Dancing on Deansgate

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Quite clearly because he’s considered to be a serious threat to peace,’ said Steve drily.

  Rage bubbled through her veins. ‘That’s ridiculous. Preposterous! An absolute scandal! He’s an old man, not a threat to anyone. Who would do such a thing? The City Council? The Mayor, was it? Government officials? Where would I find them? I shall give them a piece of my mind.’

  She set off at a brisk pace down the road, as if about to march that very minute right into the Council offices and take them all on: the mayor, the corporation and the city fathers, while her blood was still boiling. Steve caught her up and grabbed her elbow.

  ‘Jess, hold on. You’re wasting your time. It has nothing to do with anyone locally. This is a government thing. The local council tried to protect him but in the end they had no say.’

  ‘But it’s so wrong! How can they imagine Mr Yoffey of all people to be a threat to anyone, a dear old man like that? And how could you even imply that he is?’

  ‘I was being sarcastic. I didn’t mean you to take me seriously. Oh, don’t cry Jess. Please, I can’t bear to see a girl cry.’

  She wiped the tears from her cheeks. ‘How do you know my name? I never got around to telling you that time, not at the dance, nor in the shop. And Mr Yoffey promised that he’d not tell you either.’

  ‘For once he broke his word. Look, it’s my fault, don’t blame the old man. Will you let me buy you a cup of tea, then I can explain?’

  He took her to the Ritz, to the afternoon tea dance. The stage was brightly lit, the place heaving with people as always, many in uniform and all bent on having a good time. People were laughing and talking to each other as they jigged about to the music with varying degrees of skill, finding tongues loosened on the dance floor which might otherwise be tied up with shyness.

  The band was playing The Jersey Bounce and it was all Jess could do to resist tapping her feet. Instead, she folded her arms and put on her most disapproving expression.

  Steve was looking a bit shame-faced. ‘I thought this would be as convenient a place as any for us to talk as I have to go to work in a minute, or would you rather dance first?’

  Jess couldn’t wait to get on to the dance floor, to be held in his arms as she’d long dreamed of doing, to feel the heat of his body pressed close against hers, but not for a moment would she admit as much. She scowled furiously at him. ‘Work where, at the aircraft factory?’

  ‘Nope, up there, on stage. My spare time job.’

  For a moment she was startled by this unexpected piece of information, but obstinately didn’t show it. ‘You’re lucky to have any spare time at all. Most of us are too busy working at a proper job as well as doing our bit for the war effort.’ It was unkind, she knew it, but some devil had got inside her and she couldn’t seem to stop the hurtful words from pouring out of her mouth.

  ‘Mr Yoffey told me that you spend your spare time helping the Salvation Army. A worthy cause. Or is that how you pay for your trumpet lessons?’

  ‘That’s not why I do it at all. I just like helping. Well, in a way it is. I mean . . .’ Jess felt flustered, as if he’d caught her out in an untruth. ‘It sounds like you and Mr Yoffey had quite a chat. It’s a wonder my ears weren’t burning.’

  ‘Sorry, but I admit to applying pressure by explaining that we were already acquainted. He was quite moved by the tale of how we were whisked apart before properly getting through the basic introductions. I assume you do remember how well we danced together on that first occasion? Which is why I thought you might wish to repeat the experience. However, I’m not the sort of chap to push myself forward where I’m not wanted.’

  Jess could feel her traitorous cheeks start to burn and decided it was far safer to go on the attack. ‘I rather assumed you hadn’t recognised me, or you’d forgotten we’d already met, which is fine by me.’

  ‘How could I ever forget?’

  Not sure what to make of the implications behind this enigmatic statement, she hurried on, ‘I take it you don’t approve of women trumpet players?’ thereby sharply reminding him of their differences.

  He grinned happily at her. ‘I don’t recall saying any such thing. I do remember commenting that you had purloined my trumpet.’

  Jess glanced down at the instrument case clasped in her hand, then hugged it defensively close to her chest. ‘Purloined?’

