The Hidden Dance

by Susan Wooldridge

  She smiled; how right her friend Dolores had been, all those war years ago. ‘Find the most secret desire of a man in bed,’ she’d counselled, ‘perform it successfully, and that man is yours for life.’

  To that end, Thelma had set out to learn much. So much so, nothing now ever shocked her. Though nothing ever aroused her either.

  Tant pis! Sexual ecstasy was for simpletons and innocents. What did it matter when she had such a prize at stake? On this man, Sir Charles Sutton, she’d banked all. And her business sense had never failed her to date. Tonight, after three years, she was out to get what she wanted: his wealth, his title, Melsham…

  She looked back down at Charles and quickly crossed to the bedside table, an excitement growing within her. Snapping open her little black and red lacquer box, she withdrew a phial of cocaine powder and emptied it into his brandy glass.

  With one hand she untied her negligee, which fell wide exposing her nakedness, the skin powdered pearly-pale, the nipples, red-rouged. She picked up the glass and, leaning forward to hold it to his lips, she softly started to croon, ‘Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  SS Etoile. Early Sunday morning

  When Mrs Webb and Freddie emerged onto the first-class promenade, they were both nearly blown off their feet by the unexpected gustiness of the wind. The sky was still dark as they staggered and swayed along the shadowed slippery deck. Their eyes ran and their noses streamed, But, thought Mrs Webb, I feel grand! She steadied herself against the railings and dug deep for a couple of handkerchiefs. Blowing their noses, the pair of them gingerly looked over the rail and stared down. Far below they could glimpse through the gloom the sea rolling, heavy and grey. ‘Eh, my lad, look at that.’

  A porthole opened and a fountain of waste arched into the navy sky. There was an instant string of silver gulls swooping and flocking, their high cries peppering the deep roar of the wash.

  Facing away from the wind, Mrs Webb carefully unfolded the map of the ship Barney had given her. ‘Now, where are them kennels?’

  ‘Gran, they’re there,’ said Freddie pointing. High above them, a vast funnel soared into the darkness.

  Mrs Webb laughed. ‘Aye, well them things are that big, you can’t see ’em for looking.’

  When she put her head round the canvas-flap of Mr Degas’s office, she had only to take one look at the poor man and she was ordering, ‘Freddie, fetch up Mr Degas a nice cup o’ tea. And get couple o’ cloves put in from kitchen while you’re about it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go on, lad. Me and Mr Degas are going to have a chat.’

  She looked at the pale man as he sat in his kennels.

  ‘Forgive me, madame, I do not get up. Last night a party; too much absinthe.’ He gingerly shook his head.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear, soon have you sorted. Cup o’ freshly made tea with two cloves’ll do’t trick. My Davy – him that was me late ’usband – used to tie ribbon on once in a while. I know all’t signs only too well.’

  Degas only nodded, his usual good manners absent.

  Mrs Webb hovered, unsure, in the doorway.

  ‘Now then, Mr Degas, I ’ave to ask, what’s all this about? I know it concerns young Freddie. What’s ‘e been up to? You can tell me. He’s only a young lad, mind, so whatever ‘e’s done—’

  Mr Degas was waving at her. ‘Stop, madame, stop. It is nothing like this. I would like to offer M’sieur Freddie a job.’

  Nellie stared.

  ‘He is very good with the dogs. He has – how d’you say? Natural aptitude.’ He placed an unseen ‘h’ in front of the last word.

  Nellie looked down, silent.

  ‘Forgive me if I surprise you, madame. Mal de tête.’ He nervously touched his head.

  When at last she spoke, Nellie said, ‘His mam would’ve been right proud of the lad…’ but her relief and joy proved too much, she couldn’t continue.

  ‘M’sieur Fred has told me about his uncle, Barney – and that Billy Bottle is also a friend. So I wish you, as his grandmére, not to worry; we will look after him well.’

  Nellie nodded.

  ‘Bon. I would like to apprentice him to me. I will talk to the chief steward about his money and his berth. D’you think this is well, madame?’

  Mrs Webb finally gathered herself together. She threw her hands towards the Frenchman and, clasping both of his in an enthusiastic shaking, cried, ‘Oh! Yes, Mr Degas, very well indeed. With Mersewer Fred’s say-so, of course.’

