7. A SCREAM IN THE EVENING AIR

THE FANCY DRESS BALL (7)

It was a beautiful late summer day and the weather looked set fair for the next week or so. Therefore just about everyone from our corner of Swanspottle was going to make their way to the manor house and Sir Jeffrey’s fancy dress ball.

Millie and I sought him out in the bowels of his home where he knew that few people could find him. He had a small office on the top floor, under the roof, and he was fond of seeking the peace and harmony that he treasured up there, often with Cynthia, his charming wife who he was rarely any great distance from. Theirs was a love I admired because it was genuine on both sides.

He was alone when Millie and I knocked his door and without waiting for an invitation went in. He was sitting in an armchair reading a book, dressed as he often was by choice in a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt. There was no upper-class snobbery about his appearance and even when he went to town or the City he appeared indistinguishable from any working man. There was nothing of the social throw-back about Sir Jeffrey which meant he was very much a what you see is what you get individual.

“Well, Roger, something must be afoot for you to have climbed those stairs, especially clad in that ferocious outfit!” he said, smiling and indicating with the wave of one hand that there was a chair for Millie. That’s another thing about him: his attitude to the fair sex was genuine.

“I thought I’d have a word, Jeffrey,” I said, “there may be nothing to it, but I’ve been a bit troubled to see a pair of what I’d describe as undesirables in the area. It may have nothing to do with the Tiffany affair...”

“Surely that’s dead and buried!” he protested, “along with the poor child at the centre of it. Those responsible have had their just deserts and even the then prime minister is languishing behind bars...”

“You know as well as I do that with his background and money he’ll be out sooner or later,” I reminded him, “I’m afraid that if a rogue gets power in this country it’s no hard thing for him to get away with just about anything, and the swine you’re on about actually got away with murder...”

He nodded sadly. “I’ve always believed in the jurisprudence of our native people,” he said, “be they black or white, red or yellow, there’s a decency that is unimpeachable. Until the present lot, that is. But you sorted that out with that research of yours and the way you put things together so that they couldn’t wriggle out of it.”

“The snake had a long tail, Jeffrey,” I said, “and I know that you’re perfectly aware of that! And there are still people who think things should have been left as they were. Money was being made, big money, and they loved it. I have never ceased to be amazed how many people there are who, having accumulated more wealth than they could possible need, find they have to pinch and punch until they’ve piled up even more!”

“I hope you’re not looking at me when you say that, Roger!” he said, light heartedly.

“Never!” I assured him, “but I did think I’d better let you know about the two dodgy characters I’ve seen. It’s when they watch us walking down the street the way they watched us two that I become aware that they might be more than lost souls looking for their way home.”

“It might have been your outfit,” he mused, “after all, there can’t be too many blokes with shiny helmets perched on their heads like you have, and a handsome skirt like the one your wearing, passing their way every day!”

“I didn’t like the look of them either,” put in Millie, “miserable looking types, up to no good I’m sure. I’ve seen their sort lurking in the city but not round here. They need being watched.”

“Dressed like you are it might have been envy, pure and simple behind it,” grinned Jeffrey, “after all, I know you quite well, yet looking at you now it’s a hard job stopping my eyeballs from popping out of my head!”

“Anyway, now you know I’ll go down and make sure everything’s hunky-dory for the masses,” I told him. “I gather you’re going to hide away up here, away from all the fuss?”

“Probably,” he said with a shy grin, “but I’m not a kill-joy! Everything’s planned and from what I’ve heard there are a lot of people coming dressed in all sorts of outlandish clothes, and I will probably put my nose into the proceedings once they’re under way.”

“As long as there aren’t too many in Roman gear,” I said, “or bystanders might think we’re preparing an army for battle!”

“There probably will be a few,” he said, grinning at me, “men seem to enjoy dressing in skirts and it’s an easy costume to put together from your wife’s wardrobe!”

“Well, I wear a tunic under sufferance,” I told him, “come on Millie, my love, let’s go down the thousand or so steps to the real world down below!”

Downstairs, it was still too early for the guests to start arriving, which is the downside of me and Millie offering to help with the preparations. But we weren’t alone. Cynthia was there, marking out the lawn in coloured tape, and I wasn’t quite sure why.

“It might be outdoors, but we’re still supposed to be exercising sensible social distancing,” she explained, “though I’ll bet you a pound to a penny that nobody will take notice of my hard work!”

“And what about masks?” I asked, “aren’t we supposed to wear masks if we’re close to others?”

“You are,” she nodded, putting the accent on the pronoun.

“Don’t worry! We’re equipped, though I’m going to look odd with a white mask under this brass helmet,” I said, “but there’s no need to wear them outside, and it doesn’t look like rain so the chances are we won’t need them at all.”

“I should hope not! And don’t you think it would spoil the image if I had to wear one?” she asked, “I mean, Lady Godiva not wearing a stitch, but with a mask plastered on her face!”

The back lawn was a large space of well tended grass bordered with low hedges of box, and there was plenty of space for the expected crowds and their often home-made fancy dresses. A small corner was set aside for a local disc-jockey and his turntables, and he spent soe time counting up to two into his microphone, either to publicise his numerical skills or test the sound.

The afternoon started to dim into evening and it wasn’t long before the first trickle of revellers arrived.

“We’ll revive the dead,” said a voice in my ear, and it was Dakota, one of the Absinthe twins. Both girls were there, already dressed in the sort of nurse uniforms beloved of the saucier Ealing comedy films from the nineteen sixties. Dakota was holding a huge syringe filled with crimson liquid whilst Jessica was carrying a gigantic roll of bandages.

“I hope there won’t be too many of those needed!” I smiled, “but you two look … lovely!”

“You’re too kind,” smiled Jessica, “come on, nurse, before the patient dies!”

“After you, nurse!” replied Dakota.

Slowly the lawn filled up with all manner of folk and the music started playing, softly at first. Knights in shining armour, firemen, policemen with cardboard helmets, more Roman soldiers, some in what was obviously a woman’s pleated skirt made to look military, at least three clergymen and a couple of popes appeared among others. The ball was underway.

And suddenly, piercing like a sonic knife through the evening air, a woman screamed, sheer terror in her voice, a scream that morphed slowly into a juddering flood of tears, and ended in horrified silence.

© Peter Rogerson 23.07.20