visiting his tailor. ‘Look!’ he said dramatically. ‘Look at this suit! Three years old, if it’s a day. How can I go around in a three-year-old suit? What film director would ever look at a man in a three-year-old suit? I’ve spent the last few years in uniform so I’ve nothing fit to wear.’
‘Nothing fit to wear!’ exclaimed his mother. ‘Charles, what a fib! Your wardrobe is bulging!’
‘You don’t play any instrument, do you?’ asked Baz, already bored with talk of clothes, and Charles immediately turned to him. He had had a friend in India who played the trumpet and he told a good tale about how amazed the native Indians were when he decided to go out and play by the river at moonlight. He had the sort of face that showed every expression so clearly, thought Daisy, as she listened to the story. Despite his laughing denial, she thought that he would have been a success as a film star. We have no sound, no words with which to tell the story; only pictures , her godfather used to say. A leading lady or a leading man needs to tell the story by the expressions on their face.
‘But do you play the trumpet, yourself?’ interrupted Baz.
‘Trumpet! Good gracious, no,’ interrupted Lady Cynthia. ‘Why should he do a thing like that?’
‘Why indeed,’ said Daisy sweetly. ‘Baz is interested in music. All kinds of music,’ she said, wishing she could kick Poppy or something. It was obvious that this was not the kind of household that would be interested in jazz. However, she saw that Charles gave Baz a long look and then turned to smile at her. Obviously he had realized that Baz and Poppy had a close relationship. It would be impossible to miss the loving looks that Poppy gave him as they sat together on the sofa, shoulder touching shoulder.
Daisy returned Charles’s smile and said politely, ‘Tell me, Charles, how long will you be staying in England?’ Elaine had told her last night that Jack felt Charles was not suited to the Indian Police, but had warned her not to let Charles suspect that she knew. Daisy intended to show him that he had not been betrayed.
‘Oh, I’m back for good,’ he said pleasantly with an uneasy glance at his mother. ‘I’m not a brainy bloke, like Sir John. The Imperial Indian Police is not the right place for me – have to keep on passing those wretched examinations.’ He gave a careless laugh. ‘A man can only repeat so many times,’ he said. There was an uncomfortable note in his voice as he looked at his mother again, so Daisy changed the subject to talk about their plans for the season.
Lady Cynthia was very enthusiastic about the question of the ball. She beamed happily at Daisy while she was telling the story of Sir John’s visit to the House of Commons and hoped archly that her little Charles might get an invitation also.
‘And your frocks?’ she queried.
‘Oh, Elaine, our aunt, has the most wonderful taste. The last time that we were in London she had the whole of Harrods running around until she found the perfect dress for me.’ Daisy smiled at Lady Cynthia and had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen. Only seriously rich people made an impression at Harrods, the most expensive and most exclusive shop in London.
‘Beg your pardon, my lady.’ The maid who had let them in was at the door now. ‘The butler from number twelve says that Sir Guy Beresford is waiting in a taxi for Lady Daisy.’
‘Better go, too – c’mon, Pops; rude to stay so long when you’re so busy. Glad to have met you, Lady Cynthia; hope you have a good stay in London; Mother sends her regards.’ Baz was on his feet, his fingers clutching Poppy’s wrist as he pulled her towards the door in a determined fashion.
‘How very kind,’ murmured Lady Cynthia, looking somewhat surprised at this message from Baz’s mother, but sending a return message, hoping to call on her ladyship as soon as was possible. Poppy gave Baz an exasperated look but went willingly to the
‘Nothing fit to wear!’ exclaimed his mother. ‘Charles, what a fib! Your wardrobe is bulging!’
‘You don’t play any instrument, do you?’ asked Baz, already bored with talk of clothes, and Charles immediately turned to him. He had had a friend in India who played the trumpet and he told a good tale about how amazed the native Indians were when he decided to go out and play by the river at moonlight. He had the sort of face that showed every expression so clearly, thought Daisy, as she listened to the story. Despite his laughing denial, she thought that he would have been a success as a film star. We have no sound, no words with which to tell the story; only pictures , her godfather used to say. A leading lady or a leading man needs to tell the story by the expressions on their face.
‘But do you play the trumpet, yourself?’ interrupted Baz.
‘Trumpet! Good gracious, no,’ interrupted Lady Cynthia. ‘Why should he do a thing like that?’
‘Why indeed,’ said Daisy sweetly. ‘Baz is interested in music. All kinds of music,’ she said, wishing she could kick Poppy or something. It was obvious that this was not the kind of household that would be interested in jazz. However, she saw that Charles gave Baz a long look and then turned to smile at her. Obviously he had realized that Baz and Poppy had a close relationship. It would be impossible to miss the loving looks that Poppy gave him as they sat together on the sofa, shoulder touching shoulder.
Daisy returned Charles’s smile and said politely, ‘Tell me, Charles, how long will you be staying in England?’ Elaine had told her last night that Jack felt Charles was not suited to the Indian Police, but had warned her not to let Charles suspect that she knew. Daisy intended to show him that he had not been betrayed.
‘Oh, I’m back for good,’ he said pleasantly with an uneasy glance at his mother. ‘I’m not a brainy bloke, like Sir John. The Imperial Indian Police is not the right place for me – have to keep on passing those wretched examinations.’ He gave a careless laugh. ‘A man can only repeat so many times,’ he said. There was an uncomfortable note in his voice as he looked at his mother again, so Daisy changed the subject to talk about their plans for the season.
Lady Cynthia was very enthusiastic about the question of the ball. She beamed happily at Daisy while she was telling the story of Sir John’s visit to the House of Commons and hoped archly that her little Charles might get an invitation also.
‘And your frocks?’ she queried.
‘Oh, Elaine, our aunt, has the most wonderful taste. The last time that we were in London she had the whole of Harrods running around until she found the perfect dress for me.’ Daisy smiled at Lady Cynthia and had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen. Only seriously rich people made an impression at Harrods, the most expensive and most exclusive shop in London.
‘Beg your pardon, my lady.’ The maid who had let them in was at the door now. ‘The butler from number twelve says that Sir Guy Beresford is waiting in a taxi for Lady Daisy.’
‘Better go, too – c’mon, Pops; rude to stay so long when you’re so busy. Glad to have met you, Lady Cynthia; hope you have a good stay in London; Mother sends her regards.’ Baz was on his feet, his fingers clutching Poppy’s wrist as he pulled her towards the door in a determined fashion.
‘How very kind,’ murmured Lady Cynthia, looking somewhat surprised at this message from Baz’s mother, but sending a return message, hoping to call on her ladyship as soon as was possible. Poppy gave Baz an exasperated look but went willingly to the
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