45

The dance at the Somerset Parish Hall bore no resemblance to the stately gathering on the lawns of Southampton College. The flag of the British Empire flew gallantly above the gathering throng of ladies dressed for a garden party and their escorts. Young girls in pretty frocks prepared a long table with covered trays of sandwiches and sweets, while the young cadets ushered the carriages and assisted the ladies to alight. The lawn was staked and ribboned for the parade, and the headmaster, in a mild frenzy of excitement, supervised the installation of two large chairs on the small hill that would serve to seat his guests.

When MacQueen arrived the carriage was immediately surrounded by eager cadets, who raised a cheer. They stood back in awe as Lieutenant Cyples assisted the countess, then crowded around MacQueen again.

“Sergeant Major!” shouted Captain MacQueen. “Get these men back to work—fall them in. Two ranks over there in the shade!”

“Yes, sir!” said Sergeant Major Hawkins, with a salute. He now wore the yellow and green ribbons, and he would receive the red one from the governor today. “Over here, men!” he said, in a rather unmilitary manner.

“Mummy couldn’t come,” said John Warnefeld-Davies breathlessly. “She doesn’t go anywhere….”

“Will she see you in the play?” asked MacQueen.

John shrugged and ran to join his comrades. Sir Humphry’s carriage was turning across the railway tracks, and then between the gates into the driveway. Two nervous black horses were pulling it, and a tall black man in a white sun helmet sat high on the box. Behind him sat the aide-de-camp in a white naval officer’s uniform, and a young girl. They were facing a large, florid man wearing a white suit and a panama hat, and the Lady Lemonton in a long, salmon-coloured dress and wide hat. She carried a fan with the badge of Queen Isabella painted on it.

MacQueen stood beside the headmaster to receive the ex-governor of the Falkland Islands. Peripherally, he was astonished to see their honorary major, the Reverend Mr. Pearkes, hurrying across the road; he was dressed in lilac-tinted riding breeches and jingling silver spurs. He was in a rush to greet Lady Lemonton, and Patrick thought that he was going the wrong way about it.

The carriage sagged dangerously as His Excellency put his weight onto the small step and grabbed his aide’s outstretched hand. This young officer was an RNVR lieutenant, and MacQueen remembered him from the old days at the tennis club.

“Hello, Pat,” he muttered inaudibly.

“Hello, Bobbie,” said Pat.

His Excellency puffed his cheeks, doffed his hat, and ran a handkerchief around the sweatband. “Bloody hot,” he snorted, then turned back towards Lady Lemonton. Somehow the Reverend Mr. Pearkes popped up in front of him and reached for Lady Lemonton’s hand. He had pinned the brightest lanyard around his shoulder and over his withered arm. His hand fluttered like a wounded sparrow, and he held a knotted hunting whip under the armpit. His boots were waxed, and his blue yachting cap was at a jaunty angle. It was the first time that anyone had seen him in uniform.

Lady Lemonton did not even glance at him. She passed MacQueen in a wave of light cologne that almost knocked him off his feet.

Angella stood on a small hill, with her mother. They both wore large hats and tried to look unconcerned. Major Stead had stepped towards the jetty in the back, and was sharing a flask of whisky with Lieutenant Cyples.

Mrs. Eva MacQueen greeted Lady Lemonton and immediately sensed what had happened. It explained the gold sunglasses, and Patrick’s obvious distraction throughout the day.

“Freda, my dear, you look lovely,” said Eva MacQueen. “Is that your daughter? My, what a big girl.”

Lady Lemonton’s daughter wore a hot velvet skirt with white stockings and thought all of this an intolerable bore. She was a long-legged, angular girl of twelve, and was completely overshadowed by her mother.

To Lady Lemonton, Eva MacQueen’s most outstanding trait was her lack of pretentiousness, although she did not view this in a necessarily positive light. Lady Lemonton’s father’s family traced back through countless slaughtered knights who had misplaced their trust, and her husband’s family was just on the way up—so her ladyship was wary of everyone. She was still a renowned beauty, but her image had been tarnished along with King Edward VIII. The dynamics of the new order in Europe fascinated her, and she was currently out of favour in London. She would have gone to the Bahamas, but she didn’t like the Duchess, and Edward seemed bewitched.

“Your son has done a fine job,” she said noncommittally.

The two chairs stood on the hill. The governor lumbered his way to one and sat down. Lady Lemonton sat in the other. Lieutenant Cyples found an old wooden whisky crate and upended it as a footstool for His Excellency. Bobbie noticed Angella, and her mother noticed him. He would be a better catch than the Canadian fellow with the bad arm, she thought. Bobbie’s fate was sealed.

