Dance To Your Own Tune

Betty felt for these two young people. Was there any way she could help?

THREE days a week Betty Brewster drove from the town 20 miles away to the small village of Lomond to act as librarian in the village hall.

She was small with short, light brown hair. Her well-trimmed fingernails were, unexpectedly, polished bright pink.

It was difficult to guess her age, but she “wasnae in her first flush”.

Betty brought order and efficiency to the library, but she also brought an unruly imagination. When old Miss Ross handed over her romantic Regency novels to be stamped, Betty would look at her over the rims of her dark-rimmed specs and see not Miss Ross, but a young woman sighing over a lover lost at sea.

When Jim Johnson returned his gardening book Betty imagined how the village would look if cherry trees blossomed all along the riverbank.

When Betty tidied up the travel shelf, she could smell the spices of India.

She found herself having to use her imagination with one library member . . .

Eilish Taylor was as grand a young woman as you could meet. She had just passed her exams with flying colours and was well on the way to becoming a fully fledged lawyer.

When she came for a book she nearly always went to the fiction shelves. Yet today she was in the non-fiction section, pulling down book after book from the shelf, shaking and then returning them.

“Anything I can help you with?” Betty asked. Eilish didn’t turn round. “No, thanks.”

Later, as Eilish came towards the counter, Betty noticed the red rims around her eyes. Instead of her usual chirpy goodbye, the girl gave a brief nod and left without a book.

Betty was curious. Eilish had looked so happy on Saturday at the party for Queen Elizabeth’s Coronation. It was 1953 and all over the country there had been celebrations.

There had been a public showing of the ceremony in the hall next door, for those who had no television. Councillor Gray had been clever and rigged up a screen.

Later, people came with cakes and tarts and sandwiches, and folk had sat around reminiscing, saying for the umpteenth time how the years go by and wasn’t that right good ham Baxter the butcher had managed to get a hold of for the sandwiches?

Eilish had been there, pretty and smiling, helping to seat the elderly, always looking around as if she were waiting for someone special.

“She’s done well,” they said, looking as if they were genuinely pleased.

Some saw how Eilish stood still when young Neil Cameron came in: how she blushed and didn’t seem to know where to put her

hands; how she rushed through to the kitchen.

Some saw how Neil looked around and then followed her into the kitchen.

Some saw how they both smiled inside themselves as they moved around the hall, talking and passing food, only rarely looking towards each other as they bent and listened to the old ones.

Of course there was talk. Nothing folk liked more than a bit of speculation.

Neil Cameron was a fine-looking young man. Maybe not one for books and study, but then he was busy around the estate, rain or shine, and was making a fine job of keeping the place tidy and productive.

In fact, the place was in better shape than when his father had been alive.

“As good a pair as ever you could get.” Miss Ross, glowing with pleasure after seeing the new Queen, gave Eilish and Neil her endorsement.

Betty Brewster had plenty of time to think while the clearing up from the party next door in the hall was still taking place.

She wondered again why Eilish had been reaching for the non-fiction at the back of the room and why she had been crying. She was a girl who always seemed to have something to laugh about.

“It’s so nice to come here and get a bit of light relief,” she’d say, holding a detective novel and pointing at the cover where blood dripped from a knife.

A voice was sounding from the main hall next door.

“Not at all!” The strident voice of Mrs Cameron could be heard. “We’ll pin the photographs up on the wall and sell them.”

No doubt she was referring to the photographs of the party.

Somebody must have asked what would be done with the money raised, for Betty could hear her again.

“Do with it? We shall put it in the flower fund at church, of course!”

Betty almost laughed out loud. Mrs Cameron and her flower arrangements had caused conflict the year before and it was still simmering.

“Just because she’s got a big gairden and a fantoosh greenhouse and a gairdener to do as she bids, she think she’s the only one that kens about flowers,” had been the sentiments of the flower committee.

Poor Eilish, Betty thought. Mrs Cameron will likely be at the bottom of her misery. No doubt she had grand plans for Neil and who he would marry.

It was late afternoon and Betty was about to tidy up and check that everything was in order when Neil Cameron came into the library. Betty greeted him warmly.

“Not often I see you here, Neil.”

“No. I was helping with the clear-up next door. I thought I might come in for a book to read over the weekend.”

“There’s plenty to choose from.” Betty smiled at him and carried on with filing some cards.

Neil was a rare visitor to the library so Betty could not predict what sort of book he might choose. He wandered around in a feckless manner, looking at the shelf titles.

