The Hidden Dance

by Susan Wooldridge

  ‘So, after all these years, my pathetic little wife has taken herself a lover.’ His words were smooth but Lily could see his whole frame was pulsing, his eyes electric with rage. He slowly moved round the table. She backed away but was stopped from moving further by the range. Trapped, she made herself stand erect. She would show no fear.

  The man advanced upon her and stood an inch away, not yet touching. She could feel the pent-up fury, smell the sweat; within, she held every fibre and muscle in readiness for the first blow.

  But instead of striking her, he leant forward and lightly curled his large hand around her wrist, lifting her arm so that he had her clenched hand in front of his face. Then, half-smiling, he carefully prised her hand open, splaying her fingers apart. With a quick twist, he pulled her arm backwards and placed her hand firmly on the hot-plate. His hand over hers, he held her down, leaning his body the length of hers, his mouth hanging open, inches from her face.

  The pain was astonishing, almost exquisite in its intensity. She closed her eyes, the sour whisky on his breath the really hateful thing. But the ice-cold of the heat now hurt, no longer pure. Then the first flailing slap came as expected, the promiscuity of his fingers knocking her ear, and the well-known pain started.

  ‘Stop it!’

  Her ear banged, throbbed.

  ‘Stop it, I say!’ A voice, a little voice. Had she cried out? The great weight of the man lurched off her and, with her view cleared, through her tears, she saw her boy, her little boy on the other side of the kitchen.

  She struggled upright. ‘Nickie!’

  He stood thin in his pyjamas, trembling in the kitchen doorway, his face chalk-white. He was training a shotgun directly at his father. For a moment the man stared at the boy, swaying slightly. Then he crashed down into a chair and started to laugh. A loud harsh sound, it came in braying gusts as he threw his head back.

  The boy stood his ground, the gun wavering as it pointed at the man who now drew in his breath and turned on his son. ‘So, boy, you’re not such a lily-livered little pansy after all.’

  But Lily wasn’t waiting. She ran round the table and grabbed at the boy, pulling him from the room.

  ‘That’s right, you slut,’ Charles yelled after her. ‘Run away!’

  Part Two

  Chapter Thirteen

  London. Saturday morning, 4th March 1933

  Superintendent Outwood’s office at Scotland Yard was particularly gloomy, even at nine o’clock on a bright March morning. He sat at his large dusty desk, his eyes drooping, exhausted. He’d hardly slept for two nights. It had been four days since the Sutton woman’s disappearance and he’d had the boss breathing down his neck at every turn. Added to which, if Outwood was honest, his heart wasn’t really in it; there were many more pressing crimes to be solved. Not that he’d ever have let on to the boss but he resented the priority given to the case just because Sir Charles Sutton had some ‘high up’ friends.

  Now the Sutton son, it seemed, had disappeared as well.

  At close of play the previous evening, the chief had called him in and announced, ‘I’ve just had Charles Sutton on the telephone. For some reason best known to himself, he’s only chosen to tell us now his son’s gone missing as well. God knows why he didn’t see fit to tell us before.’

  ‘Any details, sir?’ Outwood wearily asked.

  ‘Only that the mother collected him from his school five days ago, and the pair of them haven’t been seen since. Put on extra men if you have to. Whatever you do, get this wretched man off my back! And get the story off the front pages!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Not only have I got Sir Charles Sutton on the telephone at all hours of the night and day, now he’s roped in his pal, the Foreign Secretary.’ The chief was pacing in a fury. ‘Clear it up, Outwood. That’s an order!’

  Tired and fed-up, Outwood returned to his gloomy office and read and re-read his notes. Lady Sutton’s disappearance had been in the newspapers for three days and they’d still only had a fairish response; no real ‘leads’. A Mrs Topham from Reigate, a clairvoyant, had claimed to have seen the woman on ‘the other side’ and demanded 10 guineas for her pains, receiving a flea in her ear instead.

  He flipped over the page. A farmer down Falmouth way had found a pile of bones and some dim-wit had got the experts there. Not surprisingly, the only mystery solved was that of an ancient burial chamber; the scientists were delighted, Superintendent Outwood was not.