The inspection party was composed of the governor, the honorary major, the sergeant major, and Captain MacQueen. When this was finished, a few of the boys were summoned to receive medals. The drummer rolled a rhythm on the drum, and one boy fainted. Then they performed manoeuvres, and the sick boy insisted on rejoining them. They marched past the governor and Lady Lemonton, down the shaded driveway, and were dismissed by the gate. Then they all excitedly returned to their mothers’ embraces and exited, chattering among themselves. The young girls passed plates of sandwiches, and the governor disappeared into the schoolhouse, where Bobbie set up his private bar. The punch that was served was a malodorous mixture of pineapple and lime juice blended with cold tea and bobbing with lemon rinds. It was a specialty of Mrs. Beach’s, and everyone quietly poured it into the grass.

“It’s a crisis,” whispered MacQueen to the honorary major. The headmaster agreed, and the sergeant major was dispatched on his bicycle to the nearest bar. He soon returned, escorting a wagon on which was perched a barman and wooden boxes of bottles. Everyone cheered.

The governor instructed the barman to transport the entire bar to the amphitheatre. The countess offered to foot the entire bill; her social prestige escalated immediately. MacQueen saw Angella laughing gaily at one of Bobbie’s tales from Government House—at least his presence explained how his mother had known of the Lady Hawkins’ arrival.

“Have you anything to tell me, Pat?” asked Bill Cyples. “You seem a little distant today.”

Patrick MacQueen looked at the brown, craggy, reassuring face of his friend. He laughed and shook his head. “Imagine those stupid bastards neglecting a bar!” he said. “Christ, everybody was ready to drop! That’s carrying low Anglicanism too far.”

Gradually they straggled down the driveway and across the railway tracks towards the amphitheatre. The sun was dipping behind the hills and the shadows were lengthening on the ground. Two wickets stood at an angle on the cricket pitch, and Mrs. Beach trotted out to rescue them. In her gaudy, flowering gown she looked like a big aspidistra plant.

MacQueen went behind the stage that the boys had erected. The guests stood around in knots or sat on the grass. “Is everything okay?” he asked Angella. She was adjusting John Warnefeld-Davies’ costume.

“I think so, Pat,” said Angella. There was no flirtatious glance now, and she appeared nervous.

“Mummy called,” said John. His face was flushed with delight. “She’s coming to the play!”

Patrick joined Bobbie, who was chatting with Mrs. Stead.

“Make way for a naval officer!” said MacQueen. They laughed.

Everyone settled on the wooden benches or remained on the grass. Two boys lit the lanterns in front of the stage, and MacQueen’s set design of Venice drew a little gasp of appreciation from the audience. The Reverend Mr. Pearkes strutted onto centre stage to commence the introduction. A carriage drove up the roadway in the rear, and MacQueen caught a flash of gold and scarlet. He walked to the little wooden gate, where the coachman was assisting a black-haired lady to alight. Patrick had never seen anyone so striking in his life.

“Are you Captain MacQueen?” she asked. She had uncoiled from her seat like a leopard. Her shoulders were covered with a tailored gold lamé jacket, which she wore over a scarlet evening dress. Her cheekbones were high, and her heavy lidded eyes swept upwards at the outer corners. Her hair hung to her shoulders and was parted in the middle of her head. She was fine-boned, very small, and carried a golden purse. Her fragrance was musky and exciting.

“You are John’s mother,” answered Patrick MacQueen. He was slightly awestruck at this formidable little figure…the top of her head hardly reached his chin, and he assumed that her heels were high.

“You have one great admirer. Maybe two?” A quick glance of mischief darted out of her eyes but was quickly shrouded.

“In sooth, I know not why I am so sad…” came Antonio’s falsetto voice from the stage. Rene Warnefeld-Davies placed a finger on her lips, and Patrick held open the gate. He guided her across the grassy slope, towards the end of a bench. “Can I get you a drink?” he whispered.

“Rum-and-anything,” she replied. She had a strange accent…her voice seemed to come from deep within. MacQueen looked up to see Lady Lemonton looking directly at her, without approval. That scarlet dress certainly made the rest of them look dowdy.

“Your mind is tossing on the ocean…” proclaimed Salarino. MacQueen silently crept around the outer edges of the crowd, towards the improvised bar. It was rapidly growing dark, and the stars were speckling the sky like jewels. The Little Dipper tilted over the amphitheatre and the carriage horses neighed and jangled their harness.

“…everythin’ I do is wrong…”

A door opened in the headmaster’s residence, throwing a quick red angle of light into the darkness. The bartender slapped a mosquito.

“Give me two rum and Cokes,” said MacQueen.

“Ain’t no more ice left,” said the barman.

“Why then, you are in love,” said Salarino.

Eva MacQueen had noticed her son’s entrance guiding the lady in the scarlet dress with a sinking heart. The countess remembered her from somewhere. Bill Cyples thought she would be a fiery lay.