Our Dancing Days. Lucy English

they always spell it wrong,’ and she smiled.

      Mirabelle laughed and threw her head back, showing perfect white teeth. ‘Well, here we are … What a day … and the snuff box was a fake, I could tell at once … and you’ve been waiting, and the help’s off …’

      ‘I’d better start work,’ said Tessa; ‘I do have a schedule.’

      ‘Of course, but please, do come in and let me make you some tea.’

      What Tessa noticed first as they stepped inside was the familiar smell; wet stone, damp rush-matting and woodsmoke. She always supposed people gave houses their particular odours, but St John’s seemed to have one of its own. The porch was not filled with gardening tools, flower pots and muddy boots; on the floor was an exquisite rug.

      ‘This is the great hall,’ said Mirabelle, opening a door in the panelling. There were tapestries on the wall. An ornate brass lantern hung from the rafters. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ said Mirabelle, showing Tessa an enormous sofa.

      There was a grand piano, Persian rugs on the stone floor and large Chinese vases. Mirabelle brought tea in fluted porcelain. She perched on an embroidered chair near the mouth of the huge fireplace.

      ‘So, you’re going to paint St John’s.’

      ‘Sketches, really, I finish them off later, they’ll mostly be for page decorations. Has the photographer come?’

      ‘Last week, he was most charming … It’s nice to have company, it gets isolated here.’ Mirabelle was extremely thin, like a whippet, and had a whippet’s habit of trembling. ‘Bernard has to go to auctions, you see, he’s a dealer.’

      ‘Got a shop, has he?’

      Mirabelle laughed extravagantly. ‘This is the shop. It’s all for sale!’ Her gesture included the entire contents of the great hall. ‘It’s much nicer for clients to decide in a relaxed atmosphere.’

      ‘Do people come out here?’ Tessa was amazed.

      A tremble ran down Mirabelle’s arm into her teacup. ‘We don’t sell to the popular market, our clients are very discerning.’

      Tessa quietly estimated the cost of the rug under her feet. To think they had slept on this floor huddled by the fire.

      ‘I’ll have to start work now,’ she said.

      ‘So you like painting houses?’ said Mirabelle, keen to continue.

      ‘I like painting gardens.’

      ‘Well, we’ve got lots of those here,’ she laughed.

      Tessa put down her drink. ‘I believe there’s a rose garden here, with old roses. I was looking for it earlier … some rather rare roses, I thought,’ and her brown eyes fixed on Mirabelle.

      ‘Ah … well, yes, there was.’ Mirabelle’s bracelets jangled. ‘I’m afraid there was a rather bad winter … well, in the end Bernard had the swimming pool.’

      ‘What a shame, I love roses.’ Tessa stood up and Mirabelle stood up too.

      ‘It happened before … me … you see, I’m the second Mrs Hallivand.’

      The light through the church windows struck her sideways, emphasising wrinkles under her make-up. In her youth she would have had petal-pink skin but she hadn’t aged well.

      She’s as old as me, thought Tessa. ‘I see,’ she said. Mirabelle’s eyes were the palest blue; curiously, the more uncertain they became the more she smiled.

      ‘Well … well, I shan’t keep you.’

      ‘Yes, I’m better working uninterrupted.’

      ‘I could show you the house, the photographer was very impressed.’

      ‘Not today, I’m already late.’

      ‘And if you wanted anything, you will ask, won’t you?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Tessa opening the door. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hallivand.’

      ‘Oh, please, please, call me Mirabelle,’ and a tremble ran right through her, clanking all her jewellery.

CHAPTER THREE

      Tessa took her sketchbook to the far side of the moat, where the cornfield met the grounds of St John’s. Here the Hall could be seen through the trees. This was the first glimpse one saw from the road, so it seemed the best place to start. Murray would be impressed by St John’s, she thought, and this made her smile because he would never see it now and when they were together he had shown no interest in this section of her life. He loved gardens and it was gardens that had brought them together. Tessa had advised him about the tiny courtyard garden at the back of his gallery. The gardens of St John’s would make him very quiet and put his head to one side, and say, as he did when he was interested in something, ‘Hmm, possibilities …’

      The Hallivands’ improvements were not noticeable from this angle. Through the trees the Hall was as mysterious as it had ever been when weeds grew in the courtyard and the gardens were a knot of brambles and nettles. In the field the ripe wheat was prickly against Tessa’s legs and she began to draw.

      They stood staring at the house feeling out of place and uncomfortable. Don, whom nobody embarrassed, was at a loss for words. ‘Er, um,’ he said, and it had been his idea in the first place.

      Then a door opened and a woman strode out, short, squarish, a broad face and black hair scraped into a bun. She marched towards them as if they were dirty geese. ‘Shoo! Shoo! Off you go.’

      Don ran up to her. ‘Molly, it’s me! Don’t you remember? It’s me!’

      Molly was not impressed.

      ‘Oh, Molly, it’s me, I’m Donald, George’s boy, George and Hetty, the Bells, you know; Miranda, Donald.’ At each name he showed how high they used to be. ‘Frances and little Marsha, she’s twelve now …’

      Molly threw up her hands. ‘Donald! It is you, and you so grown, when I last saw you, you were …’

      ‘A squirt, and I was always up the apple trees, and Miranda played the grand piano …’

      ‘She had a lovely voice.’

      ‘She’s at the Royal Academy now, she is, she plays the cello too.’

      ‘And Frances? Such a serious little thing, dark, not like you.’

      ‘She’s a scientist, she’s brilliant, she’s going to Cambridge.’

      ‘And the baby?’

      ‘Oh, Molly, you wouldn’t recognise her, she’s the beautiful one, blonde …’

      ‘Like you.’

      ‘Like Mummy. Well, Marsha’s twelve, she’s quite a lady,’ and they both laughed.

      Tessa and Dee-Dee were still standing by the car, Dee-Dee tugging her mini skirt. Don pulled Molly over to them.

      ‘You must meet my friends! This is Tessa and Dee-Dee.’

      Molly looked them up and down gravely. Tessa’s mascara had smudged into her cheeks.

      ‘Gosh! I don’t know their surnames … I met them a week ago … they’re at art school, London’s great at the moment.’

      ‘I’m Theresa Fulks and this is Deirdre Stallard,’ said Tessa, feeling the whole situation needed clarifying. ‘Don invited us to see his cousin.’

      ‘Yes, yes, and how is Geoffrey, I’d heard he wasn’t too—’

      ‘He’s