‘What good would it do for us both to be put through the wringer eh?’ he’d say, in that Cheeky Charlie way of his. ‘Do as your told and you’ll be right enough.’
‘And what if I’m not? What then?’
‘Are you questioning my judgement, eh? Would I let my best girl suffer, I ask you?’
Ooh, she just loved it when he called her his best girl. That put her one up on Cora.
Lizzie glanced up at the clock on the wall. She’d ten minutes to finish this drink, then Jimmy would be here, full of swagger and with cocky mischief sparkling in his blue eyes. It made her go all funny inside just to think of how gorgeous he was. She might abandon their plans for the evening altogether and take him straight back home. They couldn’t have much time left before his ship sailed. Might as well make the most of it.
Another woman came in and sat beside her with a half pint of mild set on the circular table before her. ‘Hello Dorrie love, how’s your chap? Due any leave is he, or are you hoping he stays away for a bit longer, eh?’ Crossing her legs and smoothing her skirt over silk stockinged knees, Lizzie settled down for a cosy gossip with her friends.
The liquid notes of the bugles and trumpets were making Jess ache with the need to get out, filling her with a deep longing to be a part of this festive scene. Music always affected her so. But although this would be the second Christmas Eve in the war so far, not forgetting the countless other nights she had spent incarcerated in the cellar while her feckless mother went out on the town, Jess didn’t feel any more resigned to her fate than she had on all those previous occasions.
She began to scratch and scrabble with her fingertips, desperately trying to prise open the window so that she could breathe the crisp cold air. If she were a butterfly or a bird, instead of a girl with blond hair and long, gawky legs, she could fly out through the grill, spread her wings and be free.
Jess pressed her cheek against the cracked pane wishing that her best friend, Leah, would materialise out of the gloom, yet knowing it to be unlikely. Leah would be fully occupied serving toasted tea cakes to pretty ladies in smart hats at Simmons’ Tea Room on the corner of Deansgate where she lived with her parents. She frequently complained about the long hours she had to spend serving tea and washing up, though she would at least be warm, as well as certain of a good meal when she was done for the day and climbed up the stairs to the flat above.
There was never any such treat for herself. No doting mother standing smiling at the cooker, ready with a hot plate of home cooked dinner the moment she walked in through the door. No one to listen to her woes, or sit quietly knitting while she slept soundly in a warm bed.
Jess shivered. She’d tried to provide what comforts she could for the hours she must spend locked in here, a bed of sorts, blankets and a hot water bottle which quickly went cold. Yet, as always, it felt cold and damp in the cellar as well as dark. But once she lit the lamp, she would have to close the blind and then would feel shut off from the world outside, from the people in the street and the hustle and bustle of Christmas. She’d be quite alone, save for her books and her mouth organ, and one miserable Tilly lamp, at least until Lizzie returned to let her out. She always promised to be no more than an hour, two at most, yet would stagger home in the early hours, roaring drunk and more often than not with a sailor on her arm.
Jess dreaded those occasions the most, when she could hear the distant squeals, gasps and screeches of her mother in the throes of a drunken passion. She didn’t care to imagine what went on behind the closed door of her bedroom, but the close proximity of a young daughter never stopped Lizzie making an unholy row about it.
Not that Jess lacked too many details on the great mysteries of love and passion. Lizzie had made sure of that, brutally explaining to her daughter how to keep a man happy. And she’d also seen the messy results: the bruises and bites from her mother’s more ardent suitors, the furtive applications and doses. It all seemed most unsavoury and not in the least Jess’s idea of love and romance.
She realised suddenly that the music had stopped, that a certain hush filled the air. There followed the penetrating wail of the siren which brought a chill to her spine and set her heart pounding like a drum. When she heard the low drone of enemy aircraft approaching, Jess knew it was going to start all over again.
The house shook with the clatter of bombs falling, the crack of explosions, the rumble of buildings collapsing all around. The sky turned blood red as, down by the canal basin, warehouses were set on fire. Even here in the cellar Jess could smell the burning, see great balls of greasy cotton flying about, spreading the fire at lethal speed. Feet were running by the grill in panic now, Christmas shopping forgotten as survival became the only consideration. There were screams and cries as people fell, or lost touch with loved ones.
