Dancing on Deansgate

by Freda Lightfoot

  After a lengthy pause, he gave her hand a little pat, just as if she were a child who had suffered a tantrum. ‘On second thoughts, perhaps it would be best if we stopped it right now. It’s obviously causing you great strain. Looking after the child through its illness has exhausted you, and you clearly aren’t yourself, all wrought up and highly distressed, not fit to go anywhere tonight. Besides, the town will be rowdy and full of drunks, following the VE Day celebrations. You must send your apologies instead.’

  Jess looked at him in disbelief. ‘Send my apologies? What are you saying? I can’t simply not turn up. I’m the band leader. What about the other girls? How could they manage without me?’

  ‘They’ll manage if they must. Nobody is indispensable, dearest. You’d best stop at home.’ He always addressed her in this way, using an endearment such as dearest, or my love, even dearest dear, in a fond, over-dramatic tone. At least he’d stopped using sweetheart, which was what she had been to Steve, never to Doug.

  ‘And why should I?’

  He looked at her then, the faintest hint of surprise in his steady gaze. ‘Because I ask you to.’

  The moment they arrived back home, he went to put on the kettle for their afternoon tea while Jess dashed upstairs. In ten minutes flat she was washed and changed, had collected the baby’s overnight bag, and was flying downstairs and out of the house before he had chance to come from the kitchen to check what had caused the front door to bang so loudly.

  The Saturday night dance was the most fun Jess could remember. She loved playing at the Ritz, which was always a thrill. They were not the star attraction but the second band on, even so it was a tremendous achievement, of which she was justly proud. The Ritz ballroom had a two-tier bandstand, one on top of the other, which made the changeover smooth, with scarcely a break in the dancing.

  Delaney’s All Girls Band were being very well paid, Jess never letting on that she loved it so much she would happily have played for nothing. Nevertheless it was wonderful to be making more money than she ever had in her life, still saving hard out of habit rather than necessity. She’d been able to make Lizzie comfortable at least, even though she and Cora were still occupying the same house in Cumberland Street with a sort of armed truce between them.

  Tonight, with peace having been declared, everyone was in high spirits. They were all singing and laughing, and yet underneath there still lingered an echo of sadness. As if an era were coming to a close and no one quite knew what tomorrow might bring. As usual, the place was full of American GIs or Yankee-Doodle dandies as they were known. It was no wonder that the ballroom had become known as the forty-ninth state. Whitworth Street was chock-a-block with jeeps; with red MP armbands and batons much in evidence, worn by chunky service policemen representing Uncle Sam whose task was to deal with any miscreants who stepped out of line. Not that many did, they were having too good a time, and the MPs were particularly tolerant this evening.

  Jess still had her own crew intact. They stood up one by one to take their bows as she introduced them. Lulu on sax, blond page-boy bob swinging suggestively back and forth as she played. Adele with the flashing dark eyes on clarinet. Miss Mona on double bass, still with her trademark blue rinse; and Ena the sexy drummer vowing to head for a nunnery, once the war was over and temptation banished from her life. A joke which always brought a good laugh from the customers. Leah was on piano, and last but by no means least, came herself, Jess Delaney on trumpet.

  ‘Take it away girls. One, two, three . . . And the band struck up with Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me . . .’

  As well as servicemen, Brits still out-numbering the yanks, if only just, the place was thronged with excited, giggling girls. Hollywood movies being popular throughout the war, many of them had spent it seeking out their own personal Humphrey Bogart, and those who had succeeded would be heading out west soon. Jess watched their happy young faces as she played, wondering which of them would be fortunate enough to have their dreams come true.

  Hers certainly hadn’t.

  She was trying not to think about Doug’s ultimatum, hoping that she could work on him to change his mind. He wasn’t an unreasonable man, just far more proper and correct than she’d expected. A man of standards that must be followed to the letter. So far he’d stood by their agreement. They occupied separate bedrooms in the small terraced house he’d found for them on Gartside Street, though how she would manage to survive an entire married life without intimacy, Jess didn’t care to question too closely. It didn’t seem normal.

