Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase (8 page)

‘No need to dance. We can sit and talk. Be like friends.’

‘That sounds very nice. I’m sure Aggie and Nina would be thrilled. They so enjoyed the last one.’

‘We must have fun when we can get it, in times like these. If my men can’t fly yet, we can drink, eat, make joke, no? No need for guilt.’ And the squadron leader smiled at Dorothy. ‘I shall collect you next Saturday, at seven o’clock,’ he announced.

‘All right,’ said Dorothy, smiling broadly despite her misgivings. ‘I’ll go, as you have been so kind as to ask. But I shall not dance.’

The girls, tired and grubby, arrived back at the cottage around half past five. They took one look at the gramophone and the records, and it seemed their world was complete. They searched eagerly through the stack of records, digging out their favourites. Aggie was delighted to find some Billie Holiday songs – ‘You must listen to her, Dot!’ – and that odd, brittle-strong voice was now flowing through the house, the jaunty music restoring something to them all. Dorothy immediately liked the joyful-joyless sound of the American woman’s voice. And, for an evening, they forgot about the war. There was none of their usual talk: In a year it could all be over, in six months it could all be over, six weeks even, and Hitler will be here, and we’ll have no freedoms, and Churchill will be strung up, and …

‘Dance, Nina!’ cried Aggie, pulling the heftier girl to her feet, and spinning her around, laughing, red-faced.

Dorothy sewed and watched. She smiled. It was an inspired idea of the squadron leader’s, she thought. Of course, young women like to dance. They like music. Why wouldn’t they?

‘There’s more,’ said Dorothy, remembering the invitation. ‘We are invited to the dance next Saturday night. Special guests of the squadron leader.’

‘Oh, we know all about that,’ said Nina, throwing herself down on to the settee, still red-faced, her mousy hair clinging to her face. ‘Already invited, we are. All the Land Girls are going.’

‘What are you going to wear, though?’ said Aggie. ‘I’ve got my blue frock.’

‘I don’t know. Don’t much care either. Might just wear my uniform. All that lovely food up there too! They put on such a spread last time, Dot. You should’ve seen it. Cakes. Jellies. All sorts of sandwiches. Lovely, it was.’

‘Yes, but that’s why your dress won’t fit you any more!’ said Aggie, moving rhythmically around the room, arms held out as though dancing with a partner, her blonde curls flying behind her.

‘It’s all right for you. Just I’ve got a healthy appetite, haven’t I, Dot?’

‘Indeed you have. Why don’t you bring me your dress, and we’ll see if I can let it out for you?’ said Dorothy.

The dress was a pale green lawn, with a matching fabric belt. Rather old, and in need of a darn or two, as well as letting out. Dorothy examined the seams, which were mercifully generous. After suggesting Nina try it on, she unpicked and pinned it, and managed to let it out to the required size. Nina looked well in it. Green suited her nondescript, pale brown hair, her country-tanned face and arms. Not exactly pretty – and, frankly, fat – but Dorothy still felt something akin to a mother’s pride looking at the smiling girl wearing her newly altered frock.

The day before the dance, Dorothy examined her own wardrobe and pondered what to wear. She had three ‘special occasion’ frocks. The first was red, woollen, with long sleeves, more of a winter frock. It was a little close-fitting, but not too tight. She had never regained the weight she’d lost in the weeks after giving birth to Sidney. The red dress was of a pleasing length, just below the knee, and would show off her calves to advantage if she were to wear her black court shoes. She still had reasonable-looking calves. This she allowed.

She also had a green and blue patterned dress in a crisp cotton, which creased easily and was, besides, too young for her now. She would see if Aggie might like it. And lastly she had her summer frock, with a tiny flower print in pink, black, white and orange. It was undoubtedly her favourite with its summery, short puffed sleeves and its comfy, faded feel. It was perfect for a June dance. She had her pink cardigan she could wear with it, and her brown shoes looked smart with it too. Understated and admirably appropriate for a woman approaching forty, childless, and, for all she knew, widowed.

Her dressings had been removed, and the skin on her face was pink, no longer red and angry. It was still slightly sore to the touch when she covered it as best she could with her powder, just to see how it might look the following evening. It looked acceptable, she thought. She considered her frocks, hanging over her wardrobe door, draped across her bed. She liked them all, but at the same time she couldn’t care less if she never wore any of them again. It was indifference, she knew – a horrible, blank feeling that she had become accustomed to over the past year. But still, she would have to choose.

