Winter of the World (16 page)

Chuck said: ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘But don’t use it as an excuse. Work harder.’

Gus looked at his watch. ‘If you’re ready, Mama, we’d better go.’

At last they got into the car and drove to the club. Papa had taken a table for the dinner and had invited the Renshaws and their offspring, Dot and George. Woody looked around but, to his
disappointment, he did not see Joanne. He checked the table plan, on an easel in the lobby, and was dismayed to see that there was no Rouzrokh table. Were they not coming? That would ruin his
evening.

The talk over the lobster and steak was of events in Germany. Philip Renshaw thought Hitler was doing a good job. Woody’s father said: ‘According to today’s
Sentinel
,
they jailed a Catholic priest for criticizing the Nazis.’

‘Are you Catholic?’ asked Mr Renshaw in surprise.

‘No, Episcopalian.’

‘It’s not about religion, Philip,’ said Rosa crisply. ‘It’s about freedom.’ Woody’s mother had been an anarchist in her youth, and she was still a
libertarian at heart.

Some people skipped the dinner and came later for the dancing, and more revellers appeared as the Dewars were served dessert. Woody kept his eyes peeled for Joanne. In the next room a band
started to play ‘The Continental’, a hit from last year.

He could not say what it was about Joanne that had so captivated him. Most people would not call her a great beauty, though she was certainly striking. She looked like an Aztec queen, with high
cheekbones and the same knife-blade nose as her father, Dave. Her hair was dark and thick and her skin an olive shade, no doubt because of her Persian ancestry. There was a brooding intensity about
her that made Woody long to know her better, to make her relax and hear her murmur softly about nothing in particular. He felt that her formidable presence must signify a capacity for deep passion.
Then he thought: Now who’s pretending to be an expert on women?

‘Are you looking out for someone, Woody?’ said Grandmama, who did not miss much.

Chuck sniggered knowingly.

‘Just wondering who’s coming to the dance,’ Woody replied casually, but he could not help blushing.

He still had not spotted her when his mother stood up and they all left the table. Disconsolate, he wandered into the ballroom to the strains of Benny Goodman’s ‘Moonglow’
– and there Joanne was: she must have come in when he wasn’t looking. His spirits lifted.

Tonight she wore a dramatically simple silver-grey silk dress with a deep V-neck that showed off her figure. She had looked sensational in a tennis skirt that revealed her long brown legs, but
this was even more arousing. As she glided across the room, graceful and confident, she made Woody’s throat go dry.

He moved towards her, but the ballroom had filled up, and suddenly he was irritatingly popular: everyone wanted to talk to him. During his progress through the crowd he was surprised to see dull
old Charlie Farquharson dancing with the vivacious Daisy Peshkov. He could not recall seeing Charlie dance with anyone, let alone a tootsie like Daisy. What had she done to bring him out of his
shell?

By the time he reached Joanne, she was at the end of the room farthest from the band, and to his chagrin she was deep in discussion with a group of boys four or five years older than he.
Fortunately, he was taller than most of them, so the difference was not too obvious. They were all holding Coke glasses, but Woody could smell Scotch: one of them must have a bottle in his
pocket.

As he joined them, he heard Victor Dixon say: ‘No one’s in favour of lynching, but you have to understand the problems they have in the South.’

Woody knew that Senator Wagner had proposed a law to punish sheriffs who permitted lynchings – but President Roosevelt had refused to back the bill.

Joanne was outraged. ‘How can you say that, Victor? Lynching is murder! We don’t have to understand their problems, we have to stop them killing people!’

Woody was pleased to learn how much Joanne shared his political values. But clearly this was not a good time to ask her to dance, which was unfortunate.

‘You don’t get it, Joanne, honey,’ said Victor. ‘Those Southern Negroes are not really civilized.’

I might be young and inexperienced, Woody thought, but I wouldn’t have made the mistake of speaking so condescendingly to Joanne.

‘It’s the people who carry out lynchings who are uncivilized!’ she said.

Woody decided this was the moment to make his contribution to the argument. ‘Joanne is right,’ he said. He made his voice lower in pitch, to sound older. ‘There was a lynching
in the home town of our help, Joe and Betty, who have looked after me and my brother since we were babies. Betty’s cousin was stripped naked and burned with a blowtorch, while a crowd
watched. Then he was hanged.’ Victor glared at him, resentful of this kid who was taking Joanne’s attention away; but the others in the group listened with horrified interest. ‘I
don’t care what his crime was,’ Woody said. ‘The white people who did that to him are savages.’