  He himself had gone through Lady Sutton’s address book but nobody interviewed seemed to know anything – or if they did, weren’t prepared to talk. In his waters, he had a feeling a discreet silence was being maintained about certain marital matters but Outwood didn’t fancy himself as a psychiatrist; it was not his business to enquire into anything beyond the job in hand.

  What else? A car found at Preston Station had, indeed, turned out to be Lady Sutton’s, but a thorough interviewing of the station staff had yielded nothing. And Lady Sutton’s brother, Hugh, who farmed nearby, appeared to be in South Africa anyway. A whole day and night spent travelling north and back on a fool’s errand – and Mrs Outwood had been most unforgiving as he’d missed their anniversary supper. Mind you, perhaps that slab of local Lancashire cheese as an anniversary gift had been too racy a choice. The usual bottle of ‘Soir de Paris’ would have been wiser, bearing in mind Mildred Outwood’s somewhat fastidious taste…

  He sighed deeply. Where to go next? He was stumped.

  SS Etoile. Saturday dawn

  Although mid-morning in London, it was only dawn at sea. Even so, Enid Timms sat fully clothed on the edge of her third-class bunk and, in the dreary first light, she was thinking, thinking.

  She smoothed the copy of yesterday’s Poseidon Post lying in her lap and read the article concerning Lady Sutton for the umpteenth time. The maid knew that her most valuable ally, her most valuable tool, was her memory. She could hear a piece of gossip and years later bring it to mind, sifting from it the very essence of its importance. So when she had not been able to immediately recall any specific information concerning Lady Lily Sutton in an attempt to unravel the mystery of her presence in steerage, she was extremely annoyed and not a little frustrated.

  Coolly and carefully, once again, she began at the beginning and regimented the facts into order. Firstly, it was obvious that Lady Sutton was travelling under an alias as yet to be discovered. But why? And where was her husband, Sir Charles? Secondly, why was Lady Sutton travelling steerage? For financial reasons? Timms knew that only recently the Duchess of Rutland had confided to Lady Slocombe that she had had to resort to a third-class cabin, ‘My dear, a bolting-hole of beastliness among the lower barnacles.’ No, that couldn’t be it; Sir Charles Sutton was a wealthy man. Indeed, Miss Timms herself was a devotee of Sutton’s, the department store… Slowly, she picked at the fabric of her memory. Had there not been talk of Sir Charles and a lady-friend? Could there have been a discreet separation? Her mind gathered speed. But wasn’t there a child? Yes, a little boy, she was certain. Like a skilled mathematician, with stealth, patience and nerve, she teased away at her mind.

  That was it! She had seen a photograph of Lady Sutton and her son, she was sure of it, in her Sunday Chronicle. They had been at a children’s charity fancy-dress party.

  And with that, another thought struck her. A photograph of the boy might be just the sort of bargaining tool needed to show the authorities and lure Lady Sutton from her hiding-place.

  Hardly daring to hope, Timms hauled her tin trunk from under the bunk and frantically unpacked her small collection of boots and shoes. One by one, she winkled out the crumpled newspaper stuffed into each and smoothed every sheet.

  And there it was.

  She put on the pair of wire spectacles she was too vain to wear in company and held the crumpled newspaper article under the feeble light over her bunk. She peered at the photographs. Party guests, children dressed up as little squaws, little cowboys, watched over for the pu
rposes of the Sunday Chronicle readership by proud preening mothers, nannies for the moment tucked out of sight, no doubt ready to resume control the moment the camera-bulb had flashed.

  But where was the Sutton child? She was sure she had seen the name, Sutton. No picture of Lady Sutton as she had thought but – there he was! In a little group of children around a party table. She had remembered right.

  What was his first name again? She looked beneath the picture and counted from left to right. Ah, yes. Nicholas. Nicholas Sutton.

  She stared at the child.

  ‘Like a bullet from a gun, the old biddy runs down Scotland Road,’ Billy told Freddie over a bowl of porridge. ‘And I knows, sure as eggs is eggs, she’s up to something. So I reckon we should could keep an eye on her, see which way she dances. You fancy doing a bit of the old Sherlock Holmes, Fred my son?’

