When We Danced at the End of the Pier

by Sandy Taylor

  ‘These must have cost a fortune, girls, the label says Hannington’s.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Brenda, ‘you have to take into account the discount.’

  ‘Discount?’ said Mum.

  ‘It’s what they give to rich people, Mum.’

  ‘So why did they give it you?’

  ‘They didn’t,’ said Brenda, ‘they gave it to Mrs Bentley. Hannington’s don’t give discounts to poor people.’

  I winked at Mum and she didn’t press Brenda any further.

  ‘Well, they are the most beautiful Christmas presents that I have ever had and I shall forever be indebted to Hannington’s and their very generous discount. I shall wear them the next time I go round to your Aunty Vera’s and I shall make sure that the label is in full view,’ she said, grinning mischievously.

  Our house looked lovely with the sweet-smelling tree in the corner and a roaring fire in the grate. The usual decorations that were brought out year after year were strung across the ceiling and bunches of dark green and red holly decorated the mantelpiece. Daddy should have been here. There were still times when I was angry with him for leaving us; I missed him so much.

  Mum had bought a big, plump chicken and Aunty Marge and Uncle John had provided the fruit and veg. Mum presented Brenda and I with a wristwatch each. We had never owned anything like it before and we were delighted. Brenda kept pestering everyone to ask her the time. I worried about how much they must have cost, but I guessed they came off the tallyman and Mum was paying for them on the never, never, along with the three-piece suite. Aunty Marge loved the tea strainer and Uncle John looked suitably shamefaced.

  We pulled crackers and toasted each other with sweet red sherry. After dinner Mum, Aunty Marge and Uncle John fell asleep so Brenda went to Molly’s house and I called round to see Monica. I waited on the doorstep while she got her coat because I was scared of her dad.

  We walked up onto the Downs. The wind was blowing a gale but we didn’t mind. There was something about the wildness of the Downs that we both loved. We only saw one family who were bravely battling the high winds; we said hello as we neared them.

  ‘This seemed like a good idea half an hour ago,’ said the man, ‘but I’m not so sure now.’

  ‘We needed to walk off the dinner,’ said the woman.

  I smiled and wished them a happy Christmas.

  We’d only gone a short distance when the heavens opened, so I grabbed Monica’s hand and headed for the only shelter I knew – the barn.

  We were soaked by the time we got to the bottom of the hill. We pushed open the big wooden door and went inside.

  ‘You look like someone’s poured a bucket of water over your head,’ giggled Monica.

  ‘You don’t look so great yourself,’ I said, wiping the rain out of my eyes.

  We sat down on the floor in one of the stalls and that’s when we heard the noise. A rustling, some movement.

  ‘There’s someone else in here,’ whispered Monica.

  We stayed very quiet, then we heard it again, a definite rustling.

  ‘Perhaps it’s a rat,’ I said.

  ‘A rat!’

  ‘Or a bird,’ I answered quickly. ‘Probably a bird.’

  ‘Well, whatever it is, I’m getting out of here.’

  ‘Shush!’ I said. ‘Wait a minute.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Listen.’

  We sat there in the darkness, terrified, listening to the rain belting down on the roof of the barn.

  ‘Perhaps it’s just the rain,’ said Monica hopefully.

  Then we heard whispering. I stood up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Monica urgently.

  I ignored her and walked towards the door to let in some light. The rain was coming down in torrents, blowing across the entrance of the barn and thundering down the grassy hill. It blew into my face, soaking me again.

  ‘Maureen,’ called Monica. ‘What are you doing?’

  I saw movement in one of the stalls, then I heard a girl let out a giggle. I recognised the voice: it was Marion bloody Tucker.

  Then a deeper voice. ‘Shush!’ he said.

  I flung open the door and started running, with Monica behind me.

  ‘Maureen!’ she was shouting. ‘Wait for me.’

  But I kept running. The rain was stinging my face but I kept running – I had to get away from there. Monica caught up with me and pulled at my arm. I stopped. I was struggling for breath, so was Monica.

  ‘What the bloody hell’s the matter?’ she gasped.

