The Petticoat Men (2 page)

Excitement and laughter rose as the orchestra played ‘Camptown Races’
with much panache,
and champagne glasses were generously refilled. Already ladies and gentlemen leaned nearer and nearer to one another, waving dance programmes:
ladies? gentlemen? –
sometimes it was hard to tell.

‘An interesting guest list,’ murmured Mr Porterbury urbanely, observing them all.

‘Indeed,’ said Mr Gibbings as he smiled and waved, ‘several young gentlemen from St James’s of course. And as you know the Prince of Wales himself has occasionally honoured us with his presence.’

Mr Porterbury’s jowls quivered. ‘Will he come this evening?’

‘I expect he is being very careful of his whereabouts just at the moment, considering the newspaper coverage of the Mordaunt divorce case!’ And they both laughed.

Mr Porterbury, taller, suddenly nudged Mr Gibbings. ‘However, several attractive ladies from St John’s Wood are ascending the stairs, Mr Gibbings, if I am not mistaken,’ and he smiled urbanely, (St John’s Wood being an area where high-class but not necessarily entirely respectable ladies were known to dwell.)

Mr Gibbings stepped forward. ‘Alice! How utterly delightful to see you, my dear. So glad you have honoured us with your presence!’

‘Ah, Amos, I was whisked here by some gentlemen friends, and I have whisked also my little niece, Nancibelle, who has not graced such a soirée as this before. I thought it would be good for her education,’ and Alice twinkled at Mr Gibbings, ‘so I do hope you will make her welcome!’

‘My dear, of course! Welcome, Miss Nancibelle, indeed! How exquisite you both look.’ (And Nancibelle wriggled her shoulders slightly smugly, knowing that she was indeed exquisite, and looked about the room with great interest.) ‘And Mr Porterbury here is the proprietor,’ and Mr Porterbury bowed to both ladies and Nancibelle nodded her head haughtily as if to say,
Really? The proprietor?
as taught by her mother. Who was not of course present. Mr Gibbings then snapped his fingers. ‘Now here is a very handsome young man to take you to the powder room,’ and a waiter who had stepped forward escorted Alice and Nancibelle away.

‘Methinks Alice is showing her age slightly these days after all her life’s adventures,’ murmured Mr Gibbings to Mr Porterbury, ‘but she is now so desperate for a monied husband that she accepts invitations to my soirées unconditionally, thinking perhaps that certain gentlemen present may need’ – he paused, smiling slightly – ‘may need a particularly understanding wife!’ The orchestra suddenly burst into a gavotte. ‘And this of course is half the fun of it all,’ Mr Gibbings murmured further, nearer to Mr Porterbury’s ear above the music, ‘to mix everybody up! For of course as you know, Mr Porterbury, to forestall insinuations I always invite a certain number of “real” ladies – if we may call them ladies.’

And then Mr Gibbings’s face lit up as Ernest and Freddie swept up the winding staircase.

‘Stella!’ he called to Ernest. ‘Fanny!’ he called to Freddie. ‘I thought you would
never
arrive!’ And he turned once more to Mr Porterbury. ‘This dream of perfection in white with pink roses is my dear friend, Stella. As spring blossoms she will no doubt be the star attraction at the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race and another twenty balls; this cosy evening she is ours, she will sing for us, and will, I promise, bewitch,’ and Mr Porterbury bowed again, bewitched already, unable to quite take his eyes from the lovely figure in front of him.

‘My dear, you look ravishing,’ murmured Ernest to Mr Gibbings, although he was actually surveying the room from under his eyelashes.

‘My dear,’ Mr Gibbings answered, ‘I have spoken to the orchestra. They have the music for “Fade Away”
and “Eileen Aroon”,
and assure me they are familiar with both songs.’ He turned back to the proprietor. ‘And Mr Porterbury, this is Fanny, another dear, dear friend; Mr Porterbury is the proprietor here, Fanny, and the facilitator of our evening,’ and Freddie in his blue gown gave a small, graceful curtsey.

‘Fanny dear, blue is your colour, as I have often told you,’ said Mr Gibbings in mauve, ‘and that
beautiful
shawl is certainly the most ravishing scarlet colour I have ever beheld! Come now, a glass of champagne!’ and Stella and Fanny were at once surrounded, not only by trays of champagne carried by the handsome young waiters, but by many friends and admirers. Hands reached out for the fizzing glasses.

A swathe of ladies and gentlemen, all wearing the latest fashions, now filled the ballroom and waved their dance programmes at one another and called to friends across the large room. The orchestra was playing ‘Camptown Races’ again, by request, and voices rang out:
doo-dah! doo-dah!
in time to the music
.
Couples stamped and twirled, there was laughter and music and excitement. And, again, under the flattering lamplight, with the rising smell of perspiring men, layered with the aroma of pomade and strong perfume and pastilles and alcohol – again some other thing shimmered there also, in the air… the scent of something – something that seemed almost a dangerous perfume itself, heightening the animation and the exhilaration. (Philosophers have for many centuries debated this last point, of course: the proposal that human beings sense certain particular matters exactly as do animals – and indeed, it is believed, butterflies.)

Such exquisite, sparkling, shining gowns; such handsome men; such pretty ladies – an evening like many others in London except that perhaps the laughter became by degrees somewhat more feverish than might have been considered respectable by young ladies’ chaperones in other ballrooms. (Actually, the somewhat uninhibited laughter may in some circles have been deemed extremely vulgar.)

But of course there were no chaperones here.

Minutes passed, or hours: it is hard to keep count when the champagne is flowing so freely and the noise so loud. Many of the gentlemen in their elegant evening attire, including both bishops, wanted to dance, in particular, with the lovely figure in pink and white, with the pink roses in her hair. (Mr Amos Gibbings was heard to comment favourably on a bishop’s cassock and its suitability for the swirl of the waltz.)

