Dancing on Deansgate

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Leave him. That’ll teach him not to interfere in my affairs. Now we need to put as much distance as possible between us.’

  Lizzie made no protest as he dragged her along the street, glancing back only once at the figure still slumped on the cobbles. But not for a moment did she imagine that Bernie had done this out of a fit of jealousy. Oh no, it was the fact she’d not shared her winnings with him, not given him his cut that had got his dander up.

  She realised what she should have known all along: that he didn’t give a toss about her, that all his sweet talk about fancying her rotten was just so much flannel. And didn’t she have the bruises to prove it?

  ‘Can I go home now Bernie? I’ve a right bad head on me tonight.’

  But he wasn’t done with her yet. ‘No, you flipping can’t. Just one last trip around the shops then you can have your Christmas, even if it is a bit late.’

  ‘What do you mean? What d’you want me to do now? Have I not done enough?’

  ‘There you go again, always asking stupid questions. You owe me, Lizzie Delaney, right? So get cracking.’

  She tried to object, saying how she thought it was too busy. ‘It’s too risky, Bernie love, what with the Christmas sales there are too many people about.’ She didn’t say, I’d stand out like a sore thumb with this face on me, though that’s what she really meant.

  Bernie took no notice of her protests. ‘Button your lip and do as I say without any argument for once.’

  He led her from shop to shop, methodically working his way along Deansgate, down King’s Street to St Anne’s Square and the routine was always the same. He kept the assistant occupied with his chat up lines, while Lizzie filled her pockets with whatever little items took her fancy. Sometimes he told her exactly what to take and she mutely obeyed. In Lewis’s she tucked two pairs of leather gloves into the inside pockets of her coat, and slid some nice costume jewellery into her bag. From Taylor’s, she purloined a few packets of Passing Cloud cigarettes. Last but not least, she grabbed several tins of salmon from a stack tucked neatly behind the counter in a small grocer’s shop near Shudehill while Bernie waited outside.

  Lizzie had almost begun to enjoy herself by this time, savouring the excitement, relishing the thrill of the risks, as she always did. She hurried out of the little shop, about to suggest they nipped back to Kendals as she was in need of some new shoes but could see no sign of Bernie anywhere. It was at this point that she came face to face with the policeman.

  It was all over the local papers. ‘Woman gets three months for stealing six cans of salmon,’ followed by some caustic comments on the failure of the government to stamp out black market profiteering.

  It didn’t feel like profiteering to Lizzie. It seemed like a lot of fuss to make about nothing. It wasn’t as if it were best red salmon, only the common pink variety but she’d been nabbed the minute she stepped outside the shop. Who’d have thought the stupid man would be so sharp as to notice and quietly send his lad off to call the police? God knows where he’d got the fish from in the first place. Nowhere legal, Lizzie was certain of it.

  Now she stood in line before the prison warder patiently waiting to be divested of her last remaining dignity. Not that she had much of that left anyroad, much of anything worth writing home about, point of fact. Lizzie knew that she’d long since lost the voluptuousness of her youth, the curves having shrivelled and wizened. All evidence of her former glory leaving in its wake a thin, string bean of a woman with a pale fragility about her; the kind which appealed to the bully in a man.

  Her cheeks were flattened and sunken, making her nose seem too prominent and bony. Her once richly coloured, wavy curls hung in greasy strands on her shoulder, all straggly and unkempt, badly in need of a wash. Even her eyes seemed to have lost their grey-green sparkle, looking pale and lifeless as a washed out dish rag. Where was the glamorous allure, the flashy bravado and the flirtatiousness she’d once been so famous for, and which Jake had accused her of sharing with all and sundry long before that was the case?

  Good job he wasn’t around to see what had happened to her now. She didn’t even have a daub of lipstick or pan-stick to put on as the authorities had taken all her make-up off her, though what did it matter here? Who would even notice, let alone care?

  Having, by some miracle, survived the thrashing Bernie had given her, here she was facing three months in Strangeways. Lizzie’s eyes filled with a sudden gush of tears. Her mam had beaten her when she was a nipper, over and over on her backside with the scrubbing brush, although half the time she never knew what she’d done to deserve such punishment. Now her husband had abandoned her, his nasty brother had taken over, and it was all happening all over again, despite her being a grown woman. Didn’t seem right somehow.