  ‘Didn’t you hear them?’ I screamed.

  ‘Hear who?’

  ‘That was Marion bloody Tucker in there.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘And she was with Jack.’

  Monica looked at me as if I had three heads. ‘How do you know it was Jack?’

  ‘I heard his voice.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Maureen, whoever it was only said “shush!”. It could have been anyone.’

  I started walking away from her. ‘It was Jack,’ I said quietly.

  Monica slipped her hand through mine. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘There’s a tea room at the top of the hill, let’s go there and dry off.’

  ‘It’s Christmas Day,’ I said, ‘it’s probably closed.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Monica.

  We were both cold and wet.

  ‘OK.’

  To our surprise it was open and a few people were sitting at the tables, including the family we’d met earlier. It was hot in there – steam was rising off the coats hanging on the backs of the chairs. Everyone looked soggy and wet and miserable.

  We sat down at a table overlooking the hills; we couldn’t see much because the windows were all steamed up. A waitress came across to us. She was holding a little notebook and a pencil. ‘What can I get you?’ she asked. She was a pleasant-looking girl with a wide, round face and eyes that looked permanently surprised.

  Monica looked at me and I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Have you got any cocoa?’ she asked the girl.

  ‘We’re having a run on the stuff,’ she said.

  ‘How come you’re open today?’ asked Monica.

  ‘I was working yesterday and I left my bag behind. I only popped in to get it but there were all these people standing outside, soaking wet, so I opened up. I can’t serve any hot food, but cocoa I can do.’

  ‘It was good of you,’ said Monica, smiling at her.

  ‘Well, they’re all asleep at home, snoring their bloody heads off. Quite honestly, I’d rather be here. Christmas can be a funny old time, can’t it? Everyone determined to have a nice time with people they’d rather not be with. My aunt and uncle and three cousins are there, we only ever see them at Christmas. I never got on with them but I was forced to smile at them as they shovelled food into their mouths. No, I’d much rather be here. I’m going to volunteer next year. Listen to me going on. Two cocoas, is it?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Monica.

  I rubbed at the window with the sleeve of my coat. It was still pouring with rain, lashing against the glass; it looked as miserable out there as I felt. Jack had been with Marion bloody Tucker. He was there with her now in the barn, when he should be at his gran’s. The same barn where I’d made a fool of myself. I felt sick.

  ‘Look, Maureen,’ said Monica gently, ‘you have to tell Jack how you feel because he doesn’t know. As far as he’s concerned, you’re just friends and he isn’t doing anything wrong. You have to tell him.’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You have to. There might be a war and if there is, things are going to change. None of us know what’s going to happen.’

  ‘But what if he doesn’t feel the same way I do?’

  ‘Then at least you’ll know. You’ll be sad, but at least you’ll know. You can’t make someone love you, it’s not enough that you love them. I know that Norman feels a lot for me because he’s told me but th
at won’t make me fall in love with him. Please, Maureen, tell him how you feel. When are you seeing him again?’

  ‘This evening.’

  ‘Then tell him. Just tell him.’

  Thirty-Eight

  When I got back home they had started on the leftovers and mince pies.

  ‘Good God, girl, you’re soaked!’ said Aunty Marge, jumping up and peeling my wet coat from my shoulders. ‘I said to your mother, “If that girl’s got caught in that rain, she’s going to know it.”’

  ‘We sheltered in a barn,’ I said.

  ‘Well, that barn must have a leak,’ said Aunty Marge.

  I knelt down in front of the fire and held out my hands towards the warm coals. I could see the steam coming off the cuffs of my cardigan.

  ‘You should get out of those wet clothes, Maureen,’ said Mum, ‘before you catch your death.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave the fire,’ I said.

  ‘Go and get changed, love, then come down and have something to eat.’

  ‘I’m not hungry, Mum.’

  ‘Maybe later then,’ she said.

  I stood up and started walking towards the door.

  ‘Was Jack with you?’ said Mum, suddenly.

  I turned around. ‘No, why?’

