Work Text:
July 1931
The sun was setting in the west, luscious, succulent orange globe of a thing. It was as round as a pearl and as juicy as any self-respecting Christmas clementine, its colour saturating the sky in a fine rinse of diaphanous pinks, delicate reds and filmy, shifting oranges. Mandy Meredith watched it from the shade of a golden birch, sandaled feet swinging over a branch, in communion with the tree as much as with its inhabitants. There was Rudy, the chief of the red squirrels, his cheeks crammed with treasure, and the mottled chipmunk Twillby, who stood to attention on Mandy's shoulder. Opposite, her beak busily perforating the golden wood of the birch, was Madam Merle. Mandy felt a bit bad naming her for a villain – Mums said one of literature's great villains – but there was simply no other name that conjured elegance so succinctly. And she was exquisitely elegant, was Madam Merle, woodpecker in residence with her lavish green plumage and refined beak. Anyway, she didn't appear to have taken offence, just went on rat-a-tat-tatting while away on the pier the piper began to pipe the sun down.
He was not very good, but he did it every Friday evening anyway, the pipes bellowing and distorting this tune or that. Tonight it was A Scottish Soldier, or Mandy thought it was. There were so many keys and disharmonies involved that she'd be hard-pressed to commit definitely to any one tune. But he piped on, calling the sun down and the dancers up to the hall, Madam Merle a lovely, rhythmic counterpoint.
Presently Rudy swished his red tail, and Mandy said, 'You're quite right. I should go and see where Dad has got to. I think he wanted to paint the ridge today.'
So saying she swung herself upright, careful because of Twillby, who hopped off her shoulder and scampered onto the branch at exactly the right moment. Then Mandy got her sturdy little arms around the trunk of the tree and began the process of descending from it, branch after golden branch, narrow foot after narrow foot. She knew all the notches and prongs to feel for quite by heart and they hadn't lived here a year. Perhaps three feet from the ground the branches gave out and Mandy slid the last of the way, lighting on the ground and brushing bark detritus and stray leaves from her dress. She had decided to honour the good Scotch Meredith ancestors of her father's family today, and standing at the foot of the golden birch in a dress of hunter stewart tartan she looked every inch the sprite her soul was always longing to be. She tossed her hair, more fiery than ever in the blistering sunset, to shake out the last of the leaves, and set off for the ridge.
She picked her way silently, walking on the toes of her shoes, which would do terrible things to them, but which was also the way best suited to approaching Dad when the pipes were caterwauling like this, because there was no knowing where he'd be in himself. Mandy found him easily, atop a grassy green knoll, his paints at his feet, balancing a pad on his knee. Mandy shucked her sandals at the base of the knoll, picking her way up it barefoot, and wrapped sun-warm arms around his middle.
'Dad,' she said, 'It's Mandy.'
'Hello Dryad,' said Jerry Meredith, and sort of twisted around so that he could stroke her hair. Leaves and twigs came away in his hands and he smiled. 'You've been up in the trees.'
'There was a general assembly,' said Mandy. 'I couldn't miss it.'
'Of course,' he said. Mandy was by now too big to sit on his knee, but Dad squished her snugly against his side where he was perched on a rock and that was almost as good. 'And what,' he said, 'was it about?'
'Well, Rudy is very concerned about having enough acorns in the autumn, you see, so he and Twillby – he's the chipmunk that looks sort of blotchy – '
'Mottled,' said Dad.
'Yes, that. Mottled. Anyway, Twillby had to negotiate with him for stores. Of course,' and this bit she said half-apologetically, 'I can't actually tell you the verdict. It's very secret. Has to be because otherwise other animals would get to hear of the treaty, if there was one, I mean, and want in.'
'Of course,' said Dad again. Dad was very understanding about these things. He began to pack up his paints. They were oils today and smelled sharp in the hot summer air. He lingered to kiss Mandy's head, to inquire good-naturedly, 'Are you and Miri going up to the hall this evening?'
