It was a cool evening, dark with upcoming rain, as Carl Meredith cautiously walked on the outskirts anonymous street corner. A half-torn poster was attached to one of the worn gray plank walls, the angular graphic letters of which were barely perceptible. Carl passed the poster without looking at it.
About fifteen minutes later, Carl was sitting in the worn, arched high basement space that occasionally hosted marathon dances, to the eager Redmondians but not this particular evening, not quite.
A thick, almost bluish smoke curtain of cigarettes hovered at the ceiling. Carl leaned half forward, as a familiar shadow, with still military bearing flashed at the edge of his field of vision. Shirley sat down next to him, and stretched his long legs carelessly forward. Carl glanced quickly at Shirley, and whispered, "You were almost late."
A slight smile rose in the dark brown eyes, as Shirley murmured, " Im never late."
Shirley examined the basement carefully, there were handful of smoke-shrouded figures. Waiting silence of the basement was suddenly broken by almost cacophonous music, passionate notes pulsating, on a small stage where a mixed orchestra was playing, bumpy brass section, violins, and a piano.
Amidst the smoky mist, an androgynous figure dressed in a dark slightly oversized suit stood on the edge of the stage, swaying, as a low, dark-toned voice, began to utter, passionately pulsing words, and everyone all around them, began to dance, sway to the music, that music, which was as far as possible from the Sunday hymns of the Glen's church choir.
Shirley noticed that Carl seemed tense as the shadowy figures glided past them in the graceful, stiff, dance steps that Vernon and Irene Castle had made famous.
Slowly, Shirley turned to look at Carl. Carl's face, his quivering lips showed a slight, careful longing, it momentarily heightened Carls similarity to his sister, even though Carl didn't usually resemble Una, in his tawny blondness.
The extravagant silk cravat of one slender, passionately dancing youth almost touched Carl's shoulder as he passed their table. The youth grinned at Carl and Shirley, diffidently, yet kindly, and exclaimed, with reddened lips, "Welcome, don't be shy!"
Vocalist, crooned meltingly slow something atmospheric about the passage of time, and living in the moment, and only a hazy silhouette was visible in the middle of the smoke.
Carl's face slowly brightened as Shirley nodded towards the dance floor.
Their steps, they fitted, joined, but this dance was not the well-mannered tea-dances of Glen, oh no..
This was something else, new, experimental, and delightfully vibrant, and turning in the eddies of the dance, the song became slow, so, so slow, and fatally so.
The violins joined the vocalist's dark, velvety soft voice, raising a passionate, sincere atmosphere.
Shirley half-whispered, glancing over Carl's shoulder, "If you wanted, you could perform yourself on stage, here. You're good enough, and that suit would suit you, I detest sloppiness."
At those words, Carl let out a slight chuckle, which barely, as he whispered, "I make no Promises of that effect, Shirl, but it's pleasant to know that you believe in my abilities so widely. But I say that Rouge and theatrical cosmetics is a bit beyond me, even if silk ties are quite decadent."
Rebellious, smooth jazz patterns rolled over the dancing crowd, as Carl seemed as alive as a firecracker, as his quiet anxiety was as if swept away in the joy of music and dance. These moments were so far and few between.
Shirley turned and deftly dodged the pleading gaze of the slender, short-haired girl dancing past, because today Shirley was here, for Carl.
Afterwards, with the tart and sweet taste of ginger ale throbbing in his mouth, in languid grace Shirley smoked his cigarette calmly, tendrils of smoke were blending into the rainy night.
Carl shrugged restlessly, his striped bow was dreadfully askew, and Shirleys fingers itched to correct that asymmetry, but he dared not to do it, not here.
Carl took one light, almost flighty side step, as he did so his pant leg hit Shirley's.
The dim light of the street lamp reflected in the puddles.
Carl remarked, "You always smoke too much, Shirl. To be honest, Una seems happier here than I imagined, but I still think she'll be happy and content when we get back to the Glen for Jerry and Nan's wedding."
Shirley stated, "I happened to run into her earlier, she had been attending some concert, as part of a course." Carl hummed thoughtfully, as he replied, "When Una came here, I assumed she'd start studying Household Science, but I was wrong. We all were, except maybe Mother Rosie."
The boardinghouse was before them, cornered and dark. The threshold creaked as they entered the large doors, whose bright green, spring color was always homely. The air of the narrow and tall hall smelled of dusty potpourri and vegetable soup, made by Una's recipe.
