Night and Day

by Caron Allan

  They demurred of course, but then with a nod from Flora, George stood in front of the fire, gently jingling his teaspoon against his coffee cup, waking up the oldies.

  ‘Erm—sorry to disturb everyone when we’re all having so much—erm...’ He took in the bleary-eyed faces surveying him and he hesitated. Another nod from his wife and he continued, ‘the thing is—erm—the thing is...’

  And then Dottie realised what it was he was about to say. She turned to look with an open mouth and raised eyebrows at her sister who nodded, her eyes misty with happiness, her smile tremulous. They hugged. Dottie, still quite taken aback, nevertheless whispered congratulations and that she was very happy for them, ignoring the little selfish voice inside her head that wanted to wail, ‘but this will change everything!’

  Finally George was coming to the point, though slowly. ‘I’m tremendously proud and pleased as punch to announce that Flora is—erm—well—she is expecting a baby. Seen the doc, everything proceeding according to—erm and n-new arrival should make an appearance about the beginning of J-July. So—erm...jolly good show, Flossie.’ He floundered to a halt and took a hefty swig from his coffee cup, spluttering as he did so. He really was appalling when it came to making a speech, Dottie thought. She moved across to the drinks cabinet and began to pour everyone a glass of wine. She handed round the glasses then turned to catch his eye and mimed drinking. He got the idea.

  ‘Oh yes, of course, so if you could all—erm—please do yes, raise your glasses to my beloved Flora and our happy news.’

  The older ones cast about them for their spectacles and sat up straight, ready to toast the happy parents-in-waiting. Dottie heard her mother say, ‘to Florence,’ not ‘to Flora’, but it was done. The ladies crowded round Flora to kiss her and hug her, and for some reason that Dottie couldn’t fathom, although she knew it was traditional, her father hurried away to get a box of special cigars for the men. There was a certain amount of embarrassed back-slapping and hand-shaking, as if George had performed some miraculous feat.

  And on that happy note, the evening came to an end. Everyone was staying in the house, so Dottie and Flora went up together, both too tired to talk, and they hugged on the landing and once again Dottie said how happy she was for them, and they said goodnight.

  In her room, Dottie hurriedly finished wrapping a few final presents, and an hour later, then the men all came upstairs, she tiptoed down with her packages and arranged them under the tree in the hall.

  She wandered into the drawing-room and sat for a few moments in one of the chairs, thinking about the new baby and the changes that he or she would bring. Her mother would no doubt start knitting like mad, Dottie thought, and possibly Flora might try her hand at knitting too, not that she had ever shown much interest—or indeed ability—in the pursuit before. Dottie shook her head at the strange idea of her sister as a mother. It was hard for her to imagine Flora reminding little ones to brush their teeth or drink their milk. Once again Dottie felt that odd quirk of fear, and had to push it away. Her common sense admitted there would always be changes in life, but that Flora would always be her sister and nothing would come between them. She would simply have to remember that once the baby arrived, Flora wouldn’t have the same amount of free time she had before.

  Mechanically Dottie tidied the room, plumping cushions, straightening the antimacassars, picking up discarded newspapers, tipping the ash and cigar stubs into the fireplace. Doing so she remembered the cigarette-girl George had chatted to at the theatre. That she had said that Archie Dunne had asked her to alibi him so that he could spy on his wife.

  What if Susan was expecting a baby? Perhaps they ought to try and find out. Dottie didn’t want to do or say anything to Susan until she knew for sure but at the same time she felt a vague concern for the woman. What would Christmas be like for her, a new widow, if there was a baby on the way? But no, Dottie reminded herself, Susan had a family who could support her, and had her comfortable—perhaps comfortable was not the right word—but nice—or well, perhaps not nice either—but spacious, yes, Susan had her spacious home and at least one maid to help her. It certainly seemed unlikely that Susan would welcome any offers of help from Dottie.