  Through the little port-hole, Lily watched as the dusty light slowly flooded to the edges of the ocean, the young morning gently pushing its primrose rays up the slate sky. There, across the dark sea, stood the New York skyline, clustered vague and uncertain along the horizon.

  ‘Oh, Johnnie, look.’

  They knelt side by side on the bunk, peering out.

  ‘When Charles and I came in ’23, we watched from up on deck as New York appeared through the morning mist. It was dawn then, too. And I remember this Italian woman sobbing beside me. She thought the high buildings were a range of mountains, you see, and that the ship had brought her to the wrong country.’ She turned to Johnnie. ‘We’ve not come to the wrong country, have we?’

  He gathered her up in his arms. ‘It’s not called the New World for nothing. And so we will find it.’ He kissed her briefly on the nose. ‘Come on, enough of all this lovey-dovey business, let’s go and take those youngsters off Mrs Webb’s hands for a bit.’

  All was silent in the Webb cabin. Lily could see the children crouched on the floor in their pyjamas, playing a very complicated version of Pop the Beacon completely of their own devising, so complicated, in fact, that even Anthea was hushed. Mrs Webb was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Gran’s gone to see t’doggie man,’ said the little girl without looking up.

  Barney rolled over on the top bunk. ‘Morning, folks.’ He waggled a Winning Post in greeting.

  ‘Let’s get some grub, eh, Barney?’ Johnnie was never his best with crowds first thing.

  ‘Aye, aye, mate.’

  Alone with the two children, Lily sat down on the edge of Mrs Webb’s bunk. She absentmindedly started to fold a pile of clothes. Strangely, for all her mental turmoil of the night before, she felt clear and hopeful. She had slept a good sleep, the champagne and sea air having finally laid her flat. She let hope suffuse her heart. All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well, she prayed to a jumble of pants, vests and socks.

  When she heard Johnnie knock on the door, she leapt up, eager for her steaming cup of coffee. She stepped over the rapt Nickie and Anthea and opened the cabin door.

  Johnnie stood in the corridor, coffeeless. She took one look at his still, stern face and knew the worst.

  ‘The captain wants to see us.’ His voice was colourless. At his side stood First Officer Hodder. Barney was nowhere to be seen. She felt her throat constrict, dry and tight.

  Johnnie held her elbow and leant into the cabin. ‘Now, you two, be good until Mrs Webb gets back. Tell her we’ve gone to see the captain.’

  ‘The big man?’ asked Anthea. ‘Can I come?’

  ‘Not today,’ said Johnnie firmly and closed the door.

  With Mr Hodder leading the way, they followed silently up through the ship. Lily clutched Johnnie’s arm, her resolve finally spent.

  ‘Come!’

  First Officer Hodder opened the office door. They stepped into the low morning sunlight and stood momentarily blinded.

  Through the dazzle, she became aware of the tall figure of Captain Henshaw as he rounded his desk. ‘Mrs Valley, I’m so sorry to bother you once again.’ He firmly shook her hand. ‘Won’t you sit down? And is this your husband? Good morning to you. Some coffee, I think, Mr Hodder, please.’

  Lily sat rigid, her every sense ready for the trap. Johnnie stood just behind her, his hand lightly resting on her shoulder. She looked across the desk to the captain; sh
e could discern no expression, he was sitting against the March sun, his face shadowed.

  ‘I wanted to thank you once again for helping us sort out that messy business of the stolen bracelet,’ said the captain. ‘Young Lady Clairmont, though most discreet, I may say even secretive, intimated that you’d assisted her in some way. As you may or may not know, a culprit has been apprehended.’

  Johnnie and Lily said nothing.

  ‘It’s a most satisfactory outcome as the Clairmonts are on their honeymoon,’ the captain smiled. ‘It would have been so unfortunate, I’m sure you’ll agree, if they had had it blighted in any way.’

  He moved back in his chair and out of the shadow. At last his face was in clear view. ‘Now, this is what I really wanted to see you about.’ He opened his desk. ‘I’ve received a cable from Scotland Yard.’

  Lily felt Johnnie’s grip tighten on her shoulder. She lowered her head and closed her eyes.

  ‘I thought you might be interested to read it.’

