The Hidden Dance

by Susan Wooldridge

  Pooh thought for a little. ‘How old shall I be then?’

  ‘Ninety-nine.’

  Pooh nodded. ‘I promise,’ he said.

  Anthea and Nickie were curled up, a tangle of pyjamas, pillows and blankets – even Freddie, the day’s dog-duties behind him, was more than happy to be one of the bunch – three scrubbed faces, turned towards Lily, silent and rapt.

  Mrs Webb put her head round the cabin door and called, ‘My turn.’

  ‘Read it again! Read it again!’ The three, having all snuggled down, suddenly were toppling around, pillows flying.

  ‘Quiet!’ roared Mrs Webb, frightening even herself, and for a moment she looked quite put out. There was a nervous pause. Then they all burst out laughing.

  The youngsters were snuggled down again, lulled by the wondrous sleeping draught of sea-air and excitement, and after a brief, whispered conversation, Lily tiptoed away, leaving Mrs Webb contentedly sewing under the shaded light amidst the gentle dreaming snuffles of the children.

  Chapter Eighteen

  SS Etoile. Saturday evening

  The Starlight Room is aglow. At each corner, the famed Lalique columns of light softly bathe the cocktail lounge in a seductive glow. All around, this evening, the crystalline chatter and fizzing laughter rises and falls as the pearly light catches the twist and turn of lustrous marcelled heads and the sheen of powdered arms and shoulders. Drinks before dinner, this last night at sea.

  Lord Clairmont and his nurse sit in the middle of the room. He, this evening, dapper in white tie and tails; the young woman, at his side, blooming in a slender gown of peach velour. Billy, on evening duty, watches from his post by the door as m’lord carefully explains a game of baseball to the young nurse, using a bowl of pistachio nuts, two champagne flutes and an ice-bucket. Jiminy Cricket, they’re sweethearts, he realises. They ain’t got eyes for no one else.

  Indeed, so concentrated are the young couple that they’re completely unaware of oncoming danger. Towards them, making portly progress, comes Lady Slocombe, dressed this evening in a upholstered gown of maroon velvet. She is proceeding hatchet-faced through the cocktail crowd, a purser in attendance. Oh jeepers, thinks Billy, and braces himself on the young couple’s behalf.

  All around conversation drizzles to a halt, well-bred ears and eyes intent upon the encounter to come. A complete hush descends on the room.

  ‘Lord Clairmont.’ Lady Slocombe’s usually loud splashy voice this evening is strangely high and tight, her face a mask.

  M’lord looks up, his smiling expression vanishing. ‘Lady Slocombe.’ Reluctantly, he gets to his feet.

  Jutting her chin and looking into the middle distance, Lady Lavinia starts. ‘I believe I owe you – and your nurse—’

  But Lord Henry has raised a hand. ‘Excuse me, Lady Slocombe, whom did you say?’ The cocktail lounge is completely still.

  ‘Your nurse.’ There is a discernible quaver in the big woman’s voice though her jaw is still jutted. Never once does she drop her glance to the subject under discussion.

  ‘Lady Slocombe,’ says the young man, his voice cheerful and easy. ‘I am afraid you are under a misapprehension.’ He looks down; the young nurse is staring up at him, wide-eyed. ‘I think you must mean my wife, Matilda Clairmont.’

  There is a sudden rustle of wind through wheat as this nugget of information is hungrily devoured by the passengers. Lady Slocombe stands stock-still.

  Very slowly, still staring into the middle-distance, never allowing her eyes to glance down, she turns her maroon bulk towards the younger woman. ‘I believe I owe you an apology, Lady Clairmont, for, as you see, my bracelet has been recovered.’ Limply, she proffers a pudgy wrist from which peeps the delicate bracelet.

  But the young couple do not reply, they say nothing. Unwillingly, the weight of the silence nudges the big woman on.

  ‘I’m very sorry for whatever inconvenience…’ Whereupon she falters and gives up entirely this terrible duty. Then, before she can stop herself, she gabbles incredulously, ‘Your wife you say, Lord Clairmont?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ With infinite tenderness, Lord Henry takes up his young bride’s hand and looks at her with shining eyes. ‘You see, Lady Slocombe, it would have been especially cruel if such an error were to have spoilt our honeymoon.’

