Dancing the Charleston Read online

  ‘Aunty?’ said Esmeralda, mimicking the way I said it. I flushed, feeling ridiculous.

  ‘I know who you are!’ said Roland. ‘You’re the dressmaker’s niece. Mother told me about you. You live in Gatekeeper’s Cottage.’

  ‘We do now,’ I said, ‘but maybe we won’t any more. Aunty – Aunt – asked your uncle George if we could stay, but he wouldn’t talk about it. And we don’t have anywhere else to go. We’ll have to live on the streets and end up in the workhouse,’ I declared dramatically.

  I didn’t really believe it. Aunty might sell enough of her children’s clothes to rent a room for us in Hailbury. And at breakfast she had suggested that, as a last resort, she could always be a housekeeper to some kindly gentleman – perhaps a vicar – who might allow me to live in his house too.

  The Somerset children looked shocked when I said the word workhouse.

  ‘That’s terrible!’ said Marcella.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘Especially when your grandmother promised my aunt we could stay. She did, truly. But I don’t think your uncle believed us.’

  ‘I’m sure our father would have let you stay – he was a very honourable man,’ said Roland. ‘But he died of that beastly influenza, and now we have a horrible stepfather. We don’t know who’s going to be living at the manor. Grandmother was very secretive about her will, though Uncle George is confident of getting the estate.’

  ‘It should be Rupert,’ said Marcella. ‘Only Grandmother disapproves of us and says we live like gypsies. I wish we did! I’d love to live in a caravan.’

  ‘We won’t be living here anyway,’ said Esmeralda. ‘We’ve already got a house in France. I tell you what, I think Uncle George is rather fond of me. He’s always patting my back and calling me Goldilocks. I shall ask him if you can stay as a special favour to me.’

  ‘Would you?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m sure Bruno’s sorry he hit you. He just gets carried away,’ said Marcella.

  Bruno frowned, but didn’t contradict her.

  ‘I shall go and ask him right this minute,’ said Esmeralda, and she sauntered off, tossing her long golden hair.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better ask your aunt to wash your head and put iodine on your cut,’ Marcella suggested. ‘It stings, but it makes the cut better.’ She turned and walked off too, taking Bruno by the hand.

  ‘I hope your head stops hurting soon,’ said Roland.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  Roland nodded and followed the others. Then he turned. ‘I’m Roland, by the way.’

  ‘I’m Mona.’

  ‘Sorry about everything,’ he said. ‘I’ll try persuading Uncle George to let you stay too.’

  Then he ran off.

  ‘Stop! Stop the car!’ she shouted.

  5

  I told Aunty that Roland and Esmeralda were going to speak to their uncle George on our behalf. I thought she would be pleased with me, but she wrung her hands at the thought.

  ‘It will only make him more determined to get rid of us,’ she said. ‘And what were you doing, talking to Roland and Esmeralda? You mustn’t approach the Somerset children!’

  ‘They approached me! That nasty little Bruno dropped a stick on me – look! It jolly well hurt.’ I bent my head and showed Aunty my wound.

  She tutted as if it was somehow my fault, though she did clean it carefully. We didn’t have any iodine, but Aunty kept a small bottle of brandy for medicinal purposes, so she poured a drop or two onto cotton wool and dabbed with that. It stung and I protested.

  ‘Stop whining!’ she said sharply. ‘And count yourself lucky I’m not swigging the whole bottle myself. This constant fretting is enough to make me take to drink.’

  We tried to carry on as normal. Aunty sketched and sewed constantly, making enough dresses and shirts and shorts and rompers for a small kindergarten class. I went to school, played with Maggie, visited the Higginses, whispered to Mother in the churchyard, and went home again, day after day.

  Every lunchtime the boys invited me to play Kiss Chase, but I refused. I sat with Maggie and we played Treasures. Maggie had an old chocolate box containing a blue bead necklace without a clasp, a black pebble that she swore was jet, a little pot of rouge with a smidgen of red still inside, a lace hankie she’d found in the street, a matchbox containing a long-dead butterfly, and a four-leafed clover – though it looked as if it had been doctored.

  I had a soap box that still smelled of lavender if you sniffed hard, a skein of jade-green embroidery thread, a set of doll’s chairs made of conkers with pin legs, a stick of pink chalk, a few pressed rose petals and a farthing china doll half the size of my thumb.

  We handled our treasures lovingly and told stories about them and occasionally swapped them. Maggie was keen to own my little doll, and offered in exchange her best treasure, the blue bead necklace. I was very tempted – I thought Aunty could make a new clasp for it – but I loved little Farthing and decided she was worth far more to me than any jewellery. So we reached stalemate and got bored with our game. We realized we were getting too old for it now: our so-called treasures were of value to no one but ourselves.

  On Thursday Peter Robinson came over and sat beside us.

  ‘What are you doing, Peter? This is a girls’ game. Clear off,’ said Maggie.

  ‘I can sit anywhere I want,’ he said. ‘And anyone can play that game. I’ve got my own box of treasures at home. I’ve got a postage stamp from India, and six cigarette cards of cricketers, and a whopping great green glass marble.’

  We yawned to show we weren’t impressed, though I liked the sound of the marble.

  Peter sensed this. ‘Why don’t you come home with me after school, Mona, and I’ll show you?’ he said.

  ‘She comes home with me,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Well, she could come home with me just this once,’ Peter insisted. ‘We could swap stuff, Mona. I could even give you the marble for nothing, if you really liked it.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll come some other time,’ I said. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He was really quite a nice boy. He couldn’t help his short hair, which made his ears look big. His feet seemed too big too, clumsy in their rough boots. I couldn’t help thinking of Roland Somerset, with his long tangled mane and easy grace.

  ‘That told him,’ said Maggie as we walked home together, our treasure boxes clutched to our chests.

  ‘Poor Peter,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t like him, do you?’ she asked.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  ‘I don’t like any boys,’ I insisted. ‘Not even Roland Somerset.’ I hadn’t meant to mention him. The words just slipped out because I’d been thinking about him.

  ‘Roland Somerset!’ said Maggie, and she spluttered with laughter. She nudged me as if I’d made a joke. ‘Didn’t the family look awful at the funeral. Even Mum said it was a disgrace, and she never speaks ill of anyone. The boys look like girls! Their hair! They couldn’t even go to the barber’s for their grandma’s funeral!’

  She paused, expecting me to join in. So I did, just to keep her happy. In some ways it was enjoyable ridiculing the Somersets. Roland and Esmeralda made me feel so shy and awkward. So we skipped along laughing at their looks, their clothes, their loud ringing voices, their ragbag mother, their shabby stepfather. We did the Charleston together in the middle of the lane, and every time we took a step it was as if we were stamping on the Somersets.

  I stopped off at Maggie’s cottage, and Mrs Higgins gave me my usual slice of bread and dripping.

  ‘Did your aunty like the lardy cake?’ she asked eagerly.

  ‘Oh, yes, thank you, she said it was absolutely delicious,’ I lied. ‘And very kind of you.’

  ‘I’ll make sure she has a big slice next time I make one,’ said Mrs Higgins. ‘She looks as if she needs feeding up, your aunty. She’s so neat and nicely dressed, always the proper lady, but so thin. And you’re such a little scrap too, Mona, compared