II
Aggie pauses hesitantly at the edge of the large room and takes in the familiar powder blue walls adorned by the many classical artworks both benign (Monet) and notorious (Courbet), in between which shine soft electric light from Art Deco lamps; these are beautifully complemented by a pyramidal chandelier dangling from the stuccoed ceiling. She stares hard at the hundred or so guests in their various biographical guises dancing, laughing, talking and standing in high hauteur under thin clouds of wispy cigarette smoke. Noting that many of them barely glance at her tonight she recalls for a moment the first giddy, unnerving time she debuted at this party, how uncomfortable the bug-eyed, piercing and leering stares were at first, how with Mary's encouragement and a bit of champagne she netted her butterflies and vivaciously ate, danced and conversed with as many people who weren't scandalized by her appearance or blatant lack of consideration for the party's theme. She had a lot of fun, then, on that first night, with the gossip caroming rapidly about that she must have been the Prime Minister's thoughtless, reckless daughter, or no, perhaps an aging Viscount's modern, untamed niece, or even just as likely the American ambassador's indiscreet, highly embarrassing wife. Then it unfortunately happened that Sir Francis Drake, after gawking at her breasts and squinting hideously into her face in an intoxicated struggle of concentration loudly announced her to be a salesgirl from Selfridge's who once cheerfully aided him with a purchase. Very quickly more awful and unfair opinions formed about Agrippina 'Aggie' Dovecote - the words "poor" and "rubbish" and, inexplicably, "idiot" arose and became cynically spat and laughingly trilled all around the room. Worse, it was gleaned from her thoughtful repartee that Aggie absolutely loved (her word) America and the Americans inhabiting it. And not a few of the aghast gentry sought mightily to enlighten her of that country's nouveau riche mediocrity, the inanity of their current amusements (not least the stylitic perching atop of flagpoles. Flagpoles! ) and their vulgar thrust for empire, but Aggie merely shrugged at these facts. Oh yes, yes, yes, they conceded with heavy sighs, it was perhaps quite enough to simply abide the Yanks as allies in war and peace, tourists, even emigrants, on occasion, perhaps even enjoy their company once in a while - invite them 'round to tea and biscuits, brandy and cigars, have a bit of a polite chat hearth-side if they were, of course, ever the "right sort" - all in simple, dignified amity- but actual love? Love?! Nonsense! And you may also add some stuff to that nonsense, thank you very much!
Mary proved to be a more than formidable white knight for Aggie, and was especially fierce in parrying some attempts to denude her, but it really became all too much and Aggie fled. Ginny Blompton and her barnacle companions Tim Boxleigh and Poppea 'Poppy' St.Cecile were mere disdainful spectators of the social cutting of this sobbing girl, and nobody noticed a concerned-looking Teddy Crewecott standing aloof in a far corner. Yet as badly as that night ended it was nothing less than shocking when at last year's party all stood stunned and amazed at the brazenness of this same girl who returned, though a bit more shyly, in the same "costume" from the previous year! It took time and all the untapped courage in Aggie's psyche to return victoriously, and no one was as heartily glad to see her than her own best friend Mary. Just that alone, Aggie knew, was worth the literal (yes, literal!) nose-in-the-air frigidity she valiantly faced in that second act.
Aggie smiles as she again watches the sweetly-playing small house orchestra set up far off to the left, with the curious novelty, added this year by Mary, of a plump young soprano perched on a dais who, costumed as an 18th century aristo, gamely croons the current decade's most popular songs, some of which she can do beautiful justice to ("Alice Blue Gown") more than others ("Gimme a Little Kiss, Will Ya, Huh?"). Long rows of folding chairs flank either side of the orchestra, ones that imperfectly mirror those lined up against the wall to her right. Just beyond these and through a wide-arched opening is the little sitting room where Aggie sees four white-robed young men sitting idly around an oblong, glass-topped table measuring nearly five feet across, two wide and two high. Two of the men play a game of checkers on the table, another is nearly swallowed up in an easy chair as he pores over a novel, and the last fiddles with the dials of a cathedral radio while straining irritably to listen to it over the intrusive din from the drawing room. Aggie shakes off the urge to gape at them and, remembering Mary's words, decidedly moves on along the right-hand side of the room.