  Sadly, his kisses did not stir her in the least, incomparable to those magical, romantic moments she’d once enjoyed with Steve. How could they? She’d loved Steve, perhaps still did, whereas Doug was simply – what? A convenience? A good friend? Someone safe to keep her from being alone and an outcast from society?

  Oh dear, that sounded dreadful, if painfully true. And it could all have been so very different.

  It was still second nature for her to keep an eye out for a shabbily dressed sax player. She only needed to catch a glimpse of a shaggy red-brown haircut, or a tie askew, for her heart to skip a beat. Not that she’d been fortunate in that respect for well over eighteen months. Tonight was to be no exception. Wherever he was, it couldn’t be in Manchester. Somehow, Jess knew that if Steve Wyman were still in the city, he would have come to her by now. He would not have been able to stay away, not on VE Day. She didn’t know why she thought that, having no reason to believe he still cared, but somehow she just did.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cora had always made it a policy not to get involved in her children’s affairs. Or her husband’s, for that matter. Bernie was no more than a distant memory, one of the many unidentified corpses dug out of the ruins of Manchester’s bombed buildings. Cora had no regrets. He’d got what he deserved.

  What she did regret was the effect his dirty interfering had had upon that poor lass’s life. Ruined it for her. If anyone had asked Cora’s opinion, she would have said without a moment’s hesitation that young Johnny was the child of that musician, Steve Wyman, the love of Jess’s life. Same red-brown hair, same cheeky expression, and no resemblance at all to any of her own childer, which surely he would have had if he’d really been one of Bernie’s by-blows.

  She’d tried to convince Jess of this at one time, but she wouldn’t have it. Cora supposed that she’d so banished the thought of him from her mind, that it was too much for the poor lass to bear. If it could be proved that little Johnny was indeed Steve’s child after all, then giving him up, and her hasty marriage to Doug would all have been a complete waste of time.

  Cora believed this to be nothing less than a disaster. He had no feelings at all that man, not a scrap of humanity in him, save for an unhealthy and over-riding obsession with her niece. But she held her own counsel. As she told herself morning, noon and night whenever something happened with one of her grown-up children: Don’t interfere girl. Nowt to do with you. And she thought of Jess as one of her own, indeed she did. The poor lass needed someone on her side to help. There was certainly none forthcoming from her own mother.

  As if on cue, Lizzie came shuffling into the kitchen. ‘Is the kettle on? Is there owt to eat? I’m hungry.’

  ‘Are you ever anything else? If you’re not pouring booze down your throat, it’s pints of tea. And I rarely see you lift the kettle.’

  The two women sat in their accustomed stony silence over breakfast, Lizzie nibbling at a slice of bread and marg while enjoying her third cigarette of the day. Cora shared a large pan of porridge with the ten year old twins.

  ‘Have you seen Jess lately?’ she asked at last.

  Lizzie looked blank for a moment, as if she hadn’t the first idea who she was talking about.

  ‘Your daughter, Jess. Remember her? By heck, your losing it girl. Do you never think to go round to hers, to see how the poor lass is doing? What sort of mother are you? I can’t think why she’s always asking after you, why she ev
en cares. When she did have you to stay, you were nowt but a liability to her. Come to think of it, that’s all you are to me. Why do I put up with you, eh? You’re no flaming use to anyone. Never so much as lift a pot towel.’

  ‘Are you wanting to get rid of me?’

  ‘You could say that. Aye, go on. Sling your hook.’

  ‘And what if Bernie comes home? What’ll he have to say about you flinging me out into the gutter?’

  ‘He’d probably say that was where you came from in the first place. But he isn’t coming home. He’s gone for good. I’ve told you, he’s probably got himself another woman somewhere, more childer happen. Who knows? Who cares? I certainly don’t.’

  Cora had related these fantasies so often that she’d almost come to believe them herself. She could picture Bernie living with this imagined mistress of his, running a pub somewhere, happen in the Ribble Valley, dangling a new baby on his knee. He always did enjoy his family, she’d give him that. It almost felt strange that he’d never written to ask how they were getting on, these great lads of his. But then how could he? He wasn’t in the Ribble Valley at all. He was a heap of old bones in an unmarked grave somewhere.

