Family Chorus

by Claire Rayner

Her voice dwindled away and she sat there on the windowsill, staring at Bessie who had sat down hard, and was looking at the card in her hand. ‘Madame Gansella,’ it read. ‘Specialist in Terpsichorean Art. Children a speciality. Rates moderate. Personal callers at 17 Cephas Street, adjacent Paragon Palace of Varieties.’

  ‘You were dancing in the street and a man came and said — gevalt!’ Bessie almost whispered it, and then she looked up and said more loudly and with a note of urgency, ‘This man — who was he? What did he say? What did he do? Did he interfere with you?’

  ‘Interfere with me? He was nice. He cuddled me when I cried,’ Lexie said. ‘Bessie, can I learn how to dance in a pink dress? She said I could. She told Joe I had talent —’

  Bessie, who had gone a sick yellow colour, caught her breath. ‘Joe? You were with Joe? He knows what all this is you’re talking about?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Joe was there all the time. He said I could do it. He said it’d all start something very funny, and it did. That lady, Bessie, she said I could dance. Can I be a dancer, Bessie? I want to be. I saw them all dance at the Paragon and I want to do it —’

  She sat very straight on the windowsill, staring at Bessie. The odd feeling had come back, the one she had felt there at the Paragon on Saturday night. A feeling of heat and excitement, a sort of wanting very deep inside her, and she jumped down and stood very stiffly in front of Bessie.

  ‘I’ve got to,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to dance like that. They kept twirling their heads, like this —’ and she twirled and jerked her head sharply forwards as she did so, in perfect imitation of the children she had watched on stage, fixing her face in a wide grin as she did it. ‘I didn’t do it right, and they all shouted at me, the people watching, but I could do it right. I know I could, if I was to have lessons like she said. Lessons to dance —’ And she twirled again, snapping her head round, grinning ferociously, and seeing clearly in her mind’s eye the smooth red head of the boy at the Paragon.

  Bessie said nothing, sitting there at the table with the laundry piled on it and the pasteboard slip in her hand, staring at Lexie, but inside she was all emotion, all excitement, all terror. Lexie, wanting to dance? Lexie seeing herself in pink dresses? It was strange and painful and yet exhilarating to sit there and watch her own secret dream shimmer and change, watch the small figure who had been herself, dancing inside her mind, change and shift and become not Bessie but Lexie. Lexie plumper and with her hair in curls, in pink drifting dresses and ballet shoes with satin ribbons —

  She shook her head weakly and said, ‘I — you never wanted to dance before. Why all of a sudden you want to dance? All of a sudden you want lessons? Such mishegasses to get into your head —’

  Lexie stopped twirling and looked at her with eyes that were round and very bright, and after a moment she said, ‘I want to learn to dance. Auntie Fanny’d let me dance if I lived with her. She’d let that lady teach me to dance if I lived in her house. I want to dance —’

  There was a heavy little silence and then Bessie said, ‘It’s got nothing to do with Fanny if you dance, it’s up to me, not her. It’s me that decides.’

  ‘Oh, Bessie, please!’ Lexie said and threw herself into Bessie’s lap, and after one startled moment Bessie put her arms round her. It wasn’t one of Lexie’s more usual actions to be so affectionate. Usually she allowed herself to be picked up and hugged only when she was tired or upset, but to throw herself into an embrace like this — Bessie’s arms tightened round her.

  ‘I don’t know, boobalah,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’ll be expensive. That woman — she don’t get cards printed like that for tuppence ha’penny, you know. She’ll want money —’

  ‘Ask Uncle Dave and Auntie Fanny,’ Lexie said at once. ‘They’ll give it to us, like they always do. Eh? Tell them no more furniture, just money for the lady to teach me to dance.’

  Bessie shook her head, with a sudden fierce little gesture. ‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘It’s nothing to do with Fanny and Dave. And if you say a word to them that’ll be the end of it. No dancing lessons. You hear me?’

  ‘I hear you.’ Lexie lifted a radiant face to her. ‘Oh, yes, Bessie. If I can have dancing lessons I’ll never say a word to anyone.’

  Except, a little voice deep inside her whispered, except the boy with the smooth dark red hair.

