O Caledonia (23 page)

‘
And don
'
t forget what I told you about your gloves,
'
said Vera suddenly from the front of the car. Janet could remember nothing of the decorum and etiquette of these gloves, long, limp and white with exasperating tiny pearl buttons. She resolved that she would lose hers as soon as they arrived. She began to feel nervous. Francis was silent, doubtless brooding on his conquests.
‘
You
'
d better not talk the way you usually do; they
'
ll think you
'
re mad. Or showing off,
'
she advised him, from bitter experience.
‘
Nonsense,
'
said Francis.
‘
They
'
ll love it. They don
'
t like it when you go on about things because you
'
re a girl. And of course you are extremely boring. Girls need to know when to keep their mouths shut.
'

The hunt ball was held in the Master
'
s house, enormous and Georgian, surrounded by rolling acres of snowy lawn and cedar trees.
‘
More like an English country house,
'
said Vera approvingly, and certainly it was unusually well heated. On each side of the lofty entrance hall were vistas of long rooms opening into one another, each with a blazing log fire. The ballroom lay beyond the hall, brilliantly lit by chandeliers, pillared and mirrored. The Master, clad in hunting pink, greeted them warmly and seemed not to notice that Janet gave him both her hands to shake, having entangled the buttons of her gloves in her desperate attempt to get rid of them. They found the rest of their party. The grown-ups greeted each other with ecstatic cries, kisses and handshakes. The young exchanged muttered introductions and eyed each other in silence. Janet had met two of the three girls before, but she knew only one of the boys, from long ago at Auchnasaugh. Francis and the boys moved off towards a drinks table. Vera watched them with narrowed eyes. The girls studied one another
'
s dresses. Janet was pleased to see that these were all rather similar, demurely pretty pastels with full floating skirts.
‘
Very
jeune jille
,
'
she thought. She wriggled her hips so that her dragon tail swished from side to side. The shiny purple bows trembled like gigantic moths. Quite a few people were staring at her. She felt elated. Each of the boys, except for Francis, and each of the fathers asked her for a dance. Carefully she pencilled their names into her tiny pink programme book; she noticed that there were still a great many dances left to be filled in, but no doubt her partners would return to her. Or of course she might meet her demon lover.

Spinning about in an eightsome reel, she began to have doubts about her dress. People kept stepping on the train; sometimes it flew up behind her and caught on a sporran. Once it knocked a glass out of a woman
'
s hand. She noticed the relief with which her partners escorted her back to the rows of gilded chairs along the side of the room, where the dowagers sat in speculation and gossip.
‘
Exquisite little thing,
'
one of them was saying now to Vera. Hope rose in Janet.
‘
And the one in purple is your eldest girl?
'
Hope subsided.
‘
Such an unusual dress. Most sophisticated.
' ‘
Yes,
'
said Vera.
‘
One might say that. She chose it herself.
' ‘
And does she still ride? I remember she used to be so keen.
' ‘
She still rides a little,
'
said Vera.
‘
But really she
'
s more interested in her books.
'
She had to justify Janet
'
s appearance somehow.
‘
She
'
s rather dreamy, the academic sort, you know.
' ‘
Ah. A pity about the riding. Keeps them away from the boys. I always say, who needs a fella between their knees when they could have a good hunter. Mind you,
'
the harridan added,
‘
from the look of her that may not be a problem. A different matter with your younger girl. You
'
ll have to watch her like a hawk. A honey pot.
'
Vera was tight-lipped.
‘
Excuse me one moment, please.
'
She rose and summoned the young females of her party,
‘
Come along girls. Time to powder our noses.
'
In an obedient drift they followed her. They were like tugs in the wake of a majestic, sleek- bowed liner, thought Janet, hastening after them. Others saw it differently. A couple of very old men sat by the fire in the hall; they leant close over their sticks and their eyes were bright and roguish. As Vera
'
s company rustled by, one observed to the other,
‘
The hens go marching off to the midden.
'
A burst of wheezing laughter dissolved into prolonged coughing.

