Emily and Daisy passed their finals well, and Mrs. Lane wrote to Mrs. McVeagh, the stepmother. She had thought of writing to John McVeagh, but that would have been too much of a confrontation. The stepmother returned a note. ‘Thank you for letting me know about Emily. What a clever girl she has always been. Yours sincerely.’
Mrs. Lane was pretty sure John McVeagh would have been following Emily’s progress, stage by stage. Mrs. John McVeagh (that nasty old crow) had said ‘letting me know’. Not one to go against her husband, then. Mrs. Lane wrote to say she was giving a dance for her daughter, Daisy (whom of course they knew well as Emily’s best friend), and for Emily. ‘You would all be welcome.’ The father and the stepmother wouldn’t come, but there was Emily’s brother. Perhaps he would.
Mrs. Lane could have killed John McVeagh with her own two hands. Not to mention the stepmother. Surely they might have reflected that Emily had no one to applaud her, let alone make a dance for her. And could not that old stinge at least have given Emily money for some clothes?
On the nurses’ pay Emily could not have afforded to dress well; she had the most basic of wardrobes. And she ought to have a dress, a real one: would it have cost that pompous old fool (John McVeagh) so much to send her money for a decent ‘best’ dress?
Emily would be dreaming of a dress, Mrs. Lane knew. Her daughter was. Wouldn’t any girl? Not since she was a schoolgirl had Emily owned a pretty frock.
She’s got no mother, no mother, Mrs. Lane reminded herself as she planned a special dress for Emily. She had bought a bolt of sweetly pretty sprigged white muslin and she made Daisy (her little angel) a dress cut from one she had had herself as a girl. Puffed sleeves, ribbons, a fichu of lace. Having seen Daisy in it, she at once cut one out for Emily, having got Daisy to make sure of measurements.
They all got dressed in Daisy’s bedroom, Mrs. Lane in her best grey satin, and Emily was disappointed, though she tried not to show it. Sprigged muslin, and she hated it.
Emily was strong, lean and well muscled, after the hard labour of nursing, and she was rather brown, having played a lot of tennis that summer. Emily dressed, knowing she looked gawky and uncomfortable. She thanked Mrs. Lane, over and over again, because she knew that she loved her, and had done her best.
The bank was lending the Lanes their boardroom, all shining dark brown wood and heavy brown velvet curtains. In this austere setting Emily seemed even more out of place, with her little puffed sleeves and pink sash. Daisy looked wonderful. Mrs. Lane was dissolved in love for her little flower and sick with shame because she had done so badly for Emily. All the young men who worked for the bank as far as Ipswich were there, and some of the farmers. Daisy was dancing every dance, a veritable whirl of flowery muslin and smiles. The men were queuing up to dance with her, Alfred more persistent than anyone. This was a high point in Daisy’s life and she never forgot it. She had passed her exams well enough, and now Alfred, her hero since she was a tiny girl, took her around the floor for dance after dance.
Emily did not do so well. Alfred did dance with her but she was awkward and stiff, probably because she hated how she looked.
A triumph, then, for Daisy, and something to forget as soon as possible, for Emily. That night, Emily wept silently in her bed, in Daisy’s room, and Mrs. Lane wept at what she had done, or not done for Emily, whom she loved so well. She cried until her husband stirred in his sleep beside her and asked her what was wrong.
Mrs. Lane had made sure the local paper had sent someone to the dance, had instructed him in what to say, making a point of singling out Emily, and she sent the cutting to the McVeaghs.
Heartless, horrible people. Cold and heartless and horrible, imprecated Mrs. Lane.
In the morning, Alfred opened the Lanes’ kitchen door and saw Mr. Lane eating his porridge at the head of the table.
‘Oh, there you are, old son,’ said Mr. Lane. ‘Porridge? Toast? The tea’s just made.’
Alfred dropped in at this time most mornings. It was really to see Mrs. Lane, though this morning he hoped he would catch Daisy before she left for London. He was always hungry: he had been up for hours. Today he was out by four. He had been thinking of Daisy, yes, but more on the lines of: I’ve known her all my life but only now do I really see her, what she is.
Alfred ladled himself porridge from the black pot that simmered all night on the stove, which was burning merrily, having been well stoked.
Mr. Lane, a father as well as a husband, had been thinking of how Alfred had flirted with Daisy all evening and wondered if he could expect Alfred to ask for her hand. If so, what should he say? Daisy was doing so well, and did he, her father, want her to marry a farmer? I will deal with that when I come to it, he decided, and went on eating toast.
Meanwhile, in the bedroom, Daisy was singing as she brushed her hair, for she had been dreaming all night of handsome Alfred. But Emily, packing her case for London, could not bring herself to put into it the white frock that had caused her so much heartache. Mrs. Lane saw her and came over and put her arms around the girl. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘If you only knew how ashamed I feel…’
‘You are so good to me always,’ said Emily, and saw with relief that Mrs. Lane was going to take the frock – take it and, oh, burn it, hide it, I never want to think about it again.
Mrs. Lane came first into the kitchen, greeted Alfred and said, yes, she would like some porridge.
Almost at once Daisy came in, and she and Alfred began joking and flirting. Alfred loved flirting, and it became so noisy and outrageous that Mr. Lane had to laugh, and went out saying, ‘Well, better you flirt with my daughter than with my wife, I suppose.’
And now entered Emily, and Alfred was thinking, Now, who is this bobby-dazzler, who can she be? And then immediately recognized Emily, who was as far from the flowery-muslin-frocked maiden as could be imagined. She wore a dark blue skirt, and a blouse of dark blue stripes that had a small white linen collar.
She smiled at Alfred, hoping he would not remember her as she was last night, and said she did not feel like eating. Some tea, perhaps.
Alfred thought she looked tired and sad: a contrast to the frivolity of the last few minutes.
He said to Daisy, but it would have been to Emily too, ‘Shall I come and see you when I come to town?’
‘Oh, yes, please,’ said Daisy.
‘Yes, do,’ said Emily, being no more than polite.
‘We will probably find a little flat for the two of us,’ said Emily. ‘We’ve had enough of nurses’ quarters.’
‘So check with Mother,’ said Daisy, recognizing at that moment that her dreams of last night were only that.
And at this moment Bert Redway knocked on the open door, pushed it half open and said to them generally, ‘I’ve come for Alfred.’
This, too, happened most mornings.
Alfred gave a little half-mocking bow to Daisy, went around the table to embrace Mrs. Lane, and to Emily said, ‘Well, perhaps I’ll see you when I do get up to town.’
He and Bert strolled off down the path. Bert had a hay fork over his shoulder, and from the gate Alfred picked up another from where he had left it.
The two young men went off, and Daisy and Mrs. Lane were at the door to watch them.
‘I love seeing Alfred with Bert,’ said Mrs. Lane. ‘They are so good for each other.’ She was not referring to Alfred’s special position with the Redways – ‘more of a son, really’ – but that Bert tended to be wild, sometimes drank too much, and Alfred steadied him.
‘Alfred’s like an older brother to Bert,’ said Daisy’s mother, embracing Daisy as she went by.
‘And it is time we left,’ said Emily.
Again Mrs. Lane stood to watch two young people go off, but in the opposite direction to the men.