The Hidden Dance

by Susan Wooldridge

The big face was creased and smiling. Lily, stunned by this ebullient volley of information, managed only to mutter, ‘Quite,’ before the lecture was confidently concluded: ‘Then there’s milk, o’course. Aye, that might be best.’

  Swiftly rising, gathering the layers of shawl about her, the woman called out to the tubby child still half-heartedly looking into the wicker basket. ‘Now, Anthea, where’s milk bottle?’ No doubt fully expecting the child to stay put, she crossed herself to one of the trestle tables – for a portly woman, she had an impressive turn of speed – and collected a small half-full milk bottle with a straw. ‘Milk takes up stain,’ she said pouring a tiny amount of milk onto the ink-mark, which immediately darkened the white liquid.

  Lily sat dumbstruck. She was vaguely aware that, in her present state of tension, there was a luxury in being ministered to by this stranger who conveyed her advice not only with confidence but also with warm kindness. She stared down at the woman as more liquid was dribbled with all the precision of a scientist, and her eye was caught by the most beautifully starched blouse, a little cameo brooch nestling amidst the folds of shawl and jowl. At such close quarters, Lily noted that the harshness of the woman’s iron-grey hair pulled back, seal-sleek atop the vast tumble of clothes, detracted from an open wise face. How often bulk is wrongly equated with stupidity, she thought, and saw that although the woman’s face was battered and lined, a high unhealthy colour on each cheek, the eyes, grey-blue, held a sweet softness and the fleeting glimpse of a once-pretty girl.

  ‘Now, let’s go and rinse it off in’t cloakroom. We’ll finish with a little more milk if needs be.’

  The woman set off at her impressive speed and, like a good girl, Lily ran to catch up only to find, walking beside the short stout woman, she felt absurdly tall, her limbs all sharp-angles. Added to which, her new companion’s ceaseless chatter in a dense North Country accent, meant Lily lurched along, bent sideways, in an attempt to catch what was being said. Behind them, silently, padded the dour fat child.

  It was this circus-like trio that stared back from the wide mirror in the cloakroom where, sure enough, after a judicious dab of water, the dark mark on the tweed skirt vanished. ‘There,’ said the woman triumphantly.

  Lily stared. It was a magic trick.

  ‘I’m Mrs Nellie Webb. How’d you do?’ With a big red hand, the woman clasped Lily’s and shook vigorously.

  ‘Oh…um…Lily Valley. Hello.’ She managed to say the name in a hurried mumble but saw the woman, unsure as to what she’d heard, about to question her. Lily sped on. ‘I can’t thank you enough, you’ve saved my skirt. That was very impressive.’

  ‘Should be, my love. Run me own laundry this last thirty years, I have. Haven’t I, Anthea? This is me granddaughter,’ she introduced proudly.

  Lily stared at the gormless child in the mirror and saw, with a shock, the child’s heavy little face was aged, the eyes vacant and dull. ‘Hello,’ she said and held out her hand. But the child wasn’t having any of it; she backed away and dawdled out of the cloakroom.

  The two women followed and Lily found herself hoping to bring matters to a close. But the other woman took control. ‘So, where’ve you been hiding yourself then?’ With a job well done, it was all the excuse the woman needed to nestle into a nice chat.

  Lily hesitated. A new acquaintance and a lot of dangerous questions were the last thing she wanted. ‘Oh…um…I’m afraid my husband and I have rather fallen victim to seasickness. It’s my first day up.’

  ‘Yes, well, you look pale enough but it should pass, ’specially since last night’s storm never ’appened.’ The woman appeared to wink. ‘Mind yer, I’ve known the calmest waters cause the greatest problems but don’t tell yer ’usband, eh?’

  At that moment, Lily was distracted by a tall man appearing on the other side of the room, a huddle of people moving aside to let him through. Involuntarily she flinched and then saw, to her horror, Mrs Webb turning to see what had caused her reaction. ‘Here is my husband,’ she said quickly and was surprised to hear her voice sounded unstrained, almost calm. Please, God, protect us, she prayed.

  The man made his way towards them and although middle-aged, his hair thinning on top, as he cut across the room, there was almost a buccaneer dash about him.

  ‘Everything all right, darling?’ Lily asked as he arrived. Again her voice sounded light and easy.

