‘Tenminutesmoreshoulddoit, thenicanplateitup, getitallout…’
She blew her blunt fringe upwards and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. Her eyes darted between her daughter, who was standing in front of her, fiddling with the collar of her white blouse and pulling and twisting at her black pinafore, and the plate of devilled eggs that she now arranged with deft fingers on the counter top.
‘Right, love, listen. The main buffet is all laid out on the trestle in the corner; everyone will help themselves a bit later on. Serviettes, plates and whatnot are already on the table. Just keep an eye out, make sure that no platters run empty, we can refill them in here. Look for anyone that’s missing a serviette or cutlery, that kind of thing. You know what’s what; it’s not as if you haven’t done it before. These are just bits to pass around until they eat proper, so let’s get them out there and served or they’ll be on the turn and I haven’t been slaving away all day in this bloody kitchen so that you can ruin my food!’
‘I hate doing this, Mum!’
‘Really? You haven’t mentioned it.’
‘It’s just so embarrassing. They’re always old-timers who smell like lavender and tell me how lucky I am to be a teenager now and not twenty years ago. I know I’m lucky, I don’t need reminding by some stinky pensioner every five minutes.’
‘Dot, please, just shut up and take the bloody food in!’
‘I am! It’s just so unfair and anyway, in three years I’ll be twenty-one and then I’ll be free to do what I bloody want.’
Joan dipped into the metal tray under the counter top and lifted a large serving spoon in her direction. ‘Oi! Less of the “bloody”, missus. Until you are actually twenty-one, you are not too old for a ladling!’
‘A ladling? You just made that up! And you say “bloody” all the time!’ Dot concentrated on her outstretched arm, grappling with the wide silver platter that threatened to slide off the folded white linen cloth on which it sat.
‘Yes I do, because I can, and when you’re as old as me you can swear as much as you like. In the meantime, get that food out!’
Dot drew a deep breath and faced the double swing door that would reveal her in all her shame to the awaiting guests. ‘I’m never going to be old,’ she offered over her shoulder.
‘You’re right, Dot. If you carry on defying me and those canapés spoil, you won’t make twenty-one – I’ll bloody kill ya!’
Mother and daughter laughed until they snorted. Dot shook her head to compose herself. It was bad enough having to go out looking like a prize plum, trussed up like a Christmas pudding, without snorting her way through the crowd as well.
‘What are you waiting for now?’
‘I’m just composing meself!’
‘Composing yourself? Christ alive, Dot! Just get that food out now!’
‘All right, all right – I’m going.’
‘And come straight back for the vol-au-vents!’ Joan bellowed at her daughter’s disappearing back.
Dot pushed against the plushly padded velour door with its brass studs, which reminded her of a sideways sofa. She strained to hear the music that was coming from the grand piano in the corner; the sultry tones of Etta James drifted from the gramophone and the musician played along with the record. She glimpsed the bowed head of the black pianist, who with eyes closed and neck bowed was tickling the ivories.
‘At last
My love has come along
My lonely days are over
And life is like a song’
She loved the song and she hummed it inside her head as she wandered among the thirty or so guests. This room had always fascinated her: the polished dark-wood floor and the light from the huge chandelier meant everything sparkled. Vast oil paintings hung on the walls, each one of a military man either on horseback or with his weapon of choice held aloft. It intrigued her how such a large group of people could be gathered in one room and yet the loudest sound was the chink of glass against glass, with only the faintest hum of background chatter and the odd tinkle of delicate laughter. In the Victorian terrace where she lived with her mum, dad and little sister it was never quiet. If not loud music from the radio and the bashing of pots and pans in the kitchen, then the whistling of the kettle and the shouts of questions and instructions up and down the stairs:
‘CUP OF TEA?’
‘ONLY IF YOU’RE MAKING!’
‘WHERE ARE MY CLEAN SHIRTS?’
‘IN THE AIRING CUPBOARD!’
The fact that someone might be a whole floor away from you was no reason to exclude them from the conversation.
‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’ Dot lowered her natural volume and used her posh voice, just as she had been taught.
A bushy-moustached man in naval uniform with flash gold epaulettes practically dived onto the tray. She watched him scoop a handful of delicate white ovals from the platter and cram them into his gob. At least she could tell her mum that someone appreciated her cooking.
‘Not for me, dear.’ His wife raised her white-gloved hand. A pity; the poor woman looked like she would benefit from the odd devilled egg. She was stick thin and her paisley-print, bat-wing frock hung off her tiny frame. She had drawn her eyebrows way too high on her forehead; like a dolly peg, Dot thought.
Next she infiltrated a group of elderly men and women who collectively smelled of dust and fish paste. ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’ She proffered the tray in the direction of one old bloke.
‘Would I what?’ he yelled at her.