  ‘He called in earlier, I told him you were with Monica.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I left them and went upstairs. Jack’s book was on the little table beside my bed, wrapped in red Christmas paper. It looked jolly, a damn sight jollier than I felt. From the moment I’d seen Jack, from my perch in the tree, I hadn’t doubted for one minute that one day we would be together. I thought that I had enough love in me for the both of us. Maybe I’d been wrong all these years, maybe my love wasn’t going to be enough. Maybe Jack was never going to love me. I wished Daddy was here, he would have understood. He wouldn’t have thought that I was silly for feeling this way, he would have known what to say to me. I closed my eyes and tried to picture him and there he was. I could almost smell the yellow margarine on his hair. I could almost feel the stubble on his cheeks and the smell of Senior Service on his breath.

  ‘What should I do, Daddy?’

  He smiled at me and that smile seemed to say, ‘You’ll know what to do,’ and then he was gone. I opened my eyes. Monica was right: I had to tell Jack how I felt. I might be about to make a complete fool of myself but it was time he knew.

  I pulled the curtains, took off my wet clothes and put on some dry ones, then I lay down on the bed. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, Mum was gently shaking me.

  ‘Jack’s downstairs, Maureen, shall I send him up?’

  I rubbed at my eyes and sat up. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Jack,’ she said, ‘he’s called round for you. Shall I send him up?’

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  I got up, grabbed a comb and ran it through my damp hair. I looked in the mirror: the face staring back at me looked white and puffy-eyed from sleep. I’d wanted to look nice for Jack when I told him, instead I looked like something the cat dragged in.

  There was a tap at the bedroom door and Jack came into the room, smiling. ‘Happy Christmas, Maureen,’ he said, holding a small parcel towards me.

  I picked up his present and handed it to him. ‘Happy Christmas, Jack.’

  We sat beside each other on the bed and I started unwrapping my gift. Jack was smiling at me as I took off the paper. I folded the paper carefully and placed it on the table beside the bed.

  I was holding a small black velvet box. I opened the lid and inside, laying on a bed of pink satin, was a beautiful silver cross and chain.

  ‘I hope you like it,’ said Jack. ‘I know you don’t go to church much these days, but I thought it was pretty.’

  ‘It is pretty,’ I said. ‘It’s lovely and I love it, thank you.’

  Jack took the necklace from me. ‘Let me put it on for you.’

  I turned around. He gently moved my hair away from the back of my neck. Neither of us spoke as he did up the clasp. I could feel his breath, cold, on my skin and I wanted this moment to last forever.

  I turned around and faced him. ‘Now yours,’ I said.

  He grinned and tore the red wrapping paper from the parcel, then dropped the paper on the floor. ‘Wow!’ he said as he looked down at the picture of Rita Hayworth on the front cover of the book.

  He put his arm around my shoulder and hugged me.

  ‘Do you know what, Maureen?’ he said. ‘You know me better than anyone else in the world. No one but you would think of buying me this. Thank you, it’s perfect.’

  After that I didn’t know what to say to him and it seemed by the silence in the room that Jack didn’t know what to say to me either. After what seemed like forever, he broke the silence.

  ‘I called for you earlier,’ he said.

  ‘I know you did.’

  ‘Your mum said you were with Monica.’

  ‘That’s right. We were up on the Downs, we got caught in the rain.’

  ‘So you sheltered in the barn,’ said Jack. ‘It was you in the barn, wasn’t it?’

  ‘And how would you know that?’

  ‘You know how.’

  ‘Yeah, I do. You were canoodling with Marion bloody Tucker when you told me you’d be at your gran’s.’

  ‘I was at my gran’s, but she wasn’t feeling well so we brought her back to our house. You sound angry,’ he said. ‘I told you, I called for you. I went up the Downs, guessing that’s where you might have gone. That’s when I bumped into Marion. You are angry, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m not angry,’ I said, getting off the bed and going over to the window. I pulled the curtain back. It was pitch-black outside and the rain was trickling down the window pane. This was the time: if I didn’t tell him now, I never would. I turned round and faced him. I could tell that he was totally confused – he didn’t have a clue, not one bloody clue.

  ‘Don’t you know, Jack? Don’t you know?’