Three dresses. One dance. One decision. There really was only one contender.

Nina had been right about the food. Trestle tables were loaded with plates of sandwiches, jellies, trifles, sausages, even cakes. There were large tea urns. And there was mild, if you wanted it, and cider. Some folk even had bottles of wine on their tables, Dorothy noticed. She took a cup of tea and a modest plate of food, and found a chair in a corner. Music erupted all around, loud and insistent. British and Polish airmen and their guests were dancing and laughing. Swing, Dorothy thought the music was called. She liked it, the soaring movement of it, the brashness. She watched the young people dancing, keeping a distant eye on her girls, who were oblivious of her – at least, for now – as they danced and laughed, cheeks rosy, freshly curled hair bouncing on their firm young shoulders. Dorothy felt weak as she compared herself to all these young people; she felt inconsequential. How glad she was to be sitting in the corner.

Dorothy liked to sit in the corner at parties. There was nothing worse than sitting with a large group of people, feeling left out. Or, even worse, trapped. Stupid people, asking stupid questions, interfering. Laughing at jokes that she was not privy to. No, she would take her own company any day. She nibbled at a fish paste sandwich, and wondered why on earth she had agreed to come to this dance. Squadron Leader Pietrykowski had duly arrived at the cottage at seven o’clock, driving the squadron car. He had smiled broadly at her, told her he liked very much her dress. Dorothy felt both elated and shameful. The girls, dolled up and excited, giggled and chatted in the back seat. Nina had her eye on a chap who she hoped to ‘talk to’ at the dance. The interior of the squadron car smelled of straw and leather and cigarettes, and Dorothy felt dizzy as they flew along the lanes, the hedges and trees and flowers, the cottages, people and bicycles all flashing by them.

The room swam with pulses and energies and jealousies, with chatter and spite and laughter. Dorothy, from her seat in the corner, continued to watch Aggie and Nina, and the other young women and men dancing, laughing, flirting. The squadron leader moved around the room, talking to people, ensuring the music was loud enough but not too loud, chatting with his fellow pilots, with the British pilots. There was talk of the Polish squadron being formed soon. And Dorothy thought yes, how useful it was that he could speak and understand English so well. It seemed that everybody wanted to speak to Jan Pietrykowski. He had that magic, that allure. So whatever she felt – what she thought she might have begun to feel – was nothing, was of no import. Dorothy watched him, her eyes roaming inconspicuously from her girls to him, and back again, and again. She watched as he spoke to the ladies of the village, who were eating greedily, nodding and smiling and gushing.

A couple of them, vaguely known to Dorothy as Marjorie and Susan, marched over to her corner. Dorothy smiled at them as they sat either side of her.

How was she? Everybody was talking about her recent escapade, did she know that? Her heroics?

‘It was nothing,’ said Dorothy.

‘Nonsense!’

‘Really—’

‘And you seem to have made quite an impression on the Polish squadron leader!’

‘I—’

‘He is a very handsome man, isn’t he? And such a gentleman.’

‘Yes, if you say so.’

‘And he speaks such good English!’

They smelled of mild and wine. And were far too loud, even for them, she thought, although she barely knew them and had no desire to know them better or speak to either of them. She thought they were friends of Mrs Compton, if Mrs Compton had any friends.

‘Marvellous English, yes.’

‘And, Dorothy, how are you keeping these days?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. The girls keep me busy,’ said Dorothy, pleased to come up with a change of subject.

‘We always meant to say – didn’t we, Susan? – how sorry we were to hear about—’

‘These things happen. Don’t they?’ said Dorothy. She wasn’t certain if they were about to talk about the loss of Sidney, or Albert’s desertion of her. But she would not talk about any of it with these women. She would not.

‘But you must miss him,’ said Marjorie. ‘And we never see you any more. You do keep yourself to yourself, Dorothy, don’t you?’

‘I think it’s best.’

Susan, more astute than her friend – and bored, or uncomfortable, or both – murmured that Mrs Sanderson had arrived and she should very much like to talk to her, and she and Marjorie excused themselves and returned to their side of the room. They whispered to their friends, among them the newly arrived Mrs Sanderson, Mrs Pritchard, Mrs Twoomey. Perhaps Mrs Compton was with them? But Dorothy had not noticed her. The women looked over at Dorothy from time to time, turning away hastily if she caught their eye. She was being talked about, she knew, but it didn’t matter. Let them talk.