  Lizzie edged along the line and when her turn came, sat on the toilet with the door wide open so the prison warders could see that she was not trying to abscond. Though how she could make a run for it with her knickers round her ankles was hard to imagine. Oh no, Lizzie hadn’t lost her sense of humour. Not quite, anyroad.

  Next, she was stripped and thoroughly investigated in every orifice, given a bath with a large dollup of disinfectant in the water and yet more dumped on her hair till she stank to high heaven.

  Accept your lot, that was the answer, Lizzie told herself as she tentatively scraped the rough bristles of the bath brush over the bruises that covered her back and skinny ribs. Even the warders had asked a few awkward questions about these but had quickly lost interest. No doubt they were used to such sights. Where was the point in trying to make things different?

  It was sad that this was what she’d come to, after all her hopes and dreams. She’d once imagined that she’d fallen on her feet proper in marrying Jake Delaney, but then it had all gone wrong and her world had fallen apart, all over a bit of nonsense one Christmas.

  She’d been relieved at first when he’d gone and joined up. At last there’d be an end to the constant bickering and arguing between them. He could go and fight in a real battle instead of a nightly one over the lack of trust he showed in his own wife. But then she’d found herself all alone and had felt utterly bereft. What was she supposed to do? Work on the docks, in a mill or a munitions factory, for God’s sake?

  When they were first married, Lizzie had worked at Gatrix’s but once she’d had Jess, she’d never needed or fancied getting a proper job again, and flogging herself to death doing war work wasn’t her idea of fun at all. No Delaney worth their salt believed in wasting unnecessary effort unless it was absolutely necessary, not if there was an easier way to make money, so why should she? None save for Jake that is, her toss-pot of a husband, and the saintly Cora who seemed to spend her entire life cleaning up after all those kids of hers. No doubt she’d be chortling with glee to see her rival brought so low.

  After the bath, the prison warder brought out a pair of scissors and began cutting Lizzie’s hair into an unflatteringly short bob. ‘Hair to be kept off the collar at all times. We have enough vermin in here.’

  Lizzie silently sank into abject misery as she watched the shreds of her former glory fall to the ground about her feet. It had taken years to grow it so long and it near broke her heart to lose it. What Jake would have to say when he saw it, she didn’t dare to contemplate. But then he’d furious anyway when he heard she was in jail. This would only offer further proof of her inadequacy as a wife and mother.

  Not a single week from the first day he’d joined the army had Jake failed to write Jess a long and loving letter. He also wrote regularly to Lizzie from France or Italy, or wherever he happened to be. She thought he might be out East now. Singapore or Africa. Not that she paid much attention, and cared even less. His letters told her little about what he was doing as they were generally filled with questions about his precious daughter.

  ‘Is she doing well at school?’

  ‘Sharp as a knife she is.’

  ‘Does she ever get sick?’

  ‘Of course,
she’s a kid.’

  ‘Are you getting enough rations and managing to keep her warm and well fed?’

  ‘No thanks to you, we get by.’

  ‘Watch over her carefully, Lizzie love. She’ll go far will our sweet lass. See you take good care of my girl while I’m away.’

  Lizzie could imagine the tears of pride brimming in his soft brown eyes as he wrote the words. ‘It’d be easier if I had more money coming in than a private’s pay,’ she would tartly respond. ‘What did you have to go and join up for?’

  Back would come the next letter written in a tone which echoed the hurt he felt because she couldn’t understand his motives. ‘I’m sorry you blame me for volunteering but it’s my duty, surely you can see that. You wouldn’t want me to be a coward, now would you? And I’m in line for sergeant soon, that’ll help a bit, happen.’

  Always had an answer for everything did Jake.

  He seemed to think she didn’t care, which wasn’t true at all. Lizzie worried a good deal about Jess. Every time she looked at her, the girl had her nose in a book, was studying a sheet of music, or playing that dratted mouth organ. She might agree with Jake that their daughter was special and not want her to repeat her own trail of misfortune, yet Lizzie had no real idea how to go about achieving this seemingly impossible ambition; not in this neighbourhood, even if there weren’t bombs dropping every five minutes, or so it seemed.