Mandy vibrated with pleasure. The hall was the great thing of Maple Ridge. Nights, when Twillby, Rudy and the others had settled to sleep, Mandy would pack her dancing shoes, link arms with Miri, and walk up to the hall, where the band played all the music the piper was always trying to play but better and dance the long, blue Friday evenings away. They never went late, or not really late; the sky was still blue when they emerged and the owls of the ridge only just beginning to wake up, which made it positively early by Mandy's standards. Of course, Dad could never come because of the music, and so Mums by extension never came either, but there was something terribly grown up about going just Mandy and Miri to the town hall, and it never ceased to thrill Mandy.
And anyway, Mondays were kitchen dances, which were the same but closer and homier, and a bit quieter, and they came to those fine. So Mandy didn't feel all that bad about her Friday night excursions with Miri.
Now she beamed at her father and said with suppressed eagerness, 'If that's all right.' She had meant to make it a question, but it didn't quite land that way. Aunt Poppy had just sent both girls new pairs of dance shoes, and Mandy was dying to try them out. Indeed, she had sent Mandy two pairs, on the basis it was really Mandy that craved dancing, and she was in agonies over which to try first and how to decide without hurting the feelings of the other pair. The sepia would go with anything, Mandy knew, and she'd get all sorts of wear from them, but there was also a chance they'd tame her hair, and that wouldn't do. And the green were such a lovely, deep, foresty sort of green. Not the watery green of tamarix pines but the lush, rich green of real evergreens. White pine, Silver and Douglas firs, that sort of green.
She got down among the grass to help Dad with the paints, because of his back, and then bent down again at the base of the knoll to retrieve her sandals. She did not wear them this time; she slung her fingers through the straps and carried them carelessly suspended from her fingers as she walked. Dad said, 'Won't that hurt your dancing feet?' but didn't actually tell her to stop. Mandy beamed at him, a toothy, sunny grin, because he knew so little about dancing, poor Dad. It had toughened her feet so that the pressed earth of the path was as nothing.
Miri was waiting on the veranda, her arms pillowing her chin against the rail, trying and failing not to look impatient. But her shoulders twitched as they came up the walk, and it was obvious she'd scuffed her shoes kicking them against the rail while waiting.
'I'll just be a minute,' said Mandy, and darted into the house. She noticed in passing that Miri had done something lovely with her hair – woven flowers in or something – that she would not have time to do herself, but Mandy didn't really mind. The wildflowers were her friends too, and plucking them would kill them, which wasn't a friendly gesture. She would make do with a swatch of ribbon instead.
Quick as a flash she had tugged off the tartan and pulled on a mossy green calico dotted here and there with little blue flowers. Mandy thought they were probably supposed to be scilla, but were really too small to say. She tied the sash imperfectly, settled on the deep green shoes from Aunt Poppy – but with a kiss and an apology to the neglected sepia pair – and finished it off with a velveteen ribbon of the same colour. The green shoes were tucked lovingly into their case and under her arm.
She bounded down the stairs and promptly tumbled into her mother's waiting arms. Mums caught Mandy, set her upright, and said as she sent her on her way, 'Doesn't our Dryad look smart, Jerry?'
'Very woodsy,' agreed Dad. 'All the trees are very jealous over her, I'm sure. So you mustn't have any particular favourite, Mandy-mine.'
Mandy rolled her eyes, because really this was too obvious for words. A favourite! Of the trees! Miri grabbed her arm, and was about to tear off, but Mums said, 'Stop a bit! I want pictures to send to Ingleside.'
Mandy rolled her eyes again, and Miri groaned theatrically, but they let themselves be posed against the veranda rail, whereupon they pinched and kicked gently at each other to solicit the best kind of smiles, the one Mums said was two parts devilry and one part imp, but Blythe through and through. Then they ran down the stairs, spun each other once at the bottom for good measure, and Mums snapped that, too, because she was silly like that and there was just no accounting for adults sometimes, if anyone asked Mandy. Not that they did.
'Race you!' said Miri and set off at a clip, haring round a corner and up the lane.
'That's cheating!' said Mandy, but unconcerned, because it was a fact that she knew every yew hedge, pine, pine-cone, wildflower and hairpin turn between here and the next village over. No one, not even Miri was going to outmanoeuvre her negotiating them.