Victor said: ‘Your beloved President Roosevelt didn’t support the anti-lynch bill, though, did he?’

‘No, and that was very disappointing,’ said Woody. ‘I know why he made that decision: he was afraid that angry Southern congressmen would retaliate by sabotaging the New Deal.
All the same, I would have liked him to tell them to go to hell.’

Victor said: ‘What do you know? You’re just a kid.’ He took a silver flask from his jacket pocket and topped up his drink.

Joanne said: ‘Woody’s political ideas are more grown-up than yours, Victor.’

Woody glowed. ‘Politics is kind of the family business,’ he said. Then he was irritated by a tug at his elbow. Too polite to ignore it, he turned to see Charlie Farquharson,
perspiring from his exertions on the dance floor.

‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’ said Charlie.

Woody resisted the temptation to tell him to buzz off. Charlie was a likeable guy who did no harm to anyone. You had to feel sorry for a man with a mother like that. ‘What is it,
Charlie?’ he said with as much good grace as he could muster.

‘It’s about Daisy.’

‘I saw you dancing with her.’

‘Isn’t she a great dancer?’

Woody had not noticed but, to be nice, he said: ‘You bet she is!’

‘She’s great at everything.’

‘Charlie,’ said Woody, trying to suppress a tone of incredulity, ‘are you and Daisy courting?’

Charlie looked bashful. ‘We’ve been horse riding in the park a couple of times, and so on.’

‘So you
are
courting.’ Woody was surprised. They seemed an unlikely pair. Charlie was such a lump, and Daisy was a poppet.

Charlie added: ‘She’s not like other girls. She’s so easy to talk to! And she loves dogs and horses. But people think her father is a gangster.’

‘I guess he is a gangster, Charlie. Everyone bought their liquor from him during Prohibition.’

‘That’s what my mother says.’

‘So your mother doesn’t like Daisy.’ Woody was not surprised.

‘She likes Daisy fine. It’s Daisy’s family she objects to.’

An even more surprising thought occurred to Woody. ‘Are you thinking of
marrying
Daisy?’

‘Oh, God, yes,’ said Charlie. ‘And I think she might say yes, if I asked her.’

Well, Woody thought, Charlie had class but no money, and Daisy was the opposite, so maybe they would complement one another. ‘Stranger things have happened,’ he said. This was kind
of fascinating, but he wanted to concentrate on his own romantic life. He looked around, checking that Joanne was still there. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ he asked Charlie. It was
not as if they were great friends.

‘My mother might change her mind if Mrs Peshkov were invited to join the Buffalo Ladies Society.’

Woody had not been expecting that. ‘Why, it’s the snobbiest club in town!’

‘Exactly. If Olga Peshkov were a member, how could Mom object to Daisy?’

Woody did not know whether this scheme would work or not, but there was no doubting the earnest warmth of Charlie’s feelings. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Woody said.

‘Would you approach your grandmother for me?’

‘Whoa! Wait a minute. Grandmama Dewar is a dragon. I wouldn’t ask her for a favour for myself, let alone for you.’

‘Woody, listen to me. You know she’s really the boss of that little clique. If she wants someone, they’re in – and if she doesn’t, they’re out.’

This was true. The Society had a chairwoman and a secretary and a treasurer, but Ursula Dewar ran the club as if it belonged to her. All the same, Woody was reluctant to petition her. She might
bite his head off. ‘I don’t know,’ he said apologetically.

‘Oh, come on, Woody, please. You don’t understand.’ Charlie lowered his voice. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to love someone this much.’

Yes, I do, Woody thought; and that changed his mind. If Charlie feels as bad as I do, how can I refuse him? I hope someone else would do the same for me, if it meant I had a better chance with
Joanne. ‘Okay, Charlie,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to her.’

‘Thanks! Say – she’s here, isn’t she? Could you do it tonight?’

‘Hell, no. I’ve got other things on my mind.’

‘Okay, sure . . . but when?’

Woody shrugged. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’

‘You’re a pal!’

‘Don’t thank me yet. She’ll probably say no.’

Woody turned back to speak to Joanne, but she had gone.