Further up is the long, cloth-covered buffet table replete with large platters of sumptuous hors d'oeuvres and also towers of fine china plates, rows of clean glasses and neatly laid out napkins and utensils. A sideboard placed just behind the table displays a myriad array of fine liquors ready for the amateur bartender's pleasure. But Aggie's eyes shine when she sees in the middle of the table an ice-filled galvanized tub nearly glutted with not only chilling bottles of champagne and wine but also, and perhaps a bit more incongruously and so much like a poor relation amongst their august brethren, beer. She eagerly scoots in a beeline to that particular object on the table when she is suddenly intercepted by a coolly beautiful woman elegantly attired in an evening gown profusely dotted with glittering sequins, finely wrought silver asp bracelets encircling her slender wrists and a matching asp tiara coiled atop her straight jet black hair. Just behind and to her left stands a portly, mustachioed man suavely arrayed in a period suit reminiscent of the Gay Nineties, while at her right is a rather pretty but dour young woman fidgeting uncomfortably in her stiff and abundant Elizabethan era costume.
"Well, hel-lo, Aggie dear!" chirps Ginny Blompton. "I'm so glad to see you've finally arrived in this horrid weather!"
Aggie restrains a sigh. "Hullo, Ginny," she says blandly, her smile fixed. "Mm, I rather love the rain. You look absolutely lovely as, what, a modern-ish Cleopatra tonight? Very nice. Hullo there, Tim, Poppy. Mary has already told me who you are. So, Tim, I must say you look very dashing as that nonpareil tenor gone too soon, The Great Caruso."
Tim Boxleigh smiles and bows slightly. "Great, indeed, and rather much too soon, thank you, Miss Dovecote."
"Oh, call me Aggie! And Poppy, you're a fantastic representation of good old 'Bloody' Mary Tudor!"
An ugly gash of a reluctant grin writhes on Poppea 'Poppy' St.Cecile's alabaster face and she curtseys stiffly. "Thank you so much, Miss Dovecote," she half-mumbles.
"You don't have to call me Aggie. But... gosh, Ginny, what's with that fierce look all of a sudden? Is something the matter?"
Ginny nostrils flare and her narrowed eyes glare daggers at Aggie. "It's - Virginia, Aggie dear!" she hisses. "Virginia! You know this and yet - my God, you never even try to-"
"Virginia," Aggie quickly interjects while casting thirsty eyes askance at the tub. "Yes, yes, I'm sorry, Virginia! Really, I am. Virginia. It shan't happen again."
The little squall briskly subsides. "Well, thank you, Aggie dear!" she says brightly, "and thank you also for complimenting our ensembles. I am sorry if I was rather short with you just now."
"Really? Why thank-"
"Jesus Christ!"
Tim and Poppy jump slightly. Aggie blinks. "Wh-what?"
Ginny rudely darts a finger at the famous loincloth. "Is that who you are this year? Ooh, how deliciously sacrilegious, Aggie dear!"
"No, I'm not!" Aggie objects heatedly. "But-oh, you're doing your odd little list again. Of course your guesses will still be wrong, but all right, have at it. Avant en garde!"
"Ah, very clever! So...Saint Sebastian?"
Aggie look down at her chest. "Do you think I'd stick bloody arrows, even faux ones, on this beauteous form, Virginia? Not for all the tea in China!"
"Milarepa?"
"Milla-who-pa? That's a new one, isn't it? And I've never heard of him or her, so no."
"I'll tell you later. Are you a sort of reverse Lady Godiva without a horse?"
"Right, like not fully starkers. No, but I wouldn't anyway mind carrying a stick horse between my legs for a while, because then I could use it-"
Ginny grimaces and raises a hand to stop her. "No, no! Please, Aggie dear, it's quite needless to say it again. I adored this next one, though: you are, shall we say, an even more daring version of the American flapper?"
"This really is pretty daring! But no, I'm not. They are them and I am me."