  But perhaps in a few days, once Christmas was over, Dottie should suggest either to her mother or to her sister that Susan or if not her then at least her sister Muriel should be invited to afternoon tea, or morning coffee or something, and so give Dottie the opportunity to find out a bit more about the situation and thus set her mind at rest.

  She thought about William Hardy. Had he solved the mystery of Archie’s murder? Was someone even now in custody and waiting trial? Nothing about the case had been reported in the newspapers for two or three weeks. Did that mean the investigation was going well, or floundering? She might try and find out about that too. Perhaps he or his family could be invited to, oh, something, anything, so she could ask him a few subtle questions.

  She was falling asleep. She’d better get back to bed. It wouldn’t do to be found here still in her nightdress by the maid on Christmas morning. Besides which, the room was growing cold since the fire had gone out.

  *

  William Hardy sat in his armchair before the fire. He had taken off his jacket once his family had gone up to bed. He nursed a glass of brandy, not that he was in the habit of drinking brandy, not since his days at Oxford when his pocket had been rather deeper and his tastes rather more expensive. But he liked to take a glass now and then.

  Truth be told, he was feeling somewhat morose. He felt a little sorry for himself and it was because things were not going well either in terms of the investigation, or in terms of a certain young lady who filled his thoughts and was, he knew now, walking out with someone who could buy up everything William Hardy owned with the small change from his pocket.

  He took a drink, and stared into the dying embers. He needed to find the murderer and close the case if things were going to go his way at work. Admittedly he had been promoted, but even so, he didn’t want to be a lowly policeman all his life; that wouldn’t suit his plans at all. And if he didn’t look lively, that particular young lady would be making a match with the other gentleman, and Hardy would have missed his chance there too.

  But how was he to move forward with either situation? He didn’t know. And that was why he was still sitting there drinking brandy. How he wished Christmas was over and he could get back to going to peoples’ homes with legitimate questions to ask.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The New Year of 1934 was greeted by revellers all over the world. On the outskirts of London, the Mandersons joined the Gascoignes and a host of others in welcoming in the New Year and bidding farewell to the old.

  Dottie was glad not to be part of the receiving line. Her parents, and George’s, along with George himself and a radiantly happy Flora stood ready in the vast front hall to welcome their guests as they arrived at the Gascoigne family seat, Ville Coign. By nine o’clock the house was brimming over and the noise level was shocking. Dottie lay aside the wrap she had carried downstairs, too warm to require it, and went in search of a long, cool drink.

  If only Cyril could have been there! Dottie felt a little lost, knowing she had nothing remarkable to look forward to that evening beyond the pleasure of dancing with a lot of pleasant young men and celebrating the arrival of a new year.

  In the wide ballroom, the members of the orchestra were tuning up their instruments, and having overheard their conversation as they did so, Dottie knew there would be at least one tango. But what was the point of a really intimate, powerful dance when you would have to stand up with some ordinary young fellow and know that it would mean absolutely nothing? She felt bored and bad-tempered.

  The face of William Hardy sprang unbidden to her mind and she felt irritated with herself. Why did she keep thinking of him? Admittedly she had begun to see another, more human side of him, a side that had elicited her sympathy, but that had to be all. It was Cyril whom she was fal
ling for, of whom she already dared to entertain hopes.

  A manservant glided up to her bearing a tray of drinks, and she took one, thanking him with a smile. When he continued on his rounds, she turned to look around her, drink in hand, taking the occasional sip. She daren’t drink it too quickly, even if it was New Year, Mother would be furious if she got even slightly tipsy. Mother had ideas about the Proper Behaviour of a young woman at a New Year ball.

  The house was filling up. People were beginning to assemble in the ballroom ready for the first dance, but she felt alone, and found she couldn’t bear to be there. New Year’s Eve was usually so full of hope and promise, she loved the excitement of it, yet tonight she was wishing it already over. She didn’t want to stay in the ballroom, didn’t want to see the dancing, didn’t feel like dancing herself. She crossed the room as best she could, threading her way through the laughing and chattering couples and groups, and at last reached the door into the much cooler hall. She hesitated, then turned to her right and went along the hall to the library. She hoped it would be empty.

