by Caron Allan
As the games ended and the points were totted up, her mother declared a break for coffee and sandwiches. A few guests took their departure after the refreshments, but unfortunately for Dottie neither the policeman nor the more tiresome of the two honourables took their leave, so she was unable to pour all her admiration on Cyril as she would have liked.
And she had no opportunity for conversation with Cyril as her father had thoughtlessly monopolised him for the duration of the coffee break. With a heavy heart she turned to Peter, who it appeared, required an interested pair of ears to listen to him talking about himself and all the wonderful thoughts that had gone through his mind over the course of the evening, and all the ingenious tricks he had won in his games.
Obligingly she took the seat next to him and mechanically uttered such responses at more or less the right time as would satisfy his ego. She could see William Hardy hovering uncertainly between the two cliques of people, not included by either.
All at once she felt sorry for him, and a little exasperated. He was neither one thing nor the other. His job put him into almost the same class as the maid who had served him his coffee, yet his upbringing and background clearly suited him for the drawing-rooms of the country’s great houses.
‘Why didn’t he become a barrister if he had to work for a living?’ she asked Peter, cutting across his re-enactment of winning a particular trick. Surprised, he followed her look and saw William Hardy accepting another ham sandwich from the maid.
‘Hardy? Usual story. Father overextended himself. Invested in the United States’ share market, some relative—his father’s sister, I think, married a Yank, lost it all in the Crash. Hardy had to leave Oxford and get a job, of all things. Father died a year or so ago, he’d had a stroke after the crash but lingered on, never recovered. Pneumonia got him in the end. Did you see my...?’
She interrupted him with an impatient shake of the head. ‘Do you know much about the family? His mother and sister were here for Mother’s party two weeks ago.’
‘Sister—nice enough girl. Bit wishy-washy. Still very young, mind you. The mother’s a broken woman by all accounts. There’s an older sister, married to a clergyman, I seem to think, and a younger brother still at Repton. Presume the copper’s salary pays for that. By the way did I tell you about my new car?’
With an inward sigh, Dottie resigned herself to listening to Peter’s tedious story about his tedious car.
Mercifully only five minutes into the story—he was still describing the colour of his new toy—her mother clapped her hands to bring those still playing back to the tables. With some of the guests having left, one of the tables had been taken away, and the card players now redistributed themselves about the two remaining tables. In a way, Dottie decided, it was a good thing that Cyril, Peter and Sergeant Hardy, as she still called him, were all at the same table, that way she only had to look in one direction, and she could save herself a crick in the neck.
Mrs Manderson was kept busy for the next twenty minutes with saying goodbye to those who had wanted to leave early. As the clock struck midnight, Dottie thought longingly of her bed but knew her mother would be put out if she went up when they still had guests in the house. So she poured another cup of coffee and went to the French windows to look out into the garden. A capricious moon shone fitfully between fast-moving clouds. Now and again she could catch sight of an urn or a bay tree in the shadows of the garden.
‘I’m dummy,’ said a voice behind her and she turned to greet Cyril Penterman with a smile of delight.
‘Perhaps you’d like some more coffee?’ she suggested. He smirked at her.
‘Perhaps I would,’ and he took her cup from her saucer, and drank it down in one gulp, handing her back the empty cup. She giggled and her mother’s head turned sharply in their direction. Dottie took half a step back to put a little more distance between herself and Cyril. Her mother’s stern expression relaxed slightly.
‘Do you often have card parties?’ he asked as if merely for something irreproachable to say.
‘Not often, but once or twice during the winter,’ she said, ‘In the summer it’s tennis parties, usually.’
‘Oh do you play tennis? I see you don’t care for cards.’
‘Yes, I do play tennis. Not very well, though. Schoolgirl tennis.’
‘Then I must hope to be invited, although summer seems awfully far off at the moment.’
‘Yes.’
‘So now we’ve covered cards and sport, what about politics? Are you at all political, Miss Manderson?’ he asked with a laugh.
