Night and Day

by Caron Allan

But Dottie needn’t have despaired. Half an hour later, the buffet was served, and as everyone sat or stood about talking and eating, Cyril once more found his way to her side. He handed her a glass of champagne. He clinked his own glass against hers, and his eyes locked on her eyes, and he said softly, ‘To meetings, to possibilities.’

  She whispered the toast back to him, the moment suddenly seeming solemn and portentous. I shall remember this moment even when I’m an old woman, she thought. Then he laughed, and taking her by the arm, steered her back to the long row of buffet tables to pile up her plate. She felt a delicious thrill of coupledom as he added a few items and said, ‘that’s for me,’ and whether the combination of the evening and too much wine, or champagne, or just being in his company, whatever it was, she felt marvellously reckless and smiled at him with complete unreserve. And right at that moment, out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the head and shoulders of a man, and for a moment it seemed as though her heart had actually failed. Gasping for breath, she turned to get a proper look, but the man had turned and now she could see him more clearly, she realised it was not who she had thought it was.

  Relief flooded through her but was quickly displaced by—she didn’t know what name to give the way she felt. But in any case, it didn’t deserve to be noticed, she was perfectly happy, thank you, with the very charming company of a very charming new acquaintance. She was in Cyril’s company and he was everything admirable in a young man. She forced herself to attend to what Cyril was saying.

  He talked and talked. He had an endless supply of humorous anecdotes, stories and tall tales, and Dottie felt as though she did nothing but laugh for the next hour. Later, when the dancing resumed, he hardly left her side. They even finally managed a perfect tango, which caused a few raised eyebrows and her mother’s look told her it was too much. But Dottie had no regrets.

  As she said goodbye to him at the front door, watching him go down the steps to the street, she felt she could see her future, rosy and certain, all laid out before her. And then he bounded up the steps again, and right in front of her mother, swept her into his arms and kissed her actually on the mouth, then kissed her hand and ran back to his car again, laughing and waving. Her joy was complete.

  ‘You really ought not to permit such impertinence,’ her mother said in her ear, but there was an indulgent twinkle in her eye. Dottie put her arm through her mother’s as they returned to the stragglers.

  ‘Mother, I know I was difficult about this party, but I’m so grateful really. And Cyril Penterman is such a delightful young man. I think he and I will be great friends. He’s invited me to dinner this week.’

  Her mother said nothing but smiled again and patted her hand, then trotted off to bid farewell to more guests who were on the point of departing.

  As Dottie went through to get herself a final glass of punch, she walked directly into that odious policeman.

  Words failed her utterly. She couldn’t even feel angry. She just quite simply stared at him in confusion.

  He looked equally ill at ease. Finally he said, ‘Well, goodnight, Miss Manderson. I think the evening was a great success.’

  He had been here the whole time. How had she not seen him? And yet, somehow, she had known he was there. When she had seen that other man...

  Her sense of correct etiquette came to her aid. She realised he was in evening dress. So he was clearly there as an invited guest and not as a policeman. But she was still bewildered. However, she had been brought up to show courtesy at all times, so she held out her hand to him. He took it briefly in his own warm clasp then released it.

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,’ Dottie heard herself say, ‘Thank you for coming.’

  He hesitated then murmured something indistinct and moved on. Only now did she realise he was in the company of an older woman, and the same young woman she had seen him with at the Lyon’s Corner House.

  Catching the young woman’s eye, Dottie advanced, her hand outstretched.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Dottie said, ‘I’m afraid that’s the second time we have almost met, but not quite managed to be introduced. I’m Dottie Manderson. How do you do?’

  The young woman seemed a little embarrassed, alarmed even, by the attention, and Dottie now saw she was somewhat younger than she’d at first appeared, Dottie estimated her age to be sixteen or seventeen. She took Dottie’s hand in a soft brief clasp.

  ‘Um—well—I’m very pleased—I’m Eleanor Hardy. And this is our mother, Mrs Isabel Hardy. My late father was an acquaintance of Mr Manderson’s and it was he who so kindly invited us this evening.’