  Hunkered down in a broom cupboard opposite Miss Timms’ cabin, the two lads were now waiting for something to happen. They had been there nearly half-an-hour.

  ‘Me leg’s gone to sleep,’ Freddie whispered. ‘It’s killin’ me.’

  ‘OK, mate, move sideways again.’

  The two boys shuffled and re-adjusted in the tiny dusty space. Billy could see his friend was fed-up, he’d gone all sweaty just trying to keep still.

  ‘Don’t worry, Fred, another five minutes. If the old biddy don’t move, we’ll call it a day. Keep a secret?’

  Freddie nodded mutely.

  ‘Captain wants to see me this morning. We talk sometimes, captain and me.’ Billy, feeling very much a man of the world, sharing the secrets of his life with his new pal. ‘I’m going to tell him about the old biddy and how she’s up to something funny.’

  ‘Will I watch on me own when you go?’ asked Freddie unenthusiastically.

  ‘Nah, too difficult. Besides, don’t know which way she’s going to dance, do we?’

  Freddie looked very relieved.

  They fell back into silence. With time marching on and both having duties to attend to, they knew pretty soon they’d have to abandon their post.

  ‘Johnnie, you awake? I’ve been thinking. Why don’t we let Nickie go to the fancy-dress parade?’

  Lily was whispering, he could only just hear her over the sound of the engines. ‘What time is it, Lily?’

  She leant across him. ‘Um, I think my watch says five to six, I can’t really see. Anyway,’ she rolled back again, ‘I’ve been thinking and—’

  ‘Lily, it’s six o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘I know, I’ve got to get up and meet Mrs Webb soon. What do you think, darling? About Nickie?’

  He managed a mumble; if he kept his eyes closed perhaps he could stay asleep.

  ‘What’s that?’ Lily unwrapped herself from his arms.

  He opened an eye and saw her, all alert, hair corkscrewed by the tiny bunk; she looked twelve years old. ‘I was thinking, Nickie could have young Freddie’s clown outfit.’ She drew up her knees and perched her head on them, all worries ironed away by sound sleep. ‘He doesn’t want it anymore. Mrs Webb told me last evening he feels his dogs are more important than some children’s party game.’

  Suddenly Johnnie was wide awake. ‘Dear God, Lily, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Have you lost all sense?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, Nickie will hear.’

  ‘I don’t care if he hears—’

  ‘Johnnie, listen. Nickie is going crackers in here; we can’t expect him to lie low for a fourth day. And now we’ve got these new friends, Mrs Webb and Anthea, we can hide Nickie amongst them.’

  ‘Are you insane?’

  ‘No, listen, hear me out.’ He could see she wasn’t going to leave the subject till she’d had her full say. He waited.

  ‘Nickie can wear Freddie’s suit and, with some clown make-up, we can make him look like a little girl again. Like we did to get him on board.’

  ‘And his hair? Or is he suppose to wear that wretched beret ’cos I can tell you for one he’ll refuse. Cabin fever or not!’

  ‘No, we’ve made pointy hats. They come down over the ears; you don’t notice the hair. Oh, Johnnie, please. Nickie’s going to be so thrilled, a fancy-dress party.’ She wriggled fully upright. ‘And as you yourself pointed out, it’s four days since we’ve sailed and absolutely nobody’s taken the slightest notice of us.’

  He could feel, against his better judgement, she was winning him over. ‘I suppose,’ he said carefully, ‘there are over two hundred people down here—’

  ‘Safety in numbers, exactly. I want to tell him now!’

  Nellie lay in her cabin trying to hold on to the dream. As she fully woke, Davy’s smiling face fled away from her and hid in the smoky backrooms of her mind. My love, she called to him, Where are you? Come back to me.

  But her husband’s face stayed hidden away; she couldn’t see him any more. She closed her eyes. Sometimes she could still feel him, still feel the sense of him, the loving of him. We had some grand times, eh, my lad. Some right grand loving.

  By, but she missed him. All these years along. Even when he’d been a right monkey with the drink inside him.

  And when they laid you out on the slab, your body mashed by that train, you were still smiling. Even in death. Smile for me, Davy Webb. Just one more time.

