The Hidden Dance

by Susan Wooldridge

  ‘The House must have sat late. Not surprisingly, I suppose. You can open the curtains now, Mary.’ Sunlight flooded the bedroom. Lily flinched.

  She lay listening, the house silent with no Charles. ‘So quiet,’ she said.

  ‘Not over by the Park. Cook says it’s a sight to behold.’ Mary bent and picked up her dressing gown. She placed it on a hanger. ‘Says it’s like some small city. Seems every railway company’s got its own office and that, with gas and light and even a telephone.’

  ‘Good heavens.’ Lily could feel the nausea gently, gently slipping away. ‘Thank goodness.’

  ‘What, mum?’

  ‘The sickness, it’s passing.’ She leant back and closed her eyes.

  ‘And the roses are coming back into your cheeks.’

  ‘Tell me more about Hyde Park. I’ll put a call through to Melsham at nine when I feel a bit brighter. Don’t want Nickie to hear me all dreary.’

  She watched as Mary clipped about the room, adjusting her brushes and hand-mirror on the dressing table then opening drawers and carefully laying out her clothes. ‘I thought,’ said Mary, ‘the grey and blue pleated for Doctor Mallard.’ She gave Lily a little wink.

  ‘What time’s my appointment?’

  ‘Three o’clock.’

  Lily closed her eyes, the tiredness was extraordinary. ‘I wonder how Doctor Mallard will get to Harley Street from Ascot.’

  ‘Cook says after them traffic jams yesterday, people started earlier today. She says when she went for the milk, she saw a pony and trap as well as all them bikes. And even a couple of gents on horseback. And that was around five-thirty this morning.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Doctor Mallard on horseback.’ Lily closed her eyes again and curled away from Mary.

  She must have dozed off for the next thing she knew Charles was banging into the room and Mary had gone. He crossed to the dressing table, without acknowledging her, and opened a drawer.

  She quickly raised herself upright and pushed her hair back into some semblance of order; Charles hated to see her in disarray.

  However, he never glanced in her direction but strode about the room as he replaced his wing-collar, a tricky job achieved with nimble dexterity, only then starting to talk, in a loud voice, as though addressing the House. All early morning calm was shattered.

  ‘Winston’s asked me to raise funds. Rustle up St John and Astor. Some kind of fighting fund. He’s coming up with some tremendous “whack ’em on the snout” policies.’ He dipped to check his handiwork in the mirror. ‘His wife, Clementine, is a great fan of the store, by the by.’ A skip and hop in his mood; a rare occurrence these days. Lily felt her heart lift. She knew better than to speak.

  ‘Winston’s got the right idea. Propaganda sheet. He’s not sitting around Downing Street poring over fine print while these common little men in their blue serge suits walk all over him.’ He opened an adjoining door and disappeared from sight. There was the sound of him urinating. ‘Propaganda, that’s what it’s all about. Baldwin met John Reith at the club yesterday, emphasised the importance of the wireless.’

  She quickly and quietly dropped from the bed and crossed to the dressing table mirror. Lord, she was pale. Pinching her cheeks hard with one hand, she pulled a comb through her hair and then she was back in bed, placing her bed-jacket about her; she now reclined. She listened to Charles, gargling and spitting.

  His ablutions done, he re-entered and picked up his two hairbrushes. He brushed with vigour, checking his image in the mirror with a more than passing interest.

  He’s not so handsome, she thought, this tiny criticism almost a balm to her aching heart. And his face is now always so ruddy. But I want him, the other insistent jealous voice shouted back inside her head. Notice me, love me, desire me again. Is his waist so much thicker? I’ve not seen him without his clothes for such a long time. And when, long ago, he stood naked before me, why had I not known how to please him… And now? In these recent times. Only that once, he came to me, in the dead of night, in darkness, and so drunk.

  The marriage is over, in all but name. The reality of this thought, for the first time confronted, shook her. It came unbidden and left her confused and sickened.

  She looked away, suddenly ashamed, from this powerful and virile man who still she didn’t really know after nine years.

  On the other side of the room, Charles pulled on his jacket. ‘So Reith said, assuming the BBC is for the people and the Government is for the people, it follows that the BBC must be for the Government. I’m glad to say that settled that.’

