'Have you got absolutely nothing to wear to this party, Beth?' Delia's voice was pitying rather than censorious.
'Nothing in here that's "drop dead gorgeous",' said Mary Hillier as kindly as she could, but speaking to Delia.
'A good thing that we brought some clothes along with us,' said Delia. 'In case you were caught short.'
Mary Hillier had disappeared out to the Range Rover, in which they had arrived, and came back with a large garment bag. Out came some gloriously chic clothes by the likes of Stella McCartney, McQueen, Versace and others. A clutch of extravagant shoes, silk and lace underwear, and costume jewellery to match had been brought along too.
'You're really putting on this party for the May Queen? I mean, that is like my role for tonight?' Beth asked.
Even as Delia and Mary Hillier were reassuring Beth that she had described her role exactly, she was suddenly revelling at the very idea of walking into a room in one of these outfits. Not just Queen of the May, but Beth Boothby, star once again – and seeing the effect of it in every woman's and every man's eyes. To be that terrible cliché 'drop dead gorgeous' just for this one night. To sing some old appropriate hit like 'I'm the tops! I'm the Coliseum! I'm a waltz by Strauss…' No, that wasn't quite right, but the band would know it and she would get it right on the night. And to hell with Steve! Plenty of time to bring him back into the fold, she told herself. Bringing him back to her might have to be a priority over bringing him back to Jesus, but she would wrestle with that later. 'Tomorrow,' as another southern belle had famously said, 'is another day.'
'This is your night,' said Delia. 'You'll never have another like it.'
And they went to work to make her prophecy come true. When three women, belonging to roughly three generations, from three vastly different backgrounds, set out to prepare one of their number to make a fashion statement, to look attractive, even sexy, but not vulgarly so; to inspire respectful lust in men, and envy, mixed with admiration, in women, the result could very easily have been disastrous.
In fact, under Delia's inspired leadership, they ended up with just the right effect. Beth's youth, as reflected in every detail of her face and hair, as Delia had noted at the cathedral, meant that any make-up was superfluous. The Versace halter-necked dress they chose clung so tightly to her body that on anyone with a less perfect figure than hers it would have advertised their imperfections for all to remark. And yet it seemed irreproachably modest and ladylike. Until she turned her back. There the dress was cut right down to almost the base of her spine, revealing as beautiful a naked back as any woman could dream of having.
Beame, dressed in a kilt of dubious authenticity, looked nevertheless imposing and convincingly butler-like as he greeted Delia, Mary and Beth in the front hall. Music and the rhythmic sound of shoe-leather on a well-sprung floor told Beth that the dancing had begun.
Delia saw that she was suitably impressed with the slightly tattered grandeur of this space. Beth had indeed read some history, mainly about the American civil war, the background to
Gone with the Wind
. She asked with genuine interest about the battle flags, hung high above her head, and learned that they had belonged to long dead lowland regiments, bedecked with the far-flung battle honours of those men of Tressock who had fought at Cawnpore and Seringapatam; at Quebec and New Orleans; at Ypres and Gallipoli. Interspersed amid all this history of valour in far off places were the beautifully preserved, stuffed heads of crocodiles and rhinos, tigers and leopards, but mostly deer with magnificent antlers.
'The flags used to hang in the church,' explained Delia, 'and Beame here stuffed all those stags' heads, didn't you Beame? He was a professional taxidermist before he came to work for us.'
'Yeah? Interesting!' said Beth politely, disguising her distaste. 'So what do you..? How do you..?'
On her many starry singing tours around America she had, every now and then, had some R and R organised by women's groups anxious to point out local colour and history. In Berlin, Florida, which proclaimed itself, on a big sign as you drove into town,
Iron Lawn Flamingo Capital of the World
, she had to spend two hours watching the whole process of making the birds, from casting, through painting a lurid pink, to putting out to grass. Then, as now, she had managed to look genuinely intrigued and delighted throughout. Queen Elizabeth of Great Britain couldn't have done it better. It was a gift from the Lord and when Beth added the smile her hosts were invariably enchanted by her. Now she was fixing Beame with the look which said: I'm really anxious to know the answer.