  ‘Quite, um…’ All command has left the woman. ‘May I congratulate you – both – um… If you’ll excuse me, I must go in to dine.’

  At this moment, the purser standing at her ladyship’s side steps forward and delays her exit. ‘Excuse me, my lady. I’ve been asked to inform you that the captain has had to make certain adjustments to his table tonight. I think you’ll find you’re dining at table 23.’ Startled, Lady Slocombe ducks her head as she absorbs this information. ‘Perhaps I may show you to your table—’

  But the woman has already sped off, released.

  Smartly, the purser turns back to the young couple and, speaking in a voice loud enough for all to hear, says, ‘The captain is very much looking forward to your company at dinner.’ And with great solemnity, he bows to young Lady Clairmont.

  • • •

  Beneath glimpses of the cloud-streaked moon, Lily stood alone on the poop deck. She pulled Mary’s old woollen coat tightly around her. The end of this terrible day had brought no solace; the fears for the morrow still overwhelmed her. She stared up at the moon.

  ‘The odds is gone

  And there is nothing left remarkable

  Beneath the visiting moon.’

  If only it were so; if only nothing more could be remarkable. Her brain hurt and the backs of her legs tingled with the constant strain. She hung over the rail and looked out to sea, out into the darkness, and tried to make herself fear no more. After all, for the moment, Nickie was safe in Mrs Webb’s cabin.

  Above, the ship’s flag flapped in the wind, the high cracking the only noise surmounting the huge roar of the heavy wash. After a time, gazing at the treacle ocean, Lily found she could think of nothing. She turned and put her back to the wind.

  Johnnie was walking towards her, the ship producing a drunken roll in his stride.

  ‘One tartan travelling rug, madam, as requested. And a surprise.’

  ‘Oh God, Johnnie, now what?’ Her hand was at her mouth, the terror instant.

  ‘No, no, my love, this is a lovely surprise.’ From behind his back, he produced a bottle of champagne.

  ‘No! Where did you get it? You didn’t nick it?’ She felt a flick of the ruffian.

  ‘Certainly not. I found it in our cabin when I went for the rug. There’s a card, you read it, I’ll do the honours.’ Out of his pocket, he produced a tooth mug with a flourish. ‘A loving-cup.’

  She read out, ‘“Thank you for the perfect plan. It has helped to make our honeymoon so special. With all our best wishes, Matilda and Henry Clairmont.” So our plan worked after all.’ She sank back but felt no joy, weary once again. ‘Even so, it does seem such a wretchedly big risk to have taken.’ Johnnie said nothing. The champagne frothed into the tooth mug.

  They sat huddled together, the rug about their knees, sheltered from the wind by a lifeboat, both with their thoughts tucked away from the other.

  ‘And they’re married. I did wonder,’ she said into the darkness. She took Johnnie’s hand under the rug, she hated even the glimmer of his disapproval. Had she really been so dangerously foolish in helping the Grossman Girl? Johnnie sat saying nothing. ‘Do you know, I would have given anything to have seen Lavinia’s face when she received my letter. It’s the only thing I really regret about being down here.’

  ‘I think it was mad for you to have gone aloft,’ Johnnie said, the subject to be addressed and dealt with. ‘But it did work, my love. And it has probably made that young woman’s life much happier. As to your meeting Slocombe, actually no harm was done.’

  ‘But how did Lavinia know I was on board? Oh, Johnnie, I have this awful feeling that we’re being secretly watched.’ She hung her head; s
he felt such bone-tiredness and a slackness through her body, usually so upright, the straightness of her back a grandmother’s inheritance.

  ‘No, my love, nobody is watching us. And tomorrow, to get us through disembarkation, we’ll once again accept Mrs Webb’s loan of little Anthea. And Barney’ll slip Nicholas on land along with young Freddie.’ He was smiling at her. ‘Thank God, children don’t need their photograph in a passport.’

  She nodded mutely. Then sensing his concern for her, she pushed away her brooding fears. ‘I’ve got a present for us as well. Hold out your hand.’ She dropped five coins into Johnnie’s gloved hand. ‘My first ever wages.’

  ‘How? Where from?’ He stared, amazed.