  Dottie had heard of Major Garfield Hardy, a great wartime associate of her father. She smiled and turned to speak to the older lady, a softly spoken person, but later had no recollection of what she said; all her energy and wits were intent upon Eleanor Hardy’s use of that word ‘our’ and her awareness of the fact that the young woman in front of her was clearly his sister. For some reason, Dottie hoped she was his sister. She thought she had to be his sister. She was very young, surely she was his sister? And then Mrs Hardy spoke again, and this time, Dottie was able to attend to what she said.

  ‘I understand you actually met my son during the course of his work on that most distressing case.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Dottie said, proud to be in charge of her wits once more. ‘And a very—um, efficient—officer he is too. I’m sure the case will be resolved in no time.’ She smiled again, although afraid she had sounded patronising or insincere. But she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Had he really been here the whole evening? It seemed certain he had. Had she somehow caught sight of him without realising she had done so? That would explain the other thing... She became aware that he—and they—were watching her closely, and she was overcome once more, having no idea if anyone had spoken since her last comment, or whether they were awaiting a response from her. She had no clue what to say or do.

  ‘Oh hello again, Mr Hardy! How lovely to see you, and looking so dashing in your evening attire! George was just telling me he’d been chatting with you.’ Flora was there by her side, her hand warm and reassuring on Dottie’s arm, her smile directed first to Mrs Hardy and then her daughter, and Flora had so many of the right things to say.

  Dottie found herself at leisure to look at him then. His eyes met hers, and when after a few moments of conversation his mother said, ‘Well, William, I think we ought to be going,’ he physically started like a guilty lover, and Dottie was angry and upset to find that she had done the same.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Cyril, this lobster is absolutely scrumptious. You must try some,’ Dottie said, and placed a piece of it on the edge of his plate. In the present rather superior dining-room, she didn’t quite have the courage to hold her fork out for him to take the lobster from it, though it would have been lovely to be so grown-up and couple-like, she thought regretfully.

  He speared the piece of lobster with his own fork and wolfed it down, nodding as he did so. When he had finally disposed of it, he said, ‘Hmm, yes, delicious. Have one of my moules.’

  He was not so shy. He leaned across, one mussel impaled on the tines of his fork and he practically shoved it into Dottie’s mouth with an encouraging nod and a ‘What?’

  She was acutely embarrassed, which spoiled the flavour of the mussel and she was all too aware of the stares from other diners at nearby tables. She nodded her agreement, said a brief, ‘Yes, truly delightful,’ then took a sip of wine. Keeping her eyes lowered, she forced herself to concentrate on her food.

  Cyril gave a soft low laugh, and Dottie risked a glance up, to look into his eyes which dared her to share the laughter. She didn’t mind him laughing at her—he was so gentle in his teasing.

  It was the fifth time they had dined together in the ten days since the party. And she felt gloriously happy. They talked. They danced. They ate. They laughed. She felt they were so compatible, so divinely suited. It was heavenly.

  T
hey talked of his university days, of studies, of his hopes for the future. She told him how her mother disapproved of everything she did and that her father didn’t much care what she did so long as he was left alone. He talked of his ambitious determined father and his mother who urged him to think of his duty and stop wasting time and settle down.

  ‘I know all children probably say this,’ he said, ‘but I really do feel that my parents were never young. They were certainly never impulsive or fun-loving.’

  The waiter cleared away their empty dishes. Alone once again, Cyril leaned across and took Dottie’s hand in his.

  ‘I know I’m fearfully forward, but it seems to me that life is short and unpredictable, so I hope you won’t judge me too harshly if I tell you that although according to my mother I’m a wastrel and a scoundrel, I am also acutely aware that there will come a time in the not-too-distant future when I will be ready to step up and take responsibility. And when I do, Dottie, when I do, I shall hope to have the love of a good woman to support me and keep my courage up through all the sensible decisions and responsible behaviour I shall have to exhibit in my life. I hope you’re not cross with me for speaking so plainly.’