‘You usually call me Dottie. If you don’t, I shall feel I have to call you the Honourable Cyril, and in my mind you’re just plain Cyril.’
‘Plain Cyril? Oh dear, how mortifying. If I’d known you thought so lowly of me, I wouldn’t have bothered to wear my best suit. I’d have just wandered in wearing pyjamas and a smoking jacket.’
They laughed.
‘No, I’m not especially political,’ she replied.
‘Your suffragist sisters will be very disappointed to hear that. After all the effort they went to on your behalf.’
‘No doubt, but you know it seems to me that until there is a change in politicians, there’s not much point in changing the voters.’
He gave her a look of surprise and nodded as if in grudging admiration.
‘Very cutting. And unfortunately true. Do you mind if I smoke?’
She shook her head. ‘Of course not, almost everyone else is,’ she said, looking round. But not, she noted, William Hardy. Who was watching them with his characteristic quiet intensity, she now saw. Cyril lit a cigarette. He offered one to her but she shook her head.
‘No thank you, I don’t smoke.’ And across the room William Hardy smiled and looked back down at his cards. Somehow she felt he had approved of her choice.
‘To come back to your point about politicians, I hope to run for parliament the year after next. I do hope I can count on your support.’ He leaned in close. Her mother, crossing the room, cleared her throat rather loudly. Dottie leapt back, and folded her arms across her chest.
‘Oh we shall have to see about that when you announce your policies,’ she said with an attempt at lightness.
‘Well, I shall make champagne free to the poor, of course,’ he said with a laugh. Their conversation was interrupted by calls from his table. ‘Sorry, coffee break over,’ he said and just briefly touched her hand before returning to his game.
‘I’ve told you before, Dorothy, it is essential you check any impertinence in the early stages, or it could lead to trouble,’ her mother murmured as she crossed the room to collect Dottie’s cup and saucer.
‘Yes, Mother,’ she said dutifully.
‘In any case, we already know you’re wasting your time, his mother has made his choice for him,’ Mrs Manderson continued in a quiet voice meant only for her daughter’s ears.
‘We don’t know that for certain,’ Dottie snapped.
Her glance automatically went to Cyril as he took his seat and picked up his cards. He felt her eyes on him and looked up to return her smile. Her heart seemed to experience a slight flutter. And then she found herself unable to resist a glance at William Hardy sitting opposite Cyril. He, too, looked back at her, an appraising look. Somehow, she felt he knew more than she did about her own feelings. She felt a slight twinge of discomfort, and made up her mind to ignore him whenever it was impossible to avoid him completely. And then, quite suddenly, he winked at her.
She was so astonished, she caught her breath and had to turn away and pretend to examine the garden again to disguise her laughter.
It was an odd evening. It was well after two o’clock before everyone had finally left, and Dottie was almost dropping from exhaustion. She had declined to allow her thoughts free rein until she could reach the quiet of her room. But by the time she crawled under the blankets, her mind refused to function, and in less than a minute she was sound asleep.
Cha
pter Thirteen
The week before Christmas was a hectic social whirl for Dottie. On the Monday she dined out at the Ritz with Flora and George and another couple; on Tuesday she went to the theatre to see a wonderful detective play with Cyril, who afterwards took her to a late supper, and held her hand for an hour straight and murmured a mixture of jokes and stories and flattering comments about her eyes. During the day, she had shopping to do, presents to wrap. She wrote her Christmas cards and gave them to Janet to post and there were a couple of short, last-minute sessions to do for Mrs Carmichael.
On the Wednesday she was glad of a quiet evening at home, but then found herself under threat of interrogation by her mother and had to invent things she simply had to do upstairs.
On Thursday morning, Cyril called for her and took her shopping and for lunch. He was really so attentive, she thought, and when he invited her to supper at his parents’ home that evening, she accepted without hesitation even though she knew her mother would be furious at the lack of warning. At home, there was the predicted scene over the tea-things.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Mother, I’m afraid it just slipped my mind. I’ve known about it for a week, and I really thought I’d told you,’ Dottie lied, and felt herself blushing.
