her fingertips to her forehead and muttered, ‘Oh no.’
‘I’ve got a good one,’ said Diana, excited. ‘Sylvie, come on, snakes and ladders can wait. I need your help. Come with me.’
‘Don’t know about everyone else but I’m ready for a snooze,’ yawned Mollie, standing up, ‘I’m going upstairs. Marcus ?’
‘Oh, I’m staying here,’ he said casually, shrugging his shoulders with a boyish grin. ‘I want to see what Diana has in store for us.’
Her mother left the room.
‘If looks could kill,’ muttered Mrs Bunting, sinking her nose into her champagne glass.
Ten minutes later, Diana and Sylvie carried Marcus’s easel into the drawing room, knocking the paintwork with it and grimacing with mirth. Attached to the easel was a large sheet of his best art paper.
‘But that’s my …!’ he started and then sat on the sofa, highly amused. ‘Oh, never mind.’
Diana had used charcoal to draw a huge face with squinting eyes, a bulbous nose and a shock of black hair over its forehead. But no mouth.
‘Oh, it’s—’ Nell said.
‘Yes,’ said Diana, holding up a square piece of black card, filched from Marcus’s cupboard. ‘And this is his tache.’
She’d taken the scissors to it and cut the exact hilarious shape of Mr Hitler’s moustache.
‘We’re playing pin the tache on the dictator,’ she cried. ‘All we need now is a blindfold.’
Sylvie relinquished her silk scarf, allowed herself to be blindfolded and the game began. Diana and Nell, giggling together, turned her around and around and led her outstretched arms towards the easel to complete Adolf’s face. Sylvie chuckled and protested, muttering in French.
‘Hey, Sylvie,’ chastised Marcus, ‘none of that. Remember where you are.’
‘Oh, tell me, have I done it?’
Marcus couldn’t answer her. He was laughing hard with Diana, his face open with surprise and utter delight as he looked at her.
Diana said, ‘I noticed your gramophone up there, Marcus. Can we fetch it down?’
Nell wondered whether it would wake her mother.
Marcus ignored her and hurried upstairs for it, bringing with him a case of seventy-eights.
‘Oh Dad, you’re not going to play Debussy, are you?’ she protested.
‘No, I most certainly am not. Sylvie, pull the blackout. Nell, help me roll back the rug. Mrs B,’ he extended his arm to her, ‘would you do me the absolute honour of partnering me in the first dance?’
As the jazz beat swung out around the room, Marcus spun the housekeeper across the parquet until she was red in the face, protesting.
‘Pudifoot could dance, Nell,’ she called out. ‘You never would believe that of him, but oh, could he dance.’
Diana clapped them. ‘Put something else on,’ she urged Nell.
‘How about “Okay Toots”? Or …’ Nell pulled a disc out of a sleeve and peered at the label, ‘“Anything Goes”.’
‘Isn’t that all a little bit racy, Uncle Marcus?’ asked Sylvie.
‘Oh, it’s all good fun. How about “Cheek to Cheek”. That’s it, that one.’ Then he held out his hand to Diana. ‘Put that glass of champagne down and dance with me. Mrs B, you’ll have to sit this one out, I’m afraid.’
The housekeeper collapsed into the fireside chair, waving her hand and insisting that he shouldn’t mind her.
Marcus pulled Diana into the centre of the floor and twirled her so that her blue silk skirt lifted to show surprisingly pretty knees. He was quite the expert, thought Nell. His back straight, his arm cocked just so.
She remembered her mother telling her how she and Auntie Beth met their future husbands on the same night, at the same ball. The sisters had only just bobbed their hair and Mollie had daringly worn trousers for the first time ever only the week before. The war had been over just three years, and the shortage of men was astonishing. They thought they’d never find a suitable boyfriend, let alone ever be swept around a dance floor by one.
Uncle Claude, blustery
‘I’ve got a good one,’ said Diana, excited. ‘Sylvie, come on, snakes and ladders can wait. I need your help. Come with me.’
‘Don’t know about everyone else but I’m ready for a snooze,’ yawned Mollie, standing up, ‘I’m going upstairs. Marcus ?’
‘Oh, I’m staying here,’ he said casually, shrugging his shoulders with a boyish grin. ‘I want to see what Diana has in store for us.’
Her mother left the room.
‘If looks could kill,’ muttered Mrs Bunting, sinking her nose into her champagne glass.
Ten minutes later, Diana and Sylvie carried Marcus’s easel into the drawing room, knocking the paintwork with it and grimacing with mirth. Attached to the easel was a large sheet of his best art paper.
‘But that’s my …!’ he started and then sat on the sofa, highly amused. ‘Oh, never mind.’
Diana had used charcoal to draw a huge face with squinting eyes, a bulbous nose and a shock of black hair over its forehead. But no mouth.
‘Oh, it’s—’ Nell said.
‘Yes,’ said Diana, holding up a square piece of black card, filched from Marcus’s cupboard. ‘And this is his tache.’
She’d taken the scissors to it and cut the exact hilarious shape of Mr Hitler’s moustache.
‘We’re playing pin the tache on the dictator,’ she cried. ‘All we need now is a blindfold.’
Sylvie relinquished her silk scarf, allowed herself to be blindfolded and the game began. Diana and Nell, giggling together, turned her around and around and led her outstretched arms towards the easel to complete Adolf’s face. Sylvie chuckled and protested, muttering in French.
‘Hey, Sylvie,’ chastised Marcus, ‘none of that. Remember where you are.’
‘Oh, tell me, have I done it?’
Marcus couldn’t answer her. He was laughing hard with Diana, his face open with surprise and utter delight as he looked at her.
Diana said, ‘I noticed your gramophone up there, Marcus. Can we fetch it down?’
Nell wondered whether it would wake her mother.
Marcus ignored her and hurried upstairs for it, bringing with him a case of seventy-eights.
‘Oh Dad, you’re not going to play Debussy, are you?’ she protested.
‘No, I most certainly am not. Sylvie, pull the blackout. Nell, help me roll back the rug. Mrs B,’ he extended his arm to her, ‘would you do me the absolute honour of partnering me in the first dance?’
As the jazz beat swung out around the room, Marcus spun the housekeeper across the parquet until she was red in the face, protesting.
‘Pudifoot could dance, Nell,’ she called out. ‘You never would believe that of him, but oh, could he dance.’
Diana clapped them. ‘Put something else on,’ she urged Nell.
‘How about “Okay Toots”? Or …’ Nell pulled a disc out of a sleeve and peered at the label, ‘“Anything Goes”.’
‘Isn’t that all a little bit racy, Uncle Marcus?’ asked Sylvie.
‘Oh, it’s all good fun. How about “Cheek to Cheek”. That’s it, that one.’ Then he held out his hand to Diana. ‘Put that glass of champagne down and dance with me. Mrs B, you’ll have to sit this one out, I’m afraid.’
The housekeeper collapsed into the fireside chair, waving her hand and insisting that he shouldn’t mind her.
Marcus pulled Diana into the centre of the floor and twirled her so that her blue silk skirt lifted to show surprisingly pretty knees. He was quite the expert, thought Nell. His back straight, his arm cocked just so.
She remembered her mother telling her how she and Auntie Beth met their future husbands on the same night, at the same ball. The sisters had only just bobbed their hair and Mollie had daringly worn trousers for the first time ever only the week before. The war had been over just three years, and the shortage of men was astonishing. They thought they’d never find a suitable boyfriend, let alone ever be swept around a dance floor by one.
Uncle Claude, blustery
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