Night and Day

by Caron Allan

  ‘You’ll just have to wait until we get home, then.’ George said. And he and Old Evesham began a dreary discussion about golf clubs.

  For the next hour and forty minutes, she was forced to fidget and fret in the back of the car. What on earth was going on? She found it difficult to believe the paper contained the romantic outpourings of some would-be suitor’s heart. She had never been the kind of girl to excite such passions in the opposite sex.

  ‘I can’t believe they didn’t let us know about the funeral,’ Flora said. Then had to repeat it a little louder for the sake of her husband who couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  ‘Yes, I know, it’s all a bit odd, isn’t it? And Mrs Dunne avoided me all the evening. It’s very sad to feel so disliked. Surely she doesn’t really think I’m the one he was carrying on with? I had a chat with Muriel, so I’m hoping she will set Susan’s mind at rest on that score,’ Dottie commented.

  ‘They’re awfully odd, though, the Moyers.’ That was the entirety of Mr Evesham’s contribution. Dottie assumed the young man had a first name, but she was never to discover what it was.

  She leaned back into the leather of the car seat, the folds of the cloak arranged over her knees and pulled across to cover Flora’s too. The warm heavy air in the car and the throb of the engine began to lull Dottie’s restless mind. It seemed like only minutes later George was opening the door and Flora was nudging her and saying, ‘Come on, Sleepyhead, we’re not carrying you inside.’

  Looking about her in confusion, she saw that Evesham had already been despatched and they were parked outside Flora and George’s home in Mortlake Gardens.

  As soon as they got indoors, George took himself off to his study for a quiet smoke and a read of his newspaper. Flora and Dottie changed into pyjamas and sat in the drawing-room, with a pot of cocoa and a plate of sandwiches. Dottie produced the piece of paper and they stared at it together. It took no time at all to read, but would they ever understand what it meant? The paper contained words written hurriedly in black ink by some unknown but probably feminine hand:

  How dare you flaunt the colour of the Queen and her daughters.

  ‘It has to be something to do with the cloak, and me wearing it.’ Dottie said. She then told Flora about the whispered comment she had heard when she was collecting her cloak. ‘It must have been the same person.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Why would they take the trouble to write the message and pin it to the cloak, and risk being seen, if all the time they were going to whisper in your ear when you picked it up? Besides there was no desk in the gallery, no pen and ink or paper or pins. That had to have been done separately. And there were too many people around. Imagine trying to find the cloak you want, write and then pin the message onto it, all with so many people there jostling you? And presumably they wouldn’t risk being seen, they’d want to remain anonymous too, so...No, that had to have been done earlier, and separately. Anyway, surely you could see who was standing next to you?’

  ‘Flora, that makes things worse. That means there are two of these odd—that dratted word again—women who attended the party and saw me in the cloak. And no, I didn’t see who it was, my heel slipped and I almost fell over, by the time I’d pulled the strap up and turned round, I couldn’t tell who it might have been. It’s all very unsettling. I’m quite upset by it.’

  ‘Yes, I would be too. But there are some strange people in the world, and unhappily, two of them seem to have been at Muriel’s engagement party. I think you’re right about it—them—being women though, this is definitely not a man’s handwriting. It’s too small and neat. George can write neatly, but in a much larger hand. And there’s that word ‘sister’.’

  ‘I still can’t believe Susan was there. I bet Mother will be horrified when we tell her. I’m surprised Colonel and Mrs Moyer would permit such a thing. I mean, I thought it wasn’t very nice to allow the ball to go ahead, but one can understand that—such a lot of work would have gone into the preparations, and with so many people invited...but for Susan herself to actually attend a bare week after her husband was murdered...I can’t seem to believe it really happened,’ Dottie said, and Flora murmured her agreement.

  Flora poured them both a cup of cocoa, and handed a cup and saucer to Dottie, then she offered her the sandwiches. Dottie selected two and handed them back. Flora poured a third cup and getting to her feet, said, ‘I’ll just take this to His Nibs, he always complains if I have cocoa but don’t take him any.’

