The Peacock Emporium(3)
“I hope whoever’s picking us up has snow chains on,” she said, her breath clouding the carriage window so that she had to smear a viewing hole with her gloved finger. “I don’t fancy pushing a car through that.”
“You wouldn’t have to push,” said Douglas, from behind his newspaper. “The men’ll push.”
“It’d be terribly slippery.”
“In boots like yours, yes.”
Vivi looked down at her new Courrèges footwear, quietly pleased that he had noticed. Completely unsuitable for the weather, her mother had said, adding sadly to Vivi’s father that there was “absolutely no telling her” at the moment. Vivi, usually compliant in all things, had been uncharacteristically determined in her refusal to wear Wellingtons. It was the first ball she had been to unchaperoned, and she was not going to arrive looking like a twelve-year-old. It had not been their only battle: her hair, an elaborate confection of bubble curls swept up on her crown, left no room for a good woolen hat, and her mother was in an agony of indecision as to whether her hard work in setting it had been worth the risk of her only daughter venturing into the worst winter weather on record with only a scarf tied around her head.
“I’ll be fine,” she lied. “Warm as toast.” She offered up silent thanks that Douglas couldn’t tell she was wearing long johns under her skirt.
They had been on the train almost two hours now, an hour of that without heating: the guard had told them that the heater in their carriage had given up the ghost even before the cold spell. They had planned to travel up with Frederica Marshall’s mother in her car, but Frederica had come down with glandular fever (not for nothing, Vivi’s mother observed dryly, was it called the “kissing disease”) and so, reluctantly, their parents had let them travel up alone on the train instead, with many dire warnings about the importance of Douglas “looking after” her. Over the years, Douglas had been instructed many times to look after Vivi—but the prospect of Vivi alone at one of the social events of the year had apparently given this a weighty resonance.
“Did you mind me traveling with you, D?” she said, with an attempt at coquettishness.
“Don’t be daft.” Douglas had not yet forgiven his father for refusing to let him borrow his Vauxhall Victor.
“I simply don’t know why my parents won’t let me travel alone. They’re so old-fashioned . . .”
She’d be all right with Douglas, her father had said, reassuringly. He’s as good as an older brother. In her despairing heart, Vivi had known he was right.
She placed one booted foot on the seat next to Douglas. He was wearing a thick wool overcoat, and his shoes, like most men’s, bore a pale tidemark of slush. “Everyone who’s anyone is going tonight, apparently,” she said. “Lots of people who wanted invites couldn’t get them.”
“They could have had mine.”
“Apparently that girl Athene Forster’s going to be there. The one who was rude to the Duke of Edinburgh. Have you seen her at any of the dances you’ve been to?”
“Nope.”
“She sounds awful. Mummy saw her in the gossip columns and started on about how money doesn’t buy breeding or some such.” She paused, and rubbed her nose. “Frederica’s mother thinks there’s going to be no such thing as the Season soon. She says girls like Athene are killing it off, and that that’s why they’re calling her the Last Deb.”
Douglas, snorting, didn’t look up from his paper. “The Last Deb. What rot. The whole Season’s a pretense. Has been since the Queen stopped receiving people at court.”
“But it’s still a nice way to meet people.”
“A nice way to get nice boys and girls mixing with suitable marriage material.” Douglas closed his paper and placed it on the seat beside him. He leaned back and linked his hands behind his head. “Things are changing, Vee. In ten years’ time there won’t be hunt balls like this. There won’t be posh frocks and tails.”
Vivi wasn’t entirely sure but thought this might be linked to Douglas’s obsession with what he called “social reform,” which seemed to cover everything from George Cadbury’s education of the working classes to communism in Russia. Via popular music. “So what will people do to meet?”
“Everyone will be free to see anyone they like, whatever their background. It’ll be a classless society.”
It was hard to tell from his tone of voice whether he thought this was a good thing or was issuing a warning. So Vivi, who rarely looked at newspapers and admitted to no real opinions of her own, made a noise of agreement, and looked out of the window again. She hoped, not for the first time, that her hair would last the evening. She should be fine for the quickstep and the Gay Gordons, her mother had said, but she might want to exercise a little caution in the Dashing White Sergeant. “Douglas, will you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“I know you didn’t really want to come . . .”
“I don’t mind.”
“And I know you hate dancing, but if we get a few tunes in and no one’s asked me, will you promise me a dance? I don’t think I could bear to be left on the side all night.” She pulled her hands briefly from the relative warmth of her pockets. Pearl Frost lay evenly over her nails. It glittered, opalescent. “I’ve practiced loads. I won’t let you down.”