Dot bit the inside of her cheeks, praying she wouldn’t get the giggles and immensely glad that Barb wasn’t around; if she had caught her friend’s eye, she would have been in hysterics. She gave a small cough and tried again in her low, posher-than-usual voice. ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’
‘Is it something about my leg?’ he yelled again.
‘Your leg? NO, NO. WOULD YOU CARE FOR A DEVILLED EGG?’ This time she over-enunciated every word. It took a monumental effort to stop her from laughing out loud.
‘I’m afraid I don’t care for much, lost my brother in the war y’see.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but can I tempt you?’ This time she lifted the tray until it was practically under his schnoz.
‘What is that?’ he asked, prodding at the softened offering.
‘They are canapés, sir.’
‘Cans of what?’
Dot felt her shoulders begin to shake. A ripple of laughter was working its way up her throat and down her nose; she felt fit to explode.
‘Excuse me a mo, I’ll be right back.’ She thought it best to make a hasty retreat to the kitchen and compose herself. Turning quickly, she failed to see that another devilled-egg seeker in military uniform was standing not a foot behind her. It was a collision of comical proportions.
The tray of canapés flipped from her arm and stuck to the front of his tunic. Squashed eggs and mayonnaise sat like a cloying, liquid blanket on his jacket. One hollowed-out egg was actually lodged on a brass button. Almost immediately the silver platter hit the floor with an almighty crash. Both parties bent to retrieve the tray and, with perfect timing, bashed their heads together, sending her flying along the newly polished wooden floor and leaving him clutching his forehead with mayonnaise-smeared palms.
Momentarily dazed, Dot was aware of several shouts of ‘Oh no!’ and the collective gasps of thirty of London’s finest watching as she went sprawling. She lay back and looked up at the ceiling, noticing for the first time that it was painted with the most beautiful mural. Fat-bottomed cherubs played harps and lutes in each corner and there was a gold table stacked high with bowls of fruit and flagons of wine. Clouds parted to reveal a heavily bearded God with his arms spread wide and beams of sunlight shining through the gaps. She was captivated. Lowering her eyes from the ceiling, she saw a circle of faces above her. Dolly-peg lady, greedy bastard and the dust-and-fish-paste gang were among them. Someone reached into the circle and held ont
o both her hands, then she felt herself being pulled swiftly upwards.
Finally upright, her attention was drawn to her right and the smeared khaki and tarnished brass of a uniform that had met with an unfortunate accident involving a platter of eggs. Dot bit her bottom lip. What had she done? Joan would go mad.
She looked up at her rescuer. Her breath caught in her throat and her knees buckled slightly as she swayed. She was staring into the face of a black man and he was holding her hands. She was caught somewhere between fascination and fear; she’d never seen a black person up this close before, let alone held hands with one. But what surprised her more than anything was that it was the most beautiful face she had ever seen. He was the piano player.
‘Are you all right?’ His voice was like liquid chocolate, deep, smooth and with an accent she couldn’t place, like American, but different. His big eyes, framed with thick curly lashes were so dark, she couldn’t see where the pupil stopped and the iris started.
‘I’m fine. You all right?’ she countered, looking at him through lowered lashes and wishing she had put more lipstick on.
‘Oh, I’m fine, thank you, but I’m not the one that’s been wrestling on the floor with men old enough to know better!’
‘D’you think anyone noticed?’ She smiled
The pianist cast his eye over the mess and the bemused onlookers. ‘No, I don’t think anyone noticed a thing.’
He hesitated. ‘I don’t know your name?’
‘Dot.’
‘Dot? As in dash, dash, dash, dot, dot—’
‘Yep, as in Dot.’ She smiled.
‘Is it short for anything?’
‘Ah, well, there’s a tale. Apparently me dad was one over the eight when he went to register my birth in Canning Town. Mum was still lying in and when they asked him my name, he couldn’t remember that it was supposed to be Dorothy – after Dorothy Squires, no less! – and so he said “Dorothea”, but I’ve only ever been known as Dot. That’s me, I’m just a Dot!’
He studied her face, her wide smile, the peachy skin with the smattering of freckles across her straight nose. Her eyes were wide and sparkling – whether from her bump on the head or something else entirely he couldn’t be sure.
‘But I think you are more than just a Dot. If you hadn’t been there to provide the evening’s entertainment, I’d still be stuck in there trying not to look bored. You have been the highlight of my evening so far – although the night is young.’
‘Ha! Let me tell you, I’ve met the whole gang up there and I am definitely the highlight of your evening.’
‘I think you might be right.’ He gave an almost imperceptible wink.
‘And when you are calling me Dot, what should I call you?’
‘Sol, short for Solomon. My dad wasn’t one over the eight when I was registered.’
‘Well, lucky old you. And what does Solomon mean?’
‘It means “Peace”.’
Available 1st July 2013
About this Book
Can you ever escape your fate?