Betty watched while she pretended to be busy at her desk.

Neil shuffled around the non-fiction section, picking books at random from one shelf then the next. He coughed once or twice, then spoke casually.

“You didn’t happen to see Eilish Taylor here this morning, did you?”

“I did. Who couldn’t notice a bonnie girl like Eilish?”

“She’s gone, has she?” “Well, she’s not hiding here, as far as I can see.”

Betty could see that her teasing tone made no impression on Neil, whose face stayed solemn and sad.

He went dejectedly to the shelf, removed a book and took it to a table to flick through. It was only minutes before he replaced it on the shelf and walked out of the library.

“It seems Mrs C put her foot down.”

The women from the Guild were unanimous in their opinion. They had been helping in the hall and, as usual, they paid no attention to the habit of soft speech in a library.

“Always was on her high horse about something!”

“What can she have against Eilish? As nice a young woman as you could wish for!”

“Nothing would be good enough for her son. Did you no’ know her husband was a high heid yin in India or one o’ they places? You must have heard her!” Mrs Goodfellow mimicked Mrs Cameron. “When my husband had tea with the Maharajah . . .!”

It didn’t take Hercule Poirot, Betty thought, to know that what had been bothering Eilish had been Mrs Cameron, who must have disapproved of her son’s friendship with Eilish.

“I heard from Ian the milkman that she watches him like a hawk. Ian heard her say that there would be no welcome for Neil back home if he married Eilish.”

“What’s she got against her?” one of the younger women persisted.

“Well, Maisie, you won’t remember, but when Mrs Taylor, as she was known, first came here just over twenty years ago with Eilish as a baby, there was no mention of a man. Let’s just say he was presumed dead.” She let the inference sink in. “Mrs Cameron, as you know, is one for pedigree.”

“But wasn’t there some mystery about Mrs Cameron?” Maisie responded. “We never heard anything about her pedigree, did we?”

Betty Brewster listened and gave her pink nails a hearty polish. In her world, even when the future looked bleak, you had to aim for a happy ending. If lack of pedigree was the problem, then dispensing with pedigree must be the answer.

Autumn came. The Coronation party was mentioned less. Eilish Taylor came regularly to the library on a Friday and took out a novel.

Her mood was changeable, Betty noticed.

Even when the future looked bleak, you had to have a happy ending

Sometimes her face would be glowing with health and smiles; other Fridays there would be a touching sadness about her.

Nearly always after she had left, Neil Cameron came in. He didn’t seem at all purposeful and rarely chose a book. It didn’t take a clever detective to guess that they were using the library to leave messages to one another.

Word was that Mrs Cameron was putting obstacles in the way of the young couple.

“She’s playing clever. I heard from the housekeeper one day she’s sweetness itself to Neil. Says just wait a while, see how you feel in a year or so.

“Another day, she’s stating as how Eilish is not quite the one to run a large house, for it takes a lot of experience to hold dinner parties and the like.”

The locals were unimpressed.

“You’d think she did the dinner herself! I bet she canna even make a guid scone.”

Each week, Betty featured different books on the shelf at the entrance to the library. Sometimes it was the newest travel books, old classics, or sometimes a book of comic poems.

It always led to conversations near the counter, where Betty

was asked about her choices. She always enjoyed making up a new display for the library and by the middle of October, when more people would be likely to come in for a break from the cold, she took pains when writing her notice.

We’ve celebrated the Coronation – now see what we were reading and doing in the year the Queen was born! She pinned crossword puzzles on a board.

See how easily you solve 1920s crosswords as they first appeared in newspapers at that time.

October’s uncertain weather meant there would be plenty of reminiscing while folks sheltered in the warmth of the library.

Betty had fun setting out detective novels of the time – Agatha Christie; Dorothy L. Sayers; Edgar Wallace; Arthur Conan Doyle. She had even found some Hardy Boys detective stories for children.

Betty had also uncovered an old daily newspaper in the central library, dated just after the Queen’s birthday in 1920. It was in a leather case, with each page of the newspaper protected by a sheet of tissue paper.

She laid it on a table near the books, with instructions to handle the newspaper carefully.

Friday was a busy day as she always left everything shipshape for Monday morning, and she was slightly concerned when more folk than usual began to filter into the library.

Betty was busy replacing books on the shelf when she heard a loud mutter from Miss Ross, who had opened the paper. Betty descended from her steps and went over to the table.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” she asked and waited for a reaction.

