Thursday’s Child. Helen Forrester
think not. May I have the pleasure of introducing him to you later in the evening?’
‘I should be delighted to meet him,’ I said, and went away to dance with the Egyptians.
The usual mixed crowd was gyrating slowly round the ballroom floor to the strains of a waltz. The room was already overhot and the Englishman in charge of the radiogram was perspiring. The lights had been lowered for the waltz and the whole room looked dreamy and unreal. I felt very tired.
Bessie ushered in most of the Egyptians – one or two older ones had stayed with their English guide and Dr Gantry in the lounge, preferring the cosy fire and Dr Gantry’s lively conversation to dancing.
I went to Bessie. She was wearing a pink dress and her best hostess manner; and I noted that she had already enchanted a rather portly, but extremely aristocratic-looking, member of the party. She promptly pushed him on to me and we finished the waltz together.
The club had long since found that to encourage new members to dance, it was advisable in the first instance for one of the staff to ask them to dance, after which they usually had enough courage to ask someone else to dance. I therefore went to each Egyptian in turn and took him on to the floor, after which I let him loose amongst the other women present. Most of them danced very well and their conversation was polite.
The lights had again been lowered for a waltz, and I swam out with my fifth Egyptian. This one hugged me tightly to him, and we had hardly circulated once round the room before he asked me to accompany him to Manchester the following day and spend the evening with him.
I regretted that I was not free as I worked at the club. He said calmly that he would arrange it with Dr Gantry, who was a friend of his father’s. He wanted, he said soulfully, to take me to a ball and dance the whole evening with me. Retreating, I said that it was impossible and that I had no suitable clothes.
He said he would buy me all the clothes I could desire.
I was in real difficulty. Dr Gantry had expressly asked that we be careful in handling these young men, whose fathers were either high-ranking Government officials or well-to-do aristocrats. All his life this young man had probably had everything he wanted, and it would not be easy to gainsay him.
The record player seemed to be playing for an interminable time, and the Egyptian’s lips were brushing my ear as he murmured: ‘We are agreed that there are many more beautiful women in England, but you – you are the most seductive woman we have seen.’
I wanted to giggle. Miss Delaney, until lately helper of girls in distress, to be called seductive and to be so tempted! I had to get out of my predicament somehow – and get out of it gracefully. I looked round for a staff member or some English helper to whom I might have introduced my partner and thus created a diversion and made my escape; but almost everyone was dancing and the record-playing Englishman seemed to have vanished.
My partner was saying: ‘You should wear pearls in your ears – you must let me buy you some.’
I resisted a temptation to slap his face. Then over his shoulder I saw Dr Wu enter with a brown-skinned man – presumably the friend he had mentioned earlier. Dr Wu would do very nicely – but by the time we had danced round to the door where he had been standing, he had gone and there was only his friend, leaning against the doorpost and puffing at a pipe. I did not know this man and so continued to dance. The Egyptian had taken my silence for acquiescence and was breathing sweet nothings down my neck. Once more we came near to the door. I looked up and straight into the eyes of the brown-faced stranger. They were the most honest eyes imaginable, and when I looked they had such an unexpectedly gentle expression that I felt I had inadvertently peeped into his private life, and I dropped my own eyes. The music stopped and I guided the Egyptian firmly towards his friends. He was saying: ‘Please say where I shall meet you tomorrow.’
‘I am sorry I cannot come,’ I said, and turned round and fled.
Just at the door I looked back. The Egyptian was fighting his way through the swarm of dancers. Whatever should I do? ‘Come with me,’ said a voice.
I looked up. The stranger was laughing down at me. A thousand times better than twenty Egyptians, I thought. He opened the door opposite the ballroom door. The library, of course. So simple a means of escape – across the floor and down the tiny back staircase to the canteen on the floor below.
‘Thank you very much,’ I said, as we descended the staircase. ‘How did you guess?’
The stranger looked embarrassed and said shyly: ‘I was looking at your face.’ He stood uncertainly before me, pipe in one hand, the other making nervous gestures. I smiled, and he gained enough courage to say: ‘I come here every Saturday and Sunday to see you.’
I was surprised. ‘But I have never seen you before,’ I exclaimed.
‘You have to take care of all the ladies. How is it that you will see me?’
‘But – but …’ Words would not come. The evening was getting to the stage of fantasy, and I was so tired.
‘Is your work ended?’ asked the stranger, seeing my embarrassment and trying to change the subject. He drew out of his pocket an old-fashioned gold watch. ‘The time is ten o’clock.’
‘Oh, yes, Mrs Forbes asked me to stay only until 9.30.’
‘May I obtain for you a cup of tea before you go? We could – we could sit and drink tea safely in this corner, where you cannot be seen from the door by the Muslim.’
My legs were feeling unaccountably wobbly, my head ached and the canteen was quiet, except for two German girls talking with their English escorts. I sat down where he had indicated.
Mrs Barnes, the Canteen Manageress, evidently knew the stranger who liked to look at me every Saturday and Sunday, because she drew from under the counter and gave to him some cheese straws and some chocolate biscuits, which were in short supply at the time. Armed with these and some tea he came and sat down by me. My head was clearing and when I thanked him I took a good look at him. He was dressed in an old tweed jacket and baggy, grey trousers; his white shirt made his skin look very dark but his features were clear cut and delicate; both in expression and outline his face reminded me of a Saint in an old Italian painting; his hands also, as they invited me to eat and drink, used the gestures portrayed in the same paintings.
‘From which country do you come?’ I asked, ‘and may I ask your name?’
‘I am from India and I am called Ajit Singh. You are Miss Margaret Delaney and you live in this city, yes?’
‘Yes,’ I said, and inquired if he was at the University.
‘I am writing my thesis – I spend much time, however, at the Berkeley Street power station – for experience.’
‘Oh,’ I said blankly, wondering what kind of experience a power station offered.
‘Instruments,’ said Ajit, as if divining my thoughts.
The tea was reviving me. My eyes twinkled with the mischief I felt, as I asked suddenly: ‘Why do you come to see me on Saturdays and Sundays?’
‘I have to work very much from Monday to Friday,’ was the calm rejoinder.
I laughed outright: ‘But I have never met you.’
‘There was no one to introduce us.’
‘That does not seem to deter the others.’
‘My father has said that in England an introduction is necessary before a gentleman speaks to a lady. Tonight I see the Egyptian frighten you – and I know Father is right.’
‘The Egyptian was introduced to me – he was not, however, acquainted with our customs. It must have been difficult for him to understand