  He saw the gesture and chuckled. ‘Borrowed then, and refused to return it. It’s all right. I’m not going to steal it back. I’ve accepted defeat on that one. For now, anyway. Let’s check it safely into the cloakroom, shall we? Neutral territory.’

  Jess reluctantly handed over the case to the smiling girl, took a ticket in return and, as always, stuffed this inside her shoe so that she wouldn’t lose it. Breathing deeply as she struggled to decide how to handle what could turn into a tricky situation, she told him, ‘I didn’t steal it. That’s not how it was at all.’

  ‘Well you certainly weren’t for handing it back, were you? Even though I’d brought every penny I possessed to pay for it. How would you feel if you’d been forced to hock your favourite instrument and then some idiot who thought they could play, nicked it from you.’

  Jess gasped. ‘I’ve told you, I didn’t nick it! I’m not an idiot and I can play.’

  He had the gall to laugh. ‘Who told you that? Some tinpot do-gooding Salvation Army chap, I suppose. What would he know about real music?’

  ‘A great deal, as a matter of fact. What’s more if you think I’m . . .’

  The wind was knocked out of their argument as an airman grabbed hold of Jess to whisk her on to the dance floor. The band had struck up ‘Boomps-a-Daisy’ and soon she was bumping backsides with a perfect stranger while Steve, she couldn’t help noticing, was rocking with laughter as a very fetching strawberry blonde in WRNS uniform wiggled her bottom at him.

  This was followed by the Hokey-Cokey with a good deal of shaking of arms and legs, then the St Bernard’s Waltz with much stamping of feet following by the Gay Gordons where Jess thought her head might never stop spinning again. But how could she resist when she was having the time of her life. It was all great fun. Finally, as the music changed to the Progressive Barn Dance she found herself back with Steve, except that the moment he had her firmly in his arms, he practically frog-marched her from the dance floor.

  ‘Right, let’s get this sorted out once and for all.’

  ‘You could at least buy me a cup of tea first.’

  ‘It’s included in the price of the ticket.’

  ‘Which you don’t even have to pay for, presumably, since you’re going to play in the band.’

  ‘At least I can play.’

  ‘We’ll let your audience be the judge of that.’

  ‘And at least I didn’t nick someone else’s instrument.’

  For a long moment Jess glared furiously at him, and then suddenly she saw the funny side of it all. They weren’t getting anywhere, only going round in circles. She recognised a mischievous challenge in his gold-flecked hazel eyes and could hold back no longer. She began to giggle, then to laugh, and as if thankful to be relieved of the effort not to, so did he. They laughed so much that tears ran down her cheeks and she had to hold on to his arm to prevent herself from toppling over.

  ‘Jess, that was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. Thank you,’ and without warning, he gathered her into his arms and kissed her. She didn’t protest, she couldn’t possibly have done so. She felt herself melt against him, aware only of the soft warmth of his lips, the powerful strength of his hard body against hers, the magic of the moment. It felt like being welcomed home.

  Jess had somehow discovered an enormous appetite, and consumed Steve’s slice of cake which came with the tea, along with her own. They talked and talked, oblivious of time, right up until the moment he went on stage to play his saxophone. Jess retrieved her own instrument from the cloakroom but instead of dashing off to catch her bus, as she should, couldn’t resist lingering to listen. He pla
yed The Way You Look Tonight and she was utterly entranced, not least by the fact that his eyes rarely left her throughout. It was as if they were alone in the ballroom and he was playing only for her. Jess felt privileged to be singled out amongst all the other adoring girls crowding around the stage.

  He finished to rapturous applause from his adoring audience but then after whispering something to the band leader, approached the microphone and spoke softly into it.

  ‘Folks, we have a special treat for you today. We have with us this afternoon a young girl with a very special gift. I am reliably informed by a dear old friend of mine that she has no mean skill with a trumpet herself. So let me introduce to you, Jess Delaney. Come on Jess. Step up on stage and enchant us all.’ And as he held out a hand towards her, everyone turned to look in the direction he pointed.

