Dancing on Deansgate

by Freda Lightfoot

  Dancing on Deansgate

  Freda Lightfoot

  Originally published 2003 by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd. 338 Euston Road, London NW1 3BH

  Copyright © 20003 and 2012 by Freda Lightfoot.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9570978-6-5

  Published by Freda Lightfoot 2012

  ‘The scene is set for an excellent, hard-to-put-down read with some deeply drawn characters, some lovable, some not, but all moving together.’ The Historical Novel Society on Angels at War.

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  ‘paints a vivid picture of life on the fells during the war. Enhanced by fine historical detail and strong characterisation it is an endearing story...’

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  They called it the Christmas Blitz, but there are no festivities for Jess, locked in the cellar by her feckless, tarty mother. And when Lizzie is imprisoned for shoplifting, Jess is sent to live with her uncle, a bullying black marketeer, who treats her like a slave. Jess’s natural musical talent offers an escape route - and the chance for love. But Uncle Bernie has never forgiven his niece for refusing to join his illegal schemes, and threatens to deprive Jess of her hard-won independence.

  Chapter One

  Christmas 1940

  It was dark in the cellar so the girl felt quite safe in not pulling down the blind, despite blackout restrictions. At least the darkness within helped her to see better what was happening outside in the street, although the light was fading fast on this grey December afternoon.

  The gentle brown eyes were just about on a level with the pavement as she peered up through the grimy window set high in the wall. Had anyone taken the trouble to look in, they would have seen how huge they appeared in the pale oval of her face; a face which bore the marks of her mother’s beauty yet with none of its brittleness. These cheeks were round and soft, the chin square and firm, giving an air of strength to the wan features. Even in the semi-darkness, light glimmered in the long strands of shining fair hair. Looking for all the world as if it had been cut with a knife and fork, the girl made no attempt to keep it tidy but allowed it to sweep carelessly about her face. Perhaps she believed it offered shelter from the world and hid the fear which filled those wide, startled eyes.

  Her vision was limited through the grille that covered the window, and what little she could see was obscured by booted feet as shoppers dashed along in search of last-minute presents, turning the snow underfoot to a grey slush. War or no war, it was still Christmas.

  Somewhere, beyond the periphery of her vision, she could hear a band: the Salvation Army playing ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’, and despite her fear that the raids might start again at any moment the sound brought a strange excitement and a quickening of her pulse. The soft, rose-pink lips broke into a wistful smile for, at fifteen, Jess Delaney wanted to be out amongst the crowds listening to the band, to be a part of the festive scene instead of missing all the fun, confined as she was in her own private hell-hole night after night. At first she’d made little complaint, not seeing it as important but simply another of Lizzie’s eccentricities.

  Now it was all too serious.

  They were calling it the Christmas Blitz. It had started a few nights ago and in no time the whole of Manchester had seemed to be in flames, making everyone fear for their life. Enemy bombers had come again the next night, following the line of the canal system right into the heart of the city, pounding the life out of it for hour upon hour. Amongst others, Piccadilly had been hit, the Victoria Buildings destroyed, as well as damage done to the famous Free Trade Hall. A landmine had even fallen on Victoria Station.

  Who would know if one small house were bombed and a young girl lay buried beneath it? Who would trouble to come looking for her? Jess would much rather have gone to an air raid shelter along with the rest of Deansgate Village, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘Don’t lock me in,’ she’d protested as she’d watched Lizzie apply the scarlet lipstick to her full mouth, frizz up her hair and generally attempt to make herself as appealing as possible. Lizzie had a weakness, several in fact, but the main ones came, as she herself was fond of saying, either in a glass or a pair of trousers.

  ‘Don’t you start your moaning. I’ve no time to listen, not now. I have to pop out and do a bit of business. Anyroad, you’ll be safe enough in the cellar. No jerry bombs’ll get you here. Solid as a rock is this house.’

  Had she offered these words of comfort in any tone of voice other than careless and disinterested, Jess might well have believed her. She always wanted to believe her. If you couldn’t trust your own mother then who could you trust? But in Lizzie’s case, Jess had learned from long experience that it simply wasn’t wise to do so. Lizzie never put anyone’s needs before her own, not even those of her own daughter, as her behaviour showed all too clearly.

  Now, all Jess could do was listen to the street door bang shut and with a sinking of her heart, watch her mother’s feet in their inappropriately high heels trip by window above.

  ‘Off out with your latest fancy man, are you? What about that lass o’ yours, poor soul?’

  ‘Shut your face, you. Keep your nose out of my business Cissie Armitage, if you know what’s good for you.’ Lizzie Delaney tossed her hennaed curls and, nose in the air, swung her hips more provocatively than ever as she sashayed down Back Irwell Street towards Deansgate. ‘At least Jess doesn’t make a nuisance of herself on other folks’ doorsteps, unlike some I could mention.’

