Dancing in the Dark

by Maureen Lee

  Hugh! A shy, smiling Hugh, in an old army jacket with a small khaki haversack thrown over his shoulder.

  My son has grown up! She wanted to weep for all the years she’d missed. She wanted to hug and kiss him, to ask why he’d deserted his mam for so long, but merely smiled back and said, “Hello, luv.”

  “You’ve grown some,” Mr Fritz said enviously. “You must be six foot at least.”

  “Six foot one,” Hugh said modestly.

  He never explained why he hadn’t come before, why he’d come now, and Flo never asked. She guessed it was something to do with age, that between eleven and seventeen, he hadn’t felt it proper for her to be his friend, but as he’d grown older something had drawn him back.

  She didn’t care what it was. It was enough that he’d come, and continued to come, to tell her about his job, his girlfriends, how he was saving up to buy a car. Once, a few months ago, he had said, “I wish me mam was a bit more like you, Flo. She thinks I’m crackers to want a car, but you wouldn’t mind, would you?”

  “I should have caught the bus,” she muttered, halfway home, when the straps of her high-heeled sandals began to dig into her feet. It would be a relief to reach William Square, where she’d have a nice cool bath before she went to work.

  Stella Fritz would have a fit if she could see the square now. There was scarcely a house left that hadn’t been turned into flats or bedsits and they all looked run down, uncared-for. Even worse, one or two women Flo refused to believe they were prostitutes—had begun to hang around at night, apparently waiting for men to pick them up. Twice, Flo had been propositioned on her way home in the dark, and Bel had threatened that if anyone else asked how much she charged, she’d thump them. There were frequent fights, which led to the police arriving. Mr Fritz moaned that the place was becoming dead rowdy, and Flo, who loved the square and never wanted to live anywhere else, had to concede that it had deteriorated.

  She felt better after the bath and when she had changed into a pale blue cotton frock and canvas shoes. All afternoon, she couldn’t get Sally out of her mind. On numerous occasions her ladies wanted to know what was wrong. “You look as if you’ve swallowed a quid and shat a sixpence. What’s up, Flo?”

  If she told them about Ian, she knew what would happen: their great, generous hearts would overflow with sympathy, which would be expressed in flowery, dramatic language a poet would envy. She would only cry, she might possibly howl. She told them she was feeling out of sorts, that the heat was getting her down Flo loved her ladies. They were coarse, often dirt poor, but they struggled through life with a cheerfulness of spirit that never ceased to amaze her. Through the door they would burst in their shabby clothes, which were usually too big or too small, too long or too short, carrying immense bags of washing. There were black ladies and white ladies, quite often grossly overweight because they existed on a diet of chip butties, but always with a smile on their careworn, prematurely old faces, making a great joke of their bunions and varicose veins, the swollen joints that plagued them, the mysterious lumps that had suddenly appeared on their bodies that they intended to ignore. “I couldn’t go in the ozzie and let them take it away, could I? Not with five kids to look after, and me ould feller propped up in the boozer all day long.”

  It could be seven kids, ten kids, twelve. Most of the husbands were unemployed, and more than a few of Flo’s ladies went out cleaning early in the morning or late at night. It was their money that paid the rent and put food on the table, but that didn’t stop some husbands taking out their frustration with the government and society in general on their wives. Flo often found herself bathing bruises or bandaging cuts, cursing the perpetrators to high heaven.

  But the women refused to listen to a word of criticism of their men—“He couldn’t help it, luv. He was stewed rotten. He wouldn’t dream of hitting me when he’s sober,” which Flo found an unsatisfactory explanation for her ladies’ sometimes appalling injuries. She cosseted them, made them tea, laughed at their jokes, admired them. The only thing she refused was to let them do their washing on tick, which Mr Fritz had strictly forbidden.

  “Before you can say Jack Robinson, they’ll have run up a huge bill and we’ll never get paid. No, Flo. They put their own coins in the machine and that’s final. And if I find you’ve been loaning your own money, I’ll be very cross indeed. They’re a canny lot, and pretty soon you’ll be subsidising washing for the whole of Toxteth.”