  Jess felt as if she might die on the spot. She knew her cheeks were burning like fire and wanted nothing more than for the floor to open and swallow her up. She could feel the music case holding Steve’s very own trumpet scalding her hand. Was this his revenge for her appropriating it?

  She could see his eyes twinkling at her and realised that he was issuing a challenge. This was his way of saying, so go on then, prove to me that you’re worthy of owning my trumpet. Play it well or hand it back. Drat the man, if he expected her to turn and run, he’d mistaken his opponent.

  Hardly able to believe that her feet were actually taking her there, Jess made her way up the steps on to the stage. People were standing back to let her through, smiling and clapping, looking her over with open curiosity.

  Was she quite mad? Did she want to make a complete fool of herself in front of this crowd, some of them professional dancers?

  Her hands were shaking as she lifted the trumpet from its case, and Jess was quite sure for that she would drop it, perhaps even dent it as she had the Salvation Army bugle. Then Steve’s hands were on her shoulders as he turned her gently to face the audience.

  ‘Keep smiling and tell me what you want to play.’

  Jess swallowed and looked about her. The bright lights were so dazzling she could scarcely see the blur of faces which seemed to spin before her eyes in an eerie, disembodied sort of way.

  His voice in her ear said, ‘Don’t look at them, they’ll only make you nervous.’

  Then he was smiling down at her and perhaps it was just as well that his gaze was the only one that she could truly register. For a long moment Jess felt as if she were drowning in it, losing all grip on reality, and yet it seemed to fill her with a new strength, new courage and she finally answered his question.

  ‘I’ll Be Seeing You.’ She didn’t even know where the words had come from, somewhere from the deep recesses of her mind.

  Steve spoke to the band leader then nodded at her, smiling his encouragement. ‘Go on then, knock ‘em dead.’

  Jess lifted the trumpet, adjusted the tension of her lips, and blew. It was a hesitant start, shy and tremulous but confidence grew in her. She put all her heart and soul into the number and long before she was half-way through, her audience were holding on to each other, swaying as they sang along with the music. Jess didn’t need Steve, or the band leader, to tell her that she was playing well.

  When she was done the room erupted. Everyone was cheering and calling for an encore but Jess couldn’t move a muscle. She felt drained, exhausted and yet exhilarated. All she could do was smile in a bemused, astonished sort of way, laughing with relief as she took her bows to rapturous applause.

  ‘Pity you’re not a man,’ said Hal, the band leader, shaking her vigorously by the hand. ‘Or I’d offer you a job on the spot.’

  Steve, she noticed, had suspiciously bright eyes as he led her from the stage, and then once more she was in his arms, his cheek nestled close against hers as he held her tight.

  ‘I take back every word, Jess Delaney. My trumpet is yours. Keep it. Mr Yoffey was right to lend it you. You can make that instrument sing.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Day after day Bernie dragged a hapless Lizzie in tow as he continued with his nefarious scheme every time the siren sounded. House doors were often found standing open, either because the occupants had rushed off down the shelter, or simply gone to chat with a neighbour. But it was becoming increasingly more difficult to find something of value, as few people had anything left worth stealing. And if the alert didn’t last very long, there was always the chance of getting caught on the job, of which Bernie was naturally wary. He ordered Lizzie to be the one to walk in and see what she could find, while he waited at the end of the street.

  Even dizzy Lizzie balked at this plan. ‘How do we know there won’t be someone still inside?’

  ‘If there is, pretend to be looking for someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know, make up a name. Go on girl, get on with it.’

  And because she was potty about him, or three pence short to the shilling, as Bernie preferred to describe her, she would do exactly as he asked.

  Sometimes they’d work the markets or small traders, or the big department stores like Lewis’s which, because of the war, had too many customers and too few staff. Thanks to the ban on wrapping paper, it proved remarkably easy to pick up a few useful items here and there and secret them about their clothing. Bernie wasn’t too fussy what Lizzie picked up: scarves, lighters, shoes, stockings, a few fountain pens or powder compacts. He would sell them on through pawn shops and one or two dealers he knew.