  She could have told him that Bert was happily settled with his Maisie, married with a little lad of his own. Sandra, at fifteen, quite the little madam and eyeing up boys as if they’d just come into fashion. And her lovely Tommy would be home soon, for good this time. Except that he’d fallen for a WAAF and would no doubt be tripping down the aisle with her and going off to pastures new himself, pretty soon.

  Cora sighed as she rinsed her cup out under the tap to make herself another brew. You only got to keep your children for such a short time, borrowed them for a bit like, and then they walked away from your door with scarcely a backward glance. All that agony, all that worrying was supposed to stop then. But it didn’t. Cora was beginning to think that it never would.

  She was certainly still worried about Harry. He never stopped complaining about being hard up and had asked her, of all people, to help. Cora had to laugh at his cheek. What could she do? She didn’t even get a proper pension, not being able to prove that her husband was dead. She was forced to get by on hand-outs from her sons. But she didn’t like the way Harry was behaving, bullying that pretty little wife of his, throwing his brass about like a man with three arms. It would all come to grief, if she was any judge.

  ‘Why don’t you ever worry about her, that lass of yours?’ she demanded of Lizzie, now busily lighting a fourth cigarette from the stub of the third. ‘Can’t you see how unhappy she is? Couldn’t you help with that lovely little lad she’s got? Take an interest at least. Daughters are precious. They should be appreciated.’

  Lizzie gazed at Cora out of unfocused eyes. ‘When you go down the market, slip in the club and ask your Harry for another bottle of gin, I’ve run out.’

  ‘Ask him yourself. I’m not your flippin’ slave,’ and Cora tipped all the breakfast dishes into the sink then went to the bottom of the stairs to shout in her loudest voice, ‘If you don’t get down here this minute, Sandra Delaney, I’m coming up to drag you down with the scruff of your neck.’

  ‘I’m very disappointed in you, Jess. You were a very naughty girl.’

  It was the following afternoon and they were once more seated on the bench in the park, and yet again Doug was gently scolding her for her disobedience, treating her like a recalcitrant child.

  ‘If you mean last night at the Ritz, it was a brilliant occasion, absolutely wonderful. If you’d been there, you’d have seen for yourself what a great success Delaney’s All Girls Band was, and you would be pleased for me. Proud even.’

  ‘I thought I’d made it clear that you were not to attend. I hate it when you go against my wishes, my love. Have I ever let you down? Don’t we do all right together, you and I? We rub along very well, I’ve always thought.’

  ‘Yes, of course we do, only . . . I can’t give up the band. I really can’t. Don’t ask me to, Doug.’

  ‘You’re depressed because of your worries over the child. That’s all it is. We’ll talk about it later.’

  This was another of his more irritating habits, the way he would put off any unpleasantness until another time. ‘Why not now? Let’s have it out and clear the air.’

  ‘Shall I kiss you? Will that cheer you up?’

  Jess sighed, the bubbles of excitement she’d experienced the night before, as heady as champagne, had all popped and quite fizzled out. Streamers had been thrown across the ballroom, people had sung ‘Auld Lang Syne’ with tears of happiness in their eyes, had clung to each other and sobbed for those they had lost who would never return to know this glorious peace.

  And all her husband could do was to remain aloof from it all, to criticise and deprive her of the one thing which brought her happiness, her music. As if a silly kiss could make up for all of that. And why did he always have to ask? Couldn’t he see that his tiptoeing around her, his polite requests to touch her, kiss her, even to hold her hand, had only strengthened the barrier she’d built up around herself. Jess tried to convince herself that he was only being kind and considerate, sweet and polite, very much the gentleman.

