“Is this really meant for me?” she asked, looking at Miss Nettlefold.
“I think you might be able to guess what it is!” Miss Nettlefold replied with a little excited clap of her hands. “I hope your dancing shoes are in need of a little exercise!”
“Oh David, do come over here and have a look.” Mrs. Simpson glanced over in the direction of the window, across which yellow velvet curtains had been drawn.
A man was sitting on a sofa next to a grand piano, a couple of sleeping terriers lying at his feet, their heads resting on his shoes. His own head was bent over a tapestry canvas that he was poking at rhythmically with a needle threaded with green wool, but at the sound of his name he looked up.
“Come on, Cora, move off. And you too, Jaggs,” he said, shifting the dogs off his feet and onto the floor. Putting the embroidery down on the sofa he reached for the heavy silver monogrammed box on the table beside him and, lighting a cigarette, came to join the others. May had seen photographs of him, of course. In fact there was one hanging in a gold frame in the schoolroom at home, a cigarette in his mouth. But, for the second time in a month, it was a shock to see that black-and-white picture not only in colour but moving and breathing. He looked thinner than he had in the photograph and even smaller than the mournful figure he had presented to the crowds at the recent funeral of his father. His face was the colour of a plum and his left eye drooped a little as if halfway towards a wink. He was wearing a grey and red kilt with black checks and a thick blue jersey. A couple of small burn marks on one of the sleeves were just visible beneath a dusting of cigarette ash. He was clearly as unprepared for introductions as May was.
“So, Miss …?”
“Thom-Thomas,” she supplied, stumbling a little over her own name before adding, “Sir, I mean, Your Royal. King. Sorry, Your Majesty, I mean.” She tapered off.
But he appeared troubled neither by her confusion nor by her wobbly attempt at a curtsey and turned to watch Mrs. Simpson open the brown paper parcel.
“What have we here, my dear Evangeline?” Mrs. Simpson exclaimed in her jangly voice as she removed the flat slipcase from the wrapping paper. “Oh my! I do declare it is something to get the foot tapping!” And then, “But Evangeline, darling! How clever you are! A foxtrot from Handy’s Memphis Blues Band,’ she exclaimed, reading the words of the record sleeve. “Oh my! David, do you see?”
Mrs. Simpson held the bright yellow disc out to show him. Printed along the bottom of the record were the words “Manufactured for Hochschild, Kohn and Co.”
“Oh, Evangeline! Hochschild’s! Our favourite store, the lipstick store, the place of refuge from our mothers! Were we all of sixteen, even fifteen years old I wonder?”
Her eyes shone at the recollection. But Miss Nettlefold was not quite finished with her surprise.
“And Wallis, there is a rather divine coincidence that I think will surprise you.” Miss Nettlefold pointed to one word denoting the record label, which was imprinted on the top of the disc. Belvedere. Just the same as Fort Belvedere, the house in which they all stood.
“Well! I do declare this is quite the best gift I ever did see! What about it, David? Do you see what a clever, imaginative, generous friend I have brought to stay with us? We will quite forget all our worries when we start dancing to Handy’s Band. It will be quite like the good old times before you became …”
But she stopped herself mid-sentence and ran over to the gramophone, the record in her hand.
“Come here, Evangeline darling! Let’s listen to it at once. And let’s have a martini! Whoever said it was too early for a martini? It’s never too early for a cocktail, is it, Vangey?” Her hands were as expressive as her smile, opening up and outwards as she spoke.
The king appeared startled by this girlish gush of reminiscence and, spotting May dawdling uncertainly in the corner near the door, went over to speak to her. May had been trying to edge out of the room, with its soft lamplight and its glossy furniture, without anyone noticing.
“I believe Miss Nettlefold mentioned that you learned to drive in the West Indies?” the king began. “A most glorious