A Christmas Wish (14 page)

‘Composing yourself? Christ alive, Dot! Just get that food out now!’

‘All right, all right – I’m going.’

‘And come straight back for the vol-au-vents!’ Joan bel­lowed at her daughter’s disappearing back.

Dot pushed against the plushly padded velour door with its brass studs, which reminded her of a sideways sofa. She strained to hear the music that was coming from the grand piano in the corner; the sultry tones of Etta James drifted from the gramo­phone and the musician played along with the record. She glimpsed the bowed head of the black pianist, who with eyes closed and neck bowed was tickling the ivories.

‘At last

My love has come along...

My lonely days are over

And life is like a song’

She loved the song and she hummed it inside her head as she wandered among the thirty or so guests. This room had always fascinated her: the polished dark-wood floor and the light from the huge chandelier meant everything sparkled. Vast oil paintings hung on the walls, each one of a military man either on horseback or with his weapon of choice held aloft. It intrigued her how such a large group of people could be gathered in one room and yet the loudest sound was the chink of glass against glass, with only the faintest hum of background chatter and the odd tinkle of delicate laughter. In the Victorian terrace where she lived with her mum, dad and little sister it was never quiet. If not loud music from the radio and the bashing of pots and pans in the kitchen, then the whistling of the kettle and the shouts of questions and instruc­tions up and down the stairs:

‘CUP OF TEA?’

‘ONLY IF YOU’RE MAKING!’

‘WHERE ARE MY CLEAN SHIRTS?’

‘IN THE AIRING CUPBOARD!’

The fact that someone might be a whole floor away from you was no reason to exclude them from the conversation.

‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’ Dot lowered her natural volume and used her posh voice, just as she had been taught.

A bushy-moustached man in naval uniform with flash gold epaulettes practically dived onto the tray. She watched him scoop a handful of delicate white ovals from the platter and cram them into his gob. At least she could tell her mum that someone appreciated her cooking.

‘Not for me, dear.’ His wife raised her white-gloved hand. A pity; the poor woman looked like she would benefit from the odd devilled egg. She was stick thin and her paisley-print, bat-wing frock hung off her tiny frame. She had drawn her eyebrows way too high on her forehead; like a dolly peg, Dot thought.

Next she infiltrated a group of elderly men and women who collectively smelled of dust and fish paste. ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’ She proffered the tray in the direction of one old bloke.

‘Would I what?’ he yelled at her.

Dot bit the inside of her cheeks, praying she wouldn’t get the giggles and immensely glad that Barb wasn’t around; if she had caught her friend’s eye, she would have been in hys­terics. She gave a small cough and tried again in her low, posher-than-usual voice. ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’

‘Is it something about my leg?’ he yelled again.

‘Your leg? NO, NO. WOULD YOU CARE FOR A DEVIL­LED EGG?’ This time she over-enunciated every word. It took a monumental effort to stop herself from laughing out loud.

‘I’m afraid I don’t care for much, lost my brother in the war y’see.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but can I tempt you?’ This time she lifted the tray until it was practically under his schnoz.

‘What is that?’ he asked, prodding at the softened offering.

‘They are canapés, sir.’

‘Cans of what?’

Dot felt her shoulders begin to shake. A ripple of laughter was working its way up her throat and down her nose; she felt fit to explode.

‘Excuse me a mo, I’ll be right back.’ She thought it best to make a hasty retreat to the kitchen and compose herself. Turning quickly, she failed to see that another devilled-egg seeker in military uniform was standing not a foot behind her. It was a collision of comical proportions.

The tray of canapés flipped from her arm and stuck to the front of his tunic. Squashed eggs and mayonnaise sat like a cloy­ing, liquid blanket on his jacket. One hollowed-out egg was actually lodged on a brass button. Almost immediately the silver platter hit the floor with an almighty crash. Both parties bent to retrieve the tray and, with perfect timing, bashed their heads together, sending her flying along the newly polished wooden floor and leaving him clutching his forehead with mayonnaise-smeared palms.

Momentarily dazed, Dot was aware of several shouts of ‘Oh no!’ and the collective gasps of thirty of London’s finest watching as she went sprawling. She lay back and looked up at the ceiling, noticing for the first time that it was painted with the most beauti­ful mural. Fat-bottomed cherubs played harps and lutes in each corner and there was a gold table stacked high with bowls of fruit and flagons of wine. Clouds parted to reveal a heavily bearded God with his arms spread wide and beams of sunlight shining through the gaps. She was captivated. Lowering her eyes from the ceiling, she saw a circle of faces above her. Dolly-peg lady, greedy bastard and the dust-and-fish-paste gang were among them. Someone reached into the circle and held onto both her hands, then she felt herself being pulled swiftly upwards.

Finally upright, her attention was drawn to her right and the smeared khaki and tarnished brass of a uniform that had met with an unfortunate accident involving a platter of eggs. Dot bit her bottom lip. What had she done? Joan would go mad.

She looked up at her rescuer. Her breath caught in her throat and her knees buckled slightly as she swayed. She was staring into the face of a black man and he was holding her hands. She was caught somewhere between fascination and fear; she’d never seen a black person up this close before, let alone held hands with one. But what surprised her more than anything was that it was the most beautiful face she had ever seen. He was the piano player.

‘Are you all right?’ His voice was like liquid chocolate, deep, smooth and with an accent she couldn’t place, like Ameri­can, but different. His big eyes, framed with thick curly lashes were so dark, she couldn’t see where the pupil stopped and the iris started.