Miri didn't, either. They arrived breathless and laughing at the town hall, where the music was spilling tunefully out across the lawn. This, for anyone keeping notes, was what music was supposed to sound like, Mandy thought. It was some sort of medley at the moment, simultaneously neither one thing nor the other but all of them together. Here's tae Thy Health tumbled into Lass of Richmond Hill, until it slowed and flowed into Bonnie Lass of Bon Accord, which sedate pace it sustained through a snatch of Gang the Same Gate, only to spring to life again for a raucous chorus of Jessie's Hornpipe.
Mandy arrived ahead by a hair's breadth, and braced her hands against her calico-clad knees as she caught her breath. The shoe case tumbled onto the grass, and she had to rescue it, lest it be bruised, and then Miri squealing in her turn, 'You cheated! How was I to know you could cut around that tree?'
'It was a silver birch,' said Mandy loftily, and fished in her pocket for the fare to come dancing. But Ben Gow was on the door, and he waved away their coins in throes of horror.
'Imagine charging such lovely wee lasses,' he said.
Mandy was sure he didn't really mean it, but Miri flashed him her rare, queenly smile, the one Miss Howard of Glen St Mary said she got from Nan Blythe as was, and slipped past him and his table, so Mandy made an elaborate show of a dancer' curtsey and followed her, Ben Gow laughing heartily all the while.
One of the great things about the Friday dances – and there were many – was that they weren't the only children. Not by a long way. Ben Gow's handful came regularly, as did Ailsa and Annie Anderson from down the road. They were particularly good, and Mandy liked to get the arm of the older Ailsa on the trickier dances if she could. And there was always one or two. Then there were all the myriad Scotts and MacDougals, who seemed to be to Maple Ridge what Crawfords and Drews were to the Glen, only nicer. Gentle giant Ginger Scott, who was really called Roger according to his mother, who Mandy supposed ought to know, had got hold of the melody and was swinging it gently into something slow and lilting again. Lea Rigg maybe, or maybe Delvine Side. Mandy wasn't sure when she'd learned all these; She had simply filed them away like the names of her beloved trees, flowers, animals and rivers.
Miri grabbed her in a two-handed turn and twirled her round and round to the lilt and snap of the music. She kept her arms carefully out – like hugging a cactus, all the experts said – and pointed her toes, first spinning under Miri's arm then spinning Miri under hers. They laughed and took long, exaggerated steps to see how far their feet could stretch, then tightened them as much as possible to see if they could turn a circle without moving from place. The hall had a good, sprung floor, and Mandy felt it in her toes, even dancing slow like this. It bounced and rippled with the music. The room was a jubilant waterfall of laughter, a bubble of enthusiasm, a ripple of glad, riotous fun. Mandy spun and spun and wondered if Miri had missed this as keenly and as soul-deep as she had all these years.
Up on the raised stage Ginger Scott and friends sounded the chord. Mandy took the first dance with Miri, a nice, gentle thing that any nursery child could do. It was nothing but right hands, and so easy that the teachers and the experts went wrong completely. But they laughed about going wrong, which was novel to Mandy because Mums never laughed when her books wouldn't work; She prickled and crackled like hawthorn berry or melt ice. Then the De'il was among the tailors and they went lickety-split, lightning-fast, Mandy on the arm of Ben Gow himself, who made quite the ceremony of the allemande. It was comical, almost, because he was so very much taller than Mandy, and her little hand had to struggle to meet his great bear-paw over her shoulder. But she got up on her toes, and kept her feet turned out and was told all up and down the set what a fine picture she made, dancing like that and mustn't her mother be quite the teacher.
There was no time to say the closest Mandy had got to learning – really seriously learning – these steps had been on lugubrious afternoons at Aunt Poppy's or slow Sunday afternoons with the people from Fox Corner, when and if they overlapped at Ingleside. Before she could explain any of this, Ailsa was pulling her into The Loch Ness Monster, and they chased up, down, and around the set until they didn't know which way was up. They got hopelessly ahead trying to keep in time to the music, but still did it better than anyone else in their group. It was a murderous, slithering twelve-bar chase, and it was a relief when one of the many Scotts seized upon Mandy for the leisure of a Circassian Circle. They danced it, breathless, and all the while the mothers and grandmothers were ducking out the moment they became standing fourth lady and whipping white covers off the side tables. It worked fine in the sets but skewered the circle numbers to comedic effect. No mater.