  The thought of Mr Fritz being cross wouldn’t have caused a tremor in a rabbit, but Flo was careful to take heed of his advice.

  At seven o’clock on the day of Ian’s funeral, it was a relief when she could turn the Open sign to Closed. Mr Fritz came and went, promising to have some iced tea ready for when she came home—he was obsessed with his new refrigerator. It would be another hour before all the machines were finished and she could tidy up and leave. The place felt like an oven. Perhaps that was why she had remained so slim: since she was thirteen, she’d spent a high proportion of her waking hours in the equivalent of a Turkish bath.

  Bel had been promoted to manageress of ladies’ outerwear in Owen Owens: long coats, short coats, raincoats, furs. She was frequently wined and dined by representatives of clothing firms who wanted her to stock their products. Occasionally, when Flo had nothing better to do, she would go to Owen Owens and listen while Bel dealt with a customer.

  “Modom, that coat looks simply divine on you. Of course, Modom has a perfect figure, and red is definitely your colour.” The accent, Bel’s idea of “posh”, and the voice, haughty yet obsequious, was stomach-churning.

  When the customer wasn’t looking, Bel would make a hideous face at Flo, and mouth, “Sod off!”

  On her way home from the launderette, Flo let herself into her friend’s flat in Upper Parliament Street, where Bel was lying on her luridly patterned settee wearing black satin lounging pyjamas and reading She. She looked up and grinned widely, the deeply etched laughter lines around her eyes and mouth adding yet more character to her already animated face. “You look as if you’ve just been for a turn in one of your machines,” she said.

  “I feel as if I have.” Flo threw herself into an armchair with a sigh. Bel’s flat wasn’t relaxing, more like a fairground with its bright walls and ceilings, and curtains that could do serious damage to the eyes. Still, it was nice to sit in a comfortable chair at last. “I want you to promise me something, Bel,” she said.

  “What, luv?”

  “If I die before you, make sure I’m buried, not cremated.

  I want a few bits of me left to rise to heaven when the Day of Judgement comes.”

  “Rightio, Flo,” Bel said laconically. “I don’t give a stuff what they do with me. Once I’m dead, they can throw me in the Mersey for all I care, or feed me to the lions at Chester Zoo.”

  “Another thing, Bel. I’ve taken out an insurance policy to cover the cost of me funeral. It’s in the first-aid box in the cupboard by the fireplace, the right-hand side. I’d put it in the bureau with all me papers, but you’d never find it. I can never find anything meself.”

  “That’s because you keep every single bit of paper that drops through your letterbox,” Bel snorted.

  “It’s a legacy from Stella Fritz. I always kept me bills in case she accused me of not paying the ‘leccy, or something.

  Now I can’t get out of the habit. Anyroad, when I’m looking for something, it’s nice reading through me old letters. I’ve still got the ones you sent during the war.

  You can have them back if you like.” She didn’t say, because Bel would have been disgusted, that it was quite interesting to look at old bills, see how much prices had gone up.

  Bel grimaced. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “One more thing. Under no circumstances must our Martha come to me funeral. I’m not having it, d’you hear?”

  “I hear, Flo, but why all this morbid talk about death and funerals?”

  “I took the policy out years ago. It was
this morning at the crematorium that I decided I’d sooner be buried.”

  “Flo!” Bel’s face was a tragedy. “I’d completely forgotten about Ian’s funeral. Was it awful, luv? How’s your Sally taking it? Did the dress fit all right?”

  “The dress looked simply divine,” Flo said tiredly. The expression had become a joke between them. “As for the other, it was awful, yes. Sally’s taken it hard, and so’s Jock.”

  “Shall we do something exciting tomorrer night, Sat’day, like go somewhere dead extravagant for a meal?

  It might cheer you up.”

  “Sorry, Bel, but I’m going on retreat in the morning.”

  Bel groaned. “You’re a miserable bugger, Flo Clancy.

  What do you do on these retreats, anyroad?”

  “Pray,” Flo said virtuously.

  “They’re a waste of time—a waste of life!”

  “I don’t see you doing anything earth-shattering.”

  “I’ve got an important job.”

  “So’ve I.”

  “I get taken out to dinner.”

