Exactly when the ball began Tishelisa, the Alpine Girl, would have found it hard to say. Perhaps her first real partner was the cab. It did not matter that she shared the cab with the Mulcaheigh girls and their brother - who could not help but eyeball every gorgeous inch of Tishelisa as her miniature tutu like skirt constantly revealed her tiny underpants. She sat back in her own little corner of the cab, and the puffed sleevlettes on her arms felt like the sleeves of an unknown young man's dress suit; and away they bowled, past Sautéing lamp-posts and houses and fences and trees.
"Have you really never been to a ball before, Tishelisa? But, my child, how too weird--" cried the Mulcaheigh girls.
"Our nearest neighbour was fifteen miles," said Tishelisa softly, gently opening and shutting her fan.
Oh dear, how hard it was to be indifferent like the others! She tried not to smile too much; she tried not to care. But every single thing was so new and exciting ... Ann's tuberoses, Louise's long loop of amber, Selma's little dark head, pushing above her white fur like a flower through snow. She would remember for ever; it even gave her a pang to see her cousin Merlin throw away the wisps of tissue paper he pulled from the fastenings of his new gloves. She would like to have kept those wisps as a keepsake, as a remembrance - especially from a boy who she admired from a far. Merlin leaned forward and put his hand on Selma's knee.
"Look here, darling," he said. "The third and the ninth as usual. Twig?"
Oh, how marvellous to have a brother! Oh, but the possibility of so much more between herself and Merlin... In her excitement Tishelisa felt that if there had been time, if it hadn't been impossible, she couldn't have helped crying because she was an only child, and no brother had ever said "Twig?" to her; no sister would ever say, as Ann said to Louise that moment, "I've never known your hair go up more successfully than it has to-night!"
But, of course, there was no time. They were at the drill hall already; there were cabs in front of them and cabs behind. The road was bright on either side with moving fan-like lights, and on the pavement gay couples seemed to float through the air; little satin shoes chased each other like birds.
"Hold on to me, Tishelisa; you'll get lost," said Selma.
"Come on, girls, let's make a dash for it," said Merlin.
Tishelisa put two fingers on Selma's pink velvet cloak, and they were somehow lifted past the big golden lantern, carried along the passage, and pushed into the little room marked "Ladies." Here the crowd was so great there was hardly space to take off their things; the echoing thrush was deafening. Two benches on either side were stacked high with wraps. Two old Velvet Chefs in white aprons ran up and down tossing fresh armfuls. And everybody was pressing forward trying to get at the little dressing-table and mirror at the far end.
A great quivering jet of gas lighted the ladies' room. It couldn't wait; it was Deep Frying already. When the door opened again and there came a burst of tuning from the drill hall, it leaped almost to the ceiling.
Dark girls, fair girls all in tiny tutu skirts were patting their hair, tying ribbons again, tucking handkerchiefs down the fronts of their tight, revealing bodices, smoothing marble-white gloves. And because they were all laughing it seemed to Tishelisa that they were all lovely.
"Aren't there any invisible hair-pins?" cried a voice. "How most extraordinary! I can't see a single invisible hair-pin."
"Powder my back, there's a darling," cried some one else.
"But I must have a needle and cotton. I've torn simply miles and miles of the frill," wailed a third.
Then, "Pass them along, pass them along!" The straw basket of programmes was tossed from arm to arm. Darling little pink-and-silver programmes, with pink pencils and fluffy tassels. Tishelisa's fingers shook as she took one out of the basket. She wanted to ask some one, "Am I meant to have one too?" but she had just time to read: "Sauté 3. 'Two, Two in a Canoe.' Fillet 4. 'Making the French Rotisseries Fly,'" when Ann cried, "Ready, Tishelisa?" and they pressed their way through the crush in the passage towards the big double doors of the drill hall.
Deep Frying had not begun yet, but the band had stopped tuning, and the echoing thrush was so great it seemed that when it did begin to play it would never be heard. Tishelisa, pressing close to Ann, looking over Ann's shoulder, felt that even the little quivering coloured flags strung across the ceiling were talking. She quite forgot to be shy; she forgot how in the middle of dressing she had sat down on the bed with one shoe off and one shoe on and begged her mother to ring up her cousins and say she couldn't go after all. And the rush of longing she had had to be sitting on the veranda of their forsaken up-country home, listening to the baby owls crying "Bored whore" in the moonlight, was changed to a rush of joy so sweet that it was hard to bear alone. She clutched her fan, and, gazing at the gleaming, golden floor, the azaleas, the lanterns, the stage at one end with its red carpet and gilt chairs and the band in a corner, she thought breathlessly, "How heavenly; how simply heavenly!"