From her worm’s eye view, Jess could see it all. One elderly woman was knocked flying, bags and basket catapulted from her arms, gifts trodden underfoot as others with less patience pushed past. Jess felt sure it must be the end of the world, that any second the roof of her prison would fall upon her head and squash her flat like a fly.
She turned away from the tiny grilled window to cower in the farthest corner, wrapping her arms tight about her head, blocking out all sensation, save for that of raw terror.
Chapter Two
The all clear sounded just as it was growing too dark to see anything. How long had the raid lasted, she wondered? A couple of hours at least, so it must be after seven, maybe eight by now. Not that it made any difference to Jess what time it was. She was still locked in the cellar with no sign of Lizzie who hadn’t come rushing home to see if her daughter had survived. No doubt she was safely holed up in a shelter somewhere with her latest fella. Jess uncurled herself from her cramped position in the corner and made her way over to the window.
Outside, there was activity of a different sort, people starting to pick up their lives and go about their business again simply because they were able to. Back Irwell Street, so far as Jess could tell, had got off lightly this time.
Who knew what tomorrow might bring but for now she could hear laughter somewhere, loud chatter, and even a few flippant notes on a bugle. Her neighbours were clearly counting their blessings and resolving to carry on, like the stalwarts they were. Patriotism ran high here in Manchester. Not for a moment did they mean to weaken. It was then that she heard a voice calling her name.
‘Jess, is that you? Are you down there?’
‘Leah?’ Peering up through the gloom and grime she could just make out the pale outline of her friend’s face grinning down at her through the pavement grill above the cellar window.
Leah was as dark as Jess was fair, with bright blue eyes and a pretty, heart shaped face. She was a year older and quite sophisticated at sixteen. Nothing ever seemed to get her down as she positively bubbled with fun and laughter. Much as she loved her friend, Jess envied Leah her ability to laugh at life. She’d quite lost the knack of it herself.
‘Cheer up, it’s Christmas,’ Leah said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘We need to get you out of there. Where’s the key?’ She didn’t ask why her best friend was spending Christmas Eve locked in the cellar, having seen her in a similar situation too many times before. She understood about Lizzie, and wouldn’t dream of intruding on Jess’s family affairs unless information was actually volunteered.
‘Hanging on the hook behind the kitchen door.’
‘Right, hold on a tick.’
The face vanished from the grill and Jess felt lonelier than ever, an aching pain of want somewhere below her ribs. How would Leah get in to the kitchen? Lizzie would surely have locked the door before she left. Or she might have forgotten to put the key back on the hook and taken it with her, out of carelessness.
The minutes ticked by, seeming like hours as she waited for rescue. Any last shreds of hope had quite gone when suddenly there came a scratching at the lock and then the cellar door swung open and Leah was right there before her, looking mi
ghtily pleased with herself.
‘Sorry for the delay. Nearly got caught by old Ma Pickles when I climbed over the back yard gate. Well, don’t just stand there. Mother has mince pies for supper and you’re invited.’
‘Oh, I thought you’d all be staying down in the shelter.’
Leah gave a little spurt of laughter. ‘On Christmas Eve? Ma wouldn’t allow even Mr Hitler to ruin her Christmas, not when she’s spent so many hours preparing for it. We must fly the flag, she says. So come on, shake a leg, we’ve even got some of Mr Ruggieri’s ice cream to go with them.’
And suddenly, as so often with her friend, Jess felt as if a great black cloud had lifted, that the sun had come out and life was worth living again.
Carefully closing the cellar door behind them and putting the key safely back on the hook, the two girls slipped out of the house with much helpless giggling at their daring and swung, arm in arm, along the street singing loudly to the strains of There’s a Bluebird on my shoulder.
