by Andy Conway
She had been old enough to catch the tail end of its fame on some of her earliest nights out drinking. In 2013 it was closed up and left forlorn, hosting only stage school day classes.
She walked around the dance floor and surveyed her work. The same arrangement of tables down each side, leaving a huge dance floor space down the middle. The bar to the right of the entrance. The stage at the far end, guarded by giant scarlet curtains. Bunting hung from the rafters.
Charlie came to her side.
“Looks grand. You’ve done a great job, Rachel.”
“We,” she said.
He checked his wristwatch. “Time to start.”
The band were on stage and already playing a gentle waltz. Manny’s tuxedoed bouncers were clustered in the entrance hall. The first people were entering, the buzz of excitement around them. Benny Orphan’s manager was situated firmly at the entrance to the hall, dispensing raffle tickets to every lady.
Mr and Mrs Hollis arrived, both dressed up to the nines and looking all about them with wonder.
“What a lovely evening,” Mr Hollis said. “You must be very proud, Charles.”
“Thank you for your help,” said Charlie.
“We couldn’t have done it without you,” Rachel added.
“Nonsense,” he said. “You’d have found a way. It was my pleasure to help it along a little.”
They watched him get a table and take his wife’s coat, sit her down. An old couple, still very much in love.
“Thank you,” Charlie whispered to Rachel.
“What for?”
“For persuading me we should do this. It’s the right thing.”
She took his hand and squeezed for encouragement, interlaced her fingers with his and squeezed again. “Here we go,” she said. “Let’s just make it worthy of Henry.”
The first groups came through, having deposited coats in the cloak room and rushed for the best tables. Rachel and Charlie went to the entrance to check on things there. Manny’s men were running things smoothly, discreetly; a presence that wasn’t intimidating but was ready for any eventuality.
The punters streamed through, chattering excitedly, all freshly soaped and gleaming in their evening wear. It was a pale imitation of the sophisticated Mayfair crowd, the men wearing their Sunday suits not tuxedoes, with ties instead of bow-ties, the women in evening gowns that had been run up on sewing machines, with imitation jewellery. But to these people it represented the height of sophistication.
Rachel gazed in wonder as they filed through and paid for their tickets. This was how the great working mass of the city had found their entertainment: a single night of glamour, once a week in a place where you could forget the Depression, and the world outside sliding towards war.
After they’d secured their tables and their drinks, a great many of them gravitated to the dance floor, but no one danced. They crowded to the stage to peer at the band in wonder.
She knew from her History studies that black people had been present in the city for a hundred years or more, but this crowd acted like they’d never seen a non-white person in their lives.
Lester and his band played Moonglow and she felt it flow through her like sweet wine. The kind of song that made you feel every drop of joy in the world and all its sadness at the same time. The crowd just stared and talked. She heard their comments from the fringe of the crowd.
“A coloured band.”
“Have you ever seen anything like it?”
“They play just like a white band.”
“Who’d have thought?”
“It’s jazz, Phyllis. I think you’ll find they invented it.”
“I know, but still. A coloured band.”
She recognized Sheila Sutton from the hotel, who was crowing to all within earshot. “Of course, they’re staying at my hotel. The whole band. Perfect gentlemen. Quite civilized.”
Rachel scanned the crowd, wondering what her purpose was now. The concert was on. She had succeeded. Somewhere in this crowd were Mrs Hudson’s parents-to-be. They would fall in love tonight and any attempt to wipe out Mrs Hudson’s existence would be scotched.
Would Danny come? She felt more certain now that he was here for Amy Parker and it was nothing to do with Mrs Hudson. But what of Kath Bright? What was she up to? She shuddered at the memory of Future Kath. What had happened to her — what was going to happen to her — to make her so unhinged in 2014? Would it be something that happened tonight? And what of this other matter they were investigating: the more important thing that had something to do with a house on Newport Road — would that have anything to do with tonight?