  A moment later she was back and she said, ‘You know, we were told by your pals in Claridge’s that Susan has these odd religious ideas. And then there was that picture we saw, the one which started this whole craze of yours for gold cloaks. Clearly someone was upset by you wearing such a cloak yourself. Do you think this all goes together somehow?’

  ‘The maid, Muriel told me her name was Leonora, said the picture was Queen Esther. Wasn’t she the beautiful but ordinary girl who became the King’s consort? Do you think that’s the Queen the note-writer was referring to?’

  ‘It seems likely, Dottie, what other Queen would make sense in this context?’

  ‘Well who were her daughters? Did they do anything special?’

  Flora shook her head. ‘Sorry, I’m afraid I am a deep well of Biblical ignorance. If you like I can try to find out.’ She yawned. ‘But it won’t be today. I’m exhausted.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to wear that cloak again. Not for a while at least.’

  ‘Hmm. I should think not, if people are going to start hissing at you and leaving you messages.’

  Dottie gave a sigh. Without really thinking about what she was doing, she reached for a magazine and started leafing through it. Her mind though, was still furiously working to unravel the puzzle. After a few minutes she said, ‘I’m rather disappointed to have missed the funeral.’

  ‘Oh quite,’ Flora said, ‘it’s as if they deliberately forgot to invite us to that, too. Which is a shame as I’d really wanted to see who else was there.’

  ‘The other woman?’

  ‘She might have attended. No one can stop you from going to a funeral.’

  ‘Unless they just don’t tell you when it’s taking place,’ Dottie pointed out, somewhat bitterly. ‘Muriel said that the maid was unreliable and probably just forgot to give Susan our message about wanting to know when the funeral would be held. But I believe Susan deliberately didn’t tell us, so we couldn’t attend. You saw how offhand she was with us when we arrived tonight. I wouldn’t put it past Susan to have written that note herself.’

  ‘Possibly. Oh Darling, I’m going up, I’m all in. See you in the morning.’ Flora kissed her cheek then left the room.

  Dottie continued to sit there for a while, listening to the sounds of the house. She heard her sister go into the study and the soft murmur of her voice as she said goodnight to George. She heard Flora go upstairs, the soft sound of her footsteps as she went to and fro in her room, taking off her things and putting on her nightgown, washing, and the creak of her bedsprings as she got into bed. Dottie sipped her lukewarm cocoa and nibbled distractedly at another sandwich. She thought about Susan Dunne whom she only knew slightly, about Archie Dunne whom she had never known but whose hand she had held as he died, and the dim, cold interior of what had been the Dunnes’ family home, and how unhomely and unwelcoming it had seemed.

  She herself knew nothing of creating a family home as she still lived with her parents, who made all the decisions about the furnishings and the conventions and routines of the house, but she also spent a lot of time in her sister’s home, and so she knew the difference between a home and a house where two people simply lived together. She hoped one day, she might herself have her own home. She knew that like her mother, and like her sister, she would have to compromise on the choice of this curtain or that item of furniture because that was what a real home was, a marrying together not just of two people but of two viewpoints and two tastes. In Dottie’s opinion, Susan Dunne
had not made a home, and Flora had. And she knew she would have to learn as much as possible from both in order to avoid making the same mistake as Susan Dunne, of creating merely a house and not a home.

  She had spent almost as much time in Flora and George’s home as she had in her parents’ this last year and a half. And she was fully aware of the generous nature of her brother-in-law in allowing her to be there so much and not seeming to resent her intrusion on his privacy, especially in the first weeks and months of their marriage. She declined to think about any physical intimacy between her sister and her brother-in-law, it was one of those things you knew happened but it was better not to think about. She could certainly not imagine herself engaged in anything of that nature. Holding Archie Dunne’s hand as he lay dying was the most intimate she had ever been with a man, apart from wrestling with the Honourable Peter on the doorstep as he ‘said goodnight’ to her. His lips had been horribly wet and slobbery. She had been reminded of her aunt Adelaide’s Labrador. She would definitely need to marry a man who would not practically attack her at her mother’s front door and who was a good dancer and had nice warm, dry lips.

