O Caledonia

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 dos?” 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 around 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 onto 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 onto the tablecloth, onto her dress, down her front. She did not care.