‘Your friend Mr Khan wouldn’t stay to tea, Mr Boswell,’ Amy explained. ‘Said he had some studying to do.’
‘That’s Rafi,’ Boz grunted, ‘always striving tae be the best.’
‘I admire his dedication,’ Amy said. ‘It must be hard for him so far from home and family.’
She gave Sophie one of her steely looks as if it had somehow been her fault Rafi had not stayed.
‘Aye, suppose it must,’ Boz shrugged. ‘But Rafi’s no been back tae India since the War started, so he canna miss them that much. A man content in his ane company, I’d say.’
***
Sophie played tennis with William Boswell twice the following week after she had finished work. After the second time, he asked her bashfully, ‘I was wondering if you’d like to gang tae the Forestry Department hop next Tuesday? It’ll no be very glamorous – just in the gym – but they usually get some good student musicians and there’s always plenty to eat.’
Sophie hesitated. She didn’t want to give Boz false hope that their friendship might blossom into romance. She enjoyed his company but felt nothing deeper.
‘I’m not sure–’
‘We’ll be part of a larger group,’ Boz assured, ‘you’ll no have to dance with me all evening.’ She studied his open, genial face. ‘It just means I’ll no have to be a wallflower for the whole night,’ he joked. ‘There are never enough lassies. Professor Grant might even give me higher marks for bringing you along.’
Sophie snorted. ‘Well, if it will help your final degree then I can’t say no, can I?’
On Tuesday evening, Sophie raced home late from the office, washed herself at the sink, grabbed a clean blouse from the wardrobe and a lighter skirt for dancing in, pulled a brush through her long hair and swept it up on top of her head in a loose bun.
‘Can I borrow your light scarf, Auntie Amy? It’s still warm out there and I’ll sweat in a coat.’
‘Ladies don’t sweat,’ Amy said, ‘they merely glow.’
‘They sweat when they dance to ragtime,’ Sophie grinned.
‘Don’t be too late,’ Amy tried to be firm, ‘you have work in the morning.’
‘And I’ll turn into a rat at midnight, I know.’ She leaned out of the sitting-room window, spotted Boz ambling down the street and waved. ‘Just coming down!’ She turned and planted a juicy kiss on her aunt’s soft cheek. ‘Don’t wait up; I have my key.’
‘Enjoy it, dearie.’
Amy watched from the window, her heart squeezing to think how her niece had grown from a clinging, unhappy child into such a lively attractive young woman who appeared to fear nothing. She walked side by side with the tall red-headed farmer’s son, glancing up at him and chattering. Perhaps it would not be long before Sophie would be marrying and leaving home like Cousin Tilly. Amy dreaded the day when Sophie would no longer come clattering up the stairwell and burst through the door with a shout of welcome and a tumble of words about the day’s happenings.
She couldn’t have loved her more had she been her own child. It grieved her that her sister Jessie had not lived to see her daughter grow up and flourish. Thinking of her tragic sister gave her a pang of foreboding; she prayed that Sophie would not make the same mistake and rush into marriage with someone unsuitable. The tea planter Bill Logan had captured Jessie’s heart with his good looks and charm but he had been a jealous and over-possessive man. Amy had instinctively mistrusted him on sight. Strangely, she’d felt the same about Tam Telfer, though she had no grounds for her unease.
She watched until the young pair crossed the road and disappeared towards the Pleasance and the university gymnasium. Lanky William was a cheery soul, but Amy doubted that he would be the one to match Sophie’s passionate nature or thirst for adventure.
***
It turned out that Sophie knew one of the other students, Ian McGinty – they had been at the kirk Sunday School together – along with his two younger sisters who were also there to make up the numbers. Rafi walked in with a bohemian-looking older woman in gypsy skirts, a cascade of bangles and bright red lipstick. They stood smoking together by the drinks table; Rafi waved across but didn’t come over.
‘Some artist’s wifie,’ Boz felt he had to explain, ‘one o’ those Pointillists or something. Rafi kens the strangest folk.’
Sophie, forcing herself to stop staring at Rafi and the fascinating woman, entered into the dancing with relish. The musicians were a ceilidh band playing Scottish country dances and not jazz as she had hoped, but she knew all the dances from kirk socials and suffragist fundraisers that Amy had taken her to throughout the years. She danced with Boz and Ian and two other students who had asked to mark her dance card.
