Dancing on Deansgate

by Freda Lightfoot

  Chapter Eight

  A day or two later, Bernie came home early from his football match one Saturday afternoon instead of going for his usual pint at The Globe, mainly because he had a bit of business to do later and had decided to have an early tea. He found no sign of any food on the kitchen table, only Ma Pickles chatting with his wife. How women loved to gossip! He expected her to up-tail and run at sight of him but, engrossed with a story she was evidently enjoying telling, she made no move to go. The whole family seemed to be riveted by her tale. Jess was sitting enthralled, a look of horror on her face. Cora leaned forward in her chair so as not to miss a word, with Sandra clinging to her mother’s arm. Even Harry and Bert appeared eager for every juicy detail.

  ‘What’s all this then?’ Bernie asked, unable to help himself.

  ‘Go on,’ Cora said. ‘Tell him.’

  Ma Pickles was more than happy to provide a résumé, relishing running through her gory tale yet again. ‘It’s Cissie Armitage, her what works at the Co-op. She was bombed-out the other night, and didn’t get off lightly. Her Jack lost both his legs in the blast.’

  Cora began to look faintly green and Bernie realised the old woman was almost enjoying her story. ‘Get on with it, you old bag.’

  Ma Pickles sniffed loudly, unfazed by his scorn. ‘One of her childer were killed outright in his cot when the roof fell in and poor Cissie’s a bag of nerves as a result. They took her and the other two kids down the shelter to give them first aid. They’re right enough, bless ‘em, but she’ll never be the same again. As if she hadn’t suffered enough with all of that lot, when she got back home there was a load of stuff missing. There’s something fishy going on, I says to her. It’s a funny sort of bomb what leaves your handbag intact and blasts all the shillings from your purse. And you know where she kept her rent book, same as everyone else, on the corner of the mantelshelf?’

  Cora nodded gravely.

  ‘Well, it was still where it should be, right next to the spills what she uses to light the fire. But the ration books and identity cards what should have been with it, were gone. Now what sort of clever bomb is that, d’you reckon, what can pick and choose which bits of paper it destroys? And clever enough to pick a few bits and bobs of trinkets out of Cissie’s little box in her top drawer. She was right cut up about them, I can tell you. Even her mother’s wedding ring were taken.’

  Fascinated, despite himself, by this sordid tale, Bernie slid his gaze in the direction of his two sons and realisation slowly dawned. He could see by the twin spots of colour on Harry’s ghost pale cheeks, and the way Bert was fidgeting with the buttons on his overalls, just exactly what they’d been up to. He should’ve known. The morbid little scavengers. What kind of sons had he raised? Where was the skill, the wit, the canny judgement in picking over folks’ belongings while they were in an air raid shelter. Yet it was cunning. He could see that. Pity he hadn’t thought of it himself. But then he’d have chosen a better target than Cissie Armitage.

  The moment Ma Pickles had gone, he jerked his head in the direction of the back door. ‘A word. Outside.’

  The two lads sidled out into the yard without protest, Cora and Jess watching with some trepidation as Bernie lifted the strap from the hook behind the back door.

  ‘What’s wrong now?’

  ‘Never you mind.’

  ‘Don’t do anything you might regret, Bernie,’ wailed Cora, wringing her hands together.

  ‘Don’t worry, there won’t be any regrets.’

  Once upon a time, when they were young lads, he might have instructed them to drop their britches. Now he flexed the strap and told them to hold out their hands instead. Bert meekly obeyed but had Bernie not been so arrogantly certain of his power, he might have noticed that at twenty-two, going on twenty-three, this was one step too far for Harry. He was inwardly steaming with anger. It came as something of a shock when his eldest son point blank refused.

  ‘Like hell I will,’ he muttered, half under his breath.

  Hand still outstretched though trembling with anticipation of the blows to come, Bert said. ‘What did we do, Dad?’

  ‘You know damn’ well what you did. Without any by your leave.’

  ‘Hey, we got some good stuff. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘What‘s wrong? What’s wrong with that?’