'Everyone works different, miss,' said Beame, highly gratified at her interest. 'Some people start with grinding out the bones. But I always commence with the organs. The brain, for instance, comes straight out of the eye sockets…'
Beame had just caught Delia's thunderous look.
'…anyway it's just a hobby now, miss.'
He said this hastily before opening the big double doors to the Grand Saloon. To Beth's relief, their entrance was not immediately noticed, so that she had time to take in the scene. The band, which consisted of pipers as well as the more conventional instruments of a dance band, gathered close to the piano they had used that morning. They were dancing in eights, four men and four women, criss-crossing in intricate patterns. Every now and then a woman and a man would break ranks and move forward to dance with each other and then return to the eightsome. The women were dressed in party dresses with plaid sashes, often held by a silver brooch at the shoulder. Some of the men had dressed in tuxedos, but discarded the jackets for dancing. Others wore the kilt, but they too had open-necked dress shirts.
'We have clubs that do this back home,' Beth told Delia. 'Only the girls wearing kilts. I guess the guys think it would look too gay. But, hey, these guys look good in their kilts. Is it true they don't wear anything underneath?'
'I think it depends which way they swing, Beth,' Delia replied. 'Of course you could check it out if you want to make Steve jealous. Want to try? To dance, I mean.'
Delia led Beth off to a corner of the room, where she started to teach her the basic steps. The band had seen them and continued to play, only changing to another tune. A group of mostly young men gathered to watch them. Delia suddenly stopped.
'The Queen of the May would like to dance,' announced Delia loudly.
This announcement took Beth rather by surprise, although she was longing to dance the eightsome. But now a dozen young men had moved forward, laughingly jostling each other for the honour to dance with her. She was clearly expected to make a choice. It made her suddenly very self-conscious, a rare feeling for her. What had made her decide to wear this sexy dress? Just Steve's behaviour? She was here on a mission for Jesus. She felt a moment of remorse and wanted somehow to make amends with the Lord, who must be disappointed at her behaviour. Looking at the men, trying to think what the Lord would want her to do, she remembered a visiting preacher once saying to her class at high school, quoting some famous dude: 'there's a special place in heaven for the man who winks at a homely girl.'
The young men were a good-looking group for the most part, paler than Texans and shorter, and most of them slimmer. None of them anywhere near as attractive, in her eyes, as Steve, with his sun squinty eyes and his wonderful smile. She had noticed a particularly nerdy looking young man who had hung back when the others came forward, shorter than the rest, skinny and with slightly poppy eyes behind Coke bottle lenses.
She strode forward into the crowd and put her hand out to take his.
'What's your name?' she asked.
'Cameron,' he replied. 'Cameron Crawford.'
'I'm Beth. I'm just a beginner. But would you dance with me?'
'You are no just Beth, you're the Queen. It's an honour – I mean, why me? Oh heck, I'm not that good at dancing myself,' he said, astonishment mixed with pleasure. 'So that'll make two of us.'
With which he led her onto the floor, followed by Bella, Chloe and Deirdre, and Danny, Carl and Dawcus. The rest of the hundred or so people in the Grand Saloon watched their first dance, but Delia soon signalled for everyone to join in again. The Scottish dancing soon became more intricate, more energetic, more hectic. Beth was propelled into ever wilder movement as Cameron, Danny, Carl and Dawcus took it in turns to improvise steps with her, while the girls clapped.
Two hours later, she had danced, apart from the Scottish eightsomes, everything from an old fashioned waltz through to that good old American export, the line dance, and even some rather dated disco while the band were getting their share of the champagne. Beth now felt a wave of exhaustion such as she had not experienced since her last major gig. By now the crowd had thinned to about two dozen people. Soon, she thought, I can reasonably say I'm going to bed.
Meanwhile, Delia introduced her to Donald Dee, who was playing the piano. People offered her more champagne, but she waved it aside and gave them the smile.
'I'm just so sorry that Steve cannot be with us,' she confided to Donald Dee. 'That guy just loves to dance.'
'As Laddie, he'll need his rest tonight,' said Donald Dee. 'He has an Olympic-sized task tomorrow. We have a special song for the Laddie. Would you like to hear it?'