  “Mr Fritz takes me out to dinner sometimes.”

  “He takes us both, so that’s not counted.” Bel sat on the edge of the settee and rested her chin in her hands. She said, thoughtfully, “Actually, Flo, it’s well past the time you and Fritz got something going together.”

  Flo laughed. “I’m happy as I am, thanks all the same.

  Anyroad, it’s well past the time you found yourself another husband.”

  Bel ignored this. “These damn retreats, I can’t think of anything more boring and miserable than praying nonstop for two whole days.”

  “Oh, I dunno,” said Flo. “The thing is, I always come back feeling spiritually uplifted and enriched.”

  “I can’t understand it,” Sally said distractedly. “It’s as if Ian was the glue that kept us together.” She ran her fingers through her short, greying hair. “But when did me and Jock need anything to keep us together? I love him, and I know he loves me. Remember the day we met him and his mate, Flo, on the New Brighton ferry?”

  “I’ll never forget that day, luv.” It was the last time she had seen Tommy O’Mara.

  Her sister’s marriage was falling apart. Grace didn’t help. She accused her mam and dad of always having cold-shouldered her, of making her feel second best.

  “Then me and Jock have a go at each other,” Sally moaned. “I tell him it’s his fault Grace feels the way she does, and he says it’s mine.”

  The only good thing to come out of the whole sad business was that the two sisters had become close again.

  Sally frequently turned up at the launderette just as Flo was closing, and they would walk back to William Square, arm in arm. Jock went to a social club in Kirkby almost every night—“As if all he wants is to have a good time with his mates. I think I remind him too much of what we went through with Ian. He won’t come with me to church.”

  “I don’t know what advice to give, Sal,” Flo said truthfully. She thought her sister spent far too much time in church, but preferred not to say so. “Perhaps it’s just a stage he’s going through. He needs to let off steam.

  Jock’s a good man at heart.”

  “It’s not advice I need,” Sally sniffed, just someone to talk to. Our Martha’s come up with enough advice to write a book, from giving our Grace a good hiding to wiping the floor with Jock.”

  “Both of which would do more harm than good.”

  “That’s what I said. Mind you, her Kate’s been a great help. She often comes round to see me.” Suddenly Sally seemed to find a mole on the back of her hand enormously interesting. Without meeting her sister’s eyes, she mumbled, “I can’t understand how our Martha ended up with such a lovely daughter, and we were landed with Grace. Oh!” she cried tearfully. “Forget I said that. I love my girl, but I don’t half wish she were different.”

  “I wish all sorts of things were different, Sal.” Flo sighed. “You must bring Kate round to see me sometime.

  I’d like to get to know her.”

  She had never intended it to be this way, but it had all started the day she first saw Tommy O’Mara through a mist of steam in Fritz’s laundry: Flo’s life seemed to be divided into little boxes, each one carefully marked “Secret”.

  Martha and Sally knew this about her, Mr Fritz knew that. Hugh O’Mara thought he was her friend. No one knew about the servicemen during the war. There were her bogus “retreats”. Bel, who thought she knew every thing there was to know, knew virtually nothing, only that for a short time before the war she’d gone out with Tommy O’Mara.

  Flo often worried that one day something might be said that would lift the lid off a box, give away one of her secrets, expose one of her lies.

  It nearly happened the day Sally came to the flat, bringing Kate Colquitt with her. Bel was there, and they’d just watched Roman Holiday on television—Bel still went weak at the knees over Gregory Peck.

  “This is Kate Colquitt, our Martha’s girl,” Sally said.

  Flo could have sworn that Bel’s ears twitched. She still longed to know why Flo and Martha never spoke.

  “Martha’s girl, eh! Pleased to meet you, Kate. How’s your mam keeping these days?”

  “Very well, thank you.” The girl had a sweet, high-pitched voice.

  “Why didn’t you bring her with you?” Bel enquired cunningly. Flo threw her a murderous glance. Bel caught the look and winked.

  Kate merely replied, The mam doesn’t know I’ve come.” She turned to Flo, green eyes shining in her lovely fresh face. “I’ve always wanted to meet you, Auntie Flo. I saw you at Ian’s funeral. I was going to introduce meself, but when I looked for you you’d gone.”