‘Dorothy! How could you! You know perfectly well I’m expecting Mrs Angkatell and her daughter, and the Moyers.’
‘I really am so sorry, Mother, but I don’t see how...’
‘I’m quite certain Dottie told you on Tuesday at breakfast, dearest,’ said Mr Manderson’s voice from behind his newspaper. A hand reached around the page to obtain a sandwich.
‘She most certainly did not,’ snapped Dottie’s mother, and then all at once, the wind went out of her sails and she said pettishly, ‘Oh do as you wish, you always do. I’ll go and tell Cook.’
Once her mother had left the room, Mr Manderson lowered his paper to exchange a smile with his daughter.
‘Thank you,’ she said softly, sitting on the arm of his chair.
‘I don’t think she fell for it anyway,’ he replied. ‘I assume you’re well and truly smitten with this young fellow?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid I am, Father.’
‘Your mother seems to think his heart is promised elsewhere.’
‘I thought so too at one point, but no it isn’t. He’s been very candid, and so romantic. When he comes back... Well, I’m beginning to think...’ Then, hearing the angry footsteps returning, Dottie hurriedly got to her feet and ran upstairs, and her father retreated once more behind his paper, taking a lemon-iced petit-fours with him.
*
Her mother was still in high dudgeon when Cyril arrived to collect Dottie at seven o’clock. Dottie had remained in her room until she saw him coming up the steps from the street, then she raced downstairs, threw open the door and called a hurried, ‘I’m going, bye for now!’ and grabbing Cyril by the arm she dragged him back out of the doorway and down the steps, leaving Janet to slam the front door behind them.
‘What was that all about?’ Cyril demanded, as they drove off, Dottie turning back, laughing, to look at the house. She felt sure she could see her mother at the window. Briefly she explained.
‘Then I’m afraid to disappoint you,’ Cyril said and for a moment Dottie was worried what he might be going to say, but he just smiled and added, ‘my parents are dining out unexpectedly, so you and I are going to have a nice dinner at the Royal instead.’
‘Oh,’ Dottie said, ‘well that’s very nice.’
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he asked her anxiously, ‘I know it’s nowhere near as good as the Ritz, but...’
‘It’s absolutely fine, don’t apologise.’ She gave him a huge smile and he leaned back beside her, clasping her hand. The warm, happy feeling spread throughout her being and she decided that she wouldn’t mind if they never made it to the Royal, just to be here with him, driving through the streets of London, glittering with frost and festive lights, was all she could ask.
They lingered over the meal, and enjoyed their conversation. They always seemed to have so much to talk about, and he never failed to make her laugh. It was a heavenly evening, Dottie thought, but held the tinge of sadness of the promise of a short absence. The dessert was still disappointing. But forewarned was forearmed, and Dottie didn’t mind so much having to make do with cheese and coffee.
When they arrived back at the Mandersons’ front door, again, in spite of the cold, they lingered, his arms warm about her, his lips soft and warm on her cheek, her neck. He whispered sweet things that made her feel as though her heart would take wings and fly away. At last, however, he had to go. The hall clock struck midnight, just as loud outside as it was inside the hall itself. One last kiss. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed the tip of her nose. ‘I’m leaving early in the morning, when I come back it will be a whole New Year! Have a lovely Christmas, Dottie dear, and think of me on Christmas morning.’ There was something so solemn in the way he said it.
She waved and waved as he drove away, then he was out of sight, and with a heavy heart and on the point of tears, she went into the house and closed the door. Her parents had already gone up, for which she was grateful. A shadow at the top of the stairs called out to her,
‘Dorothy? Is that you? Do make sure the fire is banked before you come upstairs. It’s really rather late you know. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Mother.’ Dottie replied and was glad her voice sounded fairly steady.
By the fireside in the drawing-room, she wept a little then told herself she was being silly. In a couple of weeks she would have him back, and she could carry on falling in love with him. She sat and thought about that for a while.