Before the actual supper was served the handsome young waiters carried in plates of tiny savoury delicacies and, with little delighted screams, people swooped on both the waiters and the food like hungry, noisy, predatory birds, appetites aroused. In some corners ladies – perhaps they were ladies – sat in the little straight-backed gilt chairs, and gentlemen bent over them with champagne and chicken wings, and whispered; the laughter became even more ebullient perhaps (raucous, frankly) and the orchestra played another waltz and couples danced closer together and champagne continued to flow unabated. Occasionally now discreet doors opened and closed into the smaller rooms beyond the ballroom.

At midnight a large and luxurious supper was served in another room.

Mr Amos Gibbings looked around imperiously. ‘Julius, where is Julius? It must be Julius!’

‘Julius!’ went up the cry. ‘Julius!’

One of the bishops emerged from one of the side rooms with red rosy cheeks, fumbling at the very many cassock buttons and innocently smoothing his dishevelled hair. (Followed at a discreet distance by one of the waiters.) This bishop blessed the French soup and halibut and duck and roast beef and treacle pudding and caramel and cream and orangewater ices and profiteroles. All these victuals were immediately attacked by guests (including the blessing bishop) with much enjoyment, and in one corner of the dining room a party of inebriated gentlemen used the ever-growing piles of empty champagne bottles as skittles, with goose eggs as balls.

Champagne Charlie is my name,
sang the skittlers,

Champagne Charlie is my name,

Good for any game at night, my boys,

Good for any game at night, my boys,

Champagne Charlie is my name!

Then when most people had drifted back into the ballroom an announcement was made by Mr Gibbings.

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ He could now hardly be heard above the noise and the laughter. He looked to the orchestra and twirled his pearls impatiently at which there was immediately a very loud drum roll. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen, please!’ and Mr Gibbings raised his braceleted arms for silence. ‘A special guest has kindly agreed to provide a little more entertainment! If you have not heard her voice, you have not yet lived for she has what I can only describe as a seraphic gift for song! Ladies and gentlemen, I present’ – and Mr Gibbings lowered his voice dramatically as if imparting a secret, and people called
sssshhhh
as there was still much laughter in corners – ‘ladies and gentlemen, I present: STELLA, STAR OF THE STRAND!’

The figure in pink and white was so very lovely, there beside the orchestra with pink roses in her hair. As she began to sing, the echoing, excited room became oddly quiet; a few last stragglers emerged from supper for the voice was lilting and pretty, and rather sad in an enjoyable kind of way, and people sighed a little as they listened. Violin strings chorused (with perhaps just a touch too much sentiment) around the pretty voice.

Rose of the garden

Blushing and gay

E’en as we pluck thee

Fading away!

Beams of the morning

Promise of day

While we are gazing

Fading away!

A tear or two fell, tumultuous applause ensued and Stella, Star of the Strand, gave a genteel wave with her white-gloved hand to her appreciative audience. Regrettably in the crowded ballroom just at this moment, a woman – perhaps it was a woman – fainted (or, to put it more prosaically, passed out); she was quickly handed through the crowd to one of the side rooms while voices called to the stage.

‘More!’ came the cry. ‘More! Encore!’ and finally Stella was persuaded to embark upon another number and again there was relative quiet on the first floor of Mr Porterbury’s Hotel and the lovely old Irish song began.

When, like the early rose

Eileen Aroon

Beauty in childhood blows

Eileen Aroon

When like a diadem

Buds blush around the stem

Which is the fairest gem?

Eileen Aroon.

Stella, Star of the Strand, would then have sung another verse, but in chorus with the very last lovely line (slightly spoiling the ending), there was an exceedingly loud scream from one of the discreet side rooms: not so much a scream of terror, more a screech of outrage. (Unfortunately, however, whatever its origins, it was so very loud it was certainly heard right down to the Strand.) There was also the very clear sound of a slap, several slaps; they echoed slightly and at once voices rose. Doors banged, champagne spilled, enquiring footsteps hurried upwards from below. Mr Porterbury looked deeply alarmed; there were respectable guests staying at his hotel; he searched at once for Mr Gibbings in his mauve gown. A man with his braces showing for all to see emerged into the ballroom, hair ruffled; he was so angry he punched a wall, somehow ripping the elegant wallpaper, deeply offending Mr Porterbury who deplored violence, especially violence done to his hotel. Somewhere (it could be clearly heard) a woman was being shushed and placated.

‘I have never been so insulted in my life! He – he—’ But the voice obviously simply could not bring itself to elaborate further.

‘Sssshhh, Nancibelle dear, sssshhh! The
whole
of London will hear you! It was a misunderstanding.’

‘I want to go home! I
did
not
misunderstand! It is disgusting! I want to go home!’ The voice rose to a crescendo.

Another voice interrupted: a man? a woman? it was not clear.

‘Well, dear, frankly I think you
should
go home to the nasty little abode from whence you emerged! It was
me
he beckoned to follow him into this private boudoir, not you, you cheap and ignorant little St John’s Wood trollop!’ and there was then further violent verbal altercation, screeches, further slapping, and the sound of sobbing: all these sounds emerged from one of the discreet side rooms very indiscreetly; whether it was male or female sobbing was difficult, at this juncture in the evening, to judge.

Stella, Star of the Strand, descended from the platform.

The orchestra tried to play on valiantly.

Several couples stepped on to the dance floor rather hesitantly.

But more or less, with champagne and eggshells everywhere, and the torn wallpaper, and rather shocked enquiries from below – and the realisation that it was almost four in the morning – the ball, at this point, disintegrated.