  Crossly she pushed out of her mind the image of that odious policeman, and instead attempted to force herself to dwell on the prospect of a hitherto unknown young man who would woo her. If only George had a brother! And with these thoughts, a deep sense of relaxation stole over her, and she knew she had to move or she would still be there when everyone got up in the morning.

  Chapter Nine

  Now that they were into December, Christmas seemed to be almost upon them. The weather continued to be wet and squally, and very unChristmassy.

  Dottie had commitments for the next two afternoons and evenings. The preview had gone so well that Mrs Carmichael was expecting a capacity crowd all eager to spend their money on clothes for their parties and dinners during the festive season, and accordingly, Mrs Carmichael wanted all her girls at the warehouse ready to show all the outfits on both days. By the time Dottie got home at the end of the final session on the second day, she was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to fall into bed.

  However, her mother had other ideas.

  Mrs Manderson had ambitions for her younger daughter. She considered that Dottie’s looks were of an unfashionable, modern type, despite the fact that her daughter earned an excellent living as a mannequin, or ‘pin money’ as Mrs Manderson herself termed it, and she therefore felt that it was unlikely a successful match would be contracted in the usual way. Dorothy was rather over-tall, at five feet eight inches, which gentlemen often found unappealing, preferring all too often a smaller, more delicate, ladylike build. Not only that, but she was far too bookish and well-informed politically which again, many true gentlemen also found off-putting; she was inclined to be rather serious, and although her figure wasn’t too bad, she possessed none of the alluring curves that drew the eye of wealthy young gentlemen, as Florence’s had done.

  But here Mrs Manderson declined to ponder too long. George Gascoigne, who had not been Mrs Manderson’s preferred choice for her eldest daughter, might be a pleasant enough, well set-up young fellow who could trace, if he chose to exert himself that far, his family line back to William the Conqueror, but he had no drive, no ambition; he lacked that ruthless determination to succeed that she felt necessary to a true gentleman. She would never see that young man raised to the peerage. If only Florence could have been prevailed upon to accept Viscount Greenwood.

  Setting aside past disappointments, Mrs Manderson returned to a contemplation of her younger daughter’s situation. No, she decided, Dorothy could not be relied upon to draw in a suitable admirer under her own steam, so to speak. Her failure to lure in the Honourable Peter was evidence of that. Therefore, Mrs Manderson supposed, the matter of ensuring a proper attachment for her younger daughter would rest entirely in her own hands.

  Fortunately, she was up to the task. She had compiled a list, and as soon as Dorothy returned home from her evening out, they would sit down together and go through the list. For she had decided upon the most advantageous and efficient manner of interviewing for the most eligible candidates: the Mandersons were to have a Christmas Party.

  In her own day, one was a debutante and ‘came out’, and this was attended by a wonderful, but business-like, season of balls, dinners, card evenings and theatre parties. And although Dorothy was not yet twenty years old, she had already declined any interest in ‘coming out’. Mrs Manderson knew from past disappointments that Dorothy was not the sort of girl to change her mind. But it was how her own mother had made the Mandersons’ match, and if it was good enough for her mother and herself, it ought to be good enough for Dorothy.

  Not that it signified in any case, thought his lady as she gazed upon the sleeping countenance of Mr Manderson. He had sat down to ‘read the paper’ more than an hour earlier, and was now snoring softly; his spectacles had slipped from his nose, his hands still clutched the edges of his crumpled newspaper in his lap, and his head tipped right back to rest on the antimacassar created by Mrs Manderson’s great aunt Agnes in the 1890s as part of her own trousseau. Whatever a young man promised in his 20s and 30s to become, in his 50s and 60s he would go the way of all husbands: comfortably napping behind his newspaper. At least, Mrs Manderson consoled herself, she knew where her husband was of an evening, which was more than could be said for her sister Cecilia, all alone in that great big house in Crawley.

  Mrs Manderson heard the sound of the front door opening and at that moment the clock in the drawing-room chimed eleven o’clock. Dottie’s face appeared around the door. She looked awfully tired, her mother thought, her face was pale and she had shadows under her eyes. She’d never catch a future cabinet minister or a captain of industry looking like that.

