Chapter Twenty-Five: September, 1949
During the war, the dancing at Hammersmith Palais was integral to maintaining people’s morale across the city. The sirens would be sounding, Jerry would be dropping bombs all around, and still the good people of the Palais danced on. Four years later, the atmosphere inside the grand building was just as spectacular as ever it had been, although, in spite of the faster dancing and a more jazzy feeling to every number the band played, everyone was so much more relaxed. To regular attendees the changes might not even have been noticeable, but Arty and Jean hadn’t danced at the Palais since March of 1945, when they had lost out to a London couple in the waltz, yet had won the prize for the quickstep, which they rarely bothered to practise. To them, the difference in the place was remarkable.
Being there again, Arty felt the same rush of nervous excitement he’d always felt, not just prior to a competition, but any time he went dancing. He’d fully expected it to vanish the second he arrived, but he was determined he was going to get out there, even if it was for only one dance and he would suffer for the next week. After so long without dancing he’d be stiff as a board anyway, so what difference would a little muscle fatigue make?
Once they’d found a table with a good view of the dance floor, Jim offered to buy the drinks.
“White wine for me, thanks, Jim,” Jean replied.
“All right, a white wine, and…Arty?”
He was thinking about it, so Charlie jumped in first. “The usual for me. I’ll come give you a hand.”
Jim nodded in acknowledgement. Now he was just waiting on Arty, who shrugged, still not entirely settled on a drink.
“I’ll just have a double brandy and ginger,” he said. He usually drank beer, but Jim didn’t pass comment, instead setting off with Charlie for the bar and soon obscured from view by the swirling dancers. How strange it was to see men in suits rather than uniforms, although the women’s ballroom gowns were as stunning as ever.
Jean lightly tapped Arty’s arm to get his attention. “Do you remember ‘The Woodchopper’s Ball’?”
Arty nodded and laughed as the memory filled his mind of wartime nights at the Palais, when the poor caretaker was sent up onto the roof to keep lookout. If there was a raid, he’d come back down and flash his torch at the bandleader, and all of a sudden the band would start playing something loud, like ‘The Woodchopper’s Ball’, and the drummer would be banging the hell out of his kit, drowning out the sound of the sirens and explosions. The poor caretaker was charged with deciding whether they needed to head for the shelters or they could keep dancing, the safety of hundreds of people in his hands, and he was only young. Then again, they were all young: some of the Lancasters’ pilots were barely twenty years old and their crews were younger still.
Jim and Charlie returned with the drinks, and both remained standing with eyes trained on the dancers. Jim rested his hand on Arty’s chair, gently stroking with his thumb back and forth across Arty’s shoulder. Arty shivered at the touch; what he wouldn’t have given to dance with Jim tonight, but at least he’d get to see Jean dance. Maybe she’d even dance with Jim: they did a stunning jive, although Jean preferred the slower dances, particularly the waltz and the rumba.
The next dance was a foxtrot, and Charlie led Jean onto the floor. They had been out together no more than a half-dozen times since Eddie was born, but Joshua and Louisa were minding him for the evening. Louisa doted on Eddie, who, at thirty months old, was able to communicate almost as well in sign language as he did in spoken English. He was bright as a brass button and always smiling, such a happy, well-behaved little lad. Nevertheless, Jean and Charlie were clearly relishing this rare night away from their son, and their dancing was astounding. It was a shame they weren’t competing, because the intimacy of their bond as husband and wife spilled over into their movements and their timing: tonight they danced as one.
Jim bent down to talk into Arty’s ear. “You know watching those two?” His breath disturbed Arty’s hair and he let out an involuntary gasp. Jim chuckled quietly. “Man, I love I can do that to you.”
Arty smiled and felt his face heat up. He cleared his throat in a poor attempt to regain control of his impulses. “What were you going to say?”
“Charlie might not have your gracefulness or that neat little sway of the hips you got going on, but they’re quite something, ain’t they?”
“Yes, they are. When they come back, I’m—”
A loud, female voice interrupted Arty mid-sentence: “Jim Johnson? Good God. It’s not…surely… It is you! Fancy seeing you here.”
A tall, red-haired woman swooped in and flung herself on Jim, leaving a lipstick kiss mark on his cheek.
“Good evening, Dot. Lovely to see you. How are you doing?”
“Better for seeing you, Jimmy boy. I thought you went home to the States.”
“Yeah, I did, and then I came back.” Jim turned and gestured to Arty. “Dot, this is my friend, Arty. We share an apartment.”
“Hello, Arty,” Dot said. Arty stood to greet her and was rewarded with a crimson kiss mark to match Jim’s.
“Arty, this is Group Officer Dorothy Carter. We worked together at RAF Tillbrook.”
“Lovely to meet you, Ma’am,” Arty said, briefly eyeing the woman’s attire: an ankle-length, emerald-green gown, split on one side to the thigh, and a boned, strapless corset, showing an undignified expanse of milk-white bosom.
“Just Dot these days, Arty,” Dot said, offering a pleased smile in acknowledgement of his visual appraisal before she turned her attention back on Jim. “Are you jitterbugging tonight?”
“I could be persuaded,” Jim said with a flirtatious wink. Arty raised his eyebrows.
“Then I might just have to stay around and persuade you a little harder,” Dot flirted back, fluttering her long eyelashes.
Arty felt his hair bristle and silently chastised himself. He couldn’t dance with Jim, so what point was there to being jealous of Dot’s request and Jim’s agreement to it?