  The scent of his cologne filled the air.

  ‘And Lily,’ the sound of her name made her jump. ‘I hope you’re not foolish enough to think of going back down to Melsham today; the railwaymen are supporting these damn miners and being thoroughly difficult. I certainly don’t want any wife of mine haring round the countryside.’ He finished knotting his tie. ‘Dear God, these working-class men and their sentimental loyalties.’

  Lily sat up. ‘But Charles, I telephoned Melsham last night and told Nickie I’m getting the ten past six—’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, the child is three years old and has no need to be so ridiculously tied to his mother’s apron strings.’

  ‘But I haven’t seen him for over two weeks—’

  ‘Oh, do stop whining, woman. And can’t that fool of a doctor prescribe you some sort of tonic? We pay him enough. You look so damned peaky.’ With a final glance in the mirror, he left the room.

  I hold no interest for him whatsoever, she thought. But, I suppose, who can blame him, I feel so dim and dreary. Well, this time, at least, he’s fallen for Winston and his cronies, and not some little floozy at the department store.

  The telephone rang on her bedside table.

  ‘Darling, just reporting in.’ Sabine Ambrose and a social bulletin. Lily could see Saby sitting up in bed girlishly wrapped in a lacy bed-jacket, the fluffiness of this night attire only serving to emphasise her strong manly features. Well, I suppose I’ll only have to listen, she thought. Though even at this hour of the day, Saby’s baying tones could be quite challenging.

  ‘Now, Lily dear, we’ve got tickets for The Ringer tonight and I know it’s jolly short notice but Polly Charter has let us down because of this ghastly strike business – Tubby has forbidden her to come up to Town, can you imagine – and I wondered if you fancied taking in a show?’

  Lily heard her reply come smoothly. ‘Darling, thank you so much but I’m afraid Charles and I are busy.’

  ‘Right-ho.’ Mrs Ambrose sounded unconvinced. ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Lily, shovelling away her friend’s concern. ‘How was the Royal Academy?’

  ‘Darling, practically empty. The first time I’ve ever actually had to look at all those wretched paintings. Can you believe it? These ghastly little men are frightening everybody out of Town. Bill says, Why can’t they confine this simply frightful business to the North of England, where it belongs? I mean, why do we all have to be made to suffer down here? Anyway, Edwina’s got the right idea; she’s got herself a job manning the switchboard at the Daily Express. Such fun, she says. She asked if I wanted to cut along one evening but I said, what with the arrangements for Tolly’s coming-out “do” on Wednesday and Hurlingham at the end of the week – apparently Bunny Austin’s going to down his tennis racquet and drive a bus, isn’t it heaven? – I haven’t a moment to call my own.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Lily, while thinking, Maybe Charles is walking out with some floozy. But which one could it be? Mind you, there are always so many new staff and I haven’t been to the Store for such ages.

  ‘Lily, are you still there?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You went awfully quiet—’

  ‘Oh, yes, Saby…um…I’m so sorry, Mary just came in to take away my breakfast tray.’

  Undeterred, Mrs Ambrose drove on. ‘Well, if you can’t make tonight, come and watch some tennis later in th
e week. It’s such fun to have you in Town and I want to make the best of it. Anyway, Bim says we’ve all got to go out and show ’em. Though, between you and me, he’ll be the first one to cut and run if there’s going to be some ghastly revolution.’

  Mrs Ambrose laughed; a surprisingly girlish sound for one who prided herself on the jagged sophistication of her ways. The laughter stopped; the woman no doubt aware that her friend was not joining in the fun of this new adventure. ‘So, how are you bearing up, darling? Thinking of taxiing people around in that gorgeous car of yours?’

  ‘Oh, Saby darling, I really wouldn’t know one way or the other. Though to be honest, I can’t say I feel personally any animosity towards these men. Just as long as they let me get back and forth to Melsham.’

  ‘For goodness sake, Lily.’

  Too late, she realised that this whimsically-held viewpoint had the potential to agitate Sabine’s disapproval into an alarmingly long telephone conversation. Firmly, she cut off her friend’s next remark. ‘Charles says Winston is coming up with some splendid “whack ’em on the snout” policies. And now, my dear, I really must dash; Mary has run my bath. Can’t wait for Tolly’s on Wednesday; I’ll be able to come now, now I’m stuck up in Town. One of the bonuses,’ she added. And her heart sank as she put the telephone back on its cradle.