  ‘The sewing,’ she smiled. ‘They’re from Madame.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The needlework woman. She paid Mrs Webb, who said it was only fair to share. I know it’s not exactly a fortune—’

  ‘But it’s a start.’ He sat back and sighed. ‘Thank goodness you’re a working woman at last. Now you can keep me in the style to which I hope to become accustomed.’ He topped up the mug.

  They sat silent, staring up at the stars and the racing moon, sipping in tandem.

  Enid Timms never looked in a mirror. Since her early years in service as the lowliest maid at Chobham Hall, she had learnt to rise at 5.30 a.m. and, in the dark, twist and pin her long thick hair, bundling it neatly under her cap. She had always washed her face with household soap and water; she had no need of fancy creams. Except once, that long, hot summer, the last of peacetime, she had secretly sent away for a V&H Parisian Beauty Box to be returned ‘post free in a perfectly plain cover’. But when it had arrived, ‘Twelve of the finest toilet aids to beauty you can get anywhere for 6d’, there was no longer need of it. He was dead, killed in the first battle of the war, and she was left with an OXO tin full of his fishing-flies and bait. And a child in her belly.

  Willie Harrap. A poor simpleton who went to war for a drunken bet – and to avoid the promise of marriage. She hadn’t really even liked him but she was nineteen and had no sweetheart. How drunk he’d become that afternoon after their fumble in a hedge, a fumble given only in return for that marriage-promise. More fool her.

  And when the child came it was not as if she’d felt anything for it, that bright pink knot of messy baby. Not then…

  She looked down at the little photograph. Where is my Amy now? Eighteen years of age, almost a grown woman. And here am I, her mother and an old maid. And this terrible secret of her birth that has been my eternal jail-sentence, manacling me to an all-knowing mistress who is herself a thief. A thief!

  Firmly resolved, Enid Timms took from her bedside shelf a newly written letter and placed it in an envelope. But she hesitated to address it.

  She checked her watch, twenty minutes before she was needed by her ladyship.

  Carefully she put away the little photograph, safely nestling it beside the lock of baby hair. At the same time she removed from the tin a length of white chalk, which she wrapped in a handkerchief and placed in her pocket.

  But the fury of injustice still poured through her. She, Enid Timms, was not a thief nor would she let herself be wrongly accused of a crime that was not even of her own devising. She had been hoodwinked by her mistress into being used as a ‘fence’. And not for the first time. But after today, surely the last. No, the world had to know it was her mistress – and not her – who had the police record.

  Without hesitation, she turned over the envelope. She dipped her pen into the little bottle of green ink and wrote: The Federal Bureau of Investigation, New York City.

  The letter inside remained unsigned.

  ‘I give you, ladies and gentlemen, the newlyweds.’

  Around the captain’s table, champagne glasses were held high. ‘The newlyweds!’ ‘Matilda and Henry!’ ‘Happy days!’

  Matty couldn’t stop smiling; she felt wonderful. It was public, at last. After four long secret months, the world was going to know that she and Henry were married.

  Across the table, the world-famous Irish tenor Donald O’Dea caught her eye and raised his glass. ‘Slainté, my dear. Long and happy days.’ He smiled widely, his fame distilled into an easy air. Matty could have hugged herself. Aunt Hilda would be so excited – Donald O’Dea himself had toasted her!

  At her side, the captain leant towards her. ‘Mr O’Dea’s one of our most faithful passengers, Lady Clairmont. Very nice man. I thought it might be fun to ask him and his wife to join us this evening. I’m glad he agreed; often when travelling he wishes to remain more private.’ But such was the enormity of the man’s stature and girth that, even without his international fame, thought Matty, he drew the eye, however private he might attempt to be.

  ‘Oh, indeed, Captain, it’s wonderful. He was telling me before dinner he’s en route to the highest-ever paid concert tour of America. Coast to coast.’

  ‘Quite something, eh? And his wife is very entertaining too.’

  Matty looked across at the woman whose gaunt, sepulchral aspect she’d already discovered belied enormous energy, bubbling fun and a deep devotion to porter, which she was drinking with her meal. ‘… Now Gaelic football is a different matter altogether,’ Maud O’Dea was telling the table. ‘A family sport, y’know, a real country sport. In Killkenny, when Donald and I were first courting, we followed the team. And grand was the day we came up to Dublin and saw them play at Croke Park; it was our first time away from home, y’know.’ The memory painted a beguiling softness over the woman’s gaunt features and, looking round at her audience, she caught Matty’s eye and winked.