  “Please call me Flo. ‘Auntie’ makes me feel a bit peculiar.”

  “Okay.” She followed her aunt into the kitchen when Flo went to make a pot of tea, chatting volubly. “I like your flat, it’s the gear. I’d love a place of me own, but me mam’s dead set against it. She says I’m too young. How old were you when you came here, Flo?”

  “Twenty.”

  “There! Next month I’ll be twenty-two. So I’m not too young, am I?” She looked at Flo, wide-eyed and artless.

  “I was a very old twenty,” Flo muttered. An incredibly old twenty compared to this girl, who was too innocent for this world. She looked as vulnerable and defenceless as a flower by the wayside.

  “There are times,” Kate sighed, “when I’d love to be by meself. Y’know, read a book and stuff, watch the telly.”

  Flo imagined her mother, Martha the Manipulator, never allowing her daughter a minute’s peace. “Why do you need a red bow in your hair when you’re only going to see Josie Driver?” “I’d sooner you didn’t go out with a Protestant, Sal.” “You’ve always got your head buried in a book, Flo Clancy.” And then there was Norman, which meant that Kate had two overbearing people to cope with, wanting her to do things their way. Sally said that he had moved to Kirkby and he was round at the house almost every night.

  “Are you having a party on your birthday?” Flo asked brightly, as she arranged the cups and saucers on a tray.

  “Just a few friends. You can come if you like.”

  “Ta, luv, but I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” She picked up the tray. “D’you mind bringing that plate of biscuits with you, save me coming back?”

  “What happened between you and me mam, Flo?” Kate enquired earnestly. “Auntie Sally says I’m not to mention I’ve been to see you. It must be something awful bad.”

  Flo chuckled. “That’s something you need to ask your mam, luv.” One thing she knew for certain was that the girl wouldn’t get a truthful answer.

  They went into the living room. “You took your time,”

  Bel said. “I’m parched for a cuppa.”

  “I remember you used to wait for Hugh O’Mara outside St Theresa’s,” Kate went on, “though I didn’t know you were me auntie then.”

  Bel’s head jerked
upwards and she looked at Flo, her face full of questions.

  The very second Sally and Kate left, Bel burst out, “Hugh O’Mara! Who’s Hugh O’Mara? Is he related to Tommy? I didn’t know he had a kid.”

  “Why should you?”

  “I thought you’d have said.”

  Flo explained that Hugh had been born after Tommy died. It was hateful giving credit to Nancy for something she’d done herself, but too much time had passed for Bel to know the truth. Flo couldn’t have stood the gasps of incredulity, the astounded comments. Bel would have crawled through the snow to get back her baby. Bel would have stood on the rooftops screaming to the world that her baby had been stolen, then demolished Nancy’s front door with a battering ram once she had discovered where he was. The realisation that another woman wouldn’t have taken it as meekly as she had made Flo feel uneasy. It was a bit late to regret what a coward she’d been, too easily influenced by the wishes of her family.

  “That’s all very well,” Bel hooted, when Flo finished her careful explanation, “but what the hell were you doing waiting for the lad outside St Theresa’s?”

  I should have been a spy, Flo thought. I would have been brilliant at lying meself out of the most dangerous situations. She said that a woman at the laundry had had a son in the same class as Hugh. “They were friends. I used to go by St Theresa’s on Fridays on me way from the bank. Peggy asked me to make sure Jimmy was going straight home. That’s how I met Hugh. He was a nice lad, quite different from his dad. I still see him,” she added casually. “If he’s passing the launderette, he might drop in.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Bel said, outraged out of all proportion.

  “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

  “Why, Flo Clancy, you know I’m interested in every thing!”

  “Well, you know now, don’t you?” Flo snapped.

  It was a whole year before Jock tired of the social club and Sally stopped going quite so often to church. The old harmony was restored. It helped when Grace got engaged to a nice young man called Keith, who worked in a bank, and became absorbed in plans for her wedding eighteen months off at Easter 1966. “Jock’s pulling out all the stops. It’s going to be a grand affair,” Sally announced.