The band ended the song and the crowd applauded enthusiastically. Charlie was by her side, hands clapping twice as hard as anyone else, as if he were applauding for Henry too.
“In a way,” he said. “I wish those Blackshirts were here now to see this. It would kill them to see a band of coloured musicians being welcomed so warmly.”
“Did you ever doubt it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I suppose I did. There’s so much hate around, it overwhelms you, makes you despair.”
She thought about it and tried to find the words to explain it to him. She remembered a debate in History class at school. Her teacher had marked her down for making vague platitudes that had no basis in research but she remembered it now and knew it to be true.
“We get a rough ride,” said Rachel, “but I’ve always felt that British people, as a whole, are very tolerant and open to new cultures. And we don’t really do extremism the way other European nations do. We’re far too sensible to get whipped up by nonsense. We see through it. That’s why fascism can take off in Germany and Italy and Spain and in plenty of other places, but it will never thrive in Britain. There’ll always be a minority of idiots who whip up fear and hate. They’ll never go away. But they will lose.”
He looked at her curiously. “What future do you live in, Rachel?”
She smiled and wondered if she should tell him. She was about to say something about ‘multicultural Britain’ and wondered if the word would confuse him, Could she tell him that the Moseley village she knew had half a dozen Indian restaurants, a Caribbean, a Chinese takeaway, an Italian, a Moroccan, a French café, a tapas bar and three fish and chip shops that also sold Indian food and pizzas. Did anyone in this dance hall even know what a pizza was, let alone a samosa? The Blackshirts would lose, be swept aside as an irrelevance, and Britain’s cultural life would be immeasurably improved after the war by so many alien cultures, as it always had.
She was trying to formulate an explanation that he might understand when she saw Harold Ogborne walking across the dance floor.
He had a teenage girl on his arm and was followed by four other women.
Sudden fear gripped her and she clutched Charlie’s arm. He followed her eyeline.
“Don’t worry,” said Charlie. “I’ll tell the boys to keep an eye on him. If he’s with the Blackshirts, he’s the only one of them here.”
But it wasn’t Harold she was afraid of. It was another woman in their party: Amy Parker. And the fact that they were wearing the same dress.
Of course they were. She’d taken it from Amy Parker. It was in the trunk of her clothes after she’d died in 1966. Stupid, stupid, stupid. They weren’t just wearing the same copy of a dress — it was the exact same dress.
Rachel ducked behind a crowd of women standing close by, using them as a wall to screen her from Amy Parker.
She remembered with growing horror that Amy had made the dress herself. In the trunk of her old clothes was the Du Barry pattern from Woolworths. What were the odds of making your own dress for a night out and seeing another woman wearing the exact same design? She looked around the room and saw that every dress on every woman was unique.
She peeked through the wall of women and saw that Amy’s party had found a table close to the stage and were making a great fuss about taking seats from the next table and who would sit next to whom.<
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“That’s her. Amy Parker’s her name.”
The women between them were all talking about Amy Parker, Rachel realized. She couldn’t help hearing what they said.
“Wasn’t she the one whose father went doolally and died in the loony bin?”
“Winson Green, arr. You know what it was sent him mad and all?”
It was Sheila Sutton from the hotel, whispering viciously with a gaggle of friends. They lowered their voices for certain words and she couldn’t catch them, but the general tenor of the conversation was clear enough.
“She’s here to meet a fancy man — I won’t call him a gentleman — in secret. I read her letter to him, clear as day, the filthy slut. Had to, like, as he was one of my guests and had moved on without leaving a forwarding address.”
“Well, it’s no wonder with the likes of her.”
“Always said she was a wrong un.”
“You watch her. She’s here for that fancy man of hers. You’ll see.”
It must be Danny, Rachel thought. He’d been at the hotel and had moved out. Amy Parker had got in touch with him. But what were they meeting for?