Just before the break for supper, Sophie had the strongest feeling she was being observed. As the band announced a Dashing White Sergeant and told the dancers to group into threes, she caught sight of a familiar lean figure standing hands in pockets near the entrance talking to Rafi and the artist’s wife but looking directly at her.
‘Tam’s back,’ she gasped.
Boz waved to his friend and called, ‘Hey, Telfer! We need another man.’
Sophie’s insides did somersaults as Tam left the others and strode across the hall to greet them. He slapped Boz on the back and shook Sophie’s hand. ‘I’d have come sooner if I’d known the bonniest motorcycle rider in all Scotland was at the dance. Normally it’s the professor’s granny and her cronies, eh Boz?’
‘Aye, pretty much,’ Boz snorted. ‘How was Paris?’
Tam’s expression tightened. ‘A disappointment.’
Boz raised his eyebrows. ‘Flora didn’t approve?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ Tam said. ‘Come on, let’s get in line.’ He grabbed Sophie firmly by the hand and pulled her onto the dance floor. Boz took her other hand and she stood between them, thrilled at the unexpected turn of events.
They whirled and shrieked in the lively dance, Sophie’s heart pounding every time she had to clasp hands with Tam and duck with him under the arching arms of the opposite dancers. He looked just as handsome as she remembered, his body toned from outdoor labour and his lean face tanned, accentuating the blue of his eyes.
The reel finished and the dancers queued up in the adjoining room for the buffet of pies, sandwiches and fruit cake. Tam found them a table and regaled them with humorous stories about his family in Paris.
‘Flora insisted on us going to a show – went on about it all week – then had a fit of the vapours at the lack of clothing on the dancers. Mother kept shouting “They’ll catch their death!” and Flora made us all walk out in the middle of the cancan.’
‘What were you thinking of taking them to the Folies Bergère, you daft man?’ Boz whistled.
‘Never again,’ Tam grimaced. ‘It’s back to North Berwick for Ma and Flora.’
‘And you?’ Boz asked. ‘Did you–?’
‘Had my fill of Paris too.’ Tam cut him off. ‘But tell me what I’ve been missing.’
‘Lots of cricket and tennis,’ Boz said. ‘Rafi beating me at cricket and Sophie beating me at tennis.’
‘Really?’ Tam exclaimed.
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ Sophie laughed, ‘I was captain of my school tennis team.’
‘Then you need a better opponent,’ Tam teased. ‘I challenge you to racquets at dawn.’
‘Done!’ Sophie grinned.
For the rest of the evening Sophie took it in turns to dance with Boz and Tam, but when it came to the final waltz Tam was quick to claim her. She felt ridiculously nervous being held close, his hand clasped firmly in the small of her back, his chin brushing her hair as they spun around the floor. She was impressed by how light on his feet he was.
‘You’re a great dancer,’ he smiled down at her, ‘better than any of the lassies in Paris.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said, pleased at the compliment, yet with a twinge of jealousy at the French girls who had danced with him. ‘I prefer the modern dances bes
t.’
‘Have you been to the new Palais de Dance in Fountainbridge?’ Tam asked.
‘No,’ Sophie was wistful, ‘though I hear it’s wonderful.’
‘So Boz hasn’t taken you?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘He just asked me tonight to help make up the numbers.’
‘So there’s no understanding between you?’ Tam asked in his forthright way.
‘Goodness no,’ Sophie said quickly.
‘Then Miss Logan,’ Tam said, pressing her closer and murmuring in her ear, ‘on Saturday night, you are getting on your glad rags and going to the Palais with me.’
Chapter 8
‘You’re not going on your own with Mr Telfer, are you?’ Amy asked in concern, watching Sophie’s elaborate preparation for her night out. She had washed her hair and tightly bound the long strands in rags until they dried; the result was a cascade of blonde ringlets. She had shortened the hem on the blue dress she had worn for Tilly’s wedding and was now holding up different pieces of jewellery against the plain frontage.
‘The ivory beads or the amber brooch, Auntie?’
‘The brooch.’