  Dottie felt a tremble go through her whole body. She wanted to snatch her hand away but at the same time she wanted him to kiss it. His eyes looked into hers, and she knew her heart was in danger.

  At that moment the waiter politely ahemmed beside them, and confections of meringue and cream were placed before them. The spell was broken, Cyril sat back in his seat, beaming at her, and she laughed again, only now realising that she had been holding her breath.

  Later, they danced. He ordered champagne. What it was, Dottie thought, to order whatever one wished and not heed the cost. She talked about Christmas and her mother’s plans for entertaining. She almost felt like weeping when he revealed he would be away from the day before Christmas Eve until the 6th of January. A sense of gloom filled her at the thought that all those days—a time meant for happiness and celebration—would have to be spent without Cyril. What would even be the point of getting out of bed each day, she thought.

  ‘Don’t fret,’ he said, as he took her hand again, ‘I’m not going for another week!’ And his hazel eyes met hers in a glance that warmed her through and through.

  He took her home, and dared to kiss her before knocking on the door and delivering her to her mother.

  *

  An invitation to tea with the Pentermans was cause for both joy and alarm in Dottie. After her recent dinner with Cyril she was so eager to see him again, but was somewhat daunted by the prospect of meeting him in the company of his parents and guests at their home. She was glad her mother had also been invited, although her father’s absence might put a few noses out of joint, but Dottie was glad he wouldn’t be there. His presence might tend to make the occasion seem more important than it was, and Dottie felt nervous enough already without feeling as though she were being interviewed for a position as daughter-in-law.

  She was wearing one of Mrs Carmichael’s newest creations in a soft rose-coloured wool and knew that she looked absolutely at her best. A girl could do no more than that when meeting the formidable mother of a young man she liked rather a lot.

  Mrs Penterman’s maid showed them into what she termed ‘Madam’s private sitting-room’, which Dottie knew would vex her mother, as the house was, no matter how extensive or beautifully furnished, nevertheless still a home: rendering all the rooms private, in Mother’s opinion. However, there was no time for Mrs Manderson to quibble. Dottie was disconcerted to find there were already at least two dozen people there before them, mainly ladies, but with a few men amongst them, and to Dottie’s great relief, one of whom was Cyril.

  On the threshold of the room, he bounded over to greet them, and after clasping Dottie’s hand firmly in his warm grip for what seemed like a very long time, and smiling into her eyes, he went away to fetch them some tea. Meanwhile his mother, a tall woman with a rather cold, stern demeanour, and the same fair hair as her son, came over to introduce herself, and drew them into the room, saying she had a pair of seats saved for them.

  They followed Mrs Penterman dutifully, but Dottie was desperately disappointed to find they were to be placed at one end of the long room, with Cyril at the opposite end. Nevertheless, they smiled at the matriarch and took their seats, nodding to those ladies nearest to them, whilst Mrs Penterman peered at them through her old-fashioned lorgnette then said something vague about ringing for more hot water, and left them. Conversation with Cyril, Dottie realised, would be all but impossible. She felt as though she and her mother had been tucked away out of sight. Her mother expressed the same view in an angry whisper, adding, ‘It’s a public set-down, that’s what it is. She’s telling us we’re not good enough.’

  Dottie demurred, but a delicate ripple of laughter from the other end of the room made her lean forward to see the owner of the laugh and she saw the young woman who sat on one side of Cyril enjoying a conversation with his watchful mother who sat on his other side. The woman’s fine features, tall, slender frame and carefully dressed fair hair proved Dottie’s suspicions correct. It was the New York heiress. Cyril was leaning back against his chair, nodding and smiling, their tea clearly forgotten; but to Dottie’s eye, there was something wooden about his responses that made her relax and feel no concern, even when her mother hissed in her ear, ‘See, that’s the lady his Mama has chosen for him. I’m afraid you’ve lost him, Dear.’

