Dancing the Charleston Read online

  I decided I might love him quite a lot now.

  ‘Naked men aren’t art, they’re just disgusting,’ said Maggie.

  ‘What about Jesus?’ I asked, suddenly inspired. ‘Think of the statue of him in church! He’s just got a loincloth and you can’t possibly say he’s disgusting, or the hand of God will reach down out of the clouds and smite you dead.’

  That shut her up, but only for a moment.

  ‘Anyway, Mr Benjamin’s disgusting too, talking to you when he’s just wearing his nightshirt,’ she said.

  ‘I keep telling you, it was a borrowed nightshirt because he’d been out at a party.’

  Peter’s expression changed. ‘What? He was just wearing a nightshirt when he was with you?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t look like that. It was perfectly decent. The nightshirt came right down to the ground so he was completely covered up, and he wore a cloak over it too,’ I said.

  ‘Even so. Gentlemen shouldn’t prance about in their nightclothes in front of ladies,’ said Peter.

  ‘He wasn’t prancing. And I’m not a lady, I’m just a girl. Stop it – you’re making it sound horrible and it wasn’t a bit like that,’ I said, getting cross.

  ‘It still sounds wrong. And you know it is, because you’re blushing,’ said Peter.

  ‘No I’m not!’

  ‘Yes you are, you’re bright red,’ Maggie taunted me.

  ‘Just shut up, both of you,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Mona – I’m just saying, he shouldn’t have done that. You stay away from him. You hear all sorts about those Somersets. They’re a weird bunch,’ said Peter.

  ‘You don’t even know them, either of you. You’re just jealous because I’m friends with Mr Benjamin now. I’m not listening to another word from either of you,’ I said, and ran off.

  Beside her sat another lady with the same bold expression.

  12

  Mr Benjamin moved into the manor on the last Saturday in June. I spent ages making him a welcome card. I pinched a sheet of good white paper from the stationery cupboard when Miss Nelson wasn’t looking, and when I got home I folded it carefully and drew Mr Benjamin’s drawing room on the front. I found it difficult to make the armchairs face the right way, and the sofa ended up several inches above the rug, but I had to leave it floating because I’d already done so many rubbings out that the paper was starting to look furry. I drew the picture of the naked man too, but only suggested his outline because Aunty was hovering nearby.

  The card looked very boringly grey, while Mr Benjamin’s drawing room was so colourful, so I had a go at painting it. I only had a small paint box (a gift from Lady Somerset’s Christmas party two years previously). The Crimson Lake wouldn’t make the right shade of pink, no matter how much I watered it down, and the Prussian Blue was nothing like that soft forget-me-not blue of the armchairs, but I did my best. It was hard working with such watery shades, and I couldn’t stop some of the colours running.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Aunty. ‘You’re going over the lines, Mona.’

  ‘I can’t help it!’ I wailed.

  ‘I think you’d better start again.’

  ‘But I’ve only got one sheet of paper. It doesn’t look too bad, does it, Aunty?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, and that was all.

  I waited until the paint dried, and then I opened my card up and wrote in my very best handwriting:

  ‘But it’s not Mr Benjamin’s new home,’ said Aunty, inspecting what I’d written. ‘It’s his ancestral home, where he grew up. And you shouldn’t put love, that’s far too forward. You should write something like Yours respectfully, and you should never put kisses on a gentleman’s card.’

  ‘Well, I have, so there,’ I said mutinously.

  I knew that she was probably right, and I had half a mind to tear the card up there and then, but I badly wanted an excuse to go up to the manor – I still couldn’t believe I was welcome to drop in any time I cared to. So on Sunday morning I ran off, hoping that he might be dancing through the grass in his nightshirt again – but this time he was up and dressed.

  He wore a navy smock with a little red checked scarf tied at the neck and workman’s trousers, though he still managed to look stylish. He was standing by a row of removal vans, among real workmen who were trudging backwards and forwards with great tea chests, while a fair-haired man in overalls directed them here and there. He was the man who had accompanied Mr Benjamin to Lady Somerset’s funeral. I suddenly wondered if he was the naked man in the portrait and came over all shy.

  ‘Mona! Welcome! Ambrose, this is my special little friend Mona. Mona, Ambrose is my dearest friend, and an interior designer with exquisite taste to boot,’ Mr Benjamin exclaimed.

  Ambrose nodded briefly, not particularly interested in me, but Mr Benjamin still gave me his full attention.

  ‘We are just about to break for cups of much-needed strong tea, because we’ve been toiling like beavers since eight this morning. You must join us. I dare say Cook can magic up some cake too. What’s that you’ve got in your hand?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ I said foolishly, hiding the card behind my back. It seemed incredibly childish now and I wished I hadn’t brought it.

  ‘Nothing?’ said Mr Benjamin, and suddenly pounced. ‘Aha!’

  He took the card and peered at it in seeming delight. ‘Oh, Mona, did you do this yourself?’

  ‘I’m sorry it’s so smudgy,’ I mumbled. ‘And the shapes are all weird.’

  ‘It’s utterly perfect – practically a Cézanne!’

  I had no idea who Cézanne was, but it seemed to be a compliment, and I beamed in relief.

  Ella brought Mr Benjamin, Ambrose and me a big pot of tea and plum cake, and ferried the workmen off to the kitchen for their own refreshments. She glanced at me as if I should be scurrying along with the men.

  Mr Benjamin chuckled. ‘Oh, Mona, if looks could kill!’ he whispered.

  ‘She thinks I should know my place,’ I said.

  ‘Isn’t Mona one of your many nieces?’ Ambrose drawled, picking the fruit out of his cake like a little child.

  ‘As good as,’ said Mr Benjamin, putting his arm round me, while I glowed.

  ‘This is absolutely scrumptious cake,’ I said, with my mouth full.

  ‘Yes, I totally agree. I gave dear Cook a hefty pay rise and fitted out her kitchen, so she’s going the extra mile for me. I shall need an entire new wardrobe if I keep stuffing myself like this. I think I might be getting a little paunch already,’ said Mr Benjamin, patting the entirely flat stomach under his smock.

  Ambrose simply yawned. I frowned at him. He didn’t seem a nice enough friend for Mr Benjamin, for all his looks.

  ‘You must pop up for tea too, Mona,’ Mr Benjamin continued. ‘Rumour has it that chocolate cake is on the menu!’

  ‘You’re such a child, Benjy,’ said Ambrose.

  ‘And why not? It’s utterly lovely being a child – isn’t it, Mona?’

  I wasn’t sure I agreed with him, but I nodded emphatically.

  ‘I had such a wonderful time playing here before I was sent off to that ghastly school,’ said Mr Benjamin. ‘My brothers were all much bigger than me, too old for childish games, but I didn’t care a jot. I was perfectly happy playing by myself. I dressed up in all sorts – I became a pirate and a lion tamer and an acrobat and—’

  ‘A fairy queen?’ Ambrose interrupted rudely.

  ‘Now, now,’ said Mr Benjamin. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d lie down in the meadow and watch for hours, hoping for just one glimpse of a real fairy.’

  ‘I have a tiny doll called Farthing, and sometimes I pretend she’s a fairy. Well, I did when I was little,’ I confided.

  Ambrose rolled his eyes, but Mr Benjamin seemed enchanted. ‘Do you still have this tiny doll?’ he asked. ‘Oh, bring her here. Would she fit in a doll’s house? Wait till mine is unpacked!’

  I was surprised to find a man owning a doll’s house, albeit an eccentric on