Page 17 of Sunday's Child

‘Forward, young ladies,’ Miss Sharp said loudly. ‘Into the studio, quickly.’

Molly helped Nancy to fasten her satin dancing slippers and she grinned. ‘What a to-do, miss. I’ve never seen the like.’

‘Nor I,’ Nancy said in a whisper. ‘I’ll see you in an hour.’

She followed Tamara and the other girls into the studio. Mr Poppleton was standing in the middle of the room, striking the floor rhythmically with a long silver-headed cane. The blows grew faster as if demonstrating his impatience and desire to begin the lesson. Nancy eyed him suspiciously. So this was the maestro who bullied his poor little wife to the point of turning her into a bag of nerves. Poppleton was a large man, dressed in black velvet knee breeches and white stockings, a gold satin waistcoat over a white shirt. The high points of his collar rested on his double chin, below which flowed a frilled cravat. He looked as if he had stepped out of a fashion plate for gentlemen at the beginning of the century, but he wore his apparel with such aplomb it was almost possible to forget that it was ridiculously old-fashioned.

‘Young ladies, line up and we will start with the basic steps. Mrs Poppleton, music, please.’ He waved the stick at his wife, who scuttled over to the piano and sat down. Her playing was so dreadful that Nancy wanted to cover her ears. An accomplished pianist herself, having been top of the class in music at her old school, Nancy could hardly bear to listen to the waltz being murdered by Mrs Poppleton, who hit more wrong notes than the correct ones.

Mr Poppleton breezed through the steps and stood aside, ordering the girls to repeat what they had just seen. He was not pleased and his stick worked overtime as he used it to underline his angry words.

‘No, no, no. You are clumsy clodhoppers. You would make Terpsichore, the muse of dance, weep to see you ruining an elegant formation.’ He staggered towards the chairs that lined the walls and sank down on one. ‘I am exhausted already. Do it again, only get it right this time.’ He turned to his wife, who was cringing on the piano stool. ‘You play so badly you give me a headache, you stupid woman.’

Nancy waved her hand to attract his attention. ‘Sir, might I be of assistance? Your wife is clearly distressed and I play the pianoforte reasonably well. Might I relieve her for a while?’

‘You are here to learn, not to teach.’

‘Of course, and I meant no insult to Mrs Poppleton’s ability. It’s just that she seems a little out of sorts. Maybe a short rest and a cup of tea would resuscitate her.’

Poppleton wiped his brow with a red silk handkerchief. ‘All right. See what you can do, although this is very irregular.’

Nancy helped Mrs Poppleton to stand and she took her place at the piano. ‘Right, ladies. Shall we try again?’ She struck a chord and began to play a popular waltz. There was a murmur of appreciation and the young ladies partnered each other. At first they were stiff and stumbling over each other’s feet, but as Nancy continued to play they moved in time to the music. Mr Poppleton tapped his toes and clapped his hands, leaving his stick propped up against the wall. It was only when Nancy stopped playing that he jumped to his feet and began to pace the floor.

‘Without exception you all have two left feet, ladies. We will try a country dance.’ Mr Poppleton turned to Nancy. ‘We will try “The Barley Mow”, followed by a polka. I have to confess that I am quite exhausted by my attempts to make dancers out of clumsy schoolgirls.’ He returned to his seat, mopping his brow with his handkerchief.

Nancy played ‘The Barley Mow’, but the girls were obviously not very well practised and they giggled, tripping over each other in their attempts to master the steps. Nancy could see that it was a lost cause and she launched into a lively polka, playing from memory as there did not seem to be any sheet music to hand. It was three years since she had accompanied Patricia Carey at the Goat and Compasses pub in Puddle Dock and at the ill-fated soirée in Paris, which ended in a jewel robbery. All that was in the past, but playing the piano brought back memories, some of them good and others bittersweet. She was lost in the pleasure of the music when she was aware of Mr Poppleton standing behind her. She lifted her hands from the piano keys.

‘Is anything wrong, sir?’

‘You play exceptionally well, Miss, er … I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Miss Sunday, sir.’

‘Would you be interested in working for me, Miss Sunday? My wife has not an ounce of your talent.’

Miss Sharp stormed over to them. ‘That would be most inappropriate, sir. Miss Sunday is a student at the Academy. She is not seeking employment.’

‘A gentleman can only ask, Miss Sharp.’ Mr Poppleton’s ruddy complexion darkened to puce. ‘I was simply enquiring.’

‘Enquire elsewhere, sir. Your behaviour is unacceptable. I will tell Miss Maughfling.’

Mr Poppleton took a deep breath and exhaled in a loud snort, putting Nancy in mind of a steam engine arriving at a station. ‘You insult me, Miss Sharp. I will report your behaviour to your employer.’

Nancy rose from the piano stool. ‘It’s three o’clock, Mr Poppleton. Isn’t it time for us to finish our lesson?’

‘Yes, yes. Clear the studio, young ladies. I have my next session booked and waiting. Where is Mrs P?’ Mr Poppleton marched off, calling out for his wife.

‘I’d hide, if I were her,’ Tamara said in a low voice. ‘What a dreadful man he is, and to think we have to come here at the same time next week.’

Miss Sharp bristled. ‘Unfortunately he is the best we can afford, but I will be reporting his behaviour to Miss Maughfling.’

‘I wasn’t offended, Miss Sharp,’ Nancy said firmly. ‘He only offered me a position here at the dance studio. I don’t think he meant to offend anyone.’

Miss Sharp glanced over Nancy’s shoulder and her eyes narrowed. ‘Miss Smythe, where do you think you are going?’

Eleanora blew her a kiss. ‘I’ll be back in time for dinner, or not, as the case may be.’ She left the studio with her maid hurrying after her.

‘Where is she going?’ Miss Sharp demanded. ‘Speak up, young ladies. Does anyone know where Miss Smythe is headed?’

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