The staircase was lit by a single flickering lamp.
A spring moth flew towards the light, and cautiously Carl nodded to it.
There were voices from the living room, the usual argument, between other tenants. "I want chocolate more than anything else, and now you tell me there's none here. Don't darling me. And you don't want a scene, but you'll soon have one. Life has given me so many misfortunes. June is an unlucky month, do you know that? How come you don't believe in horoscopes, or fortune-tellers or mediums? Why do all nice girls have such impossible mothers, and talent for either dancing, piano, music or organizing, or once in blue moon all of them? They must be underneath like gold, but I don't believe it."
Stair creaked as Shirley gave in to his earlier impulse and straightened Carl's bow perfectly straight.
Light impishness glimmered on Carl's shadowy features, as he smiled quietly, and said, "Five hours before your self-control failed."
Shirley's dark Blythe eyebrows arched lightly, as he inquired, "Keeping time were you?"
The only answer was a small smile, filled with similar joy, which Shirley had sometimes seen on Faith's face as she had occasionally outwitted Jem.
Carl sighed and took off his, dark eye patch crumpling it in his suit jacket pocket as he leaned against the stair rail, expectantly.
In the parlor room, the argument continued. "Love, believing in it nowadays is so banal." You do mean it do you not?
Naturally I do. Im really very earnest, even if you do not never belive me, or my words. Words can be all kinds of nonsense after all. Actions are more important."
Rain was pattering on the ceiling, disconsolately.
The usual routine of solemn prayer seemed pointless, for Una was feeling pensive.
She still felt a strong vibration inside her of the music, and the desire, the glow of Schubert, and the amber and cream tones of the brightness and calm of the concert hall.
There had been the waiting silence of the audience, as the music had flowed like an eternal stream, steadily, weaving a bright immediacy into the notes, so that time didn't seem to exist.
There were no responsibilities, no forced socializing, no training, no aching shoulders, no silent exhaustion.
Una had been sitting still, in the audience, barely moving, her fingers restlessly sometimes moving against her dove-gray skirt, and she had felt like a gray little mouse, invisible, drowning herself in the sunset of the music, but as it turned out, she was seen, afterwards, by Shirley of all people in a street-corner.
The calmness of those Blythe eyes was a focal point, of Unas wavering emotions, although it cut her heart that those eyes were not bright gray, but those eyes she would never, ever see again.
Shirley had remarked, in his usual competent calm way, "Una, is everything all right, you are not usual out in the evenings?"
Una had demurred, as was her way, but then Shirley's words stopped her, " Una, I have a new recipe you might be interested in, do come around at HayCorner before we all return to the Glen?"
With long strides, Shirley disappeared into the rising dim of the evening at the same moment the rain began.
And slightly startled, Una walked more briskly, and then behind her came a polite voice that said, "Miss Meredith, wait a bit and take my umbrella. This way the hems of your skirts will not get wet at least? I've wanted to talk to you for a long time, Miss Meredith, but you always leave so quickly, you're like a shadow. Word in the corridors are that you're one of Professor Sorel's favourites. Sorry I haven't introduced myself, how rude, I'm Victor Walter Chase."
Una, had glanced up, puzzled, and even slightly haunted as the figure standing next to her could have been almost Walter's double, if Walter had been blond, but the eyes were as dark blue as her own.
Victor Chase had politely escorted Una for some distance, across bustling crossings, leaning on a narrow walking-stick, then he had said, "Miss Meredith, you are very pale, I hope you are not unwell? My leg is a gimpy one, a souvenir from Flanders, but at least my life was spared, when so many others were not. Good evening, to you, and I hope we shall meet again, perhaps at next term?"
Una had muttered something well-meaning and polite, feeling her usual gripping shyness take hold of her.
Twinkling smile had risen into Victor's eyes, as he had politely lifted his drooping felt hat, and declared "I will hold you to that Miss Meredith."
Restless, Una looked out of her narrow window. She wished momentarily that she would be in the Glen, in her own room. Despite the music and the beauty of Redmond, she felt like a shadow, of her old persona, her previous ties and safety net had been broken, by enrolling here.
Constant question seemed to pulsate in her soul.
Who really was Una Cecilia Meredith? Who she perhaps could be?
Irritated, Una felt how the moist heavy braid tickled her temples. The weight of dark hair was suddenly unbearable.
The sound of sharp scissors hummed quietly in the rented room, which was impeccably clean.