“Some friend. According to Dot, he was seen compromising the living daylights out of her last Wednesday at a revue in Mayfair. Dotty went up to him while Miss Wormald was off powdering and asked him how he was. Apparently he blushed down to his toes and pretended he was on some sort of business excursion, entertaining the temporarily abandoned wife of a railway chap over from South Africa. Absolute rot, of course. Good old Dotty did some digging. She’s as British as the next man and as unmarried as you or I. I say, he’s coming towards us.”

Douglas was pushing through the crowd towards the bar.

“Douglas,” said Pat, loudly.

He looked up and saw them. His smile took a second to appear. “Hello, you two. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Do we never come out?” said Pat.

“Oh, no, of course you do. I just meant – well, isn’t this jolly?”

“Isn’t it?” said Pat.

“How are you both?”

“Brilliant as usual,” said Pat.

“I got your letter,” said Joan.

“Ah. Oh – did you? Jolly good. Nothing much to report. She’s getting terribly near.”

“To what?” said Pat.

Joan pushed Pat with her elbow. “And I hear Fagus walked a little?”

“He did.” He looked relieved to be talking about it. “Little chap took a few steps in the garden. Marvellous.”

On the other side of the room, through the crowds of heads and jewels and feathers, Joan watched Mabel Wormald put a white gloved hand to her neat hair and tidy a curl into place.

“I think someone’s waiting for you,” said Pat.

“Is there?” said Douglas.

“Weren’t you on your way to the bar?”

“So I was,” said Douglas.

“You don’t want to keep her waiting.”

“Now, look here,” said Douglas.

“Oh, don’t get in a twist. We don’t care, do we, Joan?”

“Can we change the subject?” said Joan.

“We all have our secrets, don’t we?” Pat smiled at him.

“Well, good to see you,” said Douglas.

“And you,” said Pat, draining her glass.

He pushed away from them and Pat smirked.

“Stop it,” said Joan.

“I told you,” said Pat.

The bell rang and the lights in the bar flashed on and off, three times. The crowd surged, and Pat and Joan were taken with it. They mounted the stairs like slow salmon leaping upstream at their leisure, a trail of silk and chinoiserie, feathers bobbing.

In their box, Pat held glasses to her eyes. “Do you think your sister knows?”

“I’m sure she doesn’t,” replied Joan.

The lights dimmed, the curtain rose, and Douglas and Mabel were lost to the hushed dark.

Enid, 1922

12

Enid, 1922

It was all going so well until Douglas came home midweek when he was supposed to be in London till Friday, rattled the nursery door and said, “Enid, let me in.”