— 46 —
SHE HAD TO HIDE. SHE gripped Charlie’s arm and hissed, “Come with me.”
She marched through the crowd of people craning their necks to stare at the band, using them as a screen, and scooted up the wooden steps at the side of the stage, hiding behind the curtain with Charlie.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Amy Parker. She’s here. And Danny will be coming too.”
He peered through the peep-hole. “She’s with Harold Ogborne’s party as well. You don’t think?”
Rachel shook her head. “I’m sure she’s nothing to do with that. And Danny. No, it’s something else.”
She wondered what it could be. Mitch had been certain that the time anomaly was concentrated at Harold’s house and it involved a stranger travelling there from 2013. And here was Amy Parker, somehow connected with Harold Ogborne. But Mrs Hudson had been certain that it was the concert that was important. And here they both were. And Danny was, of course, somehow involved.
She knew there was something they were all missing.
“You don’t think Danny’s going to do what he did in the cinema last night, do you?” asked Charlie.
“You think he did that?”
She knew the answer; was only surprised that he thought it too.
“Henry seemed certain. And you do too. I can tell.”
She nodded and linked arms with him, pulling him closer to her, resting her head on his shoulder, wanting him to hug her suddenly.
“Now, now. Keep it clean!”
They jumped apart.
Benny Orphan grinned and winked, rubbing his hands together in glee. His bodyguards were behind him, walking him to the stage.
“It’s normally after I’ve started singing that the canoodling begins.”
Charlie blushed and looked at his feet.
Benny Orphan cackled. He stared out at the band, who were skipping through Oceans of Time.
“Great band you’ve lined up here. Pianist looks a bit out of place,” he laughed.
“Last minute replacement,” said Charlie. “Local lad.”
“He’s no Duke Ellington,” said Benny. “But he’ll do, all right.”
Lester Johnson, leading his band on stage, noticed Benny standing in the wings and nodded to him.
Benny Orphan saluted and turned back sharply. “Now, how do I look?”
“You look perfect—’ stammered Charlie.
“Not you!” Benny Orphan smiled at Rachel. “How do I look to the ladies?”
She straightened his bow tie, brushed a fleck of lint from his white tuxedo jacket. “You look a million dollars,” she said.
Benny Orphan’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Now that’s what a man wants to hear!” He turned to Charlie. “You just get out on that dance floor and get ready to catch the ladies when they faint. After you’ve introduced me, of course.”
Charlie looked scared suddenly. He hadn’t thought of taking the stage.
The song came to a close and Lester Johnson looked expectant as the crowd applauded.
“Go on, Charlie,” Rachel whispered.
She gave him an encouraging pat on the arm that was also a gentle shove, and he was onstage and walking to the microphone.
“Er... Hello. Good evening,” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen.”
“He’s not done this before, has he?” quipped Benny Orphan.
“Welcome to our... to our concert. And a very warm welcome to our special guest band, Mister Lester Johnson and his Coloured Jazz Orchestra!”
The crowd applauded enthusiastically.
We won, Rachel thought.
“And also featuring a local boy guesting on piano tonight. He’s stepped in at very short notice. From Kings Heath, Mr Anthony Pratt!”
As the applause continued, Charlie’s smile widened and his confidence bloomed. “And now, without further ado. Please welcome tonight’s star billing. The legendary Mr Benny Orphan!”
Charlie walked backwards off the stage, applauding with the crowd, as if blown off stage by the wave of acclaim.
Benny Orphan skipped over to the microphone, arms aloft, accepting their love.
Rachel was taken aback by the noise. Some women were actually shrieking. It wasn’t a Beatles scream. Their grandchildren would do that. It was the sound of decorum being abandoned as women, young and old, shrieked with sheer disbelief at seeing an idol in the flesh for the first time.
Charlie was by her side, his hand resting gently on her waist.
