The Paying Guests(64)

‘I must just go and comb my hair.’

‘I’ll mind your drink for you, then,’ he said, as if they were quite old friends.

A child in the hall directed the way to the WC. Frances went up the stairs to a half-landing and found two other women waiting; she leaned against the wall and waited with them, happy to let the minutes pass. The women were flushed and friendly with drink, making jokes about the weakness of their bladders. There was a lavatory in the yard, they said, but the men were using that. It wouldn’t do to venture out there; oh, no, the men were filthy beasts… By the time it was Frances’s turn, no one else had come, no one was waiting; she sat on the lavatory with her elbows on her stockinged knees, listening to the stew of jolly voices rising up from the rooms below. Above her, a frosted window was ajar, and in the artificial light the evening sky looked cool and moist: she wished she could wet her hands and face with it.

As she was putting herself tidy, a gramophone blared into life. She started down the stairs and found Ewart in the hall. She had forgotten all about him. He still had her drink in his hand.

‘I was wondering where you’d got to!’ He sounded almost aggrieved. ‘This’ll be warm as anything.’

She smiled, but gazed past him. ‘Have you seen my friend?’

‘The girl you were sitting with before? They’ve started dancing in the back room, you’ve been missing all the fun.’

‘Is my friend dancing too?’

‘I think so. Want to join her?’

He didn’t wait for her to reply, but led the way into the room, which had been cleared of its children and had its bright lights dimmed. The gramophone was playing at high volume. The carpet had been rolled and propped in the corner, and four or five couples were already on the floor. Lilian’s partner was the cousin with the film-star looks. When she saw Frances coming in from the hall she leaned out of his arms to call to her, in smiling apology, ‘They won’t let me go until I’ve danced!’

‘Yes, let’s have a dance,’ said Ewart.

He was right at Frances’s elbow. She smiled at Lilian, but shook her head. ‘Oh, no, I’m a horrible dancer.’

‘I bet you’re not.’ He put his hand to her waist, to guide her forward.

The pressure of his palm took her by surprise. She was still looking at Lilian. ‘What’s that? No, truly, I am.’

He moved his thumb as if to tickle her. ‘Well, I am too, if you want to know the truth. How about we just sit down?’

Again, he didn’t wait for a reply, but steered her towards a sofa. The sofa was small, meant for two; there was a youth and a girl already on it and only a foot of room to spare. She thought he meant her to have the space for herself, but at their approach the girl slid obligingly on to the youth’s lap, and when she sat he managed to squeeze himself in beside her.

‘Good job we’re both little ones!’

Frances was not little at all, and neither was he; but his manner had changed now, become playful and proprietorial. He said something about the gramophone, that she didn’t quite catch. He mentioned a palais de dance he sometimes went to, over in Catford – did she know it? She said she didn’t, speaking vaguely, as if distracted by the music, and at last he gave up trying to chat, seeming happy simply to sit there, jiggling his foot. For a minute or two she made a pretence of glancing about as he did, looking from one couple to another in a benign, wallflowerish way. Gradually, however – like a compass needle swinging to the pole – gradually her gaze settled, and she surrendered herself to the pleasure of watching Lilian dance.

She danced well, of course; Frances might have predicted that. Her cousin did too, and with the shift in music to a popular song they began paying more attention to their steps. Keeping to the few square feet that was all that the small crowded room allowed them, they managed to work in turns and flourishes; at one point the cousin took hold of Lilian and whirled her round on the spot. She came down laughing, looking for Frances as soon as her feet were on the floor, so that Frances had the feeling that the laughter was really meant for her.

Ewart spoke into her ear. ‘She’s a lively one, your pal.’

Frances nodded. ‘Isn’t she?’

‘She’s had a drop too much to drink. She’ll be sorry in the morning.’

But Frances knew it wasn’t that.

Lilian saw them discussing her. She leaned away from her partner. ‘What are you saying about me?’

‘Nothing!’

‘I don’t believe you!’

She kept looking at Frances then, across her cousin’s shoulder – seeking out Frances’s eye even while pretending to be bothered by it, once stretching out her hand to wave her away, claiming she was putting her off her dancing. The two men – the cousin and Ewart – began to shrug at each other. ‘You’re too daft tonight,’ Frances heard the cousin tell Lilian, at the next change of music. ‘You’re like a big daft girl, I can’t dance with you.’ But she gripped him, protesting, and wouldn’t let him go – laughing again as she did it. And again she looked at Frances, again the laughter seemed meant for her.

At last Ewart leaned closer to Frances to say, ‘You and your friend are up to something. Does she think it funny that you’re sitting here with me?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Frances, not following him.