Dancing the Charleston Read online

  ‘Oh no, I have to think of my figure,’ she said.

  Desiree would take only the weeniest slice, and then toyed with it, licking the chocolate icing with her pink tongue in an affected way. Mr Michael refused the cake as if it was poisonous, and told us we would all be much healthier if we avoided sugar and became vegetarians. Aunty and I had existed largely on potatoes and onions and carrots, and we hadn’t felt particularly healthy then, just starving hungry. However, even Aunty shook her head when Ella offered her a slice.

  Ambrose had dozed off and, though Ella cleared her throat and murmured his name, he chose to keep his eyes shut.

  ‘Well, well, Mona. It’s up to you and me,’ said Mr Benjamin. ‘Please don’t let me down. I can’t have the cake going back to the kitchen barely touched – poor Cook will be offended.’

  ‘I’d like a very, very large slice, please, Ella,’ I said, and started eating it very quickly in case Aunty protested. I washed it down with my tea, which tasted surprisingly flowery.

  The conversation moved on to the cakes on offer at the Café Royal, which seemed to be a place in London, and sounded nothing like my idea of a café.

  ‘Can we go there when I come up to Harrods in the holidays?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not sure it sounds very suitable,’ Aunty murmured, which made them laugh, even Mr Benjamin.

  Then Lady Arabella started raving about some art exhibition she’d just seen, and Mr Michael began discussing people I’d never heard of.

  ‘Do you care for the Vorticist movement, Miss Watson?’ Lady Arabella asked.

  ‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure,’ said Aunty.

  I tried to remember how Mr Benjamin had described my home-made card. ‘We prefer Cézanne,’ I said.

  Mr Benjamin clapped and, surprisingly, Desiree said, ‘Bravo!’

  ‘I think we’d better be going, Mr Benjamin,’ Aunty mumbled. ‘We didn’t mean to intrude. We didn’t realize you had guests.’

  ‘You and your niece are my guests, Miss Watson,’ Mr Benjamin insisted, but Aunty stood up, determined to escape.

  I had to cram half my chocolate cake into my mouth at once, which meant I could scarcely say goodbye. I choked when I tried, and chocolate crumbs shot out of my mouth.

  ‘Mona!’ Aunty dragged me out of the drawing room so quickly that my feet scarcely touched the floor.

  We weren’t quite quick enough though. We both heard Lady Arabella say, ‘Benjamin, darling, why on earth are you making such a fuss of that sad old spinster and the pert little girl?’

  Ella heard her too, because she was hovering outside. I thought she might look triumphant, but she just shook her head pityingly. It made it even worse somehow.

  We didn’t say anything – nor did we talk to each other as we hurried back to the cottage. I didn’t even glance at Aunty until we reached the front door – and then I saw that her eyes were brimming with tears.

  ‘Oh, Aunty, I’m sorry I let you down,’ I said, starting to cry myself. I wasn’t sure what pert meant, but it didn’t sound nice.

  ‘You were very rude,’ said Aunty. ‘But I’m glad. That Lady Arabella is no lady. She just wanted to make a fool of me – and she succeeded too.’ She fumbled in her pocket for her handkerchief, and took off her spectacles to give her eyes a dab. She looked so vulnerable without them – I could see the little pink marks on either side of her nose where they pinched.

  ‘No she didn’t. She looked the fool. When she crossed her legs I saw her knickers,’ I said. I picked up Sixpence, who was mewling happily, welcoming us back. ‘She’s hungry – I’ll give her some milk. And I’ll make us a cup of tea, shall I, Aunty?’

  ‘We’ve only just had tea,’ she said, but we shared a pot even so. It was comforting – so much nicer than the strange sort served at the manor. I nibbled a reassuring digestive biscuit, even though I was full of chocolate cake.

  ‘I hope Mr Benjamin won’t keep on inviting his horrid friends. Do you think he likes that Desiree?’

  ‘I think it’s her mother who’s setting her cap at Mr Benjamin, flashing those great white legs all the time,’ said Aunty. ‘Unless that display was for Mr Michael’s benefit.’

  We both snorted at the idea.

  ‘Or maybe they like Mr Ambrose. Now, he really was rude, ignoring everyone,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, he was.’ Aunty shook her head. ‘Whatever would Lady Somerset say if she could see that arty rabble in her drawing room? I’m shocked at Mr Benjamin, for all he was kind to us. I wouldn’t go up to the manor again, even if he came and begged me.’

  ‘Nor me,’ I said, wanting to sound loyal. I hated them looking down on poor Aunty and thinking her a sad old spinster. She couldn’t help it if no one had wanted to marry her. Or had they? Had Aunty had a sweetheart who died in the war? I wondered if I dared ask her. But perhaps that would be pert.

  I didn’t mean it when I said I wouldn’t go up to the manor again. Of course I would. I loved Mr Benjamin. I couldn’t bear not to see him any more. I wished he could be my sweetheart when I grew up.

  ‘Poor you!’ said Maggie.

  13

  Peter Robinson still wanted to be my sweetheart, even though we’d had words about Mr Benjamin. Maggie was cool with me for a couple of days, but then we made friends again too. Every day we compared notes about our kittens. We even started up a Kitten Club, Maggie and Peter and me. I made badges out of thick cardboard and safety pins borrowed from Aunty. I was the best at drawing, so I did a ginger kitten on Peter’s, a black kitten with a white face on Maggie’s, and a beautiful black kitten on mine. I added a pink tongue on Sixpence’s portrait to give it a bit of colour, but it reminded me of Desiree, so I scribbled over it with black crayon.

  We invented a kitten game too – a variation of tag, where we had to mew loudly if we were caught. It was a bit pointless really, but it meant that the three of us could play together without falling out.

  Then, one morning at Prayers, Miss Nelson announced to everyone that the school inspector was coming at the end of the week. There were groans. Miss Nelson hushed us and said we were being silly, but she didn’t look too happy either. The school inspector was a wizened old man called Mr Riley. All the boys, and most of the girls, in our class were taller than him – and yet the moment he stomped into the hall there was total silence. If you fidgeted or yawned he’d throw blackboard chalk at you. He once even threw the wooden blackboard eraser and made a boy’s head bleed.

  He’d ask us terrifying questions. The little ones only had to recite their two times table and chant their way through the alphabet, but when it was our turn we had to parse a sentence and do complicated multiplication sums in our heads and answer his general knowledge questions. They were nearly all of a religious nature: Which is the shortest book in the Holy Bible? Spell Deuteronomy! Give three examples of Our Lord’s miracles. And finally he would pick an older child at random and command them to recite Psalm 121 or Corinthians 13, and if they weren’t word perfect he would berate them as if his small frame contained the wrath of God itself.

  Over the next few days Miss Nelson did her best to prepare us, but everyone became so anxious they couldn’t concentrate. She snapped at us and said we’d get her into trouble. But it wasn’t Mr Riley who turned up on Friday! Since his last visit he had retired, and the board sent a new school inspector. When we filed into the school, he was standing at the front, a smiley man in a checked shirt and corduroys and a knitted tie. He was young enough to be Mr Riley’s son – maybe even his grandson.

  ‘Good morning, children. Settle down now!’ Miss Nelson twittered, pink in the face. ‘This is the new school inspector, Mr White. Say good morning!’

  ‘Good morn-ing, Mis-ter White,’ we droned obediently. ‘Good morning, children. And isn’t it a lovely morning too! Tell me what you noticed on the way to school today. Who saw a bird or a butterfly? How many types of wild flowers did you see by the wayside? Who saw an oak or an elm tree? Where are you likely to spot a yew? I saw several