  Lizzie tried not to think about the possibility of getting caught. She knew that she was useless, that there was no hope of her getting a proper job and living a decent life like normal people, so if she could at least please Bernie, he’d see her all right. She’d be needing a few things of her own before winter set in: a warm coat and gloves. How else could she get them except by nicking them? Besides, Bernie was feeding her and providing her with a roof over her head.

  She gave no credit to her own daughter’s efforts in supplying these essentials. Bernie was the brains and the provider in her view, so wasn’t it only right and proper that she should be the one to do the leg work? Best to go along with it and not argue, even if she did still have nightmares about ending up back in Strangeways.

  As with the houses, so with the shops. Bernie would stand some distance off while she worked, so that he wasn’t too conspicuous, but he always made a great fuss of her when she returned. Lizzie liked that. Even if she hadn’t managed to get much more than a few handkerchiefs or scarves, he nevertheless managed to say something kind. He was really very good to her.

  ‘Never mind girl, we’ll get something for them and you’ll do better next time.’

  Lizzie basked in his praise, needing his approval.

  Inwardly, Bernie was seething. Things weren’t going well for him at all. Nothing she picked up was of any great value and when he totted up his first months ‘takings’ it came to little more than fifty quid. Not much for all that effort and skill.

  Like Britain, he’d tried to hit back but nothing worked out quite as he’d hoped. Bernie knew he no longer had the physical clout to keep his boys in line, not since they’d grown so big. He envied their strength, and their youth. He didn’t care to admit, even to himself, how much he needed Harry and Bert to be on his side, working for him and not for themselves.

  Instead of which, the pair wouldn’t even reveal what their latest money making schemes were. He rather thought they had something to do with petrol coupons as he’d found his own stash had been tampered with, or else it was the result of finally selling all that dratted sugar. Whatever it was, Harry always seemed to have a good deal of money in his pocket, and a girl on his arm.

  As they grew ever stronger, Bernie felt his own energy and effectiveness seep away, just as it had with Jake all those years ago. It was the same old story all over again. People leaned on him, depended upon his good will, sucked him dry and then treated him like some sort of old fool who wasn’t worth the candle.

&n
bsp; He’d begun to worry that perhaps he might be losing his grip, like poor Lizzie here, which fuelled the rage that simmered deep inside him. The anger at times was almost more than he could suppress.

  Why did things always go wrong for him? Why wouldn’t his family do as they were damned well told? Lizzie was the real problem, not him. She didn’t look the part. Who would believe she was an honest woman out shopping for knick-knacks?

  She no longer bore that air of innocence any more. Even in the clean new frock he’d bought for her, the neat shoes and hat with the fancy little veil, she looked what she was: a worn out, tatty ex-con, always with a fag in her mouth. Expensive, classy shops were no longer Lizzie’s forte. She’d never get a sniff of a watch or anything of real value, not looking like that. As the sad loser she undoubtedly was, no smart jeweller worth his salt would even allow her to cross his threshold.

  Jess, on the other hand, Bernie realised, looked entirely trustworthy and for all her protestations of honesty, she had to be made to pull her weight.

  Only a month or two back she’d come to him all prim and proper, nose in the air as if there were a bad smell under her nose. ‘There won’t be any problem with paying for our keep in future now that I’ve got a better job as a waitress. But I don’t intend to stay with you and Cora for ever, even though my aunt at least has made me welcome. I mean to find Mam and me a room of our own to rent just as soon as I can, so we won’t be a trouble to you any longer than absolutely necessary. We’ll be out of your hair in no time.’

  ‘Good,’ Bernie had told her. ‘Won’t be soon enough for me.’

  But he didn’t want her to leave. He’d invested too much time and money into that family, too much pain and sorrow over the years. They owed him, big time. Wasn’t he the brightest of the Delaneys, and the best, the one upon whom the whole lot had depended for years? Come what may, somebody would have to pay for the fact that he was always the one to suffer. Jake had escaped, got away scot-free and turned into some sort of hero. So if Lizzie was no longer any use to him, then young Jess must take her place. It was only fair.