A teaspoon of sand

I was seventeen - on the cusp of eighteen. In a novelist’s imagination, a young lady on the verge of what comes next. Not that I thought of myself in literary terms. My life was not a bildungsroman. I wasn’t in transition from one thing to another. I was, as an American TV psychologist might say, living in the moment. An outwardly confident girl whose sang-froid masked the existential insecurities of youth.

It was early on a Saturday evening. The night of my first debutante ball. I had finished my bath and was sitting in my underclothes before a mirror, applying my makeup. If I am honest, I will admit to having a pleasing physique and a handsome face. One the boys are drawn to. But there is something in the angularity of my cheek bones and the straightness of my nose that gives me a haughty air that chills the ardor of potential suitors.

My face is a lie - a mask. At parties I watch as my friends, girls I have known since childhood, laugh easily with boys as they flirt outrageously. If only I had their insouciance. I wish I felt the confidence I conveyed.

I finish in front of the mirror. And stand to put on my evening clothes and jewellery. My mother sweeps in to fuss. I submit to her as she tugs and pulls my dress. She pays special care to my neckline as she calibrates the appropriate ratio of vamp to virgin. Finally, she is satisfied. She stamps her approval with the appraisal, “You look quite lovely, darling.”

I know she is telling the truth when I walk down the stairs and my younger brother Jack looks at me with astonishment. He does not offer his usual casual sibling cruelty. Quite the contrary. He awards me a 15-year-old boy’s ultimate compliment - ”you’ll do.” My father seconds the motion. “Gorgeous, quite gorgeous.” I wish their appreciation would still my nerves.

I put a wrap on - it is a cool night for June - and get into the car as my father holds the door for me. His unusual etiquette confirms that night’s importance.

It is the first event of my coming out season. An occasion I have been anticipating and dreading for months. The ball starts at eleven. But beforehand Lady Soames is throwing a dinner for six debs and a matching complement of young men.

We have to pick up my closest friend, Charlotte Cavendish. We were sisters-in-arms, partners in crime. Our larceny included filching my mum’s cigarettes and spirits from the cocktail cabinet. But tonight, in acknowledgment of our new maturity, wine and tobacco are officially on the agenda.

I have waited years for this social elevation. But now that my foot was on the threshold I was panicked at the prospect. I tried to solace myself with the wisdom that thousands had gone before me and many others would follow. But my heart was as heavy as that of a doomed Tudor queen contemplating the executioner’s block.

My older sister Victoria had briefed me on my journey. Yet for all her sororal insights on the geography, it was still terra incognito for me. Her cheerful dismissal that it was “no big thing” did nothing to ease my anxiety. Rory had always been the confident one with the bravado of an apostate.

A non-conformist to her core, she was now reading physics at a university in America. It was a rebellion that had divided the family, pitting the traditionalists against the feminists. Both camps had recruited allies from among our set. The civil war had entrenched opinions. There were few transfers between the ‘girls do not do science’ and the ‘times change’ camps.

I envied her free spirit and lacked her courage. Every door was open for me academically - I received good marks at Roedean. But socially I was insecurity wrapped in cool indifference. People remarked on my self-possession. And every time they did, I congratulated myself that I had again avoided exposure.

My father parked and escorted us to the white-pillared door of Lady Soames’ Eaton Square house.

“Do come in. You both look ravishing,” our hostess gushed. We entered. She dismissed my father, assuring him she would bung us in a taxi when the night was done. Her butler took our coats. And we followed him to the drawing room.

I knew some people. Others I had never met. That was the point of this exercise. In a society where girls were sent to school with other girls, and boys shuttled off to single-sex boarding schools, it was at dinner parties like these that the young could meet potential mates. A caterer passed out champagne cocktails. And young women in evening gowns chattered with young men in black tie.

The early going proved smooth. I received looks of approval. And talk flowed easily.

Dinner was served. I do not remember the dishes. But the chef did not disappoint. The conversation was lively, although as always, I was one of the quieter ones. But not as quiet as the young man who sat opposite me. When he did speak, he had the plummy tones of an Etonian. But his speech betrayed an American influence.

When he was mute he would pay careful attention to whoever was speaking. Even as the wine flowed and the conversation became more boisterous, he remained laconic.

The courses came and went. The end of the affair was on the horizon. But just short of the finish line, I stumbled into mortification. Dessert was served. And coffee poured. In the middle of the table, between me and the quiet American, was a bowl of demerara sugar. I added a heaped teaspoon to my coffee. And stirred. But something was not right. My coffee remained gritty. I was puzzled. When I glanced down at the table, I saw the source of my confusion, and shame scorched my soul.

Smoking was still common. Lady Soames’s table bore several ashtrays. They were full of sand to reduce the fire hazard. Anyone who has been seventeen will remember the heart-stopping magnitude of the slightest error. And it was with horror that I realized I had spooned some of the sand into my coffee.

I looked around. And felt blades of embarassment rend my shredding confidence. I suspected that all had noticed my excruciating error. Social ostracism was my inevitable fate. Then the quiet boy across from me reached out, and added a teaspoon of sand to his coffee.

I looked at him. His face was as it had been, almost expressionless. But I saw a smile in his eyes. I realized that he had volunteered himself to be a companion in humiliation. A man willing to tarnish his good name and reputation to rescue a woman.

He completed his act of charity by announcing, “Oh dear. Look what I’ve done,” in a voice loud enough to draw all attention to him.

He sacrificed himself to become the brunt of everyone’s good-natured derision. And no one will remember that my act was the first faux pas. I am sure life would have continued had I borne the humiliation alone. However, the echoes of my stupidity would have resonated long in my psyche.

I saw him several more times over the rest of the summer. I am not sure if we could ever have been more than co-conspirators in a cover-up. He never did talk much. And he was in love with another. But I shall always remember his small act of profound kindness.