  ‘A delightful couple, I think you’ll agree,’ said the captain. ‘And tell me, have you ever heard Mr O’Dea sing in the flesh, so to speak?’

  ‘Do you know, I have. My Uncle Maurice and my Aunt Hilda are big fans and they took me to see him at the Golders Green Hippodrome. They’re going to be so excited that I’ve actually met the great man! But is it true that Mr O’Dea might grace us with a couple of songs later this evening?’

  ‘He usually can be persuaded on the last night, Lady Clairmont. The cabaret’s a benefit for the seamen’s charities – a cause close to Mr O’Dea’s heart.’

  That’s me, she thought, Lady Clairmont. On her other side, she felt Henry reach for her hand and squeeze it. She turned and grinned at him. He’d done it; he’d told the world they were married. ‘I can’t believe the secret’s out. I’m so proud of you,’ she whispered. ‘I just hope your mother understands why we let the cat out of the bag before telling her first.’

  ‘She’ll understand,’ Henry purred. ‘In fact, knowing Mama, she’ll cheer from the rooftops. She’s been waiting for years to put that Slocombe woman in her place!’

  ‘I notice she hasn’t taken up the offer of table 23.’ They both started to giggle, such relief at the vanquishing of the enemy, and then suddenly the young man’s face went still. ‘There’s something else. Last night, the ship’s doctor—’

  ‘Oh, Henry, the doctor’s told you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ She grinned at him.

  But Henry carried on anxiously. ‘The doc’s concerned – after last night – your terrible anguish, perhaps it harmed you – you and the baby – because it’s such early days.’

  ‘He needn’t worry, all’s well.’ She cheerfully took his hand. ‘After all, I should know, I’m not a nurse for nothing.’

  She longed to embrace him but for decorum’s sake only stroked his hand. ‘All’s well, I promise. But, oh dear, Henry,’ she whispered. ‘Now we’re going to have to tell your mother – on top of everything else – she’s about to be a grandmother!’

  Before her the waiter set down a delicate glass dish. It held a swirl of palest lavender cream and was exquisitely decorated with little purple flowers and tiny green leaves.

  ‘Our soufflé of violets,’ said the captain proudly. ‘It is one of the great specialities of Monsieur Tavernier – our
esteemed master chef.’

  ‘Oh, it looks so beautiful, I hardly dare eat it.’

  ‘Please do. The taste is even more wonderful than its appearance, I promise you.’

  She gently pierced the soufflé with the tip of her spoon. The sweet smell of violets rose up.

  At that moment, the first officer appeared. ‘Excuse me, Captain.’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but we’ve just received the wire from Scotland Yard.’

  Captain Henshaw nodded. He turned back to Matty. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Lady Clairmont. Duty calls.’ Rising to his feet, he gave a courteous nod to the assembled table and departed.

  When the steward went to collect Lady Slocombe’s supper tray, he thought at first there was no one in the palatial suite of rooms for they lay silent and in semi-darkness. However, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he realised that her ladyship was sitting in a large armchair, motionless, Sphinx-like; not even stirring at his hurried apology.

  He, therefore, quietly picked up the tray upon which a light supper of congealed coddled eggs sat untouched, and withdrew.

  Outside in the corridor, he stared once more at the door of the suite. Scrawled across it in white chalk was one word: thief.

  Mayfair, London. Saturday evening

  Thelma Duttine stood in the bathroom doorway staring at the prone figure of Charles Sutton.

  He lay on her bed submerged in a swirl of oyster satin coverlet, snoring softly, his head thrown back and his mouth wide. For such a big man, she thought, his snores are surprisingly girlie.

  He looked ridiculous, of course, stretched along the bed, his top-half still formally attired in black tie, his bottom-half naked. Except for his socks and suspenders. Above his head, his arms were raised as if in submission, each prettily tied to a bedpost with a scarf of rainbow colours.

  Carefully she watched the whale-smooth belly rise and fall, the tiny flaccid penis all but hidden within the folds of his thighs, and judged that she needn’t untie him quite yet. Just a few more moments of peace then she would rouse him again.