Sophie pulled a face. ‘I think mother’s beads look more eye-catching – and they’ll go with the ivory bracelet.’
‘You’re going to wear the bracelet too?’ Amy asked in dismay. ‘What if you lose it? The catch isn’t strong.’
‘I won’t lose it,’ Sophie insisted.
She lifted the ivory bracelet from its battered box – her most cherished possession – given by her parents on her christening. She had a memory of her mother fastening it onto her small wrist; some special occasion like a birthday perhaps? It was more the soft touch of warm fingers and a floral scent that she remembered, and her father laughing in the background; a throaty smoker’s laugh. She ran her fingers over the tiny delicately carved elephants’ heads and snapped shut the metal catch.
A few years ago, some cheap beads had been strung onto the bracelet so that it would fit her woman’s wrist, but Sophie still loved it. The bracelet had been like a talisman for her over the years, a link to her parents and her early life before the tragedy, as if their spirits were conjured up to watch over her whenever she touched it. Yet she could never tell such a superstitious belief to her aunt who was a stalwart of the Kirk.
‘Who else will be at the dance hall tonight, Sophie?’ Amy persisted, eyeing the macabre bracelet with its decapitated elephant heads; she had never liked it or the way her niece treated it like a holy relic.
‘Oh, there’ll be a crowd of us,’ she answered breezily. ‘Boz and the McGintys – folk from the university.’
‘Well, Mr Telfer can tell me himself when he comes up to collect you.’
Sophie busied herself pulling on her raincoat. ‘I said I’d meet him outside; don’t want to miss the bus.’
‘But Sophie–’
‘I’ll invite him for tea another day, promise.’ Sophie grabbed her small evening bag, bought that week in a second-hand shop, gave her aunt a swift kiss and clattered out of the door.
‘You’ll need a brolly!’ Amy called.
‘Tam is bound to have one,’ Sophie said with a wave and banged the door behind her.
She was a bundle of excitement and nerves; the last thing she wanted was her aunt battering Tam with questions about his family and current affairs like she had with Boz and Rafi. Sophie had the feeling Tam would be less patient with an inquisitive Amy, and she wanted to create a good impression before he was subjected to an inquisition. Pausing in the dim light of the stairwell, she slipped off her dowdy mackintosh, pulled out a lipstick and miniature mirror from her bag and applied a light layer of red. She pressed her full lips together until she was happy with the effect.
Tam was waiting outside with an umbrella against the evening drizzle, dressed immaculately in an evening suit, white scarf and highly polished shoes. Her insides fluttered at his well-groomed appearance and the spicy smell of his shaving soap. He gave her an appreciative look and offered his arm.
‘How bonny you look, Miss Logan,’ he winked, ‘I’ll be the envy of every man at the Palais. Come on, in you get.’ He indicated the waiting motor cab.
‘We’re going by taxi?’ Sophie cried.
‘I’m not having you splashing through puddles in your stocking legs, my girl,’ he grinned.
Sophie flushed with pleasure as he leapt in behind her. Tam chatted easily as they made their way across town, wanting to hear all about the rest of her motorcycle trip to Newcastle and her cousin’s twenty-first birthday party. He was astonished to hear that it had resulted in a sudden engagement and marriage a month later.
‘This is the dress I wore as Tilly’s bridesmaid,’ Sophie confessed.
‘It’s delightful,’ Tam assured, glancing at her legs. ‘I’m honoured you’re wearing it for our evening out.’
Sophie was suddenly self-conscious, pulling at the hem to cover her knees. ‘I don’t have many smart clothes.’
‘You’re beautiful whatever you wear,’ he smiled.
She knew she was being flattered and no doubt such words came easily to the worldly Tam, but Sophie knew before she even reached the dance hall, that she was falling hopelessly in love with him.
They dashed from the taxi and out of the rain into the imposing entrance of the Palais de Dance. Sophie could not believe the difference between the soot-blackened tenements of the street outside and the glittering interior of sweeping gilded pillars, tiled floors and electric lights. At home, the flat was still lit by gas lamps; muted pools of light that never completely dispelled the gloom. Here, lights blazed from chandeliers and wall brackets in a range of colours from dazzling white to soft pink.
Checking her coat into the cloakroom, she took Tam’s arm and joined the busy throng of party-goers making for the ballroom, Tam greeting people as they jostled in.