  ‘Dorothy, dear, you’re terribly late. Your father and I have been worried.’

  Dottie cast a disbelieving look at her father who was yawning and rubbing his eyes, pulling himself upright in his chair. His paper was still concertinaed on the floor.

  ‘But Mother, I told you I would be late, although admittedly I hadn’t expected to be quite this late, but one of the other girls runs a car, and she had said she’d bring me home. So you needn’t have worried.’

  ‘You really shouldn’t go about with these fast girls dashing about from place to place in motor cars, Dorothy, think of your reputation. However old-fashioned you may think it, these things reflect badly on a young woman.’

  ‘Mother, she’s hardly fast. She’s a married woman.’

  ‘Then all I can say is, I’m greatly surprised her husband permits her to gallivant about at all hours doing this modelling thing.’

  It was the old argument, and one Dottie knew she had no chance of winning. She came forward to kiss her mother’s cheek, about to say goodnight, but her mother held up a hand and said, ‘I have something I wish to speak to you about. Let’s go into the morning-room to avoid disturbing your father.’

  Her heart sinking to her boots, Dottie trailed in her mother’s wake. Now what had she done? Her mother held a piece of paper. Dottie’s eyes widened in horror. It was The List, she just knew it was. She hardly dared to breathe.

  ‘Well, sit down, Dear,’ her mother said with a smile. A crocodile smile, thought Dottie. And now she’s calling me Dear. It’s finally happened. She’s sold me to a sheikh. Dottie felt rather sick and stared at her mother from her perch on the edge of the sofa.

  ‘Darling, your father and I have been thinking about your Future. And—don’t look like that, Dorothy—it is not a death sentence!’ her mother snapped, then smoothed out the piece of paper on her knee. It was! It was The List. Dottie could see the long column of spidery black writing. The Suitors.

  Oh

  Damn

  And

  Blast

  It.

  ‘Mother, I’m afraid I...’

  ‘Nonsense, dear. Now listen. We’ve decided we shall have a party this Christmas. This is a list of young men
who are—well, eligible—for want of a better word, and I’d like you to cast your eye over it, to see if there’s anyone you particularly feel you’d like to include, someone you may wish to take the opportunity to get to know a little better. I’m also considering a few other social events during the Christmas and New Year season. And of course there will be the usual New Year ball to attend at the Gascoignes’.’

  She held out the list, and without intending to do so, Dottie found that she had taken it and was now holding it at arm’s length in front of her, like a dead rat. Her hand shook.

  ‘Mother, really I’ve the most awful headache, so perhaps...’

  Her mother, unconvinced, observed her daughter coldly for a few moments then tutting with annoyance, said, ‘Oh very well. Show it to Florence and tell her to help you with it. I want to know within the next few days so there’s enough time to send out the invitations.’

  Dottie had just thought that there was her key to avoiding this most unpleasant of situations, when her mother added those most terrifying of words, ‘If you don’t choose, I shall make the selection for you.’ At the door, she turned and added, ‘No more than six single young men.’

  With that, Mrs Manderson swept through the doorway and across the hall as if clothed in imperial robes. At the foot of the stairs she paused, turned again and said, ‘As your Loving Mother, naturally I only want to see my Youngest Child Happy Before I Die.’ And she swept on, calling in a terse voice, ‘Come along, Herbert.’

  Gosh, thought Dottie, full of admiration. That was the best performance yet of Martyred Mother Of Ungrateful Child. I must tell Flora tomorrow. She shook her head, still in grudging respect. Her mother was the only woman on the planet who could enunciate capital letters with such devastating effect.

  She heard her father go upstairs. Dottie got up and went into the warmer drawing-room, and kicking off her shoes, curled up on a sofa, her only light that which came from the dying embers of the fire. The house about her creaked into slumber, and Dottie’s eyes grew heavy. She didn’t want to go up just yet, though, this was her favourite time of day. She glanced at the list of names without really seeing them.