Mandy loved this part. It was like watching a fairy feast come into existing. All down the far wall of the hall was a table saturated in fine baking; Deep trays of buttery shortbread, generously portioned brownies that melted in the mouth. Butter tarts that were more filling than pastry, maple-sweet and laden with raisins. There were tart jugs of lemonade, and cool glasses of water. There was strong, tarry tea for those that wanted something hot – or just something to slip something stronger into. Not that Mandy knew. But she heard adults whisper over the white tables while she nursed her lemonade and her fingers grew sticky with butter tart filing.
Such a shame, she thought, that Dad couldn't enjoy it because of the noise of the music. One of the younger Mrs MacDougals came and fussed over Mandy's hair, and tightened the belt of her dress. Miri was massaging her feet through her shoes and groaning with the pleasure of it. Mandy dried her hands fussily on a serviette and did the same, digging her fingers deep into the beds of her toes and under the balls of her feet. It was bliss.
Another chord, and still they danced. Whirling right arms across, left hands back, circling, burling, chasing and all sorts. There were more allemandes, stately promenades, electric-fast poussettes and a kind of reel called a courage reel that defied description. Mandy didn't think she could dance it until someone threw her neck deep into the thing and it was dance or be trampled. Ailsa caught hold of her for a rapid-fire dance called Quinte Meeting, graciously letting Mandy be the lady, and it was all Mandy could do to remember when to cast and when to dance a half figure of eight and when to dance a full crossover reel with all three couples crossing. They went gloriously wrong to start with, but saved it in the repetition, and then watched satisfied as two teachers botched it, too.
'You should never let more than one teacher join a set,' whispered Ailsa idly from fourth place, and Mandy grinned at her in agreement. The third couple did it so perfectly that Mandy was terrified of joining in, but they pulled and whipped her round and somehow they got through it. The air buzzed with chatter, and smelled of rich food and an overwarm crowd. Mandy's feet were worn to shreds, all the worse for breaking in new shoes. She wouldn't have traded it for worlds.
Too soon it was Auld Lang Syne, cross your arms on the second verse, spin out and under from the circle at the end. She and Miri waltzed again, and said their goodbyes. On the little porch Mandy and Miri changed their shoes back, feet battered, and limped homeward. More than once Mandy made them stop to converse with the tawny owls away up in the trees. Life did not get better than this.
But then disaster struck. It was August, and the sun was setting in the west, a luscious bruise of purply-yellowy-orange across the sky. Mandy watched it dispassionately from the shade of a birch tree. It would have been lovely to paint, ideally in watercolours, the colours bleeding lavishly into one another just as they did in life. And the woodpecker opposite her, the elegant Madam Merle with her grey-green body would make it a fine contrast. Mandy would paint her as she was on the verdure of the birch tree, her refined green beak working diligently at the wood, rat-a-tat-a-tat-tat. Tat-rat-tat-tat. It was nature's original tattoo, and another day Mandy might have loved it. Another day she would have drawn it without hesitation. The tree was a golden birch and would look lovely against the empurpling sky with the woodpecker in the foreground. But today was a horrible day. The worst day in the world in fact, and Mandy couldn't be doing with drawing, or watercolours. She would only spoil it with crying, anyway, make it all blotchy. She couldn't even bring herself to confer with Madam Merle about her day as she usually did, and the woodpecker was taking it personally. That was obvious. Mandy wasn't sure she cared.
