O Caledonia

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 around 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 onto 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 around 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.