerting its lighthearted influence even here, among the most genteel and respectable of dwellings. Only the Villa Dorata remained silent and almost in darkness.
The Villa Dorata had been built by a cotton manufacturer with a passion for things Italian, whose fortune had been one of the casualties of the American Civil War. It had been at a time when Torquay was staking a vigorous claim to outshine the Mediterranean resorts, and Peter’s grandfather, who had bought the property, had been quite content to live with the exuberantly Latin embellishments. The same could not be said for Peter’s mother. When she took over, she had insisted upon the more suggestive statuary being removed. The external walls of rich gold that gave the villa its name she had had painted a more discreet cream. In doing so she had crushed the joyous soul of the house, or so it had seemed to Peter.
He trudged up the gravel drive, his ears filled with the sound of the sea on the beach below and the wind rustling the stiff leaves of the palms which lined his path. The porch lanterns were still lit, a silent rebuke to him for deserting his post. His feeling of contentment drained away.
‘Good evening, sir.’ Rogers, the butler, took Peter’s boater. ‘Mrs Lisburne would like to see you in her boudoir.’
‘Surely not at this hour? Can’t it wait until morning?’
‘Madam said as soon as you came in, sir.’
With a terse nod Peter crossed the marble-tiled hall to the staircase. From behind the closed dining-room door he could hear the muffled sounds of the maids clearing away. He toy
ed with the idea of having a whisky before he went up, he had had very little to drink this evening, then decided against it. His mother would smell the alcohol on his breath and it would give her one more cause for disapproval.
He went upstairs and knocked at his mother’s door. At once her maid opened it. Peter wished the servants were not quite so prompt, their efficiency always gave him the notion that the whole household was watching for him, waiting, checking up. It was silly, he knew; the truth was that his mother trained her staff well; nevertheless, he could not rid himself of the feeling. Shadowlike, the maid withdrew.
Mrs Lisburne looked up as he entered. She was sitting at her writing-table, her hair, once as golden as Peter’s but now streaked with silver, was loose, lying in waves on the pink silk of her peignoir-clad shoulders. It occurred to Peter that dressed so informally she should have looked soft and feminine. Instead she seemed forbidding.
‘Good evening, Mama,’ he greeted her.
She made no immediate reply. At last she said, ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’
Obediently he bent and pecked at her cheek. She accepted the kiss without emotion.
‘It is a pity you did not stay home for dinner. We had a delightful evening,’ she said. ‘Without you we would have been thirteen at table. Fortunately Mrs Foster sent to say she was indisposed, so we were twelve after all.’ Her voice was even, her tone reasonable, yet somehow her displeasure was evident. Peter wished she would fly into a rage with him, just once in a while. However, such was not Agnes Lisburne’s way.
She went on, ‘Of course, it was a little awkward not having a host, so Major Gifford, as your father’s oldest friend, stepped into the breach admirably. “We must not blame Peter too much for not wanting to dine at home,” he said. “After all, we’re only young once.” Wasn’t that kind of him?’
Peter felt it was just the sort of unoriginal thing the major would say: he was a man who thought in cliches. Aloud he said, ‘Yes, Mother, it was.’ He knew the anecdote had been repeated not to make him feel more at ease; it was to remind him that yet again he had failed to do his duty. In spite of himself he felt the familiar sense of shame, which had dogged him since childhood, begin to settle in the pit of his stomach.
To Dream Again Page 3