  5

  ‘One and two and three and four,’ the voice brayed again above the thump of the piano. ‘One and two and three and four,’ and the dust spurted up from the bare floorboards and made her nose sting again and her eyes hurt, and she wasn’t quite sure whether it was the dust or the way her feet and ankles ached that made her eyes run, too. Obediently she repeated the steps as the counting started again, but now she stumbled and nearly bumped into Maisie, who dug a sharp elbow into her arm, and Madame shouted, ‘Lexie, what are you, for heaven’s sake? A dancer or an elephant?’ And the others — especially Maisie — tittered and Lexie’s eyes got wetter still. If she wasn’t careful she’d start crying properly and that would be dreadful.

  Doggedly she went on repeating the sequence of steps in her head; ball change, heel down, toe down, ankle flick, tap, kick; ball change, heel down, toe down, ankle flick, tap, kick; ball change, heel down — right foot, left foot, right foot again. She wanted Bessie suddenly, wanted to be sitting at the table at home in Sidney Street while Bessie nagged her to eat something, instead of here in a cold bare room in Cephas Street with feet and ankles that ached so dreadfully that they felt as big as Joe’s boots.

  That was the trouble, of course. After all the fuss she’d made to get here, after all the worrying and counting of money that Bessie had done, after all the promises never to try to talk to Auntie Fanny or Uncle Dave and Joe and Benny about the dancing — or about anything else at all, in fact — how could she not go on with these horrible lessons? The fuss would be dreadful and anyway there would be nowhere to go except home to Sidney Street, and without Arbour Square to escape to sometimes that would be even worse than what was going on now.

  So she went on with it as the counting continued; ball change, heel down, toe down, ankle flick, tap, kick and realized, startled, that she’d been doing it without thinking for the last minute or so and suddenly felt better as the thumping tinny piano and Madame’s voice rang in her ears; perhaps she could learn it all, after all. And soon it would be time to rest a bit and then she could sit and talk to Alf and that would be lovely, and she turned her head to see him in the line behind her and at once Madame’s voice bawled, ‘Keep your eyes to the front, Lexie! And smile, will you, smile — you must never stop smiling. You’ve got to look as though you’re enjoying it, or no one else will —’

  Across the bare room the door opened and the line faltered as the dancers looked up to see who had arrived, eager for anything to break the tyranny of practice, and Madame swore and banged her hands down hard in a discord and shouted, ‘What the hell do you want, for God’s sake? Haven’t I told you I don’t want to be disturbed when we’re —’

  ‘Lovely woman, lovely, ain’t she? What a way to treat a husband, I ask you, eh?’ The newcomer winked at the children, now standing awkwardly, waiting to be told what to do, and then grinned at Madame Gansella. ‘I know the rules, ducks, but there’s times to break ’em, and this is one,’ and he walked across to whisper in her ear, and she sat and listened, and as she did her eyes swivelled to Lexie and narrowed.

  ‘All right, I’ll come down. Children, rest time! I have business to deal with. Lenny, keep an eye on them —’ and she swept out and went clattering down the stairs as the children collapsed on to the floor and began to chatter to each other.

  Lexie turned at once towards Alf, but it was too late; he was already in close colloquy with two of the other boys and she’d learned the painful way that this meant she wasn’t to interrupt. He could be friendly and lovely when he wanted to be, the way he’d been the night she’d first talked to him at the Paragon, but he could also be cruelly unkind if he was
in that sort of mood, producing stinging words that made her face flame. Now she drew her knees up and hugged them and miserably watched him and the other boys with their heads together and said nothing.

  ‘So, dolly, how’s it going? Enjoying your lessons, eh?’

  She looked up and after a moment nodded. He made her feel uneasy, with his sleek shiny black hair that always looked wet and his tightly waisted striped jacket and his red flower buttonhole. He smelled of violets very strongly, and tobacco even more strongly, and most strongly of all of something else that was like beer but not quite, which she didn’t like at all, especially now as he came and squatted on his haunches before her, the cloth of his black and white striped trousers straining over his crotch and thick thighs, and breathed into her face.

  ‘Yes, Mr Gansella, thank you very much,’ she said politely and scrambled to her feet, so that he had to as well, and that helped, for now he was well above her and she couldn’t smell his heavy breath.

  ‘Ganz, dolly, Ganz is good enough for me. I don’t need no fancy Italian-type names to make my business work, thank you very much —’

  ‘Yes, Mr Ganz,’ she said, wondering for a brief moment what his business was. He seemed to be around the house in Cephas Street all the time, never seemed to go to the Lane like Uncle Dave and the boys did, never seemed to sit with his head in books writing down numbers, the way Auntie Fanny did. He wasn’t always dressed as fancy as he was this morning though, because she’d seen him unshaven and dressing gowned with the sleek black hair hanging lankly over his unshaven face when she’d arrived some days, even when it was as late as nearly dinner time. But still he was always there and doing little more than reading newspapers. Not that it really mattered much to her; the ways of grownups were strange, whatever they did.