  The next two hours were two of the dullest Dottie could remember ever having endured. Everyone else seemed to be intimately acquainted whilst having no particular interest in getting to know Dottie or her mother. They had almost no conversation, the lady the other side of her mother politely agreeing with a couple of Mrs Manderson’s observations about the weather and the lightness of the Victoria sponge, but taking the matter no further.

  The long narrow room was decorated in a style fifty years out of date, and the profusion of side tables and plant pots on stands kept them separated, so that Dottie was too distant to be included even in this poor excuse for an exchange, and she was obliged to sit in silence for the majority of the visit. She wrestled with her longing to either turn over the tea tables and storm out of the room, banging the door behind her, or to march the length of the room to speak with Cyril. Or perhaps to inform his sour-looking mother that he had kissed her, and that she wasn’t giving him up to that scrawny fair-haired thing.

  ‘Thou painted maypole,’ Dottie murmured under her breath, remembering her favourite Shakespeare, and feeling better for it. Nevertheless, she gripped her hands tightly in her lap and did nothing, and realised sorrowfully that she had certainly grown up a good deal of late.

  ‘Well,’ her mother began in the cab on the way home, ‘I don’t at all care for the woman’s way of receiving visitors, no matter how grand the Pentermans may be. If I were her, I’d have got rid of all those little whatnots and plants, and arranged the chairs in more of a circle, to enable my guests to converse comfortably with one another and ensure that no one was left out. Mark my words, she did it on purpose. Anyone would think we’d turned up without an invitation! Very rude. Very improper.’

  And on and on Mrs Manderson went, unfolding her own preferred and approved method for setting guests at their ease and encouraging a pleasant flow of conversation. Dottie said nothing, but listened—and agreed—in silence. She had entertained such hopes of a lovely afternoon, even though she had been nervous. Now she seriously doubted they would ever receive another invitation again, and in the incredible event that they did, she knew beyond a doubt that she would have to invent a dreadful cold to get out of it. She couldn’t wait to vent all her frustration on her sister.

  *

  Dottie had a hectic schedule of shows and private viewings to model for. By Friday evening, she was ready to fall asleep where she stood. Only the memory of her mid-week romantic dinner with Cyril Penterman kept her smiling through the critical comments
, the stares, the envious, carping remarks from the women and the lustful glances and impertinent winks of their husbands, sons and brothers.

  When she finally arrived home at almost ten-thirty on Friday evening, she wanted nothing more than to sink into her bed.

  But at the Mandersons’, a card party was still in full swing. ‘At least I shan’t have to go and get myself ready,’ she thought as she entered the brightly-lit hall. Her dress may have been plain, but it was a good cut and a flattering colour. And had cost her a great deal more than she ought to have spent; her hair and make-up were perfectly adequate for a small intimate card party, if they were good enough for a modelling assignment. She hastened upstairs to put on some more comfortable shoes and to get rid of her hat and gloves, and returned less than five minutes later ready to smile until her face ached.

  There were three tables set up in the drawing-room, with three games of bridge in progress. In the corner by the French windows, the gramophone was providing a suitable background entertainment, with her father doing duty with the recordings and the handle.

  The perfect hostess’s daughter, Dottie halted at each table to smile and greet the guests. At the first one sat the Honourable Cyril Penterman and his aunt Mrs Gerard. Cyril looked up and greeted her with a broad smile. Mrs Gerard beamed in delight, like a fond parent, and patted Dottie’s hand.

  At the next table, the Honourable Peter St Clair St John was also in position, and he too required notice and admiration from her, but his crooked smile was more for his own achievements than any pleasure he felt in seeing her again, and it seemed her presence was forgotten almost immediately when his partner spoke to him.

  She meandered on to the third table. And there was Sergeant William Hardy, his back to her, which possibly explained how she had failed to notice him sooner. He glanced up from his cards and subjected her to one of his peculiar, intense scrutinies, which had her blushing unbecomingly and left her feeling horribly aware of her heart pounding in her chest. Blast the man. Why was she so discomforted by him? Did she have a guilty conscience about something?