‘I’m fine. You all right?’ she countered, looking at him through lowered lashes and wishing she had put more lipstick on.

‘Oh, I’m fine, thank you, but I’m not the one that’s been wrestling on the floor with men old enough to know better!’

‘D’you think anyone noticed?’ She smiled

The pianist cast his eye over the mess and the bemused onlook­ers. ‘No, I don’t think anyone noticed a thing.’

Dot exhaled though bloated cheeks and tried to smooth her pinafore.

‘Me mother’ll kill me.’

‘Accidents happen.’

‘Yes, but they always seem to happen to me. I better get this cleared up.’

Bending, she gathered up what she could of the gloopy mess, flicking her hand over the floor to rid it of blobs of mayonnaise and egg residue. The doily that had lined the plate sufficed as an improvised floor cloth. Dot stood and held the mess in front of her. She hovered with a confused expression as though she couldn’t remember what came next.

The piano player took the platter from her hands and placed it on a small table within reach.

‘I think we need to get you some fresh air. Did you bump your head?’

Dot nodded. ‘A bit, but I’m supposed to go back for the vol-au-vents.’ She pointed in the general direction of the kitchen.

‘Voller what? Don’t worry; I’m sure nobody is going to starve if you take five minutes.’

She followed as he led her through the muttering crowd and out into the crisp January air. The sky was cloud free and the stars seemed particularly bright and numerous.

‘What a beautiful night!’ She stared up at the sky.

‘Yes it is.’ He stared at her, transfixed by the pale skin at the base of her throat.

Dot sat down on the outside steps that led from the back of the grand ballroom to the walled garden below. She fingered a long ladder in the side of her newly acquired black stock­ings. Damn. She leant against the ornate iron railings that ran the length of the staircase, drank in the damp and breathed heavily. The pianist stood a couple of steps down and watched her with his hands shoved into his trouser pockets. He was of average height, slim, muscular. For the first time, Dot noticed his highly polished brown Oxfords, the khaki twill trousers with their razor-sharp creases, the button-down cream shirt and thin, knit­ted tie under the ribbed, khaki jersey.

‘You look like a soldier on his day off.’

‘Maybe I am.’

Dot snorted. She doubted it, unable to picture any soldiers she had ever met moonlighting as a cabaret act. They were always too busy soldiering or boozing.

‘You’re incredible on the piano, really good. Mind you, I love that song.’

‘I love it too.’ He smiled, revealing brilliant white teeth, like those of a film idol.

‘How long have you played?’

‘As long as I can remember – since I was two, I think. I had lessons until I’d mastered it and then pretty much taught myself after that. I should practise more, but you know…’ He pictured the ebony grand piano in the entrance hall of his family home, the Jasmine House. He could always find an excuse not to practise.

‘So they have pianos where you’re from then?’

He looked perplexed. ‘They have pianos everywhere, don’t they?’

‘Dunno, I suppose so. I’ve never really thought about it, but I can’t imagine there being many pianos in Africa. Not plonked in the middle of the jungle. They’d get damp, wouldn’t they?’

He ran his fingers around his mouth to stifle a laugh and any sarcasm that might slip out. It wasn’t the first time some­one had assumed he was African. ‘They probably would, yes, but I’ve been told there
are
one or two pianos in Africa, although that’s not where I’m from.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. Fancy that.’ Dot was stumped, unable to think of another place on earth that black people might come from. ‘I wish I’d learnt an instrument; imagine being able to make music whenever you want to, just because you can.’

‘You talk like it’s too late; it’s never too late, you could learn now!’

‘Oh, you’re joking! I’d be useless. Look at your lovely long fingers.’ She reached out and pulled his hand from his pocket and took it into hers; both were stilled by the surprise and pleasure of physical contact. Dot studied his hand before drop­ping it sharply. She was fascinated by his palm, which wasn’t dark like the rest of his skin but pink, with dark creases criss­crossing it.

‘Your hands are all pink underneath!’

He glanced at her with his head drawn back on his shoul­ders, from beneath furrowed brows, unable to decide if she was thick or sarcastic. ‘It would appear so.’

She held up her own palms for scrutiny. ‘Can you honestly see me bashing away with this bunch of pork sausages?’

‘You have lovely hands and I’m sure you’d make a fine piano player…’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t know your name?’

‘Dot.’

‘Dot? As in dash, dash, dash, dot, dot—’

‘Yep, as in Dot.’ She smiled.

‘Is it short for anything?’

‘Ah, well, there’s a tale. Apparently me dad was one over the eight when he went to register my birth in Canning Town. Mum was still lying in and when they asked him my name, he couldn’t remember that it was supposed to be Dorothy – after Dorothy Squires, no less! – and so he said “Dorothea”, but I’ve only ever been known as Dot. That’s me, I’m just a Dot!’

He studied her face, her wide smile, the peachy skin with the smattering of freckles across her straight nose. Her eyes were wide and sparkling – whether from her bump on the head or something else entirely he couldn’t be sure.

‘But I think you are more than
just
a Dot. If you hadn’t been there to provide the evening’s entertainment, I’d still be stuck in there trying not to look bored. You have been the highlight of my evening so far – although the night is young.’

‘Ha! Let me tell you, I’ve met the whole gang up there and I am definitely the highlight of your evening.’

‘I think you might be right.’ He gave an almost imperceptible wink.

‘And when you are calling me Dot, what should I call you?’

‘Sol, short for Solomon. My dad wasn’t one over the eight when I was registered.’

‘Well, lucky old you. And what does Solomon mean?’

‘It means “Peace”.’

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