  It wasn’t, but there was only one other person in there: George’s sister Diana was just carrying a radio from a table behind Mr Gascoigne’s huge oak desk. Dottie hurried over to help her, glad for a moment to have something to do.

  ‘Thanks Dottie, we really ought to have done this earlier, before everyone arrived, but it completely slipped my father’s mind.’

  ‘Putting it on that table in the front hall like last year?’ Dottie enquired.

  ‘Yes, Daddy loves to hear the midnight chimes from Big Ben. So we’ll stick this in the hall, then at a couple of minutes to midnight, Overton will turn it on to warm it up, then he will signal to Daddy, and Daddy will signal to the orchestra to stop playing, and we can all have our champagne toasts and listen to the chimes.’

  ‘It always gives me a thrill to hear them—it’s the one thing I think of when I think about New Year’s Eve. Mother always says in her day they didn’t have the chimes broadcast—well of course they didn’t, there weren’t any radios! But I love it. It gives me chills.’

  ‘Me too,’ Diana laughed. Dottie ran to hold the door wide open for her, and soon with lots of ‘coming through’ and ‘excuse me please’, they had the radio in position ready for the crucial time.

  ‘To be honest,’ Diana said, ‘I’ve been rather dreading the whole evening since my engagement broke up. He’d been here for the last two New Year’s eves. This year, I don’t much feel like dancing.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you do,’ Dottie said, ‘New Year’s Eve always seems made especially for loving couples. As a single girl, I feel somewhat out of place.’ She looked about her again now, already feeling a little lost.

  ‘Tell you what, let’s go up to my room. I mean, if you really do want to escape? I know it’s not very exciting, but... And we could come down again for the chimes. We’ll take some drinks up and look at magazines or something. That is, if you want to.’

  ‘I do, I absolutely do!’ Dottie said fervently. Diana led the way up the sweeping staircase, past all the ladies and gentlemen making their way down to the ballroom after leaving their evening wraps and greatcoats in the gallery.

  ‘I know it’s awfully boring of me, but I feel really done in at the moment. Work has been so hectic, and since Christmas Eve it’s just been one social event after another. How I’d love to just get away for a while,’ Dottie was saying as they went along the corridor.

  ‘We’ve been frantically busy,’ Diana said. ‘I’ve been coming down with a cold or something for the last couple of days and I’m sure it’s just because of all the people we’ve been meeting and all the entertainments we’ve attended. Do you think we’re already getting too old for socialising?’

  She stood back to allow Dottie to precede her into the bedroom. Dottie glanced back and laughed.

  ‘Oh I do hope not! I think it’s just that we need a brief respite.’

  ‘Well, you can tell me the latest fashion news from Mrs Carmichael’s warehouse and we can talk about our plans for our Spring wardrobes. I love to think ahead to Spring. January is too dreary after the fuss of Christmas!’

  They sprawled in armchairs beside the fire and for the first time in several days, Dottie felt as though she was actually starting to relax. She was even tempted to close her eyes for a few moments, but not only was she afraid of appearing rude, she was also fairly sure she would fall sound asleep. Perhaps Diana was right, and they were, after all, too old for merrymaking! She glanced around the room, appreciative of the soft greens and creams that gave the room a light but soothing feel.

  ‘I do love the colours you’ve chosen for in here, it’s such a peaceful room.’

  Dottie noticed Diana had picked up a small embroidery frame and was already making a careful stitch in the centre of an unclear shape.

  ‘Actually it was Mummy who chose the colours whilst I was away at finishing school the year before last. I must admit I was rather petulant and horrid about it. For some reason I had set my heart on crimson and gold. How ghastly that would have been! But one has these ridiculous ideas when one is young. I’ve grown up so much in the last two years! Luckily Mummy put her foot down—and she was right, as always.’

  Dottie laughed. ‘I was the same about a gown for my eighteenth birthday ball. I wanted peach taffeta, which of course I see now would have been rotten with my complexion, but at the time I made no end of a stink about it. I suppose our mothers always know best. Except when it comes to choosing a nice young man, of course.’

