Kate Kingsbury - Death Is in the Air

The significance of that disquieted her a great deal, and her thoughts kept returning to him throughout the day, despite her best efforts to put him out of her mind.

An hour before the dance was to begin, Polly had been dispensed to help Bessie deliver the gramophone and records. She arrived at Bessie’s cottage to find her on her hands and knees in front of a small cabinet, doing her best to break it open with a dinner knife.

“It’s locked,” she explained when Polly crouched down beside her. “I can’t find the key anywhere. I had it in that little blue egg cup on the mantelpiece, but it’s not there now. All I can think is that the cat knocked it down, and it’s rolled under the settee. It’s too heavy to move on my own, but now you’re here…”

She looked hopefully at Polly, who shook her head. “We don’t have time for that now,” she said briskly. “I’ve got a better idea.”

She reached up to the knot of hair that Marlene had carefully piled up and pinned for her. Her fingers found a hairpin, and she drew it out carefully so as not to disturb the elaborate arrangement. Marlene would kill her if she messed up her hairdo now. She’d wanted a wave down the side of her face like Veronica Lake, but Marlene had talked her into wearing it on top of her head. She had to admit the style made her feel much older and more sophisticated.

In return she’d promised to tell everyone that Marlene had done her hair, so that her sister might get some new customers from North Horsham. There were bound to be girls coming to the dance from there, once the word got around. Word got around really fast in that town.

Realizing that Bessie was watching her with a worried expression, Polly grinned at her. “Watch this.” She poked the hairpin into the keyhole, jiggled it around for a moment or two until she felt the lock release, then pulled out the pin. “Now try it.”

Bessie’s expression was skeptical as she twisted the handle, but it turned to amazement when the door opened easily. “How in the world did you do that?”

Polly shrugged. “A boy in school taught me. I kept losing the key to my desk, so he showed me how to open it with a hairpin. I got really good at it after doing it a few times.”

“Well, it might be as well to keep that little talent to yourself,” Bessie warned as she drew out a pile of records. “Here, have a look through these.”

Polly sat down on the carpet to examine the platters. “Crikey!” she exclaimed. “Look at all these. Benny Goodman, Louis Armstrong, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Ted Heath, Duke Ellington…” She held one up in the air. “Frank Sinatra! My favorite! This is going to be a groovy dance. I can’t wait to boogie-woogie with my Sam.”

Bessie’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “What does all that mean?”

“It’s jive talk.” Polly went on sorting through the records. “The Yanks use it all the time.”

“I always thought the Americans talked English.” Bessie got up from her knees with a groan. “I’m beginning to think they talk a foreign language after all.”

“I know. I have trouble understanding Sam sometimes. He comes from Tennessee and really slurs his words.”

“Aren’t you a bit young to be going out with Yanks?”

Polly scrambled to her feet. “I’m old enough. As old as most of them, anyway.”

Bessie shook her head. “They’re too young to be fighting in a war. It’s criminal, that’s what I call it.”

Polly felt a stab of sympathy for Bessie. With her husband dead and both her boys fighting abroad, she must be feeling really lonely. Obeying an unexpected impulse, she put her arm around the woman’s shoulders. “Tell you what, I’ll introduce you to some of the Yanks tonight. They’re all nice boys, and you could sort of mother them. They must be missing their mums as much as you miss your boys.”

Bessie wiped a tear from her eye. “You’re a good girl, Polly, and that’s a fact.” She beamed her familiar smile. “Come on, let’s get these records over there so you can start dancing with your Sam.”

“I just hope he gets there soon.” Polly piled the platters into the shopping bag that Bessie held out to her. “None of them had come back when I left.” She couldn’t voice aloud the thought that followed. Please God, let him be all right.

“You look very nice, madam,” Martin announced when Elizabeth met him in the front hallway. “I hadn’t realized you were going on the town. Shall I have Geoffrey bring around the horses?”

Elizabeth didn’t have the heart to remind Martin that Geoffrey had died of tuberculosis many years ago. “That won’t be necessary, thank you, Martin. I’ll be using other transportation tonight.”

Martin gave her a shrewd look. “Not that infernal machine that American drives around, I hope? It makes enough noise to wake the dead. I can’t fathom for the life of me why they don’t use their horses. I thought Americans rode horses everywhere.”

“Only in certain parts of America, I believe.” Elizabeth spoke automatically; her mind was elsewhere. It was well past eight o’clock, and so far there had been no sign of Major Monroe. She’d waited in the library in a fever of excitement, which had gradually diminished as the seconds had ticked by in that lonely room. Now she was beginning to get worried.

“You haven’t seen any sign of the Americans this evening, have you?” she asked Martin. Perhaps she’d missed him somehow, and he’d gone on to the dance with his fellow officers.

“The American motorcars have not arrived back yet this evening,” Martin said, glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner. “They are rather late, come to think of it.”

Elizabeth suddenly felt cold. “Well, yes, I suppose I should be getting down to the town hall. If you see Major Monroe, please tell him I have already left and will meet him at the dance.”

“Dashed ungentlemanly, if I might say so, ma’am. One does not abandon an appointment with a lady for any reason. Those Americans have a lot to learn about manners.”

“I’m sure the major would have kept his appointment if he’d been able to do so,” Elizabeth said quietly, “which is precisely what worries me.” She headed for the door, trying to ignore the icicles forming in her stomach. “Don’t wait up for me, Martin. Violet and I will probably be late.”

Martin looked surprised. “I wasn’t aware Violet was going to accompany you tonight, madam.”

“She will be at the town hall, helping with the refreshments.” Elizabeth peered at him over her shoulder. “Please don’t do anything too strenuous tonight, Martin. I don’t want you to hurt yourself when there is no one in the house to help you.”

“I’ll do my best not to hurt myself at any time, madam.”

She smiled fondly at him. “Yes, well, you know what I mean.”

“Wait a moment, madam. I’ll get the door for you.”

She waited for him to shuffle toward her, her gaze drifting past him to the stairs leading to the great hall. If only she could see the major’s tall figure striding down those stairs. Impossible, of course, if the Jeeps hadn’t arrived back. Still, it was hard not to hope for a miracle.

Martin finally reached the door and pulled it open. A gust of cool air greeted her as she stepped outside into the darkening evening. Soon the clocks would be turned back an hour, and the evenings would disappear altogether, swallowed up in the winter darkness that could fall as early as four in the afternoon. It was a depressing thought.

The depression weighed heavily on her shoulders as she climbed aboard her motorcycle. Fastening her head scarf more firmly under her chin, she braced herself for the cold ride to the town hall. In spite of the silver fox coat she wore, the wind from the sea would chill her bones. She could only hope that the town hall radiators were working properly and that the dance hall would be warm, though something told her she would not lose the chill over her heart until she saw the burly frame of Major Earl Monroe walking through the door to greet her.