Jess sat, pink-cheeked, in front of a blazing fire in the crimson and gold living room with its fine mahogany furniture and solid Victorian piano just as if she were a part of this family. She marvelled in silent wonder as they teased and joked with each other, shared amusing stories from their working day and generally seemed to enjoy each other’s company. Even the usually stiff and formal Mr Simmons looked surprisingly relaxed, sitting in his wing chair smiling benignly upon his offspring, making jolly remarks as he smoothed his bristly moustache.
Robert, Leah’s older brother, lay sprawled upon the rug, looking even more handsome than usual in pale grey slacks and a sweater, if rather quiet and sulky. He’d said little since she’d arrived, but then Mr Simmons praised the excellent food they were enjoying and Robert made a barbed comment about not everyone being so fortunate.
His father’s jaw tightened disapprovingly. ‘I understand your resentment at not being in the armed forces, son, but you perform an essential service here in the bakery, make no mistake. And folk must have bread, even in wartime.’
‘If I could at least do something genuinely useful as well, be a fire watcher or something, then it wouldn’t be so bad. Anybody can bake bread, even Jess here.’
For a second Jess held her breath, thinking perhaps this whole, lovely picture of family unity was about to be shattered, but no, the Simmons’ weren’t like that. Very politely, though with a marked sternness, his father responded.
‘Do not bring our innocent guests into this petty squabble. I’ve told you before, when I consider you to be old enough I shall allow you to join me as an ARP.’
‘I’m twenty, old enough now for God’s sake.’
‘It wouldn’t be appropriate for you to join at this juncture. We can’t both take time off from the bakery. Better I take the risks and not you, a young man with all your life before you.’
‘What about all those other young me with their lives before them, those who weren’t rejected for service? What choice do they have but to take whatever risks are necessary?’
‘Please dear, let’s not quarrel, not on Christmas Eve,’ Mrs Simmons intervened, looking anxious. ‘And do listen to Daddy, darling. He really does know best.’
‘Quite.’ Mr Simmons glowered at his son from beneath bushy eyebrows. ‘Hopefully the war will be over by next Christmas and further sacrifice will not be necessary. In the meantime let us enjoy this one, into which your dear mother has invested a great deal of time and effort. Now, perhaps Leah will entertain us on the pianoforte. Come along my dear and cheer us all up.’
Mrs Simmons clapped her hands. ‘Oh yes, that would be lovely.’
Jess hadn’t quite understood all the implications of the small spat between the two men, or the shiver of animosity which had flickered briefly between them but instantly dismissed it as no concern of hers. She was having far too good a time to worry about such minor matters. She felt as if she was in paradise. Earlier, they’d all listened to the King’s College choir on the wireless, and Jess had been utterly enthralled. It had seemed amazing that you could simply turn a knob and hear such beautiful sounds coming out of a box.
Now they all stood around the piano while Leah played a medley of carols for them to sing in loud, happy voices. Mr Simmons with his deep baritone and Mrs Simmons straining slightly at the high notes. Robert proved to have quite a robust, pleasing tone to his voice, and at one point Jess very daringly brought her mouth organ from out of her pocket and accompanied Leah as she played Silent Night.
Mrs Simmons was delighted. ‘My dear girl, that was lovely. You see, we shall enjoy Christmas, in spite of Mr Hitler’s efforts to the contrary.’
Afterwards, tea was served by a maid in a white apron, and the mince pies, as with all the Simmons’ baking, were utterly delicious. Jess savoured every mouth-watering morsel. How they managed to get the fat to bake such wonderful tarts, let alone the fruit and sugar that went into them, Jess couldn’t imagine but instinctively knew that in no respect would Muriel Simmons have broken the law. However difficult procuring the ingredients for a good Christmas for her husband, son and daughter might be, it would be entirely proper and above board.
Unlike the Delaneys, Jess’s own family.
Uncle Bernie and his progeny of good-for-nothing, lay-about rogues were for ever seeking a way to get around regulations, looking for the quick scam and an easy way to make a bit of brass. Aunt Cora did her best to control those sons of hers, with no support from their father. Rough-necks, hooligans, spivs, call them what you will, every last one of them was a Delaney to the core.