“I’m just going to get a drink,” Dot said. “I’ll be back shortly.” With a quick wave of the fingertips, she left. Arty watched her all the way.
“I can tell her if you like,” Jim said.
“Pardon?”
“Dot. I can tell her about you and me. She already knows about me.”
“Does she?” Arty was surprised, because she was behaving very suggestively.
“She does. What d’you want me to do?”
Arty shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just being foolish.”
“You trust me, right?”
“With my life. And it’s not that I think she’ll try anything on, especially if, as you say, she knows you’re not interested. But…” Arty gazed wistfully at the dancers, kicking and sliding and swirling together, free-flowing and romantic as spring water rippling over smooth pebbles. He turned back to Jim and smiled sadly. “I wish we could join them.”
“One day we will.”
“High hopes, Jim Johnson.”
Jim laughed. “You betcha.”
The foxtrot was coming to an end, and those not dancing applauded and cheered for their friends. Ever a cunning move on the part of the Palais, dancers were judged by their peers, so the more friends they brought along the better their chances. Jean and Charlie had only danced for fun, but nonetheless received a few cheers and compliments on their way back to Arty and Jim.
“I’m going to ask her soon,” Arty muttered quickly before they arrived. “I desperately need her to agree.”
“I’ll follow where you lead,” Jim said.
“Then I’ll need more brandy.”
“How did we do, fellas?” Charlie asked.
Arty tilted his head from side to side. “Your turning box needs a bit a work, but not bad for an amateur.”
Charlie gave him a playful slap around the head. “My wife taught me everything I know.”
“You’re not supposed to do the woman’s part
.”
“You may mock, Arty Clarke—” Charlie began, but stopped abruptly and picked up his pint, draining the glass in one go. He gave Arty an apologetic smile, although Arty wasn’t entirely sure why.
“My round,” Jim offered, but Charlie waved him away.
“You bought the last one,” he said, turning to Jean and Arty. “Same again?”
Jean and Arty nodded in confirmation, and Jim and Charlie once more set off for the bar, crossing paths with Dot, who laughed loudly at something Jim had just said and then pinched his bottom as he continued on his way.
“Who’s that?” Jean asked Arty.
“Group officer from Tillbrook.”
Jean continued to watch her. “She’s very…confident, isn’t she?”
Arty laughed. “You mean she’s a flirt?”
“Well, that too,” Jean agreed. “How does she expect to dance in that frock?”
“I wondered myself. She’s after jiving with Jim.”
Jean let out a very loud Ha! It was accidental, because she wasn’t that sort of woman, and she covered her mouth with her hand. When she had recovered from her astonishment at herself, she confided, “Before I knew Jim properly, I thought he danced with all the gals as a ruse.”
“Oh, not at all. He’ll dance with anyone.”
“Yes.” Jean chuckled. “So long as he and I get a dance tonight, I shan’t complain.”
Arty looked out across the dance floor and said, as if it were of no consequence to him whatsoever, “Interestingly, I was just thinking the same about you and I.”
“You…” Jean stopped. Arty glanced back at her. “You want to dance?”
“I don’t know if I still can, but I want to try.”
Jean’s eyebrows arched in worry. “What if—”
“No one ever dropped dead from a gentle waltz.”
“But it’s all so much faster than it used to be.”
“I’ll be fine,” Arty assured her. She still wasn’t convinced, but the bandleader had just announced the waltz was next, so there was little time to dwell on it. Arty carefully pushed up from his chair and stepped around the table, holding his hand out to her. “Will you let me, Jean? Will you allow me to lead you in our dance tonight?”
Jean delayed a moment longer and then placed her hand in Arty’s. He led her onto the dance floor, and they turned to face each other on the bandleader’s count-in. Jean still looked worried, but Arty just smiled and put his arm around her waist, his palm pressed confidently to her lower back as they stepped off together; in an instant, four and a half years were forgotten.
Not everything from those years was gone, of course, for so many incredible things had happened to both of them during that time, not least their commitment to the two men watching them right now; Arty spun Jean as they waltzed past Charlie and Jim, both appearing emotional and doing a shocking job of hiding it. Arty spun again and noticed Jim wiping his eyes.
“He’s crying,” he said to Jean.
“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. How does it feel?”
“That my husband is crying?” Arty asked. Jean squeezed his fingers, and he winced and laughed. “It’s wonderful.”
“No pain?”
“None.”
Jean peered sideways at him. He smiled briefly and released her into an underarm turn, signifying the beginning of one of their set pieces, which proceeded faultlessly, drawing the attention of other dancers.
“That’s Clarke and McDowell,” someone said as they swept by.
“We’re famous,” Jean gasped excitedly.
“So it would seem,” Arty concurred.
“I didn’t know we were famous.”
“Why wouldn’t we be? We’re damned good.”
“And so modest too,” Jean observed with a laugh.
“If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I say.”
“Oh, do you now?”
“I do now, yes.” Arty had always been the less confident of the two of them, but his liberation was complete and the timing was perfect. “What do you think of us opening a dance school together?”
“Yes,” Jean answered immediately, much to Arty’s surprise.
“Oh!” he said.
“Oh?”
“I thought I’d have to convince you.”
Jean threw her head back in breathless, joyful laughter as Arty spun her through three full rotations. “You already did, Arty. We’re waltzing together.”
“Yes, we are.”
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When Skies Have Fallen Page 39