  Nor did she have sufficient faith in Jess’s ability to escape the inevitable downward slide which seemed to be the lot of all women: marriage, babies and total slavery with no happy-ever-after. Some women might think they’d escaped it by getting exciting jobs because of the war, working in factories, on the Ship Canal, on buses and trams, but come the day when the men returned home again, they’d be chucked back on the dung heap, back to the kitchen sink.

  ‘Mind you don’t get too serious. Fellas don’t like girls who are too po-faced, and you want to catch yourself a good one,’ Lizzie had warned her daughter, quite forgetting how they might never have survived if Jess hadn’t proved quite so capable, so well organised and mature.

  What would happen to poor Jess now?

  Admittedly the girl was bright, sensible and practical, so much so that there were times when Lizzie felt herself to be the encumbrance, thinking the lass would probably do better on her own. Well, she was on her own now. Having a convict for a mother wouldn’t help her get that good job she’d hoped for. So far as Lizzie could see, there’d be no hope for either of them after this.

  In complete silence the warden handed Lizzie a nightshirt and toothbrush. Dressed in regulation cotton dress, woollen stockings and flannelette underwear, she was led up a metal staircase, along a landing to where a door stood open. Lizzie was ushered inside.

  ‘Not quite the Ritz, is it?’ she drily remarked but as she turned to check if the officer would give her an answering smile, she found the door of her cell banged shut in her face. Lizzie thought she would never forget the sound of it closing, or the rattle of the key in the lock as it turned, no matter how long she lived.

  Chapter Five

  Jess had been living with Uncle Bernie and Aunt Cora for a whole month and, despite her aunt’s efforts to make her feel wanted, absolutely hated it. Every morning she would prepare breakfast for her three cousins, Harry, Bert and Tommy before they went off to work down at the docks, as well as for Sandra who was nine and went to Atherton Street School. This must be the first honest work the three lads had ever done in their lives. The older two were only doing it in preference to serving in the forces for which at twenty-two and twenty they were eligible. Strangely, it was skinny little Tommy who, at sixteen, was itching to be called up, much to his poor mother’s dismay.

  ‘You couldn’t push an ‘ole in an echo,’ she’d say, ‘let alone fight Germans.’

  Poor Tommy would flush and protest. ‘I might not have put on much weight, Ma, but I’m fair strong.’

  ‘Eat your breakfast then and shurrup. You’ve legs on you that a linnet would be proud of.’

  It was proving handy for Bernie to have his sons involved in loading and unloading at the docks where they could keep an eye open for broken crates and other goods that chanced to go astray.

  ‘One never knows what might fall off the back of a lorry,’ he’d say.

  It was also easy to overload a van with more meat or other rationed goods than had been accounted for, and send it off on a slight detour. Bernie had a growing list of shopkeepers glad enough of anything they could get not to ask too many questions.

  While Jess was seeing to the older boys, Aunt Cora would slop about in her carpet slippers and tatty old blue dressing gown, happily chivvying her family.

  ‘Look sharp. No dilly-dallying allowed here.’

  Most of her attention was given to attending to the five year old twins who had just started school and were referred to by Bernie as the result of pilot error, which Jess didn’t think was very nice. She liked the twins, again both boys: Seb and Sam, and would much rather have made breakfast for them rather than those hulking great lumps. If she ever spoke to nine year old Sandra, the girl would glower at her and sulk or make spiteful little comments.

  ‘We don’t want you here. Who said you could come and live with us?’

  ‘Your dad, actually.’

  ‘Well, don’t think he can be your dad too. He’s mine.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re welcome to him.’ And Sandra would flounce off in a huff.

  Harry, the oldest, greediest and biggest show-off of the brothers, would shovel porridge into his mouth at record speed along with several slices of bread and whatever else was going, washed down by copious amounts of tea. He also complained loudly if Jess didn’t have his snap tin and brew can ready the minute he was ready for off.