Jess missed her own father badly, and not counting her scatter-brained, pathetic, hopelessly inadequate mother who was a huge embarrassment to her, there was really only her aunt who she cared anything about. A big, jolly woman, she was a bit of a card was Cora but then she needed a strong sense of humour having married into the Delaneys, who, as the whole of Deansgate was well aware, spelled Trouble with a capital T.
The Simmons’ family on the other hand were famous with the mill hands and dock workers for their hot pies and currant buns, generously filled and sensibly priced. One step up from the Co-op, many a new bride had enjoyed her wedding reception within the tea room’s cream and burgundy surrounds, and any number of people had been ‘buried with ham’ at moderate cost, served by suitably unobtrusive waitresses.
‘And how is your dear mother?’ Mrs Simmons politely enquired in her soft, carefully modulated voice. Plump and matronly but supremely elegant with her swept-up hair, pleated skirt and powder blue twin set pinned at the collar with a tasteful brooch, she was the kind of mother Jess would have loved to have, despite Leah loudly complaining about her high expectations and strict rules. She was caring and yet perfectly controlled, and with exquisite taste.
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Is she in employment at the moment?’
This was a question to which Jess was accustomed, and she answered with smooth, if ambiguous, dexterity. ‘She helps Uncle Bernie from time to time.’
‘Ah, down at the docks. How useful. And yourself, are you still working on the Market, dear?’
Jess agreed that she did still work at Campfield but was keeping an eye open for something better. It was lively and fun working on the indoor market but Jess was ambitious, keen to better herself, though she wasn’t quite sure how.
‘Have you thought what you might do next?’
She shook her head. There was something about the very kindness of the woman which often left her tongue-tied. Even the scent of her Lily-of-the-Valley perfume made Jess feel very slightly grubby and unclean, not really fit to be seated on plush velvet cushions in this rarefied atmosphere of gracious living.
Muriel Simmons seemed to understand and merely smiled more sweetly than ever. ‘Well, do come and speak to Mr Simmons before you make any final decisions, won’t you dear? He is sometimes in need of help in the shop since girls come and go with alarming frequency. He may well have a position at some time in the
future, for a fine young lady such as yourself.’
‘Thank you, I’ll remember that.’ It troubled Jess that she had no clear vision of what she wanted, how her life might turn out, or where she was heading. Deep down was the fear that she might end up like Lizzie, wasting her life completely by turning into a feckless tart, or drinking herself into a stupor to blunt the reality of failure. Did she even have the brains or the talent to do anything worthwhile? Jess knew that she longed for a bit of lightness and fun, of which she’d enjoyed precious little in her life thus far. Her heart cried out for independence and freedom. Getting away from Back Irwell Street and that dreadful cellar would be a start, what she most yearned for at the moment.
‘Another mince pie, dear?’ Mrs Simmons asked, breaking into her thoughts.
‘No thank you, I couldn’t eat another thing. Besides, I’d best be off.’ Jess glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf, a solid gold piece with a pendulum that swung ponderously to and fro, the fingers pointing to half past nine. There would be hours yet before Lizzie came home but she didn’t like to intrude further on the Simmons’ generosity. She got up to go, carefully folding her napkin and placing it by her empty plate.
‘As you wish dear. Leah, show your friend out. I expect we’ll see you tomorrow. You must pop over after your Christmas lunch and show us your presents.’
Jess almost laughed out loud. Christmas lunch? Presents? That would be the day. No doubt Lizzie would be in The Donkey till closing time. A sharp pain of disappointment stabbed under her ribs at the prospect of the bleak Christmas Day ahead but she ignored it. Where was the point in fretting? Things could be worse. At least they didn’t starve. Lizzie always made sure there was food on the table, even if it was basic fare and Jess the one to cook it. They certainly wouldn’t be having goose as the Simmons family were. But why worry, the war would be over soon, everyone said so, then her dad would come home and everything would be different. Lizzie would have to behave then.
Dancing on Deansgate Page 2