Dunswold--Part 5
The week before Christmas they drove to a large country-house hotel two miles outside Ipswich where the Christmas ‘do’ was taking place in the hotel’s large ballroom. It was a rather swanky affair and the upper echelons from Eastern Command attended. Martin didn’t see anybody below the rank of Captain. Deborah wore the evening dress she’d worn for the regimental ball before they’d left London. She looked absolutely marvellous. He noticed both men and women stopping their conversations to look over at them.
The ballroom was large, and the sprung wooden floor was set with tables, each with a flamboyant Christmas centrepiece. Above them, the ceiling curved upwards in an arch where painted cherubs and gods cavorted on the plaster. At one end, a stage was set for the band. Each music stand bore a light blue banner embroidered with ‘TH’ in gold. Above the band, on the back wall was the Eastern Command insignia: a Viking's head with crossed swords underneath.
They were allocated a table with Bob and Laura Wickham, and Captain Graham Tippler from Signals. Roger Bryant was there at another table. Martin made a mental note to collar him later on in the evening. When Bryant saw them, his ruddy face beamed across the room. “Hallo, the Dunswold Spooks,” he called. He raised a full glass of gin and drank deeply.
Bob toasted him back, but when he turned away the smile died on his face.
“Roger’s already in good form,” Laura said. “He’s always enjoying himself, isn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t want to be there when the enjoyment stops and the hangover starts,” Tippler said.
Bob smiled. “No, definitely not. I think you got out at the right time, Laura. Before he became a complete lush.”
Laura went bright red. “Bob, for God’s sake. Not tonight.”
Martin was embarrassed. It was a bad show. Bob must have been drinking before they arrived. He looked across at Deborah, but she hadn’t noticed. She was looking up to the stage. It was empty, but the players’ instruments were there. The lights reflected off the trombones, trumpets, and saxophones. “I hear the food is very good,” Martin said to break the tense silence.
“Yes, I think Bob needs to eat something,” Laura said.
“I know how he feels,” Tippler added. “I’m bloody starving.”
“Yes, I need to eat something,” Bob said. “Sorry. It’s just…” He lowered his voice. “I should have broken his bloody—”
“—Bob,” Martin said. “Enough, old man. Why don’t you go and run some cold water over your face.”
Bob forced a smile. “Good idea.” He got up and weaved his way through the tables.
“I haven’t been dancing for ages,” Deborah said. “Will you dance with me later, Martin?”
“Yes, of course, Deborah. I’d be proud to.” He leaned in close to her. “You know, you’re the most beautiful woman here tonight.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said with a smile. Her hand went down to her stomach again and made small rubbing motions.
When Bob came back he looked a lot better. He’d washed his face and tidied his hair. “Anything happen while I was away?” he asked.
“No,” Martin said, “but here come the starters.”
A parade of waiters came out of the bar area, each carrying a tray of starters. They began to populate the tables with food starting with the brass at the top table.
“About time,” Tippler said and fastened his napkin around his neck in anticipation.
On the stage, the band’s pianist played a collection of sugar-coated popular tunes whilst they ate.
Neither Bob nor Deborah were drinking, so Martin, Laura, and Graham Tippler shared the bottles of wine between them. By the time the pudding came round, although not drunk, he felt his inhibitions had loosened themselves considerably.
The musicians came out as the cigarettes and cigars were being lit, and the bottles of Port and Brandy were opened. After tuning up, the band launched into their first number. Martin couldn’t think of the name of it, but he had heard it before. He believed it was a foxtrot.
“Come on, Debs,” he said and held out his hand to her.
“Slowly, Martin,” she said and stood. “Don’t forget I haven’t danced for a while.”
“And you think I have?” he asked.
“No, but you’ve had a drink.”
Other couples were coming to the dance floor and he and Deborah slotted themselves into the pack going anti-clockwise.
“You see,” he said. “You soon get back into the swing of it.”
“O yes. I’m getting it now,” she said. After a few more steps, “I remember my grandparents dancing to this at home when I was little. During the war—Al Bowlly. Funny how things come back to you. I see them now as though it was yesterday.”