  Cissie Armitage bridled visibly at this dig at her own offspring who were playing a relatively innocent game of making slush pies, although their favourite pastime was tying dustbin lids to door knobs before knocking and running away hell for leather. Nonetheless she clipped her youngest boy’s ear, making him yell out loud; more out of annoyance that her hated rival had scored a valid point over her than a belief that he deserved it. Cissie was furiously envious of Lizzie Delaney. Her own sagging figure in its wrap-around pinny could not be compared with her neighbour’s slender curves, and the hair pins rolled into greying hair didn’t hold a candle to the luscious curls that fell upon Lizzie Delaney’s shoulders, although the colour did come out of a bottle. Was it any wonder she hated her?

  ‘It�
��s the poor chap I feel sorry for. Who is it this time? Does he know he’s likely to get the clap going with you?’

  ‘Shut your noise, your nasty old cow.’

  Cissie opened her mouth to add further invective about married women who were no better than they should be when their husbands were away fighting in the war. Never the quickest of thinkers, being more malice than wit, by the time she’d thought of a suitably killing remark Lizzie had vanished round the corner, leaving only the clack of her high heels and the lingering scent of cheap perfume in her wake.

  Incensed at being so thwarted, Cissie shook her broom handle and shouted after her in a big loud voice so that any one of the several other women listening with avid curiosity from their doorsteps could plainly hear. ‘ You’ll catch it one day Lizzie Delaney, when your Jake comes home. See if you don’t.’

  Hearing these last words quite plainly, Lizzie smiled to herself, tucked her bag under her arm and made her way along Cumberland Street, fully aware of both admiring and condemning eyes following her every step. It was slippy underfoot and the rapidly fading light of afternoon reflected eerily on the grey snow but she was used to walking in semi-darkness and every step she took seemed to lighten her heart, as always when she was off out to meet Jimmy.

  She heard the sound of a ship’s hooter from down the docks and a shiver of delight trickled down her spine. That could be his ship calling to her, telling her he’d be with her soon. She could hardly wait.

  When Lizzie reached Deansgate, she turned sharp right towards Castlefield Wharves, not even glancing in the direction of Finnigans, the smart leather goods store from where she’d purloined said handbag earlier in the day. Lizzie had no qualms about doing a bit of shoplifting now and then. One had to keep body and soul together somehow, and everyone knew shopkeepers made a fortune out of their customers with their over-pricing and exploitation of rationing. Anyroad, serve them right for not keeping a proper eye on their displays.

  ‘If you see something worth taking girl, take it. And if it don’t suit when you get it home, I’ll help you get rid of it, and make it worth your while.’ This from Bernie, her oh-so-wily brother-in-law. Lizzie knew that she hadn’t always made the right choices in life and allowing Bernie Delaney to take any sort of control over it had perhaps been the biggest mistake of all.

  But then ever since that soft husband of hers had volunteered for service right at the start of the war, she’d been like a lost soul, unable to get a proper grasp on things. Why couldn’t Jake have borrowed some of Bernie’s native cunning and got himself a nice little job that avoided call-up? Trust him to do the noble thing. Being left to cope alone with a child had hit her hard. Was it any wonder she’d turned to his brother for support and comfort?

  Trouble was, there were times when she got more than she bargained for. Bernie thought nothing of giving her a smack round the mouth if she stepped out of line. Lizzie had tried objecting to this treatment, loud and long, not that he took a blind bit of notice.

  ‘You don’t appreciate how valuable an asset I am to you,’ she’d tell him, shaking her fist in his grinning face.

  ‘Course I do, love. Don’t we have a nice little trade going in the coupons you procure for me.’

  ‘Aye, which you sell on at a shilling a time while I get nothing for my efforts.’

  ‘You do well enough, and live rent free in a nice little house I provide for you. Nor do I make any objection to your other little sidelines, like stuffing the odd bits and bobs in your bag whenever you pop in Lewis’s or the fancy shops on King’s Street, now do I?’

  Lizzie gasped. ‘Are you suggesting you don’t take a cut from that too?’

  ‘I take what’s due to me girl and don’t you forget it.’ At this point the pale grey eyes with their short, stubby eyelashes would narrow to slits, the fleshy mouth tighten and the flabby jowls shake with such fury that there was no mistaking the warning signs. Lizzie had learned to keep quiet when he was in one of his moods.

  Bernie Delaney was no oil painting; a big bruiser of a man with a beer belly on him that made him look eight months gone. And he had his own way of doing things so it didn’t pay to be too critical. Lizzie had discovered that arguing only made matters worse. Pushing him too far would only result in another clip round the ear, or worse.

