1
1985
Ruby had both looked forward to the party and dreaded it. She’d been the last to leave the church after the concert, packing up her flute carefully, straggling behind the group of young musicians as they wandered back down and along the rocky path to the house. The way was lit with dim lights and the swinging flashlight of one of the music teachers, and Ruby breathed in that smell so familiar to her, a deep, damp green pine. The unseen sea was gently roiling, rumbling out a soothing encore after the heroic might of the concert.
Ruby felt a twinge of anguish. She’d so enjoyed hosting the orchestra trip this year. The performance was already over, the party would be soon, and she didn’t know when she’d see Bertie again. This was his last school trip, the end to his final year at St. Aubyn’s, and now he’d be going off to his next school—strict, grown-up, and boys-only. Ruby, two years younger, would be left behind. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like next term: to scan the dining room empty of him every lunchtime, to never spot him playing board games in the old library or football on the lawns, to arrive at orchestra rehearsals twice a week without his smile to greet her.
Ruby clutched at her flute case, holding on to the joy of the concert: the thudding warmth of the orchestra in their altar alcove, the beat of the music under the heat of the electric lights. She’d counted every bar with the nod of her head, watching the conductor as he brought her in with a sweep of his arm, nudging the hopeless second flute beside her when she missed her entry. Even with those moments, the concert had gone brilliantly.
But on her way back to the house, her joy evaporated. Ruby felt annoyed that the whole of August lay ahead of her—empty without the daily cheer and discipline of orchestra rehearsals. Of course, she had always loved her summers in France, but she’d enjoyed having her classmates there during the last week. She’d seen her family house anew, proud of the way it looked with all of them in it. But by this time tomorrow the house would be empty except for Ruby and her parents, and their friends, the Blys. Then again, August always seemed to bring the small dread of more guests than Ruby had bargained for.
* * *
THE PARTY AT THE HOUSE was in full swing when Ruby got there. The elated concertgoers spilled out along the long sweep of the terrace: parents, staff, and helpers, all babbling in stiff English. The mothers were draped in pastel silks and linens, glittering with smiles and diamonds or precious gemstones. The fathers were elegantly casual in cotton shirts and chino trousers, tanned faces and wild hair. Congregating away from them was a throng of messy, delighted children grasping at bowls of crisps and glugging out of plastic cups.
Tables were set, heavy with lavish plates of food interrupted by swathes of green foliage or bunches of wildflowers drooping from jugs. Someone’s little sister poked her finger into a bowl of chocolate mousse, then sucked on it delightedly. She turned to see Ruby scowling at her, pulling her finger out of her mouth with a laugh, before realizing who Ruby was; her face straightened and she scuttled away to cower behind her mother.
Ruby’s own mother, Rhoda, petite and auburn-haired, was standing with her friend Polly, who rested a graceful arm on her pregnant belly, laughing as she recounted a story.
“Well done, darling girl!”
Ruby smiled brilliantly as the parents of one of the cellos swanned over to her. “Good evening, Mrs. Moreton, Mr. Moreton. Did you enjoy the concert?”
“Yes, dear,” the woman nodded over-vigorously. “Well done—splendid!”
Ruby smiled at the confirmation. “Thank you. Have you seen my father?”
“Yes, he’s been rushing around, setting up for the party.”
Ruby looked up at the couple. “Didn’t he come to the concert?”
“No, darling,” Mrs. Moreton said lightly, “your parents have been terribly busy hosting all of this, of course. Do be good to your mother—she’s been a wonderful hostess.”
Mr. Moreton was surveying Ruby with a tilt of his head, his hand gripping a tumbler of whiskey against his chest. He bent to address her. “I say, you’re rather good at that fluting, aren’t you? How old are you, dear girl?”
“I’ll be twelve in two weeks.” Ruby straightened up. “I’m not normally first flute, but the girl who is couldn’t come. Next year I might—”
“Jolly good.” He shifted his gaze to give his wife a knowing look. “Toby Ashby’s inside the house. He had a rather important phone call, I gather.”
“Well, I hope it wasn’t anything bad,” Mrs. Moreton said with a toss of her head. “Better not ruin everyone’s last evening together.”
Ruby smiled thinly at the Moretons and wandered over to the swell of children, her eyes skating over the boys’ heads to find Bertie. There he was, his sunny face lit with laughter as he jostled with his friends and their cups of Coca-Cola. He’d looked like that when he smiled at Ruby only a few days ago, asking if she wanted to go for a swim together. She’d barked out a “no” without thinking. He’d nodded before moving away, leaving her utterly dismayed.
Ruby bit at her lower lip, sore and overused this week from so much fluting. Even though it was evening, she felt hot, a slick of sweat under her undone hair. She was cross that her father hadn’t seen the concert, cross with that phone call for distracting him now, cross with Bertie for not seeking her out that evening when she might never see him again. Cross that in the morning the other children would pack up their tents lined along the back patch of land, pile into the school coach or their parents’ cars, and leave.
Imogen Bly waved Ruby over and offered her a cup of Coca-Cola. “I’m so sad it’s all over.”
Ruby nodded and took the cup, but didn’t take a sip. The plastic felt sticky and it looked like someone had already taken a swig out of it.
“At least we’ve got the next few weeks together,” Imogen continued buoyantly. “I can’t imagine the house without everyone. But it’ll be fun, won’t it? I do like the bedroom your mother’s given me, far better than that awful tent I’ve been in all week.”
Ruby gave a halfhearted smile. Imogen Bly annoyed her; at home in England, she and her mother, Polly, were always coming by, or they were going there. Polly had grown up alongside Rhoda, like two plants shooting up and flowering together—or so their stories went.
Ruby and Imogen did not share their mothers’ hot relishing of each other. Imogen probably wouldn’t have minded being friends, but Ruby was firm in her dislike. Imogen was in the year above, and her beauty and warmth were too irritating and confusing for Ruby to navigate, so she preferred to avoid her at school.
Orchestra brought them together, although Imogen played brass—the French horn—and was always gassing at the back and blasting her instrument out at odd moments during rehearsals, just to be funny. But Imogen was well liked and had won the Maths prize three years in a row, and so Ruby generally tolerated her and her abundant black hair and too-large mouth.
“Yes,” Ruby said, plastering on a smile. “It’ll be fun. There’s always something to do here.”
She took a sip of the Coca-Cola just as a siren jolted everyone out of their revelry.
* * *
Copyright © 2022 by Phoebe Wynne