  With a mechanical lift of her head, she looked at the captain; he was pushing a telegram across the desk. She glanced up at Johnnie. He gave her an infinitesimal nod.

  Very slowly, she picked up the cable.

  ‘inquiry into disappearance of lady sutton and son dropped at request of father stop no further details’

  ‘You see, Mr Valley,’ she could hear the captain’s voice; it seemed far, far away. ‘I don’t know if your wife told you but Lady Slocombe seems to have been under the misapprehension that your little girl was a little boy.’ Lily raised her eyes, Captain Henshaw was looking straight at her. ‘It appears, Mrs Valley, to have been a case of mistaken identity all round.’

  He paused. ‘I just thought you would like to be put in the picture before we arrived in New York.’

  Chapter Twenty

  SS Etoile. Sunday morning

  Mrs Webb was sitting resplendent on a steamer trunk. She was wearing a voluminous cloth coat which was tied at the waist with a shawl and had a jaunty straw hat perched on her head. Sitting in the centre of many leaning towers of luggage, she was keeping an eye on the children playing ‘tag’ in and out of the leather jungle.

  Making towards the group, Lily saw that the loudest noise was being made by Johnnie playing ‘tag’ too. He had abandoned his jacket despite the sharp March wind, and was tearing around the deck causing the children to squeal with joy and the other passengers to frown their disapproval as they patiently waited in rows to disembark.

  Mrs Webb waved a welcome. ‘Barney’s told us all to wait quiet for a bit, he’s got to finish down below. Then he’ll give us an ’and.’

  ‘I’m glad that’s what Johnnie thinks “waiting quiet” means,’ replied Lily.

  ‘Yes but look at your Nickie. Talk about flying the coop. Little lamb,’ the big woman smiled.

  ‘I think he’s mainly relieved he doesn’t have to wear the tartan skirt he came on board in.’

  Mrs Webb patted the spot beside her on the trunk. ‘Here. Take the weight off your feet. I reckon we’re not going to be gettin’ off for hours.’

  Lily sat. ‘I found this when I was checking to see if we’d left anything in the cabin. Under Nickie’s pillow.’ She held up a little lead soldier. ‘He always sleeps with it. Says it’s to look after him if a bad man comes in the night. He means Charles, of course.’ She stared at the swollen crowd of people unsuccessfully trying to squash down the narrow gangplank.

  ‘Well,’ said Nellie. ‘He’s in good ’ands now. Your Johnnie seems to have a natural aptitude.’ Lily heard an unseen ‘h’ in front of the last word.

  From behind the two women, a voice enquired, ‘Lady Sutton?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lily, turning round.

  There stood Miss Timms, holding a small suitcase, a triumphant smile on her face. ‘I thought as much.’

  Lily froze. Mrs Webb grabbed her hand.

  ‘You see, my lady,’ the maid said evenly, ‘I have this remarkable memory, though I say it myself. I never forget a face.’ She was staring at Lily, her thin white face relieved only by a fierce redness that coloured her bony nose. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Lady Sutton, I won’t say a word about your son.’ She flicked a satisfied look to where Nickie were playing. ‘I just wanted to be sure. For my own peace of mind.’ She moved off through the crowds at speed and disappeared.

  ‘She just wanted last word, more like. ‘Orrible old bag,’ burst out Mrs Webb. She looked extremely agitated and started to pat Lily’s hand vigorously. ‘You all right, my love? You’ve gone that pale.’

  Lily dropped her head; she felt sick. ‘Just as I’d relaxed. How could I be so stupid?’

  ‘Now, now, don’t take on so. All’s well. I’ll wager she’ll say nowt to no one.’

  ‘That wretched title of Charles’s. Dear God, how I hate it.’

  They sat saying nothing. The swollen crowd pushed on, its size never changing.

  After a bit Mrs Webb asked, ‘So you and your Johnnie are not going back to Blighty? Now the hunt’s off.’

  ‘No fear, Mrs Webb. Do you know, this trip’s made me realise just how much of my old life I hated. It’s time to start anew.’

  ‘Well, this America’s the right place to do it, so I’m told.’ She looked at Lily. ‘Before I forget in all the goodbyes, I just want to thank you good folks. Me and the children have had a grand time. Joining in your adventures and that.’

  ‘Well, we couldn’t have done it without you.’