  ‘Goodness, yes,’ Diana laughed, and took another careful stitch, ‘My mother’s idea of what makes an eligible young man is rather different to mine—she only cares about his family background and how much money he’s got. I want someone who will be my soulmate, the other half of my heart.’ She laughed a little shakily and added, ‘Hearing that out loud makes it sound so sentimental and childish.’

  ‘No,’ Dottie said, ‘I know exactly what you mean. I suppose our mothers did marry for love, but sometimes I’m not completely...’

  ‘It’s hard to tell with my parents,’ Diana said softly, ‘I do wonder—well, I know I shouldn’t say this—but I do wonder whether my mother married my father because of the Gascoigne name and the status. She often seems to detest the very sight of him.’

  Dottie couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Oh I’m so sorry, I know I shouldn’t laugh but, well that’s exactly what I think about my parents. Father is so different to Mother, and of course, I can’t believe that they were ever young and inconsequential like us.’

  ‘Definitely not! Mine were born old,’ Diana said, also with a laugh. She bent once more over her frame and made another tiny stitch. ‘I do hope you don’t mind me doing this, I find it so relaxing.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Dottie said, ‘I wish I had your patience.’

  ‘George and Flora seem very happy, though, don’t they? I’m sure they married for love rather than mere economy.’

  ‘Yes, they are blissfully happy,’ Dottie said wistfully, ‘I wish I could find a nice man like George.’

  ‘I’m so excited about the coming baby!’ Diana said, ‘It will be the first in our family. Mother will be a bit too overbearing about it, I imagine, and will give poor Flora far too much useless advice.’

  ‘Mothers tend to do that.’

  ‘I think, don’t you, that there is no greater gift a woman can give her husband than that of a child. It’s such a precious calling, to bear children for one’s husband,’ Diana said without looking up.

  Dottie glanced at her, a little surprised, and murmured an embarrassed, ‘Oh—er—yes, indeed.’ Desperate for something to do Dottie picked up her glass and took a sip or two of champagne, and desperate for something to say, she said, ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your engagement. No wonder this is a difficult time for you.’

  ‘Thanks, but we weren’t suited, I used to think that by sheer determination I could make it work, I didn’t want to be one of thos
e girls who gives up when things get difficult, but...well, in the end Jeremy just wasn’t the one for me, I suppose. I sometimes wonder if I’m meant to be alone. But I have to believe Our Lord has someone else out there just for me.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Dottie, still somewhat uncomfortable, ‘let’s hope he comes along soon!’

  Looking about her again, she noticed a picture on the wall, and got up to cross the room for a better look.

  ‘Is that...?’ she began, but then what she saw answered her question. ‘Why, isn’t that Queen Esther? I’ve seen this same picture recently somewhere else.’

  ‘Have you?’ Diana set aside her needlework and came over to join her, and they stood side by side, staring at the woman in the gold cloak. ‘I can’t remember where it came from, probably Mummy got it when she ordered the rest of the décor. It’s rather charming in a way, I suppose. But of course it’s just a print you know, not an actual painting. So there are probably thousands of them all over the country.’ She glanced at Dottie. There was something alert in her look that seemed at odds with her casual words. ‘Where did you see it?’

  Dottie took a step away, and, giving herself a moment to think, returned to her seat, sat down and took a sip from her glass before replying. ‘Oh I forget. Somewhere recently. Probably at a card party or something. We’ve been all over the place these last two weeks. I just vaguely recall someone commenting about it.’

  Diana sat opposite her, and Dottie felt as though Diana’s rather pale eyes were fixed rather too sharply on her face. She felt as though she couldn’t breathe, she felt the air in the room had changed, and that she must be very careful what she said. Suddenly, strangely, she felt Diana was not Diana anymore. Which was ludicrous, of course. At last, and a little desperately, she made herself say, ‘I don’t recall the story of Esther—I’m afraid I never did pay attention in Sunday School.’