When the dance finished, and he was about to lead her back to the table, Roger Bryant appeared before them as though he’d sprung up out of the ground.
“May I have the honour?” he said and bowed low.
“Yes, of course,” Martin said. Although he didn’t like it that the man was already three sheets to the wind. It was bad form for an officer of his standing. Deborah looked at him with pleading in her eyes, and he suddenly regretted his cavalier acquiescence to Roger Bryant. Couldn’t do anything about it now though. “I can’t keep the most beautiful woman in the room to myself all evening,” he said.
“That’s the spirit, old man,” Roger said.
Martin went back to his seat as the band began the next dance. Roger danced well and whisked Deborah around at some speed.
“You want to watch him,” Bob said from his side. Laura had gone to sit with another woman at a table close by. “Man’s a Lothario of the first water.”
Martin pretended he hadn’t heard Bob’s remark. It didn’t do to air one’s dirty washing in public. “What did you think of the food?” he asked Tippler, who was on the brandy now.
“Top notch,” he said. “Can’t say I’m that keen on turkey though. It’s like a poor man’s goose. Not enough grease.”
Martin kept track of Deborah as she was led around the floor by Roger. After a couple of minutes, he lost sight of them as they disappeared into the milling dancers. He worried about her as a parent might worry about a child’s first day at school, standing nervously at the gate, watching them in the playground. Then he saw her. She looked self-conscious. You shouldn't have left her, he thought. He had an urge to go up there and rescue her and was about to stand up when the music finished.
Deborah stepped away from Roger and made her way quickly out of the ballroom. He wondered if Roger had said something crass, although she didn't look upset.
Laura returned to their table. She was smoking a cigarette, her lipstick had left a bloody smudge on the filter tip.
Roger Bryant was now dancing with somebody else.
When that dance also finished and Deborah hadn't returned to the table, Martin asked Laura if she wouldn't mind going and seeing if Deborah was alright.
“No, of course not. I need the loo anyway.”
When she’d gone Bob said, “Everything alright with Deborah, Martin? Did dancing with Roger make her feel ill?”
“I doubt it. You don't like him, I gather.” It wasn’t something he’d meant to ask about, but he wanted them to get off the topic of Deborah.
“I do not. There was a thing a while ago. And now I don’t like him, and I doubt whether he likes me very much either.”
“And yet you invited him to your garden party.”
“Yes I did, didn’t I. I wonder why?”
Martin thought he knew, but kept quiet.
***
Roger Bryant danced well, Deborah thought. He guided her around the floor with confidence. She could tell he’d had plenty of practice. He didn’t talk, he was focussed wholly on the moves of the dance. Strangely, she felt completely safe with him leading. Surprisingly, she realized his hands weren’t sweaty at all, but dry and dusty.
“What are you doing for Christmas?” she asked him in order to break the awkward silence between them.
“Why, I’m on duty for most of it,” he said.
“O, that’s a shame.”
“Is it? I volunteered. Always do.”
“Yes, well, I suppose it must be quiet.”
“Yes, quite quiet,” he said as he guided them through a gap and out again the other side.
She had forgotten how much she used to enjoy dancing (mostly with her younger brother, as her parents hadn’t let her go out to dances until she’d met Martin). She liked the feeling one had with a good partner of floating over the floor, the shared responsibility for keeping it going, the partnership of the endeavour.
It was only when the song finished that the nagging pain she’d had all evening, but had tried to ignore, bloomed into full flower in her lower abdomen.
“I say, are you alright?” Roger said when they stopped. “You look a little peaky.”
“Yes, fine,” she managed to say. “Do excuse me, Major Bryant.” The pain was coming in waves as she hurried out of the ballroom to the toilets. It became the only thing she could think of—the only thing in the world at that moment. Gone even were her thoughts of Martin.
The Ladies was empty, thank god. She went into a cubicle and locked the door. Was this the same pain? She interrogated her memories as she slumped onto the closed toilet seat. It was different, more urgent.
She hiked up the long dress and felt herself. O no, there’s blood. She whimpered in fear and pain as another huge wave broke over her and with it, her flailing consciousness tried to hold on, but it was pulled under. She was tipping forward—and then darkness.