*
A dreary tea-party in the Manderson’s own home the day before Christmas Eve was useful for two things: one, Dottie and her parents received an invitation to dine from Mrs Gerard, which would, as Mrs Gerard herself confided to Dottie, give Dottie and Cyril the chance to see one another again. Mrs Gerard seemed rather excited about it, and kept patting Dottie’s hand and arm. She was so clearly determined to make them a match that Dottie even wondered if she had arranged the dinner entirely with this in view.
Once the tea-party had broken up and everyone had gone home, Dottie ran upstairs to rest before getting ready for dinner. Flora and George were joining the Mandersons the next morning and staying until Boxing Day, and Flora was bringing her presents over to put under the tree that was standing in the hall. After lunch, Dottie and Flora would decorate the tree, as they had done since they were little girls.
Dottie thought back to Mrs Gerard’s invitation. If only Cyril’s mother was more like Mrs Gerard. But Dottie supposed she might warm to Mrs Penterman in time. Or rather the other way about. Perhaps there had been some misunderstanding? She didn’t know what, but it seemed possible. Perhaps getting to know the Pentermans better would make them seem less daunting, less overbearing and disapproving. So long as Cyril didn’t have one of those militarily-fearsome fathers, of course. Though even if he had, she told herself in the mirror with a pert upturn of her chin, there’s nothing he could do to stop us getting married if Cyril really loved me.
Her impromptu use of the L-word pulled her up short. She was cross with herself for blushing, even in the privacy of her own bedroom, and brushed her hair vigorously to dissipate her annoyance. Janet had promised to bring her intelligence of Cyril gleaned from the servants’ hall. Metaphorically, seeing as the Mandersons, like most people in the modern era of the 1930s, no longer possessed a servants’ hall as such. After all they only had three full-time and two part-time staff, a fact much-lamented by her mother in her wistful reminiscences of ‘before the war’. Dottie knew all too well that most people could afford nowhere near so much help in the house.
But to Dottie’s disappointment all Janet’s intelligence amounted to was, ‘Everyone says he’s ever so nice, and we all agreed he is the most good-lookingest gentleman we’ve seen for ages.’ All of which Dottie alread
y knew. Oh how she longed for Christmas to be over so that he would be back by her side.
The other good thing to stem from the Mandersons’ dullest of dull tea-parties was that in response to Dottie’s vehement but whispered complaints about the tedium of it the next morning as they trimmed the tree, Flora had declared that she could certainly provide a much more entertaining tea than their mother, and that Dottie should be coming to that just as soon as she had settled a date with Cook.
For Dottie the most aggravating thing was that neither of these events could take place until after January the 6th, as that was when Cyril would be returning home from his mysterious trip away. She wondered in an agony of despair when she would next see him. Would he call for her the day he returned home? Or the next day? When?
Christmas Eve afternoon brought with it Mrs Manderson’s Uncle Bernard and Mr Manderson’s mother who could bear neither the sight of her daughter-in-law’s uncle nor her daughter-in-law. They too, would be staying until Boxing Day tea-time, and almost immediately the tension in the house became rather more fraught. Dottie cleverly avoided any yuletide catastrophe by the simple expedient of getting everyone a little tipsy, constantly topping up their glasses of sherry, gin or mulled wine.
George ensured the fire remained well-stoked all the cold afternoon and evening, so that the heat and alcohol took their toll, and by half past six, apart from George and the two sisters, everyone was snoozing in their armchairs. George roasted a vast quantity of chestnuts, and he, Flora and Dottie sat by the fireside, chatting quietly and eating.
The old people retired once again to their chairs in the drawing-room after dinner, and promptly fell asleep. The fire crackled pleasantly, and even the young ones were drowsy. They sat on the floor by the fire all the evening. Dottie fetched some photo albums; she and Flora pored over them. George gazed fondly at his wife with even more of a besotted look than usual. It was almost bedtime before it dawned on Dottie that they were giving each other significant loving looks, and finally, snapping shut the last album, she said, ‘what’s going on? Why are you two even more soppy than usual?’