Somewhere in the wilds of Scotland, three boys await their fate. They have been sentenced to twenty years in Glenculloch, a remote prison for the most hopeless of criminals. The rumours say that it is run by a woman who thinks she’s God. A woman who decides what is ugly, and what is beautiful. A woman who decides who lives, and who dies...
A short story exclusive from bestselling author Amanda Prowse.
Reviews
Praise for What Have I Done?
‘A cracking page-turner’ —The Bookseller
‘This story of a woman’s fight to rebuild her shattered life is captivating, heartbreaking and superbly written’ —Closer
‘An absolutely gripping read… the characterisation is done superbly’ —Iain Dale, LBC Radio
Praise for Poppy Day
‘Great novel – let’s get it to number 1!’ —Gok Wan
‘Poppy Day is a brilliant book, I couldn’t put it down’ —Carol Vorderman
‘A rattling good book to curl up on the sofa with, I thoroughly recommend Poppy Day by army wife Amanda Prowse. She has turned her own fear and anxiety into a page-turning novel of loss and courage’ —Lorraine Kelly, The Sun
‘A modern day love story’ —Daily Mail
‘A fast, unputdownable read, Amanda Prowse adeptly fuses a tale of love and courage with the stark realities of war, both on the field and at home’ —Red
‘This romantic story of courage and determination is simply captivating’ —Closer
‘Army wife turns fear into fiction’ —Sunday Mirror
‘Set to become a bestseller’ —RAF News
About the Author
AMANDA PROWSE was a management consultant for ten years before deciding to pursue her ambition to write. Her husband, Simeon, is a soldier, and they live in the West Country with their two teenage sons.
You can contact Amanda via twitter, @mrsamandaprowse or via her website, www.amandaprowse.org
Stories to remember, long after the final page is turned...
Find out more at www.headofzeus.com
About No Greater Love
Amanda Prowse’s No Greater Love sequence is a series of contemporary stories with love at their core. They feature characters whose histories interweave through the generations: ordinary men and women who do extraordinary things for love. They are stories to keep you from switching off the bedside lamp at night, stories to remember long after the final page is turned...
1. Poppy Day
Ever since hairdresser Poppy Day married her childhood sweetheart, Mart, she’s been deliriously happy. Now Mart is fighting in Afghanistan, and Poppy is counting the days until he returns.
It takes one knock at the door to rip Poppy’s world apart. Mart has been taken hostage, and it’s too dangerous for the army to rescue him.
Poppy is determined to bring him home herself. But her journey will lead her to a heartbreaking dilemma. What price will she pay to save the man she loves?
This is a gripping story of loss and courage from an author who knows what it is like to be the one left behind.
Poppy Day is available here.
Jump to free preview here.
2. What Have I Done?
Kathryn Brooker is the headmaster’s wife. While her husband spends his days disciplining unruly teenagers in the grand halls of Mountbriers Academy, Kathryn spends hers baking scones for her son’s cricket match in a beautiful cottage in the manicured school grounds.
In the evenings, when her husband strides home to compliment her cooking and kiss her hello – ignoring jokes from their children about grown-up lovebirds – Kathryn Brooker is the very picture of a fulfilled wife and mother. Anyone who peered through the downstairs sash window at the four figures sat easily around their scrubbed-pine kitchen table would see a happy family without a care in the world. They would envy Kathryn her perfect life.
But they would be wrong. Kathryn is trapped in a nightmare. And she is about to do something to change it. Something only a truly desperate woman would do...
What Have I Done? is available here.
Jump to free preview here.
3. Clover’s Child
When eighteen-year-old Dot meets Sol, she feels that love has arrived at last. Soloman Arbuthnott is a man who can bring colour and warmth to her drab life in sixties London – and what’s more, he is a young, handsome soldier with excellent prospects. Someone who wants to give her everything she has dreamed of. Someone who can promise her blue skies, laughter, sun and always, always love.
And for a while, life is truly like a song. They stroll hand-in-hand by the Serpentine, dance cheek-to-cheek in Soho’s smoky bars, and begin to plan their idyllic future, growing old together in Sol’s ancestral home on the island of St Lucia.
But this is 1961. East End girls don’t date West Indian boys, let alone fall in love with them and leave the country. They stay at home and live the life their parents planned for them. Even if
it leaves them lonelier than they ever thought possible. Even if it rips their heart in two...
Clover’s Child is available here.
Jump to free preview here.
A Letter from the Publisher
We hope you enjoyed this book. We are an independent publisher dedicated to discovering brilliant books, new authors and great storytelling. Please join us at www.headofzeus.com and become part of our community of book-lovers.
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HeadofZeusBooks
Dedicated to great storytelling
First published in the UK in 2013 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Amanda Prowse, 2013
The moral right of Amanda Prowse to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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