One or two women gave her a strange stare, looked at one another and then left. She could see them outside on the street, waving their hands towards the library.

Betty looked around before locking up for the weekend. The newspaper was still on the table and she went to close it, careful of its fragility.

It lay open at page eight, where a headline caught her eye.

Scottish Landowner Marries Flapper.

Mr Cameron was easily recognisable, for he was so like his son Neil. He was staring solemnly into the camera, standing very tall and straight, a neat handkerchief peeping from the top pocket of his jacket.

The picture of Elaine Cameron was larger. She was smiling provocatively at the camera, her bobbed head tilted to the side.

She had on a strappy dress which came to just above her knees. One leg was bent up and both arms stretched out from her side, her hands waving. She seemed to be dancing the Charleston and enjoying every minute.

Betty switched off the library light while she thought. There was little doubt that it was their Mrs Cameron, although the woman had never been known to look so carefree and happy.

Everyone would think she, Betty, had done this deliberately! Mrs Cameron was bound to get wind of it and what would happen then? Betty’s pink nails that were occasionally disapproved of were nothing to this!

She pushed her glasses firmly back on to her nose.

“The only thing to do is beard the lion in her den,” she said to herself, thinking at the same time that she must look up what that expression meant.

A lot of people saw Betty walk up the hill, along by the river towards Mrs Cameron’s. Under her arm she carried a cylinder in which she had carefully replaced the newspaper. Nobody greeted her as she passed for her eyes were focused on the horizon.

She was taken into the sitting-room by the housekeeper. Mrs Cameron looked up, surprised, when she entered.

Betty thrust the cylinder into her hand.

“You might as well look at this. I had it in the library on display. I never meant it to happen and I’m right sorry.”

A bemused Mrs Cameron unrolled the cylinder, revealing the newspaper. She looked at the date.

“What is this?” She looked towards Betty for an answer.

“Open it. Look at page eight. I am really very sorry.”

Mrs Cameron took the paper to a table and smoothed it flat with both hands before turning to the relevant page.

Betty stared into the blazing fire while Mrs Cameron bent over the paper. There was silence for many minutes, then Mrs Cameron sat down. She laid her head on her knees while Betty waited.

When she raised her head and looked at Betty, tears were slowly moving down her cheeks, tears she made no attempt to hide.

“Sit down, Betty. Please.” To Betty it seemed as if Mrs Cameron’s face became younger, softened.

“It was a love match, you know. It was what we called it in those days.”

She took a breath.

“I might as well tell you the story now, for there will be no hiding this. We came up here from London to avoid the gossip.

“It’s true that I was a dancer, and it’s also true that some dancers at that time were known to provide ‘company’ for wealthy, unscrupulous men.

“But I was young when we met at a party, and he was young. He believed – we both believed – that everyone would accept us when we married.”

The housekeeper brought in a tray and Mrs Cameron motioned to Betty to pour some tea.

“I think most of our acquaintances chose to forget that we were married, and we stayed away from the city. My husband carried on here, managing the property, for many years.

“Then he was offered a post in India, as you probably know. People were needed, even those who had broken rules.

“I think most people had chosen to forget his ‘unfortunate’ marriage and out there in India I behaved as I was expected to. When we came back here, just after the war, we had only a few years together before he died.”

She looked at Betty. “What do you think, then? You’ve read a lot. You must have read many stories about people making mistakes in their lives.” Betty nodded.

“I expect you are afraid for Neil. It’s only natural. I’d be the same if I were lucky enough to have a son. You must have thought you had spoiled your husband’s career.”

“I did. I did spoil it, but he never regretted it . . . or so he said.”

“I made a mistake in my life, too, but I think we’re allowed at least one mistake.”

Mrs Cameron smiled. “I can’t imagine you making a mistake.”

Betty ignored the interruption.

“When I came here, I found out very quickly that what everybody liked was for you to be yourself; to dance to your own tune. They canna abide pretence.”

Mrs Cameron stared into the fire and Betty left her, touching her shoulder gently as she left.

After the wedding, and once the couple had left for their honeymoon, dancing went on until the small hours. Mrs Cameron wore the latest fashion – a new-look dress that covered her knees.

Her neat ankles still showed, however, when the Mccrae brothers lifted up their fiddles and played a Charleston. Elaine Cameron and the postie took to the floor.

Old Miss Ross laughed till tears ran down her face.

“Well, they may not be Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, but they’ll do me,” she declared. n