three years I’ll be twenty-one and then I’ll be free to do what I bloody want.’
Joan dipped into the metal tray under the counter top and lifted a large serving spoon in her direction. ‘Oi! Less of the “bloody”, missus. Until you are actually twenty-one, you are not too old for a ladling!’
‘A ladling? You just made that up! And you say “bloody” all the time!’ Dot concentrated on her outstretched arm, grappling with the wide silver platter that threatened to slide off the folded white linen cloth on which it sat.
‘Yes I do, because I can, and when you’re as old as me you can swear as much as you like. In the meantime, get that food out!’
Dot drew a deep breath and faced the double swing door that would reveal her in all her shame to the awaiting guests. ‘I’m never going to be old,’ she offered over her shoulder.
‘You’re right, Dot. If you carry on defying me and those canapés spoil, you won’t make twenty-one – I’ll bloody kill ya!’
Mother and daughter laughed until they snorted. Dot shook her head to compose herself. It was bad enough having to go out looking like a prize plum, trussed up like a Christmas pudding, without snorting her way through the crowd as well.
‘What are you waiting for now?’
‘I’m just composing meself!’
‘Composing yourself? Christ alive, Dot! Just get that food out now!’
‘All right, all right – I’m going.’
‘And come straight back for the vol-au-vents!’ Joan bellowed at her daughter’s disappearing back.
Dot pushed against the plushly padded velour door with its brass studs, which reminded her of a sideways sofa. She strained to hear the music that was coming from the grand piano in the corner; the sultry tones of Etta James drifted from the gramophone and the musician played along with the record. She glimpsed the bowed head of the black pianist, who with eyes closed and neck bowed was tickling the ivories.
‘At last
My love has come along
My lonely days are over
And life is like a song’
She loved the song and she hummed it inside her head as she wandered among the thirty or so guests. This room had always fascinated her: the polished dark-wood floor and the light from the huge chandelier meant everything sparkled. Vast oil paintings hung on the walls, each one of a military man either on horseback or with his weapon of choice held aloft. It intrigued her how such a large group of people could be gathered in one room and yet the loudest sound was the chink of glass against glass, with only the faintest hum of background chatter and the odd tinkle of delicate laughter. In the Victorian terrace where she lived with her mum, dad and little sister it was never quiet. If not loud music from the radio and the bashing of pots and pans in the kitchen, then the whistling of the kettle and the shouts of questions and instructions up and down the stairs:
‘CUP OF TEA?’
‘ONLY IF YOU’RE MAKING!’
‘WHERE ARE MY CLEAN SHIRTS?’
‘IN THE AIRING CUPBOARD!’
The fact that someone might be a whole floor away from you was no reason to exclude them from the conversation.
‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’ Dot lowered her natural volume and used her posh voice, just as she had been taught.
A bushy-moustached man in naval uniform with flash gold epaulettes practically dived onto the tray. She watched him scoop a handful of delicate white ovals from the platter and cram them into his gob. At least she could tell her mum that someone appreciated her cooking.
‘Not for me, dear.’ His wife raised her white-gloved hand. A pity; the poor woman looked like she would benefit from the odd devilled egg. She was stick thin and her paisley-print, bat-wing frock hung off her tiny frame. She had drawn her eyebrows way too high on her forehead; like a dolly peg, Dot thought.
Next she infiltrated a group of elderly men and women who collectively smelled of dust and fish paste. ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’ She proffered the tray in the direction of one old bloke.
‘Would I what?’ he yelled at her.
Dot bit the inside of her cheeks, praying she wouldn’t get the giggles and immensely glad that Barb wasn’t around; if she had caught her friend’s eye, she would have been in hysterics. She gave a small cough and tried again in her low, posher-than-usual voice. ‘Would-you-like-a-devilled-egg?’
‘Is it something about my leg?’ he yelled again.
‘Your leg? NO, NO. WOULD YOU CARE FOR A DEVILLED EGG?’ This time she over-enunciated every word. It