‘As the birthday girl, you can dance with whoever you choose.’ Isla laughed.
‘I’m very proud of you both,’ said their father, appearing behind them, his shiny black shoes tapping across the floor with characteristic precision. The girls turned around and smiled at him with affection. ‘Beautiful young ladies,’ he added, noticing their flowering figures and their poise. ‘You do me credit, both of you.’ Audrey and Isla swelled with happiness, for their father didn’t often give praise and when he did he meant it. Even Isla, who enjoyed testing the boundaries, couldn’t help but feel a certain delight in pleasing him. ‘It wasn’t so long ago that you were two very little girls,’ he continued, reflecting on the rapid passing of time. ‘As you know, Audrey, the year of your birth was marked by the visit of The Prince of Wales and his brother, Prince George. It only seems like yesterday that I danced with your mother in this very room while you slept in your cot back at home.’
‘And Mummy danced the best of all,’ Audrey added with an indulgent smile; she had heard this story a thousand times. Henry Garnet drew himself up with satisfaction.
‘Indeed she did,’ he replied, sniffing his admiration. ‘There’s no one who can waltz like your mother.’
‘Not even Aunt Edna and Aunt Hilda?’ said Isla, grinning provocatively so that her face suddenly lost its poise and creased into a childish smirk. Henry was unable to hide his amusement as he recalled Aunt Edna’s solid body swinging clumsily off the arm of some generous-spirited man who had asked her to dance and Aunt Hilda who was so thin and dry she looked as if the vibrations of the music alone might snap her.
‘They’re not natural movers like your mother,’ he replied diplomatically.
Isla laughed out loud. ‘Nothing natural about either of them,’ she giggled.
Her father chuckled. ‘Now, Isla, that’s a little unfair, don’t you think?’ he said, then added, ‘You are both fortunate to have inherited your mother’s grace. Audrey, I would like to have the first dance with you tonight.’ Audrey’s face broke into a wide smile and she blinked up at him with pleasure.
‘I would love that,’ she said.
‘The young men will just have to wait,’ he added when he saw how delighted his daughter was. She made him feel twenty years old again.
As the guests arrived, leaving their gifts on the table at the entrance, Audrey searched the faces for the only one that mattered. Aunt Edna entered with Rose and Aunt Hilda with her four pasty daughters and her husband Herbert striding pompously ahead in white tie and tails. The Pearson sisters tumbled in, twittering like two spring sparrows followed by Colonel Blythe and Charlo Osborne, who still managed to dazzle in a long silver gown with her shiny white hair pinned on top of her head, twinkling with lustrous pearls. When the other Crocodiles saw her arrive on the arm of the Colonel they immediately formed a tight circle, where they remained gossiping fanatically until the Colonel rushed at them as if he were a lion, scattering them like a trio of vultures picking at a piece of old meat.
The band played and the guests mingled and Audrey tried her best to concentrate as she greeted them all, extending to each a courteous remark or a flattering compliment on the dress or the hairstyle, so that no one left her company without commenting on her charm and goodness. ‘Rose, I really must commend you on your daughters. Utterly enchanting girls, especially Audrey,’ Phyllida Bates gushed with genuine admiration. Before Rose could thank her, Cynthia Klein, who had her back to the group, turned around swiftly in order to give them the benefit of her opinion.
‘I agree with Phyllida,’ she said vigorously. ‘It’s a joy to see such refinement and class. There are enough plain girls here to send the young men back to war. Really, their insipid little faces make my eyes water,’ she commented loudly. Rose blushed and glanced about anxiously to see if anyone had heard.
‘You’re so right, Cynthia, though I would never have said it with such candour,’ Phyllida agreed, her beetle face pinching with pleasure.
‘Beauty is only as deep as one’s skin,’ Rose objected tactfully, attempting to laugh off her unkindness, hoping someone might come and rescue her.
‘But, my dear, it’s the skin we all have to look at,’ said Cynthia with a snort. ‘What use is a sweet nature if it doesn’t show through one’s skin?’ she continued with the insensitivity of old people who feel it is their right to say exactly what they think. Then to Rose’s relief the tall, starched figure of Cecil Forrester stepped in to break up the conversation and save Rose from her embarrassment.