  He leaned closer and placed his mouth upon hers, letting his hand creep beneath the shelter of her coat to cup her breast and give it a little squeeze. She closed her eyes, imagining a different face, another pair of lips altogether, as if clinging to her dreams could help her to cope. Sometimes she ached for Steve so much, it was like a knife twisting in her heart. While she held her breath, waiting for the kiss to be over, the fondling to stop, she overheard one or two rude comments from a middle-aged couple as they walked briskly by, words like ‘shameful behaviour’ and ‘at their age’. Doug seemed to find these amusing, even titillating, and his eyes took on a feverish cast as he chuckled softly, as if seeing himself suddenly as a fine rogue.

  ‘There’s a good girl,’ he said, when he was done, and she half expected him to pat her kindly on the head by way of gratitude.

  The trouble was that whenever Doug’s mouth came down over hers, she felt a tide of revulsion sweep through her and she longed to push him away. She never did, of course, she never needed to. He was far too well mannered, far too carefully schooled in his emotions to need reminding of their agreement. Perversely, Jess always felt disappointed that she sensed no passion in him, nothing more than a slight tremor and a strange grunting sound that he made deep in his throat.

  And why here? she thought, where there were Sunday afternoon strollers, in the sort of public place he claimed to abhor? This was another of his idiosyncrasies. If it wasn’t right for a discussion, how could it be appropriate for him to kiss and fondle her? For all he was highly principled and correct, he would choose the oddest places for an embrace, albeit in a furtive fashion.

  Once, on the top deck of a crowded number 54 bus, he’d undone the top four buttons of her frock, leaning over her and fondling her breast for almost the entire journey’s length. Jess had been trembling with outrage, and only his constant reassurance that no one was paying them the slightest attention prevented her from slapping his hand away and screaming for him to stop. She’d been scarlet with mortification, even more so to discover that in her haste to adjust her dress before disembarking, she’d buttoned it up all wrong.

  Perhaps she really had no wish to be kissed by anyone, not even her own husband. As Jess had feared, she’d turned into one of those frigid women who couldn’t bear to even be touched by a man. Understandable in the circumstances, but most unpleasant to live with. She’d thought, when Uncle Bernie had never reappeared, that the fear would leave her, but rather the reverse.

  Jess realised now that it had been a mistake to marry, wrong to involve Doug in her problems. She frequently told herself that he was a good man and a caring husband, if not the best of fathers. Surely those things counted for more than mere passing pleasure. But by allowing him to provide the respectability she’d always craved, for herself and later for her
child, she’d condemned them both to live a sterile existence.

  He was stroking her arm, smiling at her in quiet satisfaction, as if he’d scored a victory of some sort. ‘The baby is thirteen months old, Jess. I’ve been patient, no one can say otherwise. You’ve had time enough to recover, I think. We’ll leave it for now. But later, perhaps this evening or some other suitable occasion, we’ll try again, shall we, and trust that you’ll be better able to relax.’

  It sounded ominously like a threat.

  Cora called in on Jess one Tuesday morning when she went down the market. Lizzie, as always, worn out from the effort of eating breakfast, had gone back to bed. ‘How you fettling, chuck? How’s my little man?’ She picked up the baby to give him a cuddle, his little legs in the plaster cast encasing him from hips to toes stuck out at an odd angle in a permanent sitting position, so that she had to straddle him against her substantial waistline while she gurgled baby-talk at him. ‘By heck, but your a real champion. Look at that smile, fair warms the cockles of your heart, doesn’t it?’

  Jess laughingly agreed that the baby could charm the birds out of the trees with that rapturous smile of his. Despite all his problems, all the pain he’d suffered and the restrictions placed upon him through the plaster cast, he was a remarkably cheerful child. Nothing seemed to trouble him, and he’d readily smile at anyone. No wonder everybody loves him, she thought. Everyone, that is, except Doug, the man who’d agreed to be a father to him.

  As the two women walked around Campfield Market, glad to be out of a blustering wind, it felt like stepping into another world, one filled with interesting aromas from the mounds of fruit and veg, cuts of pink pork meat and red polony sausages on display. Cora bought a little wooden toy train for Johnny, and Jess scolded her for not being able to afford such treats, now she’d no regular income coming in.