  ‘Know what?’

  I looked at him sitting there on the bed, the book still in his hands.

  ‘I’m not angry, Jack, I’m jealous.’

  He shook his head; he still didn’t understand.

  ‘Of Marion? You’re jealous of Marion? Why would you be jealous of her?’

  ‘Because you were with her in the barn when you should have been with me.’

  ‘But you were with Monica.’

  ‘Are you blind as well as stupid, Jack Forrest? I love you, you idiot.’

  I watched the book slide off his lap. ‘You love me?’

  ‘I’ve always loved you. You must have known.’

  He stared at me, then he pushed his hair back from his eyes and he leaned down and picked up the book. He looked worried, he looked shocked.

  ‘But we’ve always been friends,’ he said quietly. ‘Best friends. You and me and Nelson, we’ve been mates. You’ve been great, Maureen, one of the boys.’

  Then he realised what he had said and started mumbling. ‘I mean, I know you’re not a boy…’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I spat back. ‘I’m a girl, Jack. I’m as much a girl as Marion Tucker is.’

  ‘I know, that was a stupid thing to say. I know you’re a girl, of course I do, but I’ve never thought of you in that way. We’ve always been friends, such good friends. You’ve been like a sister to me.’

  ‘I don’t want to be your sister,’ I said sadly. I could feel the tears running down my face. Jack jumped up off the bed and came across to me. ‘Don’t cry, Maureen. Please don’t cry.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I said.

  ‘You are, my love,’ he said, gently wiping my face.

  He took my hand and led me back to the bed. We sat side by side. He put his arm around my shoulder. ‘I never realised how you felt, Maureen, and I’m flattered, I am, but I’m not worth your tears.’

  ‘You are to me.’

  Jack lay down on the bed and he pulled me down beside him. We lay there quietly. I’d d
one it, I’d told him and the world hadn’t come crashing down on my head. He hadn’t run from me, he was still here, beside me.

  ‘I never realised,’ he said softly. ‘I just never realised. I thought maybe you and Nelson. You are both so alike, so kind, so loyal, so funny… I never realised.’

  ‘Only you, Jack. It’s only ever been you.’

  He sat up and rested on his elbow. He stared down at me as if he’d never seen me before. He casually tucked a strand of hair behind my ear then he stroked my cheek, so gently, so very gently. I held my breath as his lips touched mine and then we were kissing and it was the sweetest kiss in the world. He drew away from me and shook his head. ‘I’ve been a fool, I’ve been such a fool.’

  I looked into his eyes that were as blue as the sea. I touched his lips that had touched mine. In that moment it felt as if the weight of the world had lifted from my shoulders. I felt like a child again, as if I’d just been born, and I wanted to laugh out loud. I wanted to dance – I wanted to dance with Jack.

  He lay down again and held me close to him. My head was on his chest. I could feel his heart and mine beating in harmony. I was safe in Jack’s arms, where I had always wanted to be. I had come home.

  Thirty-Nine

  War was raging across Europe; people were dying. Everyone was saying it was the end of the world as we knew it, but it was the beginning of mine. Everything was better – the sky was bluer, the grass greener. It was like I was living the best of every summer, every spring, every autumn and every winter that I had ever lived. I felt everything more keenly; the sun on my face and the wind in my hair. I had never felt more alive. And everyone was my friend. I even thought about calling in to see Aunty Vera, Uncle Fred and Malcolm and telling them I loved them. I felt generous in my happiness and I wanted to share it with everyone. But I didn’t go and see them because they would have thought I’d lost my marbles.

  I had thought that loving Jack all these years was what had made me happy, but I was wrong: to be completely happy, you need to be loved in return. I had been living a kind of dream. Wishing and hoping, making more of the little things that Jack said and then lying in bed at night and going over and over them until I had convinced myself that he loved me, when in fact he hadn’t, he’d just been talking to me like one friend to another. Jack hadn’t known he’d loved me, he’d never even thought of me in that way. Now he did, now he knew, and my happiness was complete. No more dreaming and longing and wanting, this time it was real: Jack loved me.