  Harry gave a snort of derisive laughter. ‘I’ll tell you what we did wrong Bert, we left him out of it. We didn’t give the great Bernie Delaney, our clever Dad here, his cut. And why didn’t we? Because he’s past it.’

  Without pausing to consider the wisdom of his action, Bernie aimed a punch deep into his son’s belly. Harry doubled over, giving a surprised grunt, yet was barely winded. When the second one came, an open handed clout across the side of head, he staggered a bit but quickly righted himself. And still Bernie paid no attention to how his son’s eyes narrowed, the expression in them hardening as a private resolve was made.

  Harry most certainly considered himself too old to be beaten by his father, and had no intention of allowing it to happen again. So when Bernie swung the next punch at his jaw, not only did it fail to connect, but his hand was caught in mid-air by Harry’s huge fist, to be held in a crushing grip.

  ‘You great clot-head, I’ll wallop you one,’ Bernie gasped.

  ‘Just try it.’

  ‘Choose your window and I’ll throw you through it.’

  ‘You and who’s flaming army?’

  Bernie seemed to have run out of threats, and very nearly out of puff so father and son glared furiously at each other, almost nose to nose, their eyes revealing all their pent-up frustration and anger. Then, after several more long seconds, Harry finally released the hand, knowing that he’d made his point.

  Bernie flexed his bruised fingers, shocked to the core but desperately trying not to show it. When did these lads of his grow so strong? ‘It’s a challenge you want then, is that it?’

  ‘It might be.’

  ‘What, an arm wrestle, to see who’s top dog?’ If he couldn’t control these lads with his fists any more, he’d have to think of some other way or he was done for.

  Unable to resist this offer to flaunt his impressive skill in arm wrestling, Harry grinned and began to roll up his sleeve. While his attention was thus distracted, Bernie lunged at him. He grabbed hold of Harry’s collar and flattened him against the back yard wall, nearly cracking his skull against the stone. ‘Don’t you dare to challenge me, you no good, useless lump of lard. And next time you go scavenging, don’t do it anywhere near my home. Pick a better target. It’s carelessness like that that could get you caught, and me along with you, once the polis start poking their flaming noses in our business. Right?’

  Surprise registered briefly on Harry’s face. He felt quite capable of throwing his father off but he could sense Bernie restraining himself. The reprimand was mild by past standards, and he did have a point. Happen he had been a mite careless. Nevertheless, he was determined not to give in too easily. ‘How could I get caught? Everyone was in the shelter, including the Mickey Mouse police.’

  ‘Open your ears and I’ll say it one more time so there’s no mistaking you understand. Stay away from bombed-out houses in this locality. Go where you’re not so well known, and where you don’t know who you’re nicking from. Is that clear? Have I drummed it into your thick skull? That way we’re less likely to suffer repercussions, either by folk like Ma Pickles poking her beak in where it’s not wanted, or the polis. Right?’

  Bert was dancing around, almost wetting his pants with anxiety. ‘Don’t thump our Harry again but we can’t do that, Dad. We’re demolition men now and must go where we’re told.’

  With a great show of reluctance, Bernie released his hold on his son. ‘Demolition? What rubbish is this?’

  Shaking himself free and dusting down the new jacket he’d bought for himself, Harry said, ‘Aye, it pays better than the docks, and there are more opportunities. Nobody asks questions of demolition work
ers poking about a bomb site.’

  Bernie was stunned by this new information but saw at once that this might well be true. Yet it rankled that his sons should show such enterprise without even consulting him first. They were getting even more canny than he’d given them credit for. It strengthened his suspicion that they believed they could please themselves what they did, which wasn’t the case at all. He was still the boss, still in charge.

  ‘So you thought you’d cut me out of the deal, is that the way of it? Well, don’t ever try to pull a fast one like that on me again, right? Anyroad, what did you collar? Money? Coupons? Whatever it is, hand it over. I’m still the boss round here and don’t you two every forget it.’

  With grudging ill will, Harry pulled a few trinkets from various pockets. A couple of watches, a ring, a couple of five pound notes, and Bert handed over a wad of petrol coupons.

  ‘That’s more like it. Right, we’ll say no more on the subject. Just see that you keep me informed in future.’