  ‘And put more sugar in it this time,’ he instructed, making a double decker sandwich comprising a cream cracker plastered with syrup wedged between two thick slices of bread. Jess watched in horrified fascination as he took a huge bite and managed to talk as he chewed, dribbles of butter and syrup running over the stubble on his unshaven chin.

  ‘We don’t have enough points for more sugar. You get what we can spare.’

  ‘Nay, don’t talk to me about points and ration books,’ he said, spitting cracker crumbs all over the tatty oil cloth that covered the kitchen table. ‘Me dad always has plenty.’

  Bert chipped in, ‘Don’t be so mean, our Jess. I like it sweet too. Ladle it in, we can get some more,’ and taking the spoon from her, did just that, scattering sugar everywhere and knocking over the milk bottle in the process. It made her wonder, not for the first time, how the Delaney family managed always to have so much food in their larder and be so careless with it, when everyone else was making do with a dab of marg or an ounce of corned beef. She wasn’t so innocent as to put it all down to Cora’s skilful housekeeping. No wonder poor Lizzie had ended up the way she had, having been dragged into Bernie’s nefarious schemes.

  Of Bernie himself at breakfast there was never any sign. Cora always made him a bit of a fry-up later, once she’d got everyone out of the house and he had time to eat it in peace. Lucky Bernie, Jess thought, as she managed no more than a few spoonfuls of the porridge and a quick slurp of tea before dashing off to work herself, at the last minute, as usual, gritting her teeth and slapping tears of self pity from her eyes.

  It might well be true that her uncle’s life had been hard. Not that that was unusual on the streets of Manchester, particularly during the depression years, yet not everyone turned into a petty criminal. He was fond of reminding them how he’d acquired his skills at the school of hard knocks, bragging about how the amount he earned in his wage packet had only been half the story and a quarter of the profit.

  But none of that excused the way he’d treated Lizzie. This shop lifting episode was simply the latest in a long history of abuse, and the worst to date. Jess had told him so in no uncertain terms as they’d come away from the magistrate’s c
ourt after seeing her sent down. Jess had felt so aggrieved and concerned for her mother, she hadn’t been able to help herself.

  ‘She’d never be in Strangeways if it weren’t for you. She should’ve been home with me that night, safe in her own bed, not picking pockets and shoplifting. It’s a wonder you have the gall even to look me in the eye after what you’ve done.’

  ‘I didn’t teach her to nick stuff. She learned that little trick all by herself. Makes her feel good.’

  ‘But you encouraged her. You took your cut.’ Jess had felt all hot and bothered, terrified about what was going to happen next. To Lizzie, and to herself.

  Bernie had simply smirked. ‘Eeh, I do like a lass with a bit of spunk who knows how to speak her mind. I admire you for sticking up for your mam but the problem with our Lizzie is that she doesn’t think big. She’s not clever enough, bless her. She’s like a magpie lifting a few pretty trinkets and knick-knacks here and there. Complete waste of time, as she’s bound to get nicked in the end.’

  ‘But you actively encouraged her, even instructed her on what to steal.’

  ‘Where would you be today, little lady, without me? You’d have no home for a start. Come to think of it, you can’t stop in Back Irwell Street on your own, not a young girl like you. Not now your mam’s in t’clink.’

  ‘I’ll be all right on my own, ta very much. I’m fifteen, nearly sixteen. I can manage to look after myself well enough, as I have been doing for years.’

  ‘Nay, I’ll not be accused of child cruelty on top of everything else, so I’ll have no more lip from you, madam. Get your bags packed. You’ll come to round to ours.’

  And so the worst period of her life had begun. Bernie had let out their old house and she’d moved into the overcrowded little house on Cumberland Street. But Jess had made up her mind that this was only temporary. Once her mam was released, they’d find another house, or a room to rent somewhere. Then they could make a fresh start. She meant to take much better care of Lizzie in future, keep her out of pubs, and away from sailors. And Jess would make absolutely certain that her mother had nothing whatsoever to do with Uncle Bernie and his nasty schemes. How she would achieve this seeming miracle she’d no idea, but she’d certainly try. Hadn’t he done enough damage already?