Rudy, chief squirrel of the golden birch trotted curiously over, force of habit, cheeks crammed full of acorns and other treasures. Somehow he managed to chatter around these at Mandy, his little claws seeming to wave in time to his rapid-fire patter. Mandy had nothing to say to him. They were going away shortly anyway; Dad had said so. She had heard him say to Mums the other night when Mandy couldn't sleep and had gone in search of a glass of water. They would go away and never come back. They hadn't been here nearly long enough, but they were moving on, and Mandy would never see this beautiful red squirrel, or her faithful woodpecker, rat-a-tat-a-tat-a, ever again. There was no point. Rudy finished his nervous chatter and waited for Mandy's reply. They usually passed words whenever he returned to his den, but today Mandy had nothing to say, because they were moving away and she would never see him again, and what was the point. So Rudy went away and Twillby, beautiful mottled chipmunk, scurried past. But he had clearly got the memo about Mandy's reticence because he scampered on with only a wave of his tail. It hurt horribly not to talk to them.
Out on the pier the Friday evening piper struck up his farewell to the sunset. It was getting markedly better the more he did it, not that this was any great stakes so far as Mandy understood it. He still warbled in and out of key with all the finesse of a drunken sailor, so far as her untrained ear could tell. Currently he was doing things unmentionable to what Mandy thought had originally been When the Kyes Come Home. Though it was hard to be sure. The wind rustled families of leaves in little eddies and Madam Merle flew off. Probably she was offended by the bagpipes and Mandy didn't blame her. But then it dawned on Mandy that she would never hear this again, either, the weird, warped call-to-arms of dancers and setting sun that had so permeated this, the loveliest summer of her life. Well, except that it wasn't any more because they were going away forever and ever because of Dad and his painting.
In the absence of Madam Merle and her tattoo it became possible to hear the crunching of catkins under her tree. Presently Miri's slender figure presented itself beneath the crown, brown head tilted upwards so that Mandy could look easily down at her.
'You're going to be late,' said Miri, apparently to the crown of the tree.
Late? Thought Mandy, and then the piper segued into the worst-rendered version of Dashing White Sergeant ever to penetrate the atmosphere and Mandy snapped to attention. The town hall. Dancing. She was never going to have that again, either, probably. Certainly not with these people.
She squinted through the leaves at Miri, her hair plaited and wound with flowers. She looked the very picture of a fairy queen, or at least one of her ladies-in-waiting.
'I'm not going,' said Mandy. She meant it, too. She could not face dancing, the comradery and food, Ben Gow waving the fee for such lovely wee lasses. Not tonight.
'Of course you're going,' said Miri impatiently. 'Who will I dance with?'
'Lots of people,' said Mandy. She swished her leg impatiently against the tree and was jabbed by an errant twig for her trouble. It served her right, Mandy thought, taking her temper out on the unsuspecting tree like that. It wasn't her fault they were leaving. She stroked its golden bark with apology.
Miri's arms were folded now and she had screwed up her face in the implacable way she had inherited from Mums. What Mandy had heard other people – unkind Glen St Mary people – call 'Nan Blythe's airs and graces.'
'Mandy,' she said imperiously, 'you're going.'
'Make me!' said Mandy, cold and queenly. It wasn't only Miri that could play that game, after all. Mandy was just as much Nan Blythe's daughter as her sister. Miri, stranded on the ground and dressed to go dancing, could not very well climb the tree and Mandy knew it. Indeed, Miri had no great love of climbing trees in her everyday clothes. And here she was all got up in a crisp blue cotton, the very colour of summer midnight, ribbed with cherry-red smocking. Much too elegant to spoil and snag on one of Mandy's trees. The catkins crunched and when Mandy next looked it was to find her sister had stomped off. Thank heavens for that.
Mandy's stomach hurt though, at the thought of missing out on the dancing. What, exactly was she planning on doing, alone at the house? Already she had sent Rudy and friends away, and soon the crickets would come out and beat their wings together in the grass, but they would be poor company. They would remind her she wasn't dancing, so she'd have to go inside and set up camp in her stuffy shared room, which would remind her that Miri had gone, traitorous sister that she was, and even more traitorous, would probably enjoy herself. Whereas, Mandy was going to have an awful time alone at home. She began to snuffle, and then to cry. Something crawled gingerly against the branch and pressed a cold, wet nose to Mandy's neck.
