Chapter Text
When you sit down for the first time with your girl’s family at a formal dinner, you must make a good impression. You must have all your company manners on. You must be able to perform in a civilized manner, converse, be pleasant, not get your sleeve in the gravy, and not tip over your water glass. You must not perspire openly or stutter over an answer or talk with your mouth full. You feel nervous. There is a lot riding on this dinner invitation to The Sanderson’s.
You are acquainted with her father, Detective Inspector George Sanderson. He runs City South Police Station; you are a constable there. You meet her mother. Mrs. Sanderson seems fragile, polite, but a bit detached. You are introduced to her eldest sister, whose name you mispronounce.
“It is Lily Ann not Lilian,” she corrects you. “It is two names. Just as Rosa Lee has. No one’s ever, ever called her Rosie, you are aware of that, aren’t you, Constable Robinson?”
Your girl, Rosie, says, “Oh, sister, that’s just Jack Robinson’s name for me. I rather like it. It’s mine alone.”
Her sister replies, “It sounds common to the ear, sister. I don’t know about all these nicknames. If you have a given name, supplied by your parents, isn’t that good enough for you?”
“A sherry, sister?” Your Rosie says to change the subject of proper appellatives.
You are introduced to a tall, well-dressed young man named Sidney Fletcher. He is some sort of connection, a godson, or a nephew. He obviously belongs. He seems to have pride of place. The floral bouquet of women, including Rosie’s mother, Marigold, show deference to him as he holds court. DI Sanderson seems to treat him like a son.
You wonder if you should have worn a suit rather than your uniform. But, considering how expensive Fletcher’s dark gray tailored suit appears, your off the rack brown one would have looked shabby in comparison. No, the uniform was the right choice. It gives your rangy twenty year old frame gravitas and maturity. You hope.
You are seated on Mrs. Sanderson’s left. She eats very little. She speaks of her illnesses, of her potions and elixirs. The latest concoction, Doctor Posset’s Medicinal Compound, promises relief from ‘twinges in the night that keep one from getting one’s proper rest’. She has only begun using it, but the bitter-sweet taste suggests real healing properties,
“Now Mother, don’t forget to tell about your collection,” Lily Ann instructs.
“Oh, yes. My dollies.”
“She has an entire room just for her dolls,” your Rosie explains.
“Wall to wall dolls,” DI Sanderson says with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes.
“Siddy just gave me a little Dutch Girl for my Dolls of Many Nations diorama display. George, I may need to use your study for that once it’s complete.”
“Of course, my dear, this is your house, after all. Perhaps Constable Robinson would enjoy seeing your collection after dinner.” Your boss’s suggestion somehow sounds like an order.
You say you’d love to. Though why a grown woman has a roomful of dolls escapes you. You notice how polite DI Sanderson is to his wife. He is attentive, saying the correct things, and yet avoids looking at her directly. Or, perhaps he just does not see her?
You speak when spoken to. Explain who your people are as succinctly as you can. You wonder why Rosie hasn’t bothered to speak of you to her connections before now. It’s not easy chewing, swallowing and being interrogated.
“And, your father?” Mrs. Sanderson turns to you and asks.
“Is deceased,” you answer.
“It grieves me to hear that. Was it a long illness?”
“An accident at the factory, Mrs. Sanderson,” you inform her.
“How tragic,” she says.
“It’s just me and Mum and my little sister now,” you explain. “I…”
“I must have more of that delicious gravy, Aunt Marigold,” Fletcher interrupts with a teasing smile.
“What about more of that roast, too?” DI Sanderson asks his godson. “Cook’s out done herself.”
“Yes, and he needs more potatoes,” says Lily Ann.
“Rosa Lee ring the bell, please.”
“Yes, Mother.”
You appreciate the beautiful dining room. The appointments are grand. Gleaming hardwood floor. Crystal drinking glasses, china rimmed with gold leaf, shining silverware, all set upon on a snowy white linen damask tablecloth. Your boss must be doing quite well or does his wife have the money? He savors the excellent viands upon his table. He takes the choicest cuts of meat from the platter that is offered. He acts like a guest in his own home. The women are served last.
You think of your house, you eat in the kitchen. The floor is linoleum, the table is covered in oil cloth except on holidays. You recall your father serving the food to your mother as she tended to the baby. He served himself last. He took the gristly bits of meat. He’d make sure you got a prime piece because— ‘You’re a growing boy. You need your grub. Eat up, lad. For these things we are thankful. Right, Jacky?’
You feel curiously flat. You eat slowly and carefully. If only Rosie would look your way, nothing else would matter. Though, it was strange the way they all just passed over your father’s death, your mother’s courage, your little sister’s tears.
You want to explain how at thirteen you became the man in the family. Working days as a bicycle delivery boy, you attended night school to further your education. Perhaps this dinner is not the time and place for them to get to know you. Or, to hear of your ambitions to make something of yourself. To be somebody. Still, why ask a question and then pass over the answer?
You feel confused. The Sanderson family is difficult to understand. Husband and wife so very polite, and yet unable to meet each other’s eyes. Miss Lily Ann, aging spinster, fusses over her mother and ignores her father. Your host seems more interested in what his godson has to say than his guest. Your girl is focused on this Fletcher person more than on you. They all talk a great deal about people you don’t know, and places you haven’t been. They complain about Hyacinth, middle daughter, who is always too busy to attend family dinners because of those silly classes she takes at the Business School. You have a notion that the knives come out not only to cut pieces of meat, but to stab others in the back.
You just want Rosie to acknowledge you. You will it--- repeating a mantra inside your mind---'Look at me, Rosie. Look at me.’ But, right now, she seems to only have eyes for Fletcher and smiles for her father. She’s “your” girl. And, you want to be with her. Marry her. Someday.
You wonder when you can kiss her again and hold her close. Last night, you reached out and ran a tentative finger along the soft skin of her neck. Her Mona Lisa smile encouraged you. You begin to believe that you might have a chance with her. That you might rise because of her, her family, the wealth, the influence. That oilcloth and linoleum will be things of the past, and white linen, thick carpets, and a beautiful wife will grace your home. Is that too much to ask? If you work hard, apply yourself, are ambitious, do what you are told, what can get in your way?
You wonder how long this interminable dinner will go on. You wonder if the knives will come out after you depart. You wonder if Sidney Fletcher comes with the territory. You wonder how often you will have to dine here like this. Supping on wormwood and honey.