Julia highly amusing, although too frivolous for words.
After that, we went to order evening dresses, and the designer went into raptures over Veronica’s face and figure. His enthusiasm was dimmed somewhat when Veronica insisted on wearing mourning dress for her presentation at Court, but he rallied quickly. “Simple, yet elegant,” he cried, holding up lengths of black satin against her. “Nothing to distract from the natural beauty. No frills, no frippery, no furbelows.” (He actually said that, “furbelows”—one of those words that make less and less sense the more one repeats it, until finally one starts to wonder if it is a word.) For me, though, it was felt that frills and furbelows would be a very good idea. After much frowning and tongue-clucking, he decided on a gathered bodice with thin straps and a full skirt, in a shimmering silk that was halfway between violet and pale blue. We were meant to choose two more evening dresses each, but even I’d had enough by that stage, and besides, we were due at the Vacani School of Dancing, just around the corner.
“Oh, I’m not going,” said Veronica. “I’ve already arranged to meet Daniel for tea.”
I stared at her, horrified. “You can’t go wandering off into the East End by yourself!”
“No, he’s meeting me at Lyons Corner House, near Marble Arch. You can come, too, if you’d like.”
“But we’ve got to practice curtseying! And Parker will have a fit if he comes to pick us up and you’re not here! And what if Aunt Charlotte—”
“Oh, look, there’s the bus! Meet you at quarter to five in the Harrods car park,” she said, and she dashed off, swinging herself up the stairs of a tall red bus as though she’d been doing it all her life.
My first class with Miss Betty went very badly, which I’d like to blame on anxiety about Veronica, although I suspect it was simply my innate lack of coordination. We had to line up against a wall, holding the barre with our right hand, place our right foot (or was it our left?) against the wall and the other foot behind that, sink almost to the floor, then rise without wobbling or falling over sideways. I got my left and right confused, my knees cracked, I plunged downwards too fast and too far, and couldn’t get up again. The other girls tittered behind my back. Then Miss Betty had one of them demonstrate the procedure at Court, while Miss Betty sat in a chair, pretending to be the King.
“To be presented, Miss Lucinda Adams-Smythe.” And Miss Adams-Smythe, a curtain pinned to her shoulders to simulate her train, descended gracefully, bowed her head, and rose, beaming throughout.
“Keep your eyes on the King, kick your dress out of the way, three steps sideways, smile at the Queen, curtsey again … Excellent!”
If she was so excellent at it, what was she doing in this class? I stomped out as soon as we were dismissed and was further irritated to find Veronica calmly reading The Evening Standard , right where she said she’d be.
“You’ve no idea how worried I’ve been,” I said crossly. “Running off by yourself, anything could have happened! You could have been abducted by white slavers and shipped off to the Argentine!”
“What, in the middle of Mayfair?” she said.
“ Yes ! Phoebe was saying she’d heard that women disguised as nurses wander round London injecting young women with morphine. And taxi drivers are in on it, too. A quarter of taxis have no handles on the inside doors, so the victims can’t—”
“How was your lesson?” she asked, folding up the newspaper.
“Awful,” I said. “How was Daniel?”
“Very well, though rather thin,” she said. “He sends his fondest regards to you and wanted to know how your writing was going.”
My writing ! Imagine him remembering those earnest little stories I used to labor over when I was twelve! (I fancied myself a budding Brontë.) Now the only thing I write is my journal, and I haven’t even managed to do that
After that, we went to order evening dresses, and the designer went into raptures over Veronica’s face and figure. His enthusiasm was dimmed somewhat when Veronica insisted on wearing mourning dress for her presentation at Court, but he rallied quickly. “Simple, yet elegant,” he cried, holding up lengths of black satin against her. “Nothing to distract from the natural beauty. No frills, no frippery, no furbelows.” (He actually said that, “furbelows”—one of those words that make less and less sense the more one repeats it, until finally one starts to wonder if it is a word.) For me, though, it was felt that frills and furbelows would be a very good idea. After much frowning and tongue-clucking, he decided on a gathered bodice with thin straps and a full skirt, in a shimmering silk that was halfway between violet and pale blue. We were meant to choose two more evening dresses each, but even I’d had enough by that stage, and besides, we were due at the Vacani School of Dancing, just around the corner.
“Oh, I’m not going,” said Veronica. “I’ve already arranged to meet Daniel for tea.”
I stared at her, horrified. “You can’t go wandering off into the East End by yourself!”
“No, he’s meeting me at Lyons Corner House, near Marble Arch. You can come, too, if you’d like.”
“But we’ve got to practice curtseying! And Parker will have a fit if he comes to pick us up and you’re not here! And what if Aunt Charlotte—”
“Oh, look, there’s the bus! Meet you at quarter to five in the Harrods car park,” she said, and she dashed off, swinging herself up the stairs of a tall red bus as though she’d been doing it all her life.
My first class with Miss Betty went very badly, which I’d like to blame on anxiety about Veronica, although I suspect it was simply my innate lack of coordination. We had to line up against a wall, holding the barre with our right hand, place our right foot (or was it our left?) against the wall and the other foot behind that, sink almost to the floor, then rise without wobbling or falling over sideways. I got my left and right confused, my knees cracked, I plunged downwards too fast and too far, and couldn’t get up again. The other girls tittered behind my back. Then Miss Betty had one of them demonstrate the procedure at Court, while Miss Betty sat in a chair, pretending to be the King.
“To be presented, Miss Lucinda Adams-Smythe.” And Miss Adams-Smythe, a curtain pinned to her shoulders to simulate her train, descended gracefully, bowed her head, and rose, beaming throughout.
“Keep your eyes on the King, kick your dress out of the way, three steps sideways, smile at the Queen, curtsey again … Excellent!”
If she was so excellent at it, what was she doing in this class? I stomped out as soon as we were dismissed and was further irritated to find Veronica calmly reading The Evening Standard , right where she said she’d be.
“You’ve no idea how worried I’ve been,” I said crossly. “Running off by yourself, anything could have happened! You could have been abducted by white slavers and shipped off to the Argentine!”
“What, in the middle of Mayfair?” she said.
“ Yes ! Phoebe was saying she’d heard that women disguised as nurses wander round London injecting young women with morphine. And taxi drivers are in on it, too. A quarter of taxis have no handles on the inside doors, so the victims can’t—”
“How was your lesson?” she asked, folding up the newspaper.
“Awful,” I said. “How was Daniel?”
“Very well, though rather thin,” she said. “He sends his fondest regards to you and wanted to know how your writing was going.”
My writing ! Imagine him remembering those earnest little stories I used to labor over when I was twelve! (I fancied myself a budding Brontë.) Now the only thing I write is my journal, and I haven’t even managed to do that
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