‘How was Paris?’ a man in evening dress asked.
‘Good to see you back Tam,’ another clapped him on the back.
‘This must be...?’ a third man in a rowing blazer gave a quizzical smile at Sophie.
‘Miss Sophie Logan,’ Tam introduced her. ‘Tennis champion and motorcycle dispatch rider in the war.’
Sophie laughed with embarrassment. ‘Neither of those are true.’
‘Tam’s a terrible story-teller,’ the rower said, ‘I can see you are far too young to have been in the war.’
‘Young yes,’ Tam agreed, ‘but she beats Boz at tennis and she does ride a motor bike.’
The man whistled in admiration. ‘Join us, Telfer, you can’t keep the remarkable Miss Logan to yourself.’ He introduced himself as Jimmy Scott.
They found a table and a waiter appeared.
‘Two gin and sodas with a dash of lime, please,’ Tam ordered for them both.
Sophie gazed around, amazed at the variety of people; the well-heeled of Murrayfield seemed to be rubbing shoulders with students and office girls like her. She observed the fringed dresses, sequined caps and shorter hairstyles of Edinburgh’s young flappers with envy. Perhaps if she saved carefully she could afford a fur stole or at least a feathered headdress? Their drinks arrived and Sophie took a large gulp, trying not to splutter at the unaccustomed alcohol. Tam, she noticed, didn’t take a sip but just toyed with the glass as he chatted to his friends from the rowing club about some regatta he had missed.
‘No wonder you came a poor third without my muscle,’ Tam teased.
‘Very selfish of you Telfer to swan off to Paris just when you were needed most,’ said Jimmy, swigging back a large whisky.
‘I don’t think he was selfish at all,’ Sophie chipped in. ‘It was a kind gesture to take his mother and sister on holiday. I’d love to go to Paris.’
Looks were exchanged among the men.
‘I’ll take you to Paris; just say the word,’ Jimmy said, leering at her.
‘Say no, Sophie,’ Tam laughed. ‘Jimmy’s never been further south than Prestonpans and doesn’t speak a w
ord of French.’
‘Whereas you war heroes think you know it all, I suppose?’ Jimmy complained.
‘We know how to parler avec the lassies,’ the beefy man in the dinner suit said. ‘Don’t we Tam?’
At that moment they were interrupted by squeals of delight as two young women in matching cream dresses and long lacy mittens clattered up to the table.
‘Boys!’ the taller one with a dark bob of hair cried as she set about kissing them roundly on the cheek and waving a dance card. ‘We can probably squeeze you in.’
‘Tam, you came back after all,’ her friend waved a cigarette holder at him. ‘I told Nell you would.’
‘No, I told you, Catherine,’ Nell contradicted. ‘Tam’s an Edinburgh boy. He would miss us far too much.’
Seats were pulled up for the new arrivals, Jimmy ordered more drinks and introductions were made. Nell knew the men from the student debating society; Catherine was her school friend. They looked at Sophie with curiosity. She felt unusually tongue-tied amid the quick-fire chatter and teasing; they were all so sophisticated and well-educated compared to her. What she yearned to do was dance to the wonderful band music pulsating from the dozen musicians on the dais at the end of the ballroom.
Abruptly, Tam stood up and led Sophie onto the dance floor for a fox-trot.
‘They’re good lads,’ he said, ‘but it’s difficult to get a word in edgeways.’
‘The girls too,’ Sophie gave a wry smile.
‘Debating Society,’ Tam grinned, ‘thought you would approve of lassies who can speak up for themselves?’
‘I do. But I want to dance with you more than I want to listen to your friends.’
Tam’s eyes widened, then he laughed and squeezed her tighter.
The evening sped by and Sophie hardly had time to catch her breath, as Tam and his friends claimed her for every dance. Boz arrived. He gave her a wistful look but seemed happy to dance with Catherine and Nell. Late into the evening as the lights were dimmed, she was surprised to see Rafi appear with Ian McGinty, both men dressed in casual flannels.
THE PLANTER'S BRIDE: A story of intrigue and passion: sequel to THE TEA PLANTER'S DAUGHTER (India Tea Series Book 2) Page 8