  Chapter Fourteen

  SS Etoile. Saturday, early morning

  Through the long wretched night, Matty had hardly slept, the intermittent tears leaving her eyes swollen and sore. She lay on her side, coiled in a bundle of blankets, suspended in misery.

  At eight o’clock that morning there was a knock on the cabin door. Henry answered it.

  Returning to Matty’s side, he sat gingerly back on the bed. ‘That was the steward. The captain has sent a note saying he thinks it might be useful to talk.’ Through the tangled blankets, he attempted to find her hand. ‘Oh Matty, you’ll see, all will be well.’

  She lay silent, her face turned to the wall.

  ‘Why don’t you have a bath? Then we could have a little walk perhaps?’

  Without lifting her head, she said, ‘Why do I have to keep saying it? I’m not going anywhere where I’ll meet that woman.’

  Reassured by the sound of her voice, he urged, ‘But you can’t stay in the cabin for the rest of the trip, it’s absurd.’ He waited for her response but there was silence once again. ‘I’ll do everything I can to make sure you won’t meet her.’

  ‘How? Go into every room to check she’s not there? Now you’re being absurd.’

  He found her hand and held on to it tightly. ‘Mats, I swear to you, no one believes you’re guilty.’

  She sat up abruptly, tucking her hand back away from him. ‘Then why’ve I got to talk to the authorities at Pier 90?’

  ‘That was an idiotic suggestion made last night. And now I’m talking to the captain, I won’t let it happen. I promise you. I won’t have you put through any more humiliation.’ He rambled to a close, ineffective.

  He shut his eyes. There, still, the raw, rotten moment of accusation. Well-bred heads turning, the rush to judgement, feral inquisitiveness hidden beneath the smug face of rectitude. And at the centre, Matty, the focus of attention, so bewildered, so vulnerable. Innocent until proved guilty. Bah! Through the Paris lounge the verdict was immediately writ large. The Grossman girl is not one of us, she is surely guilty.

  He was heartbroken for her and disgusted at himself for failing to resolve the matter. To add to everything else, the ship’s doctor, having examined Matty, had pulled him to one side and expressed concern as to her heartbroken anguish. Henry had crept back to her bedside, wanting only to wrap her in his arms, to make it all better, to make the horror vanish. But all through the long night she had lain curled away from him as though he, too, were the enemy.

  Now in the grey early morning, still locked in this emotional limbo, Henry didn’t know which way to turn. He leant forward and very tentatively stroked her head. ‘When we get back to Africa we’ll look back on
all this and laugh at that – that – rhino of a woman.’ It was an inadequate attempt at humour, he knew that, but for the first time she seemed to respond. He looked at her hopefully.

  ‘No, Henry, you don’t even begin to understand.’ His hope flickered and died.

  She pulled away from his touch and said quite steadily, ‘From the start I knew, if I married you, I’d need to be brave to face people, to face their snobbery. Me, the girl from Harrow on the Hill. What I didn’t know was I’d have to face their hatred also. I think I can deal with being sneered at. But I can’t deal with this loathing because I’m a Jew.’

  There, at last, she had said it; he felt dazed. But he knew she was right.

  Slowly, with Matty at his side, both at the Embassy and on their return to England, he had become aware of the veiled comments. Often so subtly lodged in the form of an enquiry or compliment, ‘Is Grossman some sort of foreign name?’ ‘“Grossman”. Ah, that would account for her exotic appearance.’ He had tried to ignore them. Now, he couldn’t.

  ‘Dearest, it will be different once we’re back in Africa.’

  ‘Will it?’ She looked so pale; her passionate storming tears through the night had given way this morning to a faded distracted air.

  ‘Of course, look how His Excellency admires you. I think he even secretly envied my sudden onslaught of diabetes. Mind you, remember his face when he marched into my office, asking what all the commotion was about and found me slumped over the desk with you in your nurse’s uniform, spoon-feeding me from the sugar-bowl!’ He knew it was feeble to blot out the horror of the night before with this continuing attempt at humour but he had no other solution; he plunged on. ‘And because of you and your knowing ways, I’m now lumbered with no grog, endless potatoes and a needle in my backside twice a day. Though it’s a darn sight more interesting way than most to meet the girl of your dreams, even if she does have puffy eyes and a red nose.’