'Oh please. For a singer it is such a pleasure just to sit and listen sometimes.'
Delia had just entered with Beame, who was carrying a huge tray with a giant silver coffee pot and cups and saucers. Donald Dee had started to sing. He had a light tenor voice and the soft Scottish lowland accent that perfectly suited the lyric of the song he was singing:
'He will have a horse of the gods' own breed
He will have hounds that can outrun the wind
A hundred chiefs shall follow him in war
A hundred maidens sing him to his sleep
A crown of sovereignty his brow shall wear
And by his side a magic blade shall hang
And he shall be Lord of all the land of youth
And Lord of Niam the Head of Gold.'
'That's real pretty,' said Beth to Donald Dee. 'You must teach it to me sometime. Right now, this little old Queen needs her bed. It's been a wonderful evening and all. So where's Delia and Lachlan?' Beth had risen and was looking around for Delia, when she found her and Beame, carrying his coffee tray, at her elbow. Lachlan, too, now reappeared. He looked rather magnificent, she thought, with what Delia had told her was his dress kilt and the foam of white lace at his throat, right down to some kind of bowie knife in his hose. She'd danced with him earlier and he had performed with a rhythmic elegance which was nevertheless a bit stiff – as if the lessons of the boyhood dancing class came back to him well enough, but were still a bit of a chore. For the rest of the evening she glimpsed him occasionally talking on his phone.
'Delia, d'you mind if I go to bed now?' asked Beth. 'It has been a long day and, for some reason – I think everybody's response – I feel rather emotional. And thank you so much, you and Lachlan, for what you did for us today.'
'Some coffee, miss?' asked Beame.
'No coffee for me, thanks.'
'Would you prefer decaf, tea, hot milk?' asked Delia.
'Hot milk! Could I? You do spoil me, Delia.'
'Take some hot milk up to the guest room, will you, Beame?'
'Good night, dear Queen,' said Lachlan.
Then, as if by some telepathic consensus between the remaining guests, they all seemed to be conscious of her impending departure. They had drifted into a semi-circle by the piano and now they echoed Lachlan's words.
'Good night, dear Queen,' they chorused.
'Good night everybody,' she replied, with a departing wave, and followed Delia up to the guest room that had been prepared for her.
ORLANDO HAD DECIDED that, in his ongoing relationship with Lolly, if it was to be both non-platonic and unsentimental there was no reason why it couldn't be stylish and romantic – like in a movie. If this feeling he had for Lolly was not love he couldn't imagine what love could be like. Maybe her bravado about not being able to love anybody would change if he kept his cool, if he played the games she liked to play. Unlike her, he had no degree in history but the time they had already spent together had served to fire his imagination. He felt, too, that he now needed to take the initiative.
Lolly, when she arrived at the Police Station that evening, was mildly surprised to find Orlando dressed in a black Ralph Lauren shirt and slacks with a gold chain and several medallions around his neck, nestling in the profuse curly hair on his chest (pieces of jewellery inherited from his grandfather and worn, so far, only when on a date with Morag).
The steaks were already cooking on the tiny stove that lived in a small closet-sized kitchenette inside the bed-sitting room. He had left the Police Station door open while he started to cook.
'Hi Lolly!' he shouted, seeing her arrive through the bed-sitting room's open door. 'Shut that door after you please and come and tell me how you like your steak done. There's some Asti Spumante in the fridge, already opened, with some nice cold glasses. Get pouring and we can eat in about five minutes.'
'The steak – rare please…' Lolly said, taking in the Italian costume with a sense of mild relief. He was ready to play. She herself was wearing a red crepe scarf around her neck, a loose white blouse, a leather mini skirt, riding boots and nothing much underneath. Helping her take off the boots would be a useful starting point.
'The new, improved, macho Italian Orlando, I presume,' she said, coming up close behind him and caressing him for just long enough to put him slightly off his cooking. Then she poured the wine and they started their somewhat spartan dinner. Each was sizing the other up; two friendly antagonists anticipating the pleasures of a new game. At least that was how Orlando was starting to see it, hoping it would all lead to something much more.