The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [84]
Even the promise of future excitement, however, did not placate Coco. At lunch she announced she was bored, bored, bored. She had come to the Orkneys to play golf, and if there was to be no golf today, then she wanted to go to Kirkwall. The six of them could have dinner and stay in a hotel. “I’m fed up with all these fields,” she said.
“Ridiculous,” fumed Vicky as she carried the plates into the kitchen. “They’ll spend a fortune to eat fish and chips and sleep in the Kirkwall Hotel. She just wants to show everyone that she’s got Mr. Sinclair eating out of her hand.”
But in preparing for the party she recovered her good spirits. The prospect of the house filled with people appealed to her sociable instincts. She asked apologetically if I would mind sharing Nell’s room. Some old family friends, the Laidlaws, were coming from the south island and needed a bed for the night. She made a long list of groceries, enlisted the help of Nora and another girl, and organised music. Todd would bring his accordion, and a couple of lads from the village were grand fiddlers. I had been fantasising dancing a reel or two with some unknown guest, but now, remembering the evening when Todd and Mr. Sinclair had met, I resolved to watch the festivities from a quiet corner.
The next day the wind was even stronger, the rain heavier. Whatever time I had free from kitchen duties I used to help Nell fashion her costume. After wavering between a cat and a witch, she had chosen the former. We found a pair of black trousers in her wardrobe. A black cardigan of mine, with some pinning, made a top. We cut ears out of cardboard, painted them, and attached them to an Alice band. A black sock served as the tail. I practised drawing whiskers on her cheeks with eyeliner until she was satisfied.
“What about your costume?” she said.
“I’m helping Vicky with the food. I’ll be dressed as a waitress.”
I was joking, but Nell pouted until I promised that, once the food was served, I would come down in my own pair of ears. Far preferable, I thought, to be a second cat than to look as if I had tried to compete.
The guests returned that afternoon. Coco and Jill ran back and forth, asking for thread and safety pins, and Jill asked if they could set up the ironing board in the corridor outside their rooms. As I helped Vicky in the kitchen, I recalled the last Christmas at Yew House, when I had been left to peel the chestnuts with Mrs. Marsden. But this was different, I told myself; I was being paid for my labour. I pictured Coco, the belle of the ball in some elegant gown, and Jill, more sedately dressed, happy with Colin. As for Mr. Sinclair, I imagined him in his old RAF uniform, his goggles on his forehead, a silk scarf around his neck.
The candles were lit; the party guests began to arrive. Syd, the cowman, organised the cars, Nora took the coats, and the musicians struck up. Nell ran in and out of the kitchen, flicking her tail and reporting on what was happening. Mr. Laidlaw was dressed as a raven, she said, and had pretended to be frightened when she meowed. Someone else was Robin Hood. The musicians, even Todd, were wearing kilts. During “The Grand Old Duke of York” I accompanied her into the library and stood near the door, watching. Coco wore a backless turquoise gown with silver fins attached on each side and a streamer of seaweed pinned, fetchingly, to the bodice. Jill was dressed in a pretty flowered frock with a cap and an apron. Colin