  It was only after Bernie had gone back inside, certain he’d re-established his position as head of the hierarchy that Harry muttered, ‘Just like I told you, Bert. He’s lost his nerve. And if you ever tell him we didn’t give him everything, I’ll wring your flaming neck.’

  Jess buttoned up her best navy blue coat against a cold north wind that was rattling the kitchen window and tugged on warm woolly gloves. The coat was too short and a bit tight about the chest since she’d grown quite a bit recently, sprouting breasts which were a great embarrassment to her. But the coat would have to do, much as she hated it. She certainly couldn’t wear her old school gabardine. Jess felt prickly with nerves, all jittery inside, not that worrying about how she was dressed would help one bit. True to her word, Leah had asked her father about a job and Jess had been granted an interview. She’d brushed her dark brown hair till it shone, scrubbed her nails, which seemed to be important in the circumstances, and put on her only decent navy skirt and a clean white blouse. Now she could only hope and pray that she didn’t look as awful as she felt.

  Cora, who had come to know the girl well in these last weeks recognised the problem instantly.

  ‘Nay, don’t get in a fret, you look champion. Remember it’s only Mr Simmons and you know him well enough. Besides, grand girl like you he’d be daft not to give you a job, assuming you want one, of course.’

  Much as Cora admired her niece, she was a bit nonplussed by her capacity for hard work. As well as helping her with the childer, she spent most evenings working with the Sally Army on their mobile canteens. And she was still looking for a better job, as she called it, a step up from the market stall.

  ‘Course I want it.’ Working in a confectioner’s shop might not have been her first choice or in any way glamorous, but at least it would put her on the road to independence, and there was always the chance of being asked to work in the tea rooms where there was the possibility of tips. If she saved hard, she’d soon have enough to move away from her uncle’s and make a home of their own for herself and Lizzie, even if not quite in time for her release in a few weeks time. But she couldn’t say any of this to Aunt Cora, who’d shown her nothing but kindness.

  ‘It’s important that I make a good impression. Mr Simmons has a reputation for being a bit of a stickler for what’s proper and correct. Good manners, rules, stuff like that. Deep down, Leah says, he’s a fair man and a good employer, if not exactly generous, but he likes things to be done just so. He calls it running a tight ship.’

  ‘Aye, bosses are like that,’ Cora said with feeling, and wound a scarf about the girl’s neck. ‘See you don’t hang about in the wet. We don’t want you sickening for something.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’ She’d been invited on several occasions to stay for supper at the Simmons’s in recent months, despite her mother being in jail. No mention was ever made of Lizzie, and there were no more offerings of mince pies or similar items of home baking but, either out of pity, charity, or sheer good nature, the family had raised no objection to her continuing friendship with Leah, for which Jess was immensely grateful.

  Leah’s friendship was important to her. She loved going to the dances with her friend and although she’d found herself looking out for him, she’d never again spotted Steve Wyman, which often left her feeling low and disappointed. Not that you could feel down for long, not with Leah chivvying her to dance with every sailor, soldier or airman who asked.

  Cora said, ‘Don’t forget to call at the butchers on your way back. Ask him if he has some of them nice sausages. And if you see any interesting queues, tag on behind just in case. Who knows what might be going.’ She thrust a ration book into her hand and Jess stared at the unfamiliar name on the front cover.

  ‘It’s my cousin. My other cousin. He’s planning to stop with us for a few days,’ Cora said. Even if her plump cheeks hadn’t been flushed, Jess would’ve known it for a lie. There’d been a few too many strange happenings during the weeks of her stay. For one thing, both Cora and Bernie seemed to have two sets of identity papers, each bearing different names, which meant they also had two different sets of ration books that they used in different shops. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember the details when Cora sent her out shopping.

  Leah had complained recently about the Simmons’s identity cards and some money going missing while they’d been in the shelter one time. She’d been outraged to hear Ma Pickles’ story the other day. It was hard to imagine anyone so heartless as to steal while an air raid was in progress. In Leah’s case, they’d even taken a few trinkets from her mother’s jewellery case on her dressing table.