  The deadening silence returned within. But outside she could hear the world marching on. Without her. She didn’t care; she felt bored and so, so tired.

  The telephone rang again.

  ‘Girlie?’

  ‘Hugh!’ The surprise of the call made her ask, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Never better, old girl. Listen, come out to lunch. There’s lots to tell you.’

  ‘And is my little brother treating me?’

  ‘Yes, of course. There’s something I want to show you. Let’s say Speaker’s Corner, one o’clock?’

  ‘Oh goody, how exciting. But, Hugh, why aren’t you in Oxford? I thought it was still term-time—’ But the line had gone dead.

  Lunch with her little brother, what fun! She would take some crusts so that they could feed the ducks on the Serpentine and then they could pretend they were coming back to the nursery for tea… She almost skipped into the bathroom and, dressing in the grey and blue pleated as ordered by Mary, she finished her make-up and was on her way down to the kitchen for a bag of crusts just ten minutes later.

  Descending the dark back staircase to the basement, she saw through the kitchen-door’s frosted glass Mary and Cook, alone and chatting, Mrs Benton, as ever, her elbows deep in dough. ‘Mistress’s still not herself. Pale as pale,’ Mary was saying.

  Lily froze. Fearful of making any sound yet fascinated to hear what would be said, she flattened herself against the wall where the unlit stairs were darkest.

  ‘What that doctor’s thinking of when it’s plain as plain my lady’s missing Master Nickie,’ Cook exhorted. ‘You could charge me a fortune and I’d be more than happy to tell Sir Charles. Give him a piece of my mind—’

  ‘Ooh! Hush, Mrs Benton—’

  ‘Well really, I ask you. Master’s worse than useless now he’s this Member of Parliament. At least when he was just in charge of his shop he didn’t leave her all alone in London. Pining for Melsham she is, and the child.’ A fist was raised and thumped into the dough. ‘He should know better. He should be here at her side, not hiding away in Westminster. Whatever the state of the country.’

  Lily could see Mary hopping nervously back and forth, checking the area-steps through the window for any soul who might hear. ‘Mrs Benton, don’t.’

  But Cook was not to be deterred as she warmed to her theme, the dough now hauled onto the wooden board. ‘I said to Mr Benton, England may be in this trouble, the country not knowing whether it’s coming or going. But if a so-called Member of Parliament can’t even look after his own wife – whilst all the while carrying on with some fancy piece – then he’s not going to get my vote.’

  Lily clutched at the stair-rail, a dreary sickness flooding through her. What fancy piece? She stood unable to move, her heart sullen. That will teach you, Lily Robinson, snooping about behind closed doors. She could hear Nanny’s voice…

  There was the sound of footsteps descending the area-steps and the dark shadow of George Benton entered. Carefully wiping his boots on the brushes by the door, his presence caused his wife to stop kneading – the dough heaved into a bowl, thump against china – and turn to a large brown teapot.

  ‘What news, Mr Benton?’

  ‘Price of milk’s being raised to 2d a quart.’

  ‘And how’s that going to help these here miners, I’d like to know.’

  Even through her wretchedness, Lily heard the chauffeur’s sturdy Cornish voice. George Benton, he and his wife had been part of the household, hers and Charles’s, since their marriage. A sickening thought rose up. Benton must know, he must know this fancy piece. They all must know. Lily was filled with a desire to rush into the kitchen and shake the name out of them. She wanted to cry out, ‘Who is she? What’s she called?’ How was it they knew about this fancy piece and she didn’t? She felt utterly, utterly foolish; the last to know. She’d almost known about others but never dared pin Charles down. Nor any of their friends.

  ‘It’s all “stop” out there, I can tell you.’ Through the frosted glass she saw the chauffeur pull off his leather gauntlets and settle back into a large wooden chair. ‘Furnaces stopped and factories shut down. Though the master and them in the Government don’t want people to know. I could kill a rasher, Mrs Benton.’

