‘Nothing but a blasted lady’s maid,’ Uncle Matthew would say whenever Boy’s name was mentioned. ‘I can’t stick the sewer. Boy indeed! Dougdale! What does it all mean? There used to be some perfectly respectable people called Blood at Silkin in the Old Lord’s time. Major and Mrs Blood.’
The Old Lord was Lord Montdore’s father. Jassy once said, opening enormous eyes, ‘He must have been old’, upon which Aunt Sadie had remarked that people do not remain the same age all their lives, and he had no doubt been young in his time just as one day, though she might not expect it, Jassy herself would become old.
It was not very logical of Uncle Matthew so exaggeratedly to despise Boy’s military record, and was just another example of how those he liked could do no wrong and those he disliked no right, because Lord Montdore, his great hero, had never in his life heard the cheerful sound of musketry or been near a battle; he would have been rather elderly to have taken the field in the Great War, it is true, but his early years had vainly offered many a jolly fight, chances to hack away at native flesh, not to speak of Dutch flesh in that Boer war which had provided Uncle Matthew with such radiant memories, having given him his first experience of bivouac and battle.
‘Four days in a bullock waggon,’ he used to tell us, ‘a hole as big as your fist in my stomach, and maggoty! Happiest time of my life. The only thing was one got rather tired of the taste of mutton after a bit, no beef in that campaign, you know.’
But Lord Montdore was a law unto himself, and had even got away with the famous Montdore Letter to the Morning Post which suggested that the war had gone on long enough and might be brought to an end, several months before the cowardly capitulation of the Hun had made this boring adjournment necessary. Uncle Matthew found it difficult to condone such spoiling of sport but did so by saying that Lord Montdore must have had some good reason for writing it which nobody else knew anything about.
My thoughts were now concentrated upon the entrance to the ballroom door, where I had suddenly perceived the back of somebody’s head. So he had come after all. The fact that I had never thought he would (such a serious character) had in no way mitigated my disappointment that he had not; now, here he was. I must explain that the image of Sauveterre, having reigned in my hopeless heart for several months, had recently been ousted and replaced by something more serious, with more reality and promise.
The back of a head, seen at a ball, can have a most agitating effect upon a young girl, so different from the backs of other heads that it might be surrounded by a halo. There is the question, will he turn round, will he see her, and if so will he merely give a polite good-evening or invite her to dance? Oh, how I wished I could have been whirling gaily round in the arms of some fascinator instead of sitting with my aunts and uncles, too obviously a wallflower. Not that it mattered. There were a few moments of horrible suspense before the head turned round, but when it did he saw me, came straight over, said good-evening more than politely, and danced me away. He thought he would never get here, it was a question of borrowed, but mislaid, knee-breeches. Then he danced with Aunt Emily, again with me, and with Louisa, having engaged me to have supper after that.
‘Who is that brute?’ said Uncle Matthew, grinding his teeth as my young man went off with Louisa, ‘why does he keep coming over here?’
‘He’s called Alfred Wincham,’ I said, ‘shall I introduce him to you?’
‘For pity’s sake, Fanny!’
‘What an old Pasha you are,’ said Davey. And indeed, Uncle Matthew would clearly have preferred to keep all his female relations in a condition if not of virginity at any rate of exaggerated chastity, and could never bear them to be approached by strange men.
When not dancing I went back and sat with my relations. I felt calmer now, having had two dances and the promise of supper, and was quite happy to fill in the time by listening to my elders as they conversed.
Presently Aunt Sadie and Aunt Emily went off to have supper together; they always liked to do this at parties. Davey moved up to sit next to Lady Patricia and Uncle Matthew stood by Davey’s chair, sleeping on his feet as horses can, patiently waiting to be led back to his stable. ‘It’s this new man Meyerstein,’ Davey was saying. ‘You simply must go to him, Patricia, he does it all by salt elimination. You skip in order to sweat out all the salt in your organism, and eat saltless meals, of course. Too disgusting. But it does break down the crystals.’
‘Do you mean skip with a skipping-rope?’
‘Yes, hundreds of times. You count. I can do three hundred at a go, as well as some fancy steps, now.’
‘But isn’t it horribly tiring?’
‘Nothing tires Davey – fella’s as strong as a bull,’ said Uncle Matthew, opening one eye.
Davey cast a sad look at his brother-in-law and said that of course it was desperately tiring, but well worth it for the results.
Polly was now dancing with her uncle, Boy. She did not look radiant and happy as such a spoilt darling should at her coming-out ball, but tired and pinched about the mouth, nor was she chattering away like the other women.
‘I shouldn’t care for one