  Mrs Webb gave a dismissive little laugh.

  ‘No, I’m serious,’ said Lily. ‘You’ve been a very good friend to us. To me, especially. I shall always be eternally grateful. You, more than any one, have made our new life possible.’

  And Mrs Webb sat, rosy and beaming.

  ‘Your mug of tea, Cap’n.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Staps. And who are we sharing our berth with today?’

  ‘Berengaria and Olympic, sir, as far as I can make out. But word is the Ile de France is also tied up alongside.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Staps. That’ll be all for the minute.’

  Henshaw took a sip of his tea. He still found a thrill in navigating his ship, flanked by little tugs and the occasional fireboat, past the Statue of Liberty and up the Hudson River into the busiest port in the world. The SS Etoile was a safe, solid liner, perhaps not as glamorous as some but she was certainly magnificent enough to bring the passengers crowding onto the decks as they entered the harbour, the fireboats letting off a triple blast.

  From his view on high, he watched the passengers cramming all three decks. Even from up here in the wheelhouse with the doors closed, he could hear the wild cries of excitement, the cacophony of sounds that always heralded the arrival in port. And he knew, hidden from the passengers’ view, the turn-around was well under way. Tucked out of sight, a line of lorries would be collecting the mountains of laundry whilst all over the ship inventories would be being taken, the food and liquor stocks in need of replenishing. A tight turn-around was to be encouraged; yearly the huge port fees escalated.

  He finished his tea and stepped out onto the bridge. There was a fresh south-easterly and a clear sky, the dusty glass roof of the long immigration hall running alongside the ship surprisingly sparkling up at him this March morning.

  Down on the dockside, he saw a small area roped off at the bottom of the first-class gangway, a clutch of newsreel cameras pointing towards the disembarking guests. The ‘world famous’ Donald O’Dea appeared to be giving an interview, his wife at his side, her hat today, the captain noted, a particularly eye-catching royal-blue toque. Nice couple, he thought, not grand at all. In fact, they’d been a real asset last evening at dinner. He could see, down below, everyone laughing at something the big man had just said.

  Looking along the landing platform, he watched a stream of white-capped porters tailing their way through the crowds. Though noisy, the general atmosphere was one of goodwill, the hundreds of passengers cheerfully queuing their way down the many gangplanks. And
in the midst of this melee sat a policeman on horseback, his gleaming chestnut mount completely at ease with the human chaos all around. A Rolls Royce swung past Henshaw’s eyeline and he watched as the ship’s crane hoisted it high into the air and on towards land.

  He turned away and stared straight ahead to the prow of his ship, but the horizon was no longer filled with a vast ocean. In front lay a highway, with large bulbous motor cars trundling on their way, seemingly oblivious to the mighty liners moored alongside the road. A vast roadside sign announced, ‘Western Union’.

  He smiled. It’d been a good trip; no major dramas, as far as he was aware. He’d have a final talk with Billy Bottle before they both disembarked, just to check all was ship-shape, then ten days’ leave. He was quite looking forward to it.

  Epilogue

  Freston, England. April 1943

  Lily lay on her back, staring up through the apple trees. Beyond the puffs of blossom, she could see the sky was streaked with iron-grey slashes. There had been a dog-fight. At the first wasp-like drone of the engines, the children had rushed out into the orchard, hopping and dancing, madly tearing round in circles, stopping only to shake their fists at the two little planes whirling about the sky above. Eventually both aeroplanes had spiralled down somewhere near Salisbury Plain, leaving two thick black plumes of smoke. Giant exclamation marks down the sky. The children had run off in search of another game.

  There’re no survivors, Lily thought. No parachutes swaying to earth. She rolled onto her front. It was too beautiful a day to have death written all over the skies.

  She lay spread-eagled on the old car-rug, feeling the warmth of the sun all along her back. What luxury. Squinting at her watch, she saw it was still only ten past twelve. She had another hour; the train wasn’t arriving until two o’clock. She’d walk to the station in good time. Not that the train would be punctual.

  Everything was ready, nothing else to prepare. She knew Mary had baked a cake; the last of the margarine ration – and no doubt all the eggs. How lovely, a party. And Anthea’s room was waiting. At the top of the house, under the eaves. The little crooked room with many corners.