He began to look for her, then stopped himself. He must not appear desperate. A needy man was not sexy, he knew that much.

He danced dutifully with several girls: Dot Renshaw, Daisy Peshkov, and Daisy’s German friend Eva. He got a Coke and went outside to where some of the boys were smoking cigarettes. George
Renshaw poured some Scotch into Woody’s Coke, which improved the taste, but he did not want to get drunk. He had done that before and he did not like it.

Joanne would want a man who shared her intellectual interests, Woody believed – and that would rule out Victor Dixon. Woody had heard Joanne mention Karl Marx and Sigmund Freud. In the
public library he had read the
Communist Manifesto
, but it just seemed like a political rant. He had had more fun with Freud’s
Studies in Hysteria
, which made a kind of
detective story out of mental illness. He was looking forward to letting Joanne know, in a casual way, that he had read these books.

He was determined to dance with Joanne at least once tonight, and after a while he went in search of her. She was not in the ballroom or the bar. Had he missed his chance? In trying not to show
his desperation, had he been too passive? It was unbearable to think that the ball could end without his even having touched her shoulder.

He stepped outside again. It was dark, but he saw her almost immediately. She was walking away from Greg Peshkov, looking a little flushed, as if she had been arguing with him. ‘You might
be the only person here who isn’t a goddamned conservative,’ she said to Woody. She sounded a little drunk.

Woody smiled. ‘Thanks for the compliment – I think.’

‘Do you know about the march tomorrow?’ she asked abruptly.

He did. Strikers from the Buffalo Metal Works planned a demonstration to protest against the beating up of union men from New York. Woody guessed that was the subject of her argument with Greg:
his father owned the factory. ‘I was planning to go,’ he said. ‘I might take some photographs.’

‘Bless you,’ she said, and she kissed him.

He was so surprised that he almost failed to respond. For a second he stood there passively as she crushed her mouth to his, and he tasted whisky on her lips.

Then he recovered his composure. He put his arms around her and pressed her body to his, feeling her breasts and her thighs press delightfully against him. Part of him feared she would be
offended, push him away, and angrily accuse him of treating her disrespectfully; but a deeper instinct told him he was on safe ground.

He had little experience of kissing girls – and none of kissing mature women of eighteen – but he liked the feel of her soft mouth so much that he moved his lips against hers in
little nibbling motions that gave him exquisite pleasure, and he was rewarded by hearing her moan quietly.

He was vaguely aware that if one of the older generation should walk by, there might be an embarrassing scene, but he was too aroused to care.

Joanne’s mouth opened and he felt her tongue. This was new to him: the few girls he had kissed had not done that. But he figured she must know what she was doing, and anyway he really
liked it. He imitated the motions of her tongue with his own. It was shockingly intimate and highly exciting. It must have been the right thing to do, because she moaned again.

Summoning his nerve, he put his right hand on her left breast. It was wonderfully soft and heavy under the silk of her dress. As he caressed it he felt a small protuberance and thought, with a
thrill of discovery, that it must be her nipple. He rubbed it with his thumb.

She pulled away from him abruptly. ‘Good God,’ she said. ‘What am I doing?’

‘You’re kissing me,’ Woody said happily. He rested his hands on her round hips. He could feel the heat of her skin through the silk dress. ‘Let’s do it some
more.’

She pushed his hands away. ‘I must be out of my mind. This is the Racquet Club, for Christ’s sake.’

Woody could see that the spell had been broken, and sadly there would be no more kissing tonight. He looked around. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘No one saw.’ He felt
enjoyably conspiratorial.

‘I’d better go home, before I do something even more stupid.’

He tried not to be offended. ‘May I escort you to your car?’

‘Are you crazy? If we walk in there together everyone will guess what we’ve been doing – especially with that dumb grin all over your face.’

Woody tried to stop grinning. ‘Then why don’t you go inside and I’ll wait out here for a minute?’

‘Good idea.’ She walked away.

‘See you tomorrow,’ he called after her.

She did not look back.

(v)

Ursula Dewar had her own small suite of rooms in the old Victorian mansion on Delaware Avenue. There was a bedroom, a bathroom and a dressing room; and after her husband
died she had converted his dressing room into a little parlour. Most of the time she had the whole house to herself: Gus and Rosa spent a lot of time in Washington, and Woody and Chuck went to a
boarding school. But when they came home she spent a good deal of the day in her own quarters.