'Rudy,' she said, gratefully stroking his fur. But it wasn't the same, and they knew it. She wanted Miri, and the music, and she wanted to never go away to anywhere new ever again. Why couldn't they just once stay somewhere nice and be happy like other families?
Crunch. Crackle. Rustle. Mandy thought, If Miri's come back, I still haven't changed my mind, because that was just too easy. That way Miri got her own way and Mandy lost her stomachache and they would still be leaving but she wouldn't be feeling appropriately miserable about it. Besides, she still had to apologise to Rudy and friends. Rudy scampered off; He didn't like strangers.
Anyway, it wasn't Miri's step. It was stiffer, and slower, which meant it was Dad, and since Mandy hadn't adequately decided how to torment him for taking her away from Madam Merle, Rudy, Twillby and the dancing, she wanted to see him even less than Miri. But he just sat down stiffly under the golden birch.
'I hear,' he said, 'there's a dance on at the town hall.'
He was obviously talking to Mandy, but Mandy had not yet decided she was talking to him. It was satisfying to ignore him.
'I couldn't believe it when Scheherazade said you weren't going.'
Well, Mandy doubly wasn't talking to him if he was using pet names for Miri. She was still annoyed with Miri, too.
'I thought,' he said, 'she had to have got it wrong.'
'Well she didn't,' said Mandy and mentally kicked herself for speaking. She made a mental list of all the reasons she was angry with Dad and with Miri and began running thorough them to stop her temper wearing out. That would never do.
'But it's such a lovely evening for it,' Dad said.
'If it's so lovely I'll spend it outside,' said Mandy.
She debated dropping a leaf or three on him, but she knew they lacked the weight to do proper damage, and the breeze would only whirl them off somewhere utterly else, anyway. Besides it would hurt the tree. So she debated kicking his head instead, estimated the distance she would have to swing her foot and the sound it would make. It would be a satisfying sound. She refrained not because it would hurt him, but because it would probably hurt her foot. This was, anyway, his cue to say suit yourself or something equally inane. Which he didn't. Dad went on sitting there, and if Mandy didn't know better, she'd have sworn he was searching for the right thing to say. Except he wouldn't find it because the right thing to say was that they would not be leaving after all, he had made a terrible mistake, ever so sorry, etc, etc.
What Jerry Meredith said instead was, 'I'm sorry, Dryad,' which was so utterly unexpected that Mandy was stunned into silence. It wasn't even mutinous silence because she was no longer sure what she was raling against. Right. They were going away. Probably forever.
'It's awfully hard to talk to you when you're way up there, you know,' said Dad, now. He looked like his neck was stiff, and it was hard to be properly angry at Dad with a stiff neck because he was always stiff now, always would be because of The War and the Shell he took to the back. Mandy wanted to stay properly angry at him, so she climbed down the tree and sat next to him. She did not snuggle, or sit on him, because she was busily nursing her wrath to keep it warm. Somewhere, crickets began to hum.
Dad said, 'I know you don't want to leave – but we only had this house for so long.'
'Well then get it for longer,' said Mandy. She tilted her nose skyward and crossed her arms.
'We can't,' Dad said, and he really did sound sorry about it. 'People have signed to take it after us. But look, Dryad, we're not leaving right away. That's why no one had said to you yet. Mums and I didn't want to spoil the summer for you – we know how you love it here. Don't you think you'd better enjoy it while it lasts?'
'I'd enjoy it a lot more if it went on lasting,' said Mandy loftily. She was still talking to the sky and the crown of the golden birch. It didn't make her neck stiff.
'Maybe someday it will,' said Dad. Mandy thought, but did not say, Chance would be a fine thing, because some things one simply couldn't say to one's parents. She huffed a breath instead and then sneezed on a mouthful of drifting pollen. Deep in the core of her being her dignity stung and bristled.
'Well at least come with me up to the dance,' said Dad. 'Call it pax?'
This startled Mandy into attention, because Dad never went dancing. The music unravelled his nerves like fine wool when it snagged on a twig or a kissing gate. Also because of The War.
'I'll enjoy it ever so much more,' said Dad, 'with you there, Dryad. We all will.'