The seventh dance was a waltz. This was the moment Janet dreaded, for she would be obliged to speak. Talk was not possible in Highland dancing, and thank goodness for that. She was booked for this waltz by a pale-faced boy called Keith; she reflected that this must be the worst name in the world. She did not intend to use it. They set forth on their circuit. Keith cleared his throat, frowning.
‘
Have you been to many of these sort of do
'
s?
'
he asked, sounding half dead with boredom.
‘
No,
'
said Janet. She thought of a whole sentence.
‘
This is my very first.
' ‘
Oh,
'
said Keith. Janet trod on her train and lurched sideways, colliding with the couple beside them. Keith grabbed her before she fell, and heaved her into the vertical with such force that she bumped her nose against his shoulder. Her eyes watered.
‘
Oh dear, sorry,
'
said Keith in his monotone.
‘
Do you have a dog?
'
asked Janet, trying to look sparkling and keenly interested. Keith ignored this.
‘
Let
'
s go and have a drink,
'
he said. They manoeuvred their way off the dance floor. He seized two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. Janet glanced round uneasily. Vera was nowhere to be seen. She gulped it down in two draughts. Her palate prickled; her eyes watered again.
‘
You
'
d better have another,
'
droned Keith. This time Janet sipped in a ladylike manner. Keith looked disappointed.
‘
It
'
s hellish hot,
'
he said. The words rang a warning bell in Janet
'
s mind, but she could not place them.
‘
Let
'
s have a breath of air.
'
He led the way to a french window which stood open on to the terrace. The night was deliciously cold, like the champagne. The moon glittered across the untrodden snow. Keith took her hand:
‘
Come and look over the balustrade.
'
Janet was horrified. She hadn
'
t held anyone
'
s hand since she was four years old and she certainly didn
'
t want to now. How ridiculous. What was she meant to do with it? It lay limply wrapped in her own like some awful dead thing.
‘
What a beautiful body you have,
'
drawled Keith. She couldn
'
t have heard correctly.
‘
I beg your pardon?
'
she squawked.
‘
I said, what a beautiful body you have,
'
reiterated the lifeless voice. Janet snatched her hand from his flaccid clasp and careered back into the ballroom. Where could she go for safety? If she went to the ladies
'
rooms she would have to pass those two evil old men. She decided on the dining room. To her relief it was almost empty. With shaking hands she took a bowl of trifle from the long buffet and sat panting at a rickety table. Luckily she had thought to bring a book with her. From her evening bag she extracted Carcopino
'
s
Daily Life in Ancient Rome
and propped it against a vase of snowdrops and holly berries. Her heart stopped thumping. She helped herself to another mound of trifle and read on. Cream dribbled off her spoon on to the tablecloth, on to her dress, down her front. She did not care.

Towards midnight she returned cautiously to the ballroom, peering this way and that like some quaint woodland creature. She inserted herself among the ranks of seated dowagers. It was still stiflingly hot. The band was playing a quickstep. Pallid Keith whirled past with Rhona in his arms. Rhona
'
s face was flushed and vivid; she was talking with animation. Over her shoulder Keith winked at Janet. There was an unpleasant smell in the air; Janet associated it with Keith. Her neighbour was fanning herself with her programme card.
‘
A distinct whiff of the farmyard,
'
she said.
‘
Wherever can it be coming from?
'
They stared around them.
‘
A cow byre I
'
d say,
'
said someone else.
‘
Or a midden. Surely he hasn
'
t put a midden right by the house. Let
'
s shut that window.
'
Janet leapt up, remembering her manners:
‘
I
'
ll do it.
'
As she moved she realised that the powerful smell of dairy produce emanated from her, from her bosom to be exact. The blobs of double cream which had trickled into her cleavage had turned sour with the heat. Briskly she closed the window, and made her way, smiling vaguely, in a wide arc past the dowagers. Once in the hall she ran for it, bolting up the staircase to the secure haven of the ladies
'
room. Unaware of her pungent passing, the old men slept in their chairs.

As they clattered and clicked at last over the frosted gravel to the car Janet trod again on her train. She seized it and wrenched; there was a pleasant sound of rending. She tugged it; she dropped her evening bag and with both hands twisted and pulled, spinning round like a mechanical ballerina, stamping on it as she heaved.
‘
Do let me help,
'
said Francis, looming up behind her. Off came the dragon tail, ripping away part of the skirt as well. Janet hurled the glinting bundle on to the lawn. There it was found the next day, giving rise to wanton speculation and establishing Janet as a woman of easy virtue. For her dress had been, as she had hoped, distinctive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

 

Thus began and ended Janet
'
s social life, apart from a brief excursion on Hogmanay, when at Vera
'
s insistence Hector took Janet and Francis first-footing. They were to visit a widower who lived in the nearest coastal village.
‘
He
'
s always been so kind to us, and taken such an interest in the children, and with his wife dead only two months ago he
'
ll be dreadfully lonely. I doubt if he knows many people round there. They never went out.
'
It was thrilling to step out of doors just after midnight into the first new day of a new year. The stars were brilliant, the heavens luminous and expectant. They paused on the way to watch the northern lights. Their eerie flickering was a portent. All will be well and all manner of things will be well.

They parked near the church and walked down the narrow street to Mr Neville
'
s cottage by the breakwater. Their footsteps echoed in the frosty air. Old people came hopefully to their doors as they passed and retreated in disappointment. Through lighted windows Janet glimpsed tables laid out with black buns and trays of glasses and whisky, and anxious faces peering out into the darkness. She could not bear it. Where were the heartless young? She clenched her hands and prayed with all her might that each house would have at least one visitor, one traveller bearing memories of love and loyalty and the irredeemable unquenchable past.