  ‘So, lessons goin’ all right, are they?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said again, and wanted to move away but felt she couldn’t because he was staring at her so closely.

  ‘And does your — Uncle Dave like your dancing?’

  She looked at him, startled. ‘Uncle Dave? Do you know my Uncle Dave?’

  He laughed fatly at that. ‘Who doesn’t know your Uncle Dave? Warm fella, very warm fella! Halfway and a bit more to a fortune, he is! Charming man, o’ course, and your lovely Auntie Fanny. Lovely people. So tell me, is she your father’s sister, or your mother’s?’

  Lexie frowned, puzzled. ‘She’s my sister,’ she said and Mr Ganz’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘I thought she was your aunt! Well, well! Even closer, hmm? Sister — very nice to have such a rich sister! So she’s the one financing your classes, hey?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Pays for your lessons, hmm?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, Bessie does. She says Auntie Fanny mustn’t know I’m doing lessons. It’s a secret!’ She reddened suddenly and looked at him doubtfully. ‘I shouldn’t have told you.’

  He laughed and patted her head, and she bobbed it slightly for his hand was heavy. ‘Then you haven’t. I won’t tell no one. But tell me — why should it be a secret?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ she muttered, and tried to move away from him. She was liking him less and less.

  ‘Wouldn’t approve, maybe? Your Auntie Fanny, got a proper idea of what’s what? Wouldn’t want her little niece — sister — goin’ around with a lot of vulgar dancers?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ she said again, and then relaxed as the door opened and Madame came back, a faint frown on her face.

  He turned and looked at her, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets so that the heavy gold chain across his belly showed clearly between the edges of his jacket.

  ‘So I can go now, thank you very much?’ he said with heavy sarcasm. ‘You don’t need no nursemaid no more?’

  ‘Yes — thanks —’ she said abstractedly and Lexie looked at her, surprised. She sounded quite different again. Lexie had grown used to the way Madame Gansella had one voice for talking to people at the theatre — it was the same one she used for talking to Bessie and the other children’s mothers — and a different, much more ordinary one for talking — actually shouting — to the children when they had their lessons, but this was a third one. It was quieter and even more ordinary than her shouting one, and she sounded much the same as the women who sat and gossiped in Sidney Street doorways on summer evenings.

  ‘You’re wasting your time with that one,’ he said as he reached the door and shot a sharp little glance at Lexie. ‘Dave Fox don’t even know she’s having lessons from you. So you can forget your fancy notions, eh? He ain’t going to invest in no Juvenile Jollities. Even though he’s the brother-in-law —’

  ‘Brother-in-law?’ Madame said, and now she was no longer abstracted. ‘I thought — well, it doesn’t matter, anyway. Go on, Len. I’m busy. Go away.’ And Mr Ganz, after one more sharp little grin at Lexie, went away. Madame Gansella went back to the piano and continued the lesson as though there had been no interruption. But she didn’t shout out at Lexie any more, even though she made a lot of mistakes now because she was so mixed up by the odd things that Mr Ganz had said.

  ‘Right, children, that’s enough! Downstairs with you! Change quietly, and wait for your mothers in the hall — no pushing and no shouting — no, Lexie, not you. Just wait a minute, dearie, will you?’

  Lexie stood very still, feeling fear climbing up inside her. Madame had never called her dearie, not in all the weeks she’d been coming to these lessons. Maybe she was angry with her? Maybe she was going to tell her to go away and never come back? And suddenly the feeling she’d had before, the wanting-to-go-away-and-never-have-lessons-again feeling, exploded and came down in a little shower of eager hotness inside her, quite different now; she did want to dance, she did, she did, and no one was going to stop her. No one at all —

  ‘Please, don’t make me —’ she began, but Madame rode right over her words and, incredibly, bent down and picked her up and held her close, and Lexie was too amazed to resist her. She just sat there in the circle of that big arm, with Madame Gansella’s face so close to her she could see the fine hairs on her upper lip all caked with powder, and said nothing.

  ‘Dearie, I have some sad news for you. I hope you’ll be a brave little girlie and keep a stiff upper lip. It’s tragic sometimes in life, and we all