"Very true. All right, Aggie dear, I have one more guess to make, and I do hope it's the correct one. I have rather a good feeling about it. Ready?"
Aggie once again glances at the tub. "Ready."
Ginny takes a deep breath. "You are...hm, let me see now...ah, the Infant New Year, and yet not that at all...but you have re-created it yet again into a...perplexing, scantily-clad female entity that you have...thoughtfully dubbed...'Time's Renewal!' N'est-ce pas?"
"You are...absolutely...correct, Gin-Virginia Blompton!"
"Oh, wonderful!"
"Give the little lady a see-gar!"
"Ha ha! You know, Aggie dear, I'm really beginning to enjoy that American patois you use so often. It is tres outre and also much more refreshing to hear nowadays than all that dreadfully familiar English stuff such as, well, 'Safe as houses' or 'Bob's your uncle' or even 'Button your brown-hole!'"
Behind her Tim chortles, and Poppy very nearly cracks a curvier smile.
"Virginia, did you overhear-mm, never mind. Thank you very much for complimenting my little - oh, I suppose you may say quirk of choice, but-"
As Aggie talks Ginny turns her head and peers deeply and with some genuine concern into the crowd as if searching intently for a particular person, a loud tsk audibly passing her lips when she spots them. After sighing deeply she coldly declaims to Aggie, "You know, Aggie dear, I'm sorry, but I think I've had quite enough of this guessing game. In fact I really am certain that you will not be something or someone different next year that I shan't bother quizzing you about it again! That American talk you dabble in is one thing; I do enjoy it, but this? You clearly, I must assume, haven't any real penchant for novelty, more's the pity. Unfortunately right at present it seems I have much better, as you once said, 'fish to fry.' So please do have a delightful evening, Aggie dear! Ta!" She turns sharply to the left and vanishes among the guests, with the other two-thirds of the 'Cleo Trio' curtly following suit, though Tim offers a quick bow to Aggie before scampering after the ladies.
Aggie, absolutely thrown for a loop by this turn of mood on Ginny's part, especially when she was actually enjoying conversing with a woman she customarily loathed, glares after the retreating threesome and childishly juts her tongue out at them. "It's 'bigger fish to fry,' Ginny!" she spits. After glancing around to make sure that no one else wants to speak with her Aggie moves moodily to the buffet table as others there hasten away. She yanks a beer bottle by its neck from the tub and scans the label. "Hmm, Guinness. Very nice, but is there anything-?" She replaces the bottle and pulls up one with a different label. Her eyes brighten. "Holy cow, it's actually 'Schmpf Brothers', all the way from New bloody Hesse, Wisconsin!" she coos to herself, her spirits instantly lightening. "Excellent, Mary, thank you so much! I'm amazed you were able to get this into Blighty at all!" She grabs a bottle opener close at hand, wrests the cap off and with a happy sigh takes a big slobbery pull from it, allowing a narrow sepia stream to course down between her snowy breasts and absorb into the top of her thick loincloth. She gasps in delight as meanwhile a few red-faced people nearby strive hard to not gape at her.
Aggie nearly spews out a mouthful of her beer when she spots through the milling crowd an irate Ginny engaged in a chiefly one-sided conversation with a tall, nervous-looking but strikingly handsome young man wearing nothing but what to all appearances is a rather loose-fitting, multi-layered loincloth that with could possibly and with enough superfluous movements threaten to slide down his legs and leave him fully exposed.
"So there you are at last, Mr. Crewecott! You goldang thief!" she mutters dispassionately. "And you know her, as well, do you?! Hmpf! Isn't that a fine 'how do ye do!' But I'll show you!" She puts down her beer, wipes off her chest and takes a nonchalant stroll halfway around the room while hoping not to be noticed by either Teddy or the 'Cleo Trio' when she comes up from behind. She isn't seen, and without hesitation she clamps tightly onto a fold of Teddy's loincloth and in one swift motion rips it pins and all off of his body. Aggie does this so cleanly that she loses her balance and lands backward with a thump! on the hard parquet floor.
All of the surrounding guests swivel their heads towards them and gasp in horror.
TO BE CONTINUED
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