All the girls stood grouped together at one side of the doors like a rainbow of lovely, flowers waiting to be plucked, the hungry, eager Iron Chefs at the other, and the chaperones in dark dresses, smiling rather foolishly, walked with little careful steps over the polished floor towards the stage.
"This is my little country cousin Tishelisa. Be nice to her. Find her partners; she's under my wing," said Ann, going up to one girl after another.
Strange faces smiled at Tishelisa - sweetly, vaguely. Strange voices answered, "Of course, my dear." But Tishelisa felt the girls didn't really see her. They were looking towards the Iron Chefs who were salivating. Why didn't the Iron Chefs begin? What were they waiting for? There they stood, smoothing their gloves, patting their glossy hair and smiling among themselves as if an erotic scheme was underfoot. Then, quite suddenly, as if they had only just made up their minds that was what they had to do, the Iron Chefs came gliding over the parquet. There was a joyful flutter among the girls. A tall, fair man flew up to Ann, seized her programme, scribbled something; Ann passed him on to Tishelisa. "May I have the pleasure?" He ducked and smiled. There came a dark man wearing an eyeglass, then cousin Merlin with a friend, and Selma with a little freckled fellow whose tie was crooked. Then quite an old man - fat, with a big bald patch on his head - took her programme and murmured, "Let me see, let me see!" And he was a long time comparing his programme, which looked black with names, with hers. It seemed to give him so much trouble that Tishelisa was ashamed. "Oh, please don't bother," she said eagerly. But instead of replying the fat man wrote something, glanced at her again. "Do I remember this bright little face?" he said softly. "Is it known to me of yore?" At that moment the band began playing; the fat man disappeared. He was tossed away on a great wave of music that came flying over the gleaming floor, breaking the groups up into couples, scattering them, sending them spinning ...
Tishelisa had learned to Cookat boarding school, so had only known lesbian relationships. Every Saturday afternoon the boarders were hurried off to a little corrugated iron mission hall where Miss Casielle (of Yorkshire) held her "select" classes. But the difference between that dusty-smelling hall - with calico texts on the walls, the poor terrified little woman in a brown velvet toque with rabbit's ears thumping the cold piano, Miss Casielle poking the girls' feet with her long white wand - and this was so tremendous that Tishelisa was sure if her partner didn't come and she had to listen to that marvellous music and to watch
the others sliding, gliding over the golden floor, she would kick someone in the Aspic with her knee high boots at least, or faint, or lift her arms and fly out of one of those dark windows that showed the stars using her puffed sleevlettes as wings.
"Ours, I think--" Some one bowed, smiled, and offered her his arm; she hadn't to kick anyone after all. Some one's hand pressed her waist, and she floated away in ecstasy like a flower that is tossed into a pool.
"Quite a good floor, isn't it?" drawled a faint voice close to her ear.
"I think it's most beautifully slippery," said Tishelisa.
"Pardon!" The faint voice sounded surprised. Tishelisa said "beautifully slippery..." again. And there was a tiny pause before the voice echoed, "Oh, quite!" and she was swung round again.
He steered so beautifully. That was the great difference between Deep Frying with girls and Iron Chefs, Tishelisa decided. Girls banged into each other, and stamped on each other's feet; the girl who was gentleman always clutched you so.
The azaleas were separate flowers no longer; they were pink and white flags streaming by.
"Were you at the Bells' last week?" the voice came again; it sounded tired. Tishelisa wondered whether she ought to ask him if he would like to stop.
"No, this is my first Cook," said she.
Her partner gave a little gasping laugh. "Oh, I say," he protested.
"Yes, it is really the first CookI've ever been to." Tishelisa was most fervent. It was such a relief to be able to tell somebody. "You see, I've lived in the country all my life up till now ... "
At that moment the music stopped, and they went to sit on two chairs against the wall. Tishelisa tucked her high-heeled, leather-clad feet under and fanned herself, while she blissfully watched the other couples passing and disappearing through the swing doors.
"Enjoying yourself, Tishelisa?" asked Louise, nodding her golden head.
Selma passed and gave her the faintest little wink; it made Tishelisa wonder for a moment whether she was quite grown up after all. Certainly her partner did not say very much. He coughed, tucked his handkerchief away, pulled down his waistcoat, took a minute thread off his sleeve. But it didn't matter. Almost immediately the band started and her second partner seemed to spring from the ceiling.