  ‘Fine, fine.’ The man smiled comfortably. ‘Just felt like a spot of lunch. Do you think I’m too late?’ He put a light hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Well, that’s a good sign; appetite back. Any more trouble and a little Mothersill’s Remedy should do’t trick.’ Mrs Webb beamed at him; a bemused expression crossed the man’s face. ‘Your wife’s told me all about it,’ she concluded.

  Hastily, Lily took the man’s arm. ‘Darling, this is Mrs Webb. I told her all about our seasickness.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Johnnie Valley. Hello there.’ He leant forward and cheerfully shook the woman’s hand. This time Lily knew she’d heard the name.

  ‘Enjoying your trip otherwise?’ asked Mrs Webb.

  ‘Very much, thanks,’ Johnnie replied.

  ‘Mrs Webb’s been extraordinarily clever with a milk bottle and some water, and saved my skirt.’ She could hear her manner social and gracious as she smoothed the damp tweed material for him to inspect. A moment hung in the air. Nothing was said.

  ‘Well, very nice to meet you both. But that’s enough from us, in’t it, Anthea?’ Mrs Webb gustily gathered her grandchild to her. ‘See you later, Mrs Valley.’

  The relief Lily felt was enormous; the ordeal was nearly over. She heard Johnnie take his cue. ‘And we’d better go and find some lunch, darling. Before it’s all finished. Cheerio for now, Mrs Webb.’

  Putting an arm round her, he started to steer her away but she hesitated, looking back over her shoulder. ‘Bye bye, Anthea,’ she called. For a second, the little girl glanced at her. Lily felt their eyes lock – an instant flicker of recognition between them, a joint compact of pain – and then, as quickly, the child looked down at her sandals. They were old, brown and scuffed almost grey as she stood wiggling her toe into a point on the lino.

  ‘Come along now, our Anthea, let’s go and find that brother of yours. We’ll sort y’ fancy dress out later.’

  Lily and Johnnie watched as the large woman drew the reluctant child through the knots of people and vanished between the swing doors.

  ‘She wouldn’t stop talking. Nosey old boot.’ Lily sank down onto the bench; she felt wretchedly tired. ‘And she saw my face when you came towards me. I was just so worried something had happened—’

  ‘Hush, darling. We knew we’d have to talk to someone eventually. And she seems harmless enough.’

  Lily shrugged; the constant terror made her want to sleep and sleep…

  ‘Hello, “Mrs Valley”,’ he said.

  The sound of the new name almost made her smile. She looked up at him.

  He pointed to the bench beside her – ‘May I?’- and holding her eye, grinned so that, despite herself, she was forced to chorus with him, ‘No hat there!’

  He sat and wrapped his arm through hers.

  Momentarily, the shared memory of the hat that Johnnie had once so fortuitously sat on stilled her anxiety. She felt an echo of contentment and put her head on his shoulder. She knew what they must look like, a tired middle-aged couple. But she was glad. They were of no interest to anyone. Nobody was taking any notice of them.

  Melsham, England. 1931

  The hat sat on the marble-topped hall table. Robin-red, made of felt, it had a small bunch of cherries pinned to the side of the crown. Alongside the hat lay a pair of delicate red suede gloves and a small red and black clutch bag. Lily lifted the hat and, looking in the hall mirror, put it on. She adjusted it to the right angle with no delight nor particular interest in her appearance but out of a sense of duty and good manners for the day to come. Against her wan skin she knew the robust red material was too st
rident, the cherries too frivolous, serving somehow to emphasise her thin face, making it seem longer. She caught herself staring warily back, her tired eyes gleaming glassily, their honey colour unnaturally bright, her so-called aristocratic nose, boney and shiny. Why was it when she was unhappy her nose went sore and red? She pulled a powder puff across it but it made no difference. Her lipstick, also, was too stern a shade but she continued dutifully to paint it on and, with a final attempt at softness, fluffed the short waves peeping from the side of her hat. The little rolls of copper hair chose to remain as stiff as brandy snaps. Damn it, it would have to do. She stood very, very still.