  But, rough diamond or no, he could be soft as putty when the notion took him, and a right card after a jar or two, so Lizzie always made excuses for his short temper. Despite their frequent and furious rows and disagreements, he only had to smile at her and her insides did a little flip, and her knees turned to water. She couldn’t help it. She also liked to imagine that he was jealous of the fact other men found her attractive.

  They’d had fun together over the years, largely because he had a way with him that Lizzie simply couldn’t resist. She wouldn’t describe it as charm exactly, more a certain edge to him, an excitement which convinced her, deep down, that she’d married the wrong Delaney brother. Her only disappointment was that he wasn’t prepared to leave Cora for her. In Bernie’s eyes, his wife was only one step removed from the Virgin Mary herself. Which must make Lizzie some sort of Mary Magdalene, or worse.

  He would most certainly object to her trip out tonight. She was meeting Jimmy at the Queens on the corner of Potato Wharf. After a drink or two they’d go on to the Opera House which was putting on some sort of review for servicemen. During the interval they’d probably pop across to the Crown on Byrom Street, where he’d buy her a few port and lemons.

  He knew how to keep her sweet did Jimmy. Usually, after a few dates, Lizzie would grow bored and be eager to catch the eye of the next good looking male who happened to show an interest in her. But she’d been seeing Jimmy regularly for some weeks now and had grown surprisingly fond of him. She might even be sorry to see him go when his ship sailed.

  Later in the evening they might go on to a dance, call in at the Globe on Gartside Street, or settle for a kiss and a cuddle down some back alley. Lizzie didn’t mind which. She wasn’t averse to a bit of slap and tickle, wherever she could find it. Life was too short, in her opinion, to deny herself such treats.

  Not that she admitted as much to Jake. She always replied to her husband’s letters with assurances that she was saving herself for him; for when the war was over and he returned home for good. In reality she thought Jake a fool for imagining fidelity to be remotely possible, particularly in wartime. She wasn’t cut out to be a flaming nun.

  Lizzie pushed open the pub door and made her way down the lobby to the small room where she could get a quick snifter while she waited for Jimmy. She wouldn’t dream of going in the vault where the men were playing darts, though she probably knew every last one of them. That was a rule even Lizzie daren’t break.

  ‘Your usual, love?’

  ‘Ta Betty. Turned out nippy again this evening.’

  ‘Aye, get that down your neck and it’ll warm you up grand. Though I fancy you might find a better way of keeping warm afore the night’s out.’

  ‘A girl can hope,’ and giving the cheery bar maid a wink, Lizzie picked up her glass and took an appreciative sip of the gin. This was her favourite tipple at the start of an evening, though an increasingly rare treat in these difficult times. She let it slide slowly over her tongue, feeling the glow of it radiating through her. Pure nectar. Ooh, what a wicked woman she was!

  Miserable old so-and-so’s like Cissie Armitage might call her a tart but Lizzie had her standards. Tarts stood on Tonman Street and charged for their favours, whereas Lizzie was particular who she went with. But if her latest fella liked to bestow little gifts in return for her favours, what was so wrong in that?

  Being a mother wasn’t the be-all-and-end-all in life.

  But then having children had never been a part of her plan and she’d been shocked to find herself up the duff with Jess. If she hadn’t fallen with a baby at the tender age of sixteen, she might never have married Jake Delaney, and would still have been free to enjoy life. She ha
lf blamed Jess herself for this perceived misfortune, and also Jake for being so quick to march her down the aisle. He’d insisted he was pleased, that he loved her, that he liked kids and wanted four at least and had been disappointed when no more had come. What he didn’t realise was that she’d taken precautions ever since, determined not to repeat her mistake. She’d felt a bit guilty about that at first, but how would she have coped with more kids? She couldn’t even bring one up properly.

  It galled her that Cissie Armitage, of all people, should accuse her of being a cruel and neglectful mother. Kids were a nuisance, everyone knew that, always demanding something or other and never giving you a minute’s peace.

  At least she made sure that Jess was safe before she went out of an evening, not bundled off to that smelly old disused canal tunnel they called a shelter which stretched under Camp Street and Grape Street. Big it may be but it was like a doss house down there, running with water and no doubt infested with rats. The girl was much more comfortable in their own cellar. Now who could say fairer than that?

  Lizzie wiped a smear of scarlet lipstick from the rim of her glass and took another long swallow of the gin, mellowing nicely and becoming increasingly certain with each ensuing sip, that no one could do any better in the circumstances. Anyroad, what other option did she have? She had to keep bringing in the money somehow and if sometimes she sailed a bit close to the wind, how else could she have provided for herself and her child? She’d never have done half so well on the scratty army wage Jake sent her. No, she must keep on hoping that Jess didn’t enquire too closely into where the money came from.

  And Lizzie knew for certain that if she ever ran out of luck and fell foul of the law, Bernie wouldn’t stand by her. He’d made that plain enough.