Free Mrs Sinclair's Suitcase by Louise Walters Page A

past year. But still, she would have to choose.
    Three dresses. One dance. One decision. There really was only one contender.
    Nina had been right about the food. Trestle tables were loaded with plates of sandwiches, jellies, trifles, sausages, even cakes. There were large tea urns. And there was mild, if you wanted it, and cider. Some folk even had bottles of wine on their tables, Dorothy noticed. She took a cup of tea and a modest plate of food, and found a chair in a corner. Music erupted all around, loud and insistent. British and Polish airmen and their guests were dancing and laughing. Swing, Dorothy thought the music was called. She liked it, the soaring movement of it, the brashness. She watched the young people dancing, keeping a distant eye on her girls, who were oblivious of her – at least, for now – as they danced and laughed, cheeks rosy, freshly curled hair bouncing on their firm young shoulders. Dorothy felt weak as she compared herself to all these young people; she felt inconsequential. How glad she was to be sitting in the corner.
    Dorothy liked to sit in the corner at parties. There was nothing worse than sitting with a large group of people, feeling left out. Or, even worse, trapped. Stupid people, asking stupid questions, interfering. Laughing at jokes that she was not privy to. No, she would take her own company any day. She nibbled at a fish paste sandwich, and wondered why on earth she had agreed to come to this dance. Squadron Leader Pietrykowski had duly arrived at the cottage at seven o’clock, driving the squadron car. He had smiled broadly at her, told her he liked very much her dress. Dorothy felt both elated and shameful. The girls, dolled up and excited, giggled and chatted in the back seat. Nina had her eye on a chap who she hoped to ‘talk to’ at the dance. The interior of the squadron car smelled of straw and leather and cigarettes, and Dorothy felt dizzy as they flew along the lanes, the hedges and trees and flowers, the cottages, people and bicycles all flashing by them.
    The room swam with pulses and energies and jealousies, with chatter and spite and laughter. Dorothy, from her seat in the corner, continued to watch Aggie and Nina, and the other young women and men dancing, laughing, flirting. The squadron leader moved around the room, talking to people, ensuring the music was loud enough but not too loud, chatting with his fellow pilots, with the British pilots. There was talk of the Polish squadron being formed soon. And Dorothy thought yes, how useful it was that he could speak and understand English so well. It seemed that everybody wanted to speak to Jan Pietrykowski. He had that magic, that allure. So whatever she felt – what she thought she might have begun to feel – was nothing, was of no import. Dorothy watched him, her eyes roaming inconspicuously from her girls to him, and back again, and again. She watched as he spoke to the ladies of the village, who were eating greedily, nodding and smiling and gushing.
    A couple of them, vaguely known to Dorothy as Marjorie and Susan, marched over to her corner. Dorothy smiled at them as they sat either side of her.
    How was she? Everybody was talking about her recent escapade, did she know that? Her heroics?
    ‘It was nothing,’ said Dorothy.
    ‘Nonsense!’
    ‘Really—’
    ‘And you seem to have made quite an impression on the Polish squadron leader!’
    ‘I—’
    ‘He is a very handsome man, isn’t he? And such a gentleman.’
    ‘Yes, if you say so.’
    ‘And he speaks such good English!’
    They smelled of mild and wine. And were far too loud, even for them, she thought, although she barely knew them and had no desire to know them better or speak to either of them. She thought they were friends of Mrs Compton, if Mrs Compton had any friends.
    ‘Marvellous English, yes.’
    ‘And, Dorothy, how are you keeping these days?’
    ‘I’m fine, thank you. The girls keep me busy,’ said Dorothy, pleased to come up