  There was a clang as a big black iron frying pan was swung down onto the range. Within seconds, the pungent smell of bacon fat filled the air and Lily felt the nagging sickness bubble up once again.

  ‘What else, Mr Benton? Mistress wants to know.’

  Lily hesitated; despite the nausea she must know more.

  ‘Traffic from Marble Arch to Piccadilly only moved a few yards in an hour.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Sir Charles was steaming. Wouldn’t give nobody a lift, neither. Even though they’re saying it’s our duty. Some motors have signs with, “Ask for a lift if you want one”.’ Through the glass, Lily could see the two women gazing at the driver with all the concentration of a silent picture-show.

  ‘Took a back route. Cavendish Square through to Hay Hill. Got the master back to Westminster in twenty minutes.’

  ‘No!’ The women chorused again, and Mr Benton, with his professional skill acknowledged, sank back into his chair and supped his tea, his tale at an end.

  Quickly Lily re-mounted the stairs; there was the lavatory in the hall – she was going to be sick.

  She crouched on the floor and placed her sweaty forehead against the cold linoleum. Dear Lord, what would Charles say if he knew the servants were talking like that… She felt a sudden jolt of nausea; she straightened up and retched into the china pan. Oh, no, the servants mustn’t hear… no more gossip… Tears streamed down her face.

  Slowly, the sickness passed. She dragged herself to her feet and climbed back up the silent house to her bedroom. She’d wash her face. Come on, Lily, get a move on, it’s lunch with Hughie. She felt a hundred years old.

  When she turned out of Cumberland Place and into Oxford Street, the first thing that struck her was the crowds; the all-encompassing quiet of her bedroom had been deceptive. Mary had been right, the roads were a pickle of carts and bicycles.

  She made to cross into Hyde Park. It was quarter past twelve, still three quarters of an hour to kill. Perhaps she’d go and look at the ducks even though she had no crusts. She plunged into the traffic slowly progressing round Marble Arch and ducked between two sturdy lorries, one with its tailgate down holding a cluster of office girls, grinning and waving like Queens of the May. Lily found herself waving back.

  ‘Come along now, miss, we’re not at the Races.’ Her arm firmly taken, she was swept along out of the way of an oncoming motor car. ‘Thanks, thanks so much
.’ But her protector was away, turning back only to tip his cap.

  She found herself on the pavement amidst a sea of lunchtime workers. Passing sandwiches and Thermos flasks, there was a high buzz of chatter as, bunched together, they stood staring through the iron railings into the Park. With such a sense of festivity in the air, Lily realised she, too, wanted to join in the fun, to forget. And on this pale spring day, in the midst of strangers, she suddenly succumbed to the gaiety and allowed herself to fully absorb the bright holiday atmosphere. She felt her mood shift and realised how profoundly weary she was of the endless emotional nagging, all that was left of her fading marriage…

  ‘Get a move on, some of us’ve got work to do.’

  The crowd as one moved to the side, allowing through a horse-drawn cart, ‘Milk Deliveries’ emblazoned on its side. In its wake, Lily was drawn through the gates. She stood on the edge of the Park, unsure how to fill the next half an hour. She didn’t really want to cross into the solitary quiet of Mayfair; she found these crowds, with their curious bonhomie, comforting and a distraction. Strange, from what Charles had said she’d expected ugliness and turmoil.

  She stopped and looked towards Speaker’s Corner and a small crowd of people.

  ‘…the spectre of famine will walk every street and reside in every house…’ A voice leaked through the general hub-bub and caught her attention. Where? Where had it come from? She turned towards it then turned away, intimidated by the small intent crowd.

  ‘Our men and their families are eking out their days in semi-starvation on wages of under £2.10s a week…’

  Again that voice. She stopped.

  ‘Britain’s civilisation is founded on coal…’

  No, surely not? It sounded like Hughie. Hughie? My God, it is. But for goodness sake, he’s standing on a trestle table, addressing a crowd. When did he take up public speaking?

  ‘…hewing coal for seven hours at a stretch steeped in their own sweat and sewage…’

  She crossed to the huddle of people, excusing her way through to the middle. And stopped, her eyes locking onto a banner that danced above Hughie’s head: ‘OXFORD STRIKE COMMITTEE: Not a penny off pay. Not a minute on the day.’