Mandy thought, You won't enjoy it at all. And she was angry, she was furious with him. She could spit as well as any cat in a temper. But she didn't want Dad's nerves to unravel. So she breathed through her mouth, counted leisurely to eight, which was as long as your average dance phrase. Counted another eight for good measure, and another to be sure. Almost the length of a short dance.
She said, 'You don't have to go, Dad. I can keep Miri company.'
'I'd like to,' he said.
'Yeah,' said Mandy, 'but it wouldn't work. Maybe…maybe come collect us at the end? When they're singing and doing the last waltz?'
'It's a deal,' said Dad, and held out his hand. Mandy shook.
'We never bargained on you falling in love with it here, so, Dryad,' Dad said, and offered her a tired, parental smile. It was half apology, half affection. Mandy felt herself return it reflexively because all things being equal, Mandy hadn't realised how much she would fall in love with this place, either.
'But,' she said, just to be sure, 'we're not actually leaving until – when do we go? Actually?'
'Oh, not for months,' said Dad. 'We'll get at least another Christmas here. You weren't even meant to overhear it, Dryad. I just wanted your Mums to know so she could start preparing the house. You know how long all that takes.'
Mandy did know. It was very like Dad to think of that, the time that went into the boxing and the scrubbing and the dismantling of a life. And it was nice to know there was another blaze of autumn before her, another whitewashed Christmas, and ever so many dances. Maybe she'd even get to find out if the evening piper got good at his job. Well, she could hope, anyway. For the sake of Maple Ridge. And she could at least enjoy her lasts, which were still several seasons off. That was worth clinging to. Lasts could even, she supposed, be quite romantical. You could savour them when you knew they were coming, suck all the marrow from them and store it up for afterwards.
Dad stood up stiffly and stuck out a hand to Mandy to help her up. She took it to make him happy, but she didn't really need his arm, months of dancing had seen to that.
'Come on,' he said, 'you'll be late, if you're not careful. And I think you promised those sepia shoes an airing.'
So Mandy whisked into the house and changed into a sunburst of yellow gingham that would look magnificent with the sepia shoes. She found a glossy brown ribbon and wove it through the crown of her plait, and then bolted. Mums wanted pictures, but away away Mandy could hear the pipes abating and the town hall taking up its battle-cry, ably led by Ginger Scott; She couldn't desert Miri, after all.
Mandy slipped in just as the chord summoned the dancers to the floor.
'Knew you'd come,' said Miri, who was waiting for her.
Up and down their set rippled little murmurs of approval. So glad you could make it – lovely to see you – so hoped you'd come – couldn't believe it when Miri said you wouldn't come – I knew, said it was madness, of course…And then they were dancing, whirling and turning in the widening gyre…hearts bright, spirits soaring. It was enough to make Mandy forget that someday she would have to leave it behind. Or at least not mind. Because now she was there and it was the whole of her world. It was good, and glad, and bright. Her feet grew sore with skip-change and her legs ached from everlasting strathspey, and all the while she danced her heart light. Dancing, it turned out, was a bit like bread-baking. You couldn't do it and stay angry. By the time the refreshments table was unveiled, she had even worked up an appetite and a desperate thirst for lemonade.
Then the music wound down, and they were linking arms, and a voice beside her was saying, 'May I?'
It was Dad, come after all for that final song and waltz. Mandy spun out of the circle and into his arms as the song became a waltz. He waltzed it stiffly because of his back and The War, but Mandy didn't mind. They kept their own funny time to the music and she thought that maybe, just maybe, Dad had had it right after all. Who was to say their next bend in the road wouldn't be as lovely and jocund as this one had been? Until then – much better to enjoy these evenings while they lasted than to turn her grudge against this music and these people too. Mandy could do that. She would feast on the luxury of this wonderful, riotous bounty, gorge herself upon the treasure trove of memories she was amassing. She would take them with her, that was all. Music, people, dances…It would hurt terribly to leave it behind, of course, but nothing would change the fact that it was hers, the sprung floor, the buzz of the dancers, the whine of the accordion. No time or distance would take that from her.