The band kicked into What a Difference a Day Made and she saw the dance floor suddenly become a spinning, swirling mass of couples quick-stepping. A band of women stuck doggedly to the edge of the stage, gazing in adoration, but they were gradually picked off one by one as gentlemen asked them to dance.
Out on the dance floor, the heads of couples bobbed and weaved. It was a river of dancers, swirling and eddying. Every man was looking at his woman, and every woman was looking over his shoulder at Benny Orphan.
She watched him with growing excitement.
He closed his eyes as he crooned, as if dreaming of a certain sweetheart lost to him forever. Benny Orphan the joker had been replaced by a sensitive romantic.
She felt her knees go slightly weak.
They stood watching from the secret seclusion of the side stage. A few of the Benacre Street Boxing Club guys watched too, but the girls they had with them dragged them to the dance floor, leaving only a couple on guard.
She felt Charlie pressed against her, acutely aware of his touch, the rhythm of his breathing, wishing he would pull him to her and kiss her. There was something about Benny Orphan’s singing that made you long for a deep, long kiss.
He crooned through True, That’s Me Without You and The First Time I Saw You. Arthur, his manager, seemed to have abandoned the raffle idea and come onto the stage with a large box camera. He stood behind Benny Orphan and took a picture with a giant flash. Rachel wondered why and then realized he wanted the audience in the background. Benny Orphan crooning to his fans. She couldn’t see the corner of the dance floor but realized it would be the table where Amy Parker was sitting.
Benny Orphan opened his eyes and announced he was going to sing Let’s Fall in Love for the Last Time.
A roar of delight came from the dance floor.
“Miss Hines? Would you care to dance?” said Charlie.
She wasn’t sure she should. If she ventured out onto the dance floor, Amy Parker would see her and her dress. But she desperately wanted to dance.
She nodded and Charlie took her hand, led her down the wooden steps at the side of the stage and walked her to the other side of the dance floor, far away from Amy Parker’s table. A hand to her waist, the other holding her hand out, his chest pressed to hers. He moved suddenly and she realized she knew no dance steps. It seemed to be some ki
nd of waltz, luckily, a very slow waltz. She stumbled at first, then worked out the one-two-two, one-two-two rhythm of the steps and kept up with him.
Then she remembered the song. Deirdre Foster, her maternal grandmother, in the café in 1959, telling her this was the song her parents fell in love to. This song. She scanned the sea of couples dancing, caught up in the romance of the moment. Here, somewhere, surely, her maternal grandmother’s parents were falling in love for the first time. Fred Foster was possibly meeting Vivian Hunter and having their first dance.
It seemed that so many people were coming together for the first time tonight, as if the band and Benny Orphan’s performance was the epicentre of love.
The song ended.
Charlie stepped away from her and applauded politely.
She remembered all the things that might go wrong tonight. She had been swept up in the romance of the moment and forgotten that she had a mission.
She checked her wristwatch.
Where were Mrs Hudson, Mitch and Kath? Would they come?
She shuddered at the memory of Future Kath, lunging at her with hate in her eyes.
— 47 —
MRS HUDSON WAS ALMOST running ahead of them, a youthful spring in her step, drawn by the small crowd outside the Moseley and Balsall Heath Institute.
Kath tried to keep up with her, aware that Mitch was slowing down behind her, wheezing as he walked.
“Hurry up, Mitch,” she called back.
Mrs Hudson climbed the steps and disappeared inside. Kath wondered why there were a group of men outside holding placards but she had no time to examine them.
“She was right,” said Mitch. “The vibration is much stronger here. I don’t know how I got it so wrong before.”
“Don’t worry,” said Kath, holding his arm. “We’re here now.”
“He’s not here yet. Jez. But there’s something here that’s really bad.”
Kath climbed the steps, holding onto him. She’d never seen him this weak.
A phalanx of tough looking men in tuxedoes manned the door and waved them through. She wondered if the heavy presence was due to the men with placards. Had someone tried to stop the concert? Maybe Mrs Hudson had been right about everything.