Perhaps she should give them something to talk about?

Scanning the room, she smiled brightly at Jan Pietrykowski. He joined her, pulling out the chair recently vacated by Marjorie, and smiled back.

‘You are enjoying, no?’

‘No. Not much.’

‘I’m sorry. You are tired?’

‘It’s those women. Nosy things. I don’t like them.’

‘I shall sit with you now. And we shall eat. Can I get you some more food? Your plate is empty.’

They ate. He asked her who various people were. That ugly woman in the grey dress? The group of girls looking daggers at Nina and Aggie and the other Land Girls?

‘The fat woman with … what you call? … jewels?’

‘Nearly. Jowls. She is not very nice. Another nosy parker, I’m afraid. The world’s full of them.’

‘You like very few people, Mrs Sinclair?’ said Jan.

‘Is it so obvious?’

‘Yes, I think so. Some of these people are probably very nice, if you give them a chance.’

‘I’ll reserve judgement on that, thank you. It’s not that I dislike people. You must not … please don’t think that of me. I’m just tired of it all.’

‘Yet I hate to see you so lonely,’ he said.

She blushed and looked down at her hands. They lay twisted in her lap, fingers intertwined. The squadron leader apologised. He changed the subject, to music, to the dancing. They ignored the quizzical, envious looks from the villagers. Dorothy reflected, as he left her for a moment to replenish their teacups and choose a cake for each of them, that she was getting almost as many disapproving looks as the Land Girls. It didn’t do, she understood. A married woman, of a certain age, wearing a figure-skimming red dress (so
obvious
), and hogging the handsome Polish pilot to herself all evening. No. It didn’t do at all.

… and her husband, poor Bert Sinclair, you couldn’t blame him for running off like that, could you? She couldn’t furnish him with a child, and no man deserves that. She couldn’t even furnish him with a smile, in the end. And she never joined in, did she? She was a loner, she was snooty. Not much company for any husband. Too wrapped up in herself, that one. Not one for friends. A cut above, she fancies herself. Jane Frankman’s niece, wasn’t she? That’s how she met poor Bert. They say her mother hasn’t spoken to her since she married him. Lives in the south, the mother, doesn’t she? Reading? London? Oxford? Must be lonely for Mrs Sinclair, in that cottage, and all that laundry to do. Doesn’t seem right, a woman like that taking in laundry. Still, it keeps a roof over her head. Goodness knows what might happen if Bert were to be reported missing. They’ll turf her out. Then where’ll she go? She has no friends round here. Is the mother still alive? Goodness knows. We’re not allowed to know anything, are we …

This is what Jan Pietrykowski heard as he made his way to the trestle tables loaded with food, negotiating ladies with jowls (an amusing word, new to him, that he would try to remember), ladies wearing austere dresses, ladies who were determined to engage him in conversation.

But he escaped from the attention, and he returned to Dorothy.

Before she knew what was happening, before she could protest, before they could even eat their cakes, Dorothy was steered towards the dance floor and the Polish man’s arms were around her, on her, gripping her waist, her shoulder, lightly at first, then more firmly. Around they went, locked together, and they moved in secrecy and silence as if nobody was watching. And yet to Dorothy it seemed that the whole world was judging, but she did not mind. The world could go to hell. She was without a care, for the first time in a long year. And the music seemed to go on forever – in her heart, this music would play forever – and when she looked at the man and he smiled and squeezed her waist in affection and understanding, she let her head fall on to his shoulder and she let herself be danced. And the nervous stirrings in her stomach, her bowel, her groin, the unfurling going on inside her, she accepted with a tacit grace. She was an adult, after all.

Too soon the lights were up, people were standing and shaking hands, couples were linking arms and preparing to leave, some drunk, others yawning and tired. Cigarette smoke hung over the room like a coarse blanket. There was a babble of goodbyes, and the squadron leader stood aside to allow Dorothy to collect her bag, and to see how Aggie and Nina were to go home.

‘We’ll walk, Dot!’ shouted Nina, as a Polish airman – very young, perhaps eighteen – grabbed her face and kissed her, then released her with loud laughter. She hit him on the back of his head. Dorothy wondered if this was the young man she’d had her eye on.