And All That Jazz Episode 11
“Would you like another slice of my Madeira cake, Mr Jakeman? I see your plate is empty.”
Vincent forced a smile that he hoped looked natural.
“No, thank you, Mrs . . .”
“Miss Cottesloe.”
Her voice sounded pinched, the lady clearly irritated that he hadn’t remembered her name.
“Forgive me, Miss Cottesloe,” he apologised. “I do feel rather fatigued today.”
“Of course, you poor man. Let me fetch you a chair,” she offered.
There was the scrape of chair legs on linoleum, his arm was gripped rather too forcefully and he was pushed on to a seat.
“Thank you,” he said, trying to sound as if he meant it.
Her good deed done, Miss Cottesloe disappeared to dominate someone else.
Vincent gave a sigh of relief. He’d been reluctant to attend the party.
Crowds had always made him uncomfortable and, since his sight loss and return from the Front, he found parties challenging.
Too many names to remember, too much noise and confusion.
Thankfully, Dora had assured him he wasn’t expected to speak.
Give him a small class of boys and he was fine, but speaking to a group of strangers was something entirely different.
“Vincent, I’m so sorry I deserted you.”
The sound of Dora’s voice brought a genuine smile to his face.
“Not to worry. I’ve been very well cared for,” he responded, remembering the endless cups of tea and cake he had been offered by well-meaning ladies.
Every word held their grief, the yearning for men they’d lost.
The widows were bad, but the mothers were worse.
The pain in their voices at seeing him and speaking to him, when their boys had never come home.
He saved his kindest smiles for them.
“I’m sorry, all the same,” Dora reiterated, coming to sit beside him.
He could smell her perfume – rosewater – a scent that made the tension slide from his neck and shoulders.
“Mother has kept me busy when I’d really rather be talking with you,” she explained.
He nudged a little closer and her was skirt brushing against him.
“Are you feeling calmer now?” he asked.
When they’d met that morning, Dora had been in tears over an argument with her sister Lizzy.
It had all come out, how Dora always felt she said the wrong things, how she stayed calm hoping it would settle Lizzy’s nerves, when all it did was to make Lizzy think her sister was just unfeeling.
“I’m a little better, thank you,” Dora said, though sadness clung to her words. “I just wish I could explain myself properly.
“Sometimes Lizzy makes me so nervous, I go to pieces and say the most stupid thing.
“I always was the dull sister staying at home, doing as she was told, and Lizzy, well, she had the brains and the beauty.”
Vincent nudged his knee against hers.
“You’re as clever as anyone I know, and Lizzy certainly isn’t more beautiful than you,” he told Dora, earning a chuckle from her.
“You’ve never even met her,” she pointed out.
“It doesn’t matter. The day we met I knew I would never know another woman to outshine you.”
“Oh, Vincent.”
She laid her hand on his arm and he could almost hear her blush.
“You just need to speak to her. Explain that it’s all been a misunderstanding,” he suggested.
“Yes. That doesn’t help poor Charlie, though, does it?” Dora said.
“Is there no hope of him being freed?”
Dora sighed.
“Not through Mrs Kendrick, certainly,” she answered. “She and her husband have lived apart for three years now. Divorced in all but name.
“To be frank, she’s a thoroughly awful woman, who to my knowledge has never helped anyone.”
“Why didn’t you tell Lizzy all of this?” Vincent asked.
Dora’s head thumped against his shoulder, stray hairs tickling his neck.
“That’s exactly what I mean!” she exclaimed.
“I started talking about owing people favours and revealed that Charlie was a conscientious objector.
“No wonder Lizzy hates me.”
Vincent wanted to take her hand to reassure her.
But he hesitated, unsure if it would make her feel uncomfortable.
“Oh, dear,” Dora suddenly said, and the pressure lifted off his shoulder.
“Mother’s waving me over,” she informed him. “I’m sorry, Vincent. Just a little longer and we’ll leave.
“We could go for dinner, then there’s a recital this evening at the Empire.
“It’s Mr Elgar’s ‘Cello Concerto’.”
Her hand slipped into his and she squeezed it gently.
All he wanted was to be alone with her, to tell her what she meant to him.
“That would be wonderful,” he said.
“There are a couple of speeches to sit through,” Dora told him. “Mother, of course, and a guest of honour, though she hasn’t told me who it is.”
“You get along and be busy,” he urged her. “I shall be waiting.”
One last squeeze of his hand and she was gone, taking the scent of roses with her.
Seconds later there was the ting of a spoon on glass, the hubbub subsided and a loud, imperious voice filled the void.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here this afternoon for this fund-raising event for injured servicemen.
“Despite hostilities ending four years ago, our help has never been so sorely needed . . .”
Dora’s mother sounded so unlike her daughter.
Hard edged where Dora was soft, steely where Dora was compassionate.
Vincent couldn’t blame Lizzy for pulling away from her mother, or Dora for wilting under her control.
It seemed to him the woman had a sort of old-world superiority about her, as if the charity work was merely a duty of her station.
Vincent’s attention drifted as the speech went on, but his mind snapped back when he heard his name.
“ . . . Mr Vincent Jakeman to say a few words. Captain Jakeman DSO fought in the Somme and . . .”
A feeling of falling and a sudden nausea swept over him.
She was expecting him to speak?
Then a sudden thought hit him.
Was that why he’d been invited? To be the brave war hero brought out to demonstrate what good work the organisation did?
Everyone would be looking at him now.
“Captain Jakeman, if you would.” Thirza Cashmore’s tone was commanding but he didn’t move.
What could he say to these people?
“Captain Jakeman.” Impatience had crept into her voice.
A hand rested on his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Vincent.”
Dora, thank goodness!
But instead of leading him away, she gripped his elbow, helping him to his feet.
“Two minutes, then we’ll go,” she muttered.
Her lips almost up against his ear, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
“I promise I didn’t know,” she added.
He was on his feet, his cane in one hand, his other hand guided to the back of the chair for support.
Humiliation burned his cheeks and soured his stomach like vinegar.
His words were halting, nonsensical.
Something about courage and loyalty and duty, the kind of things that people expected to hear.
And then he couldn’t think of anything else aside from the hurt.
A spattering of applause and the conversation swelled again.
He grabbed his cane.
The smell of roses told him Dora was still there.
“I’m leaving,” he announced. “Guide me to the door, please.”
“Vincent, I’m so sorry.” Her voice was like a butterfly, battering at a window. “I really had no idea. Mother always gets what she wants.”
Sadness and hurt welled up in his chest.
“Perhaps it’s time you put someone else before your mother,” he stated.
“But what about dinner? The concert?” She was wounded, but all he wanted was to leave.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I couldn’t bear it.”
He walked away, pushing through the crowd until he felt the breeze from the door and headed outside.
To be continued…