  Jess had sympathised but now a small fear kindled in the pit of her stomach. That theft couldn’t have anything to do with the Delaneys, could it? Was that why Uncle Bernie had taken both lads out in the yard for a skelping? Lord, she hoped not. She wanted Mrs Simmons to go on issuing invitations so that she could continue to taste a little of normal family life, even if it wasn’t her own. Visiting the Simmons’ house was her main sanctuary, besides the Sally Army. Mrs Simmons had once or twice allowed her to practise her trumpet while she accompanied her on the piano. Jess couldn’t bear it if the Delaneys messed that up for her as well.

  ‘Isn’t it wrong for Uncle Bernie to have so many spare coupons, Aunt Cora?’ Jess blurted out the question with the innocence of a young girl who still believed in the ideal that everyone should pull together, particularly during war-time.

  Cora, wiser by a mile, let out a heavy sigh. ‘Rationing is a blight on the poor. You don’t think the rich are hide-bound by it, do you? They have the money to get round such things, get round owt in fact.’

  ‘But how could they? I mean, however much money you might have, you can’t buy a new frock unless you have enough clothing coupons, can you?’

  ‘Has anyone ever told you girl, if you’d any more mouth, you’d have no face to wash.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Jess looked puzzled.

  ‘You talk too much.’

  ‘But where does Bernie get them all from? I found a whole box of coupons when I was cleaning your bedroom yesterday.’

  Now Cora looked thoroughly alarmed and distressed, glancing fearfully about as if she half expected her husband to appear before them as if by magic. ‘Nay, don’t let on to Bernie you’ve been snooping. Cleaning our bedroom, whatever next? He won’t like that, not one little bit. He’s a very private man, with his own way of going about things is our Bernie.’

  ‘But don’t you worry about him?’

  Cora’s tone grew sharp, with a bitter ring to it. ‘Course I worry, but I know how to keep my lip buttoned and not ask too many questions, a skill you’d do well to learn.’ Softening her voice a little, she stroked Jess’s pale cheek. ‘You have to be careful, lass. He might seem generous to a fault, always fetching us good things to eat and bringing the kids new clothes and such, but underneath he’d take skin of your rice pudding if he had a greater need for it. So don’t go poking your nose in whe
re you shouldn’t. Leave all his cupboards and drawers firmly shut tight, particularly under the stairs. Got it?’ And nodding meaningfully, she ladled an extra spoonful of sugar into Jess’s mug of tea.

  Not that Jess wanted it, she was growing to quite dislike sugar. Besides, Cora might be happy to sit hour after hour sipping tea and gossiping with her niece, her neighbours, or her children but Jess preferred to be out and about, living life to the full. And this morning she was particularly anxious to be on her way.

  ‘I reckon I’d best be going. I don’t want to be late.’

  ‘Aye, all right love, but remember what I said. Your a grand lass, and Simmons’s Tea Rooms will be the loser if they don’t sign you up on the spot.’

  Cora was marching her niece briskly to the door as she said all of this, smoothing the collar of the navy blue coat, tucking in the scarf, checking Jess had her bag and the ration book.

  ‘I don’t think it’s in the tea rooms, Aunt Cora. I think it’s just serving bread and cakes in the shop.’

  ‘Well, that’s a start, I suppose.’ Cora looked doubtful but then a thought struck her and her face brightened. ‘Here, you might be given the odd stale loaf, you never know. Or some muffins, or Eccles cakes. Eeh, I do love Eccles cakes. So think on now. Chin up and best foot forward.’

  Jess suddenly felt a wealth of compassion for this over-sized, big-hearted woman in her wrap-over pinny and carpet slippers and gave her a hug. ‘Thanks. What would I have done without you these last weeks?’

  How could such a caring, warm person endure living with her loathsome uncle? Poor Cora had gone from being bullied at school as a girl, to being equally bullied by her husband. Was that how it was, once a victim, always a victim? Jess had never actually seen any physical evidence that Bernie beat his wife, but she knew for a fact he was capable of such violence, had witnessed his temper with her own eyes when he’d attacked Lizzie. He might well be clever enough to inflict bruises upon his wife where they didn’t show. Cora was certainly afraid of him.