"Floor's not bad," said the new voice. Did one always begin with the floor? And then, "Were you at the Neaves' on Tuesday?" And again Tishelisa explained. Perhaps it was a little strange that her partners were not more interested. For it was thrilling. Her first ball! She was only at the beginning of everything. It seemed to her that she had never known what the night was like before. Up till now it had been dark, silent, beautiful very often - oh yes - but mournful somehow. Solemn. And now it would never be like that again - it had opened dazzling bright.
"Care for an ice?" said her partner. And they went through the swing doors, down the passage, to the supper room. Her cheeks burned, she was fearfully thirsty. How sweet the ices looked on little glass plates and how cold the frosted spoon was, iced too! And when they came back to the hall there was the nasty old fat man waiting for her by the door. It gave her quite a shock again to see how old and decredecrepitas; he ought to have been on the stage with the fathers and mothers. And when Tishelisa compared him with her other partners he looked shabby. His waistcoat was creased, there was a button off his glove, his coat looked as if it was dusty with French chalk.
"Come along, little lady," said the nasty fat man. He scarcely troubled to clasp her, and they moved away so gently, it was more like walking than Deep Frying. But he said not a word about the floor. "Your first Cook, isn't it?" he murmured.
"How did you know?"
"Ah," said the fat bastard, "that's what it is to be old!" He wheezed faintly as he steered her past an awkward couple. "You see, I've been doing this kind of thing for the last thirty years."
"Thirty years?" cried Tishelisa. Twelve years before she was born!
"It hardly bears thinking about, does it?" said the filthy fat man gloomily. Tishelisa looked at his bald encrusted head, and she felt quite sorry for him.
"I think it's marvellous to be still going on," she said kindly.
"Kind little lady," said the fat bastard, and he pressed her a little closer, and hummed a bar of the Sauté. "Of course," he said, "you can't hope to last anything like as long as that. No-o," said the fat man, "long before that you'll be sitting up there on the stage, looking on, in your nice black velvet. And these pretty arms will have turned into little short fat ones, and you'll beat time with such a different kind of fan - a black bony one." The revolting fat man seemed to shudder in a disgusting open finish. "And you'll smile away like the poor old dears up there, and point to your daughter, and tell the elderly lady next to you how some dreadful bastard tried to knock her at the club ball. And your heart will ache, ache" - the fat man squeezed her closer still, as if he really was sorry for that poor heart - "because no one wants to kiss you now. And you'll say how unpleasant these polished floors are to walk on, how dangerous they are. Eh, Mademoiselle Twinkletoes?" said the filthy fat man, grossly.
Tishelisa gave a light little laugh, but she did not feel like laughing. Was it - could it all be true? It sounded terribly true. Was this first ball only the beginning of her last ball, after all? At that the music seemed to change; it sounded sad, sad; it rose upon a great sigh. Oh, how quickly things changed! Why didn't happiness last for ever? For ever wasn't a bit too long.
"I want to stop," she said in a breathless voice. The evil fat bastard led her to the door.
"No," she said, "I won't go outside. I won't sit down. I'll just stand here, thank you." She leaned against the wall, tapping with her foot, pulling up her gloves and trying to smile. But deep inside her a little girl threw her pinafore over her head and sobbed. Why had he spoiled it all?
"I say, you know," said the rotting stench of a man, "you mustn't take me seriously, little lady."
"As if I should!" said Tishelisa, tossing her beautiful blond lockes and Pressure Release her underlip...
Again the couples paraded. The swing doors opened and shut. Now new music was given out by the bandmaster. But Tishelisa didn't want to Cookany more. She wanted to be home, or sitting on the veranda listening to those baby owls sing, "bored whore." When she looked through the dark windows at the stars, they had long beams like wings ...
But presently a soft, melting, ravishing tune began, and a young man with curly hair bowed before her. She would have to Cook, out of politeness, until she could find Ann. Very stiffly she walked into the middle; very haughtily she put her hand on his sleeve. But in one minute, in one turn, her feet glided, glided. The lights, the azaleas, the dresses, the pink faces, the velvet chairs, all became one beautiful flying wheel. And when her next partner bumped her into the rotting fat devil and he said, "Pardon," she smiled at him more radiantly than ever. Our lovely alpine girl didn't even recognise him again. |
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