  The thick silence filled the high wide hall. If Nickie were here now, she thought, there’d be so much noise. We’d run up the little wooden backstairs and get Mary to make bread-dipped-in-egg, and then we’d rig up a ghost’s house in my bedroom and…

  She stopped. Such daydreams only made her heart feel emptier, empty. She stood trying to untangle the pain. It’s the first Saturday of term and I’m only allowed to visit him on the second Saturday. Seven whole days more. And anyway, Mary’s no longer here; today she’s getting married – and I have someone new to train. A new maid after all this time—

  For goodness sake, Lily, stop. Don’t think; do.

  She set off across the wide black-and-white tiled hall and, without allowing herself to hesitate, opened the study door.

  Her husband sat as usual at the big heavy desk. The curtains half drawn, a lop-sided standard lamp supplemented the morning light which, despite the heavy curtains, fell across numerous papers scattered untidily over the desk’s surface. A whisky and soda by him, the amber-coloured liquid twinkled as his large hand slowly rotated the cut-glass tumbler.

  ‘Charles, you’re not even changed and we’re going to be late enough as it is.’ She started pulling on her gloves in an attempt to hide her fear. Even in the half-light she could see how unnaturally ruddy the man’s skin had become, his nose taking on a pitted coarseness. And although his brown-black hair was still thick, the shine had gone, the texture now emphasised by the flicker of grey around his temple and ears and the ever-stern white parting.

  ‘I won’t be coming.’ Without looking at his wife, the thickset man took up his fountain pen and started to write.

  She knew to all intents and purposes the subject was closed but for once she was not prepared to abandon it. ‘But Mary will be so disappointed—’

  ‘For goodness sake, Lily, don’t be so sentimental. The way you’ve been fussing on, getting all dressed up, you’d think it was the Princess Royal and not some servant’s wedding.’ He graced her with a cursory glance and took a swallow from his glass.

  She tried to keep her voice calm and even. ‘Mary is not some servant. I need hardly remind you she has been with us for over fifteen years, indeed, all our married life. I would have thought you of all people would have had the decency to realise that it is simply not done to ignore her on her wedding day.’

  Charles looked up and coolly asked, ‘Have you quite finished?’

  She remained silent.

  ‘Frankly, I shall be glad to see the back of her – the two of you gossiping in corners like a couple of washer-women.’ He returned to his document.

  Though ever vigilant to the unstable electricity of his temper, she could feel her own anger steadily rising. ‘It would have been courteous if you could have told me earlier.’ With right on her side, she felt impelled to add, ‘I think it’s extraordinarily unkind of you not to put in an appearance.’

  ‘Don’t be so pompous; it doesn’t suit you.’ He smoothed a blotter over the page. ‘And I’ve decided to go up to Town later. I’ll be staying the night. Tell Benton I wish to catch the midday train.’

  She knew this to be his final word and she stood impotent with rage. But, although motionless, she held herself alert; she knew from experience that the heavy man, if he chose to move upon her, possessed a whiplash speed.

  Charles looked up. She held her breath but all he said was, ‘You’d better run along, Lily, or you’ll be very late.’

  She didn’t slam the door, she closed it; fifteen years of their marriage had taught her to submit. She stood once more in the vast hall, in a fury and yet so relieved to have escaped. A small figure, all alone.

  Through the open doors she heard the stable clock chime eleven. She shot forward into the bright day and, dazzled by the sudden loud sunshine, blinked as she looked across the drive to where a chauffeur was standing by a gleaming Daimler. At the sight of his mistress, George Benton’s polishing cloth hastily disappeared into the pocket of his uniform.

  ‘George, Sir Charles has decided to catch the midday train up to Town so I’m afraid that means you and Mrs Benton will have to miss the actual wedding service. But once you’ve dropped him off at the station, why don’t you use the Daimler to get you both to the reception. I can drive myself in my car.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady.’

  ‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience.’ She moved off towards a smaller car, a Standard, becoming aware of the chauffeur scampering after her.

  ‘Tell Mrs Benton I’ll only need something cold for this evening.’

  Benton arrived at her side with a puff, handed her in and, as she went to turn on the petrol, remarked, ‘May I say, my lady, that’s a very fine hat.’

  Lily looked up, surprised. ‘Oh, thank you, George.’ Fury at her husband now conflicting with unexpected delight at the compliment, to cover her confusion she found herself checking the clock on the instrument board. ‘Now I am going to be late.’

  It was all the excuse she needed to drive very fast along the little lanes away from Melsham House. Repeatedly hitting the steering wheel, she struggled with tears as her anger at Charles welled–up again. ‘Bastard, don’t you dare make me cry. You selfish bastard! And that’s right, run away up to Town to your prissy little mistress and her prissy little dress shop.’

  Not that in a calmer frame of mind she cared about the presence of a mistress in her husband’s life, a mistress whose arrival two years previously had proved a blessed distraction. However, although Mrs Thelma Duttine had followed in the footsteps of many others, this time the telephone line had hummed.

  ‘Lily, my dear, that Duttine woman whom Charles has chosen to take up with has been seen purchasing the entire contents of the lingerie department! And in Sutton’s of all places – Charles’s own department store. It’s too vulgar. And such a common-looking woman. How could Charles let you down so?’

  But Lily didn’t care. Charles could give Thelma Duttine the run of his department store; he could set her up in a discreet dress shop off Bond Street, then they could both play at shopkeepers. What did it matter? All she felt now was unbelievable relief that his violent temper was directed elsewhere and that their sexual forays, however sporadic, Charles often so unbelievably drunk, had stopped.

  Had he always got so drunk? She couldn’t remember. She thought back to the young bride dazzled by his sporting prowess and boundless energy, and saw herself as a distant figure, inhabiting another life, a life full of hope and playfulness. Charles and Lily. This match, this joyful union, the envy of all her girlfriends. Sir Charles Sutton. He’d been the pick of the bunch, glorious in his uniform. Not much conversation but rugged and handsome. A different class maybe, family money made in trade, but he had wooed Mother and drunk with Father. And how she had secretly anticipated an all-enveloping response on her wedding night, a response to quite what though, she hadn’t been sure.

  As she drove, she found herself unexpectedly smiling at the memory of her innocence and wedding-day fears. Woozy from no breakfast, she’d been escorted up the aisle by her father, exuding elderly brandy fumes – the stale alcohol vying with the strongly perfumed lilies and drifts of elegant roses that wreathed the church, the floral wealth of Father’s precious greenhouses. After all, the sacrificial lamb had to be seen to be properly served upon the altar of convention – with decorum and good taste, of cours
e.

  And Mother’s contribution? Even now Lily laughed. Her mother stoutly sitting on her eiderdown the night before the wedding and shouldering her duty, in a hush, as Mother of the Bride. ‘I must warn you, Lily, of the great gulf between a lady and a prostitute.’ She had spat out the last word. ‘Let me tell you that a prostitute feels passionate about a man; a lady does not.’ Lily had sat frozen, suffused in embarrassment at the mention of such matters. That Mother, of all people, should know about these things! But, oh, if her mother ever guessed her delicious dreams, her passionate desires. To be held at last in Charles’s arms, to allow him… But Mother was steaming on relentlessly. ‘And anyway, I have it on good medical authority, my girl, that no woman is capable of feeling passion.’

  And then the wedding night was over, a bafflement of drunkenness, and in so little time the delicious desires had dissolved into confusion and disappointment, feelings that slowly metamorphosed further into dread and then terror…

  Now, thank God, with the arrival of Thelma Duttine, there appeared to be the permanent sanctuary of separate beds in separate rooms. A separate room to make a ghost’s house for Nickie and me. A separate bed to make a pirate’s galleon to set us out to sea… Oh, my Nickie, my love, my joy, why aren’t you here with me now on our way to Mary’s Big Wedding Day? Why do you have to be away at rotten old school? It was always so perfect, wasn’t it, you, me and Mary? Your father away in London – and Melsham all ours to play in. But even through this sweet memory, Lily felt the perpetual fear, the dread of Charles’s unexpected return from London at any minute – and with the memory came a sudden gust of sickness.

  She pushed the memories from her mind and concentrated on driving fast. The lanes curled away before her unseen; the sunny spring light that glanced through the high hedgerows unnoticed. Long years of surviving had taught her to numb her mind, make it blank, but even so, today, the trick wouldn’t work. She pushed her mind on and on, in search of solace. I suppose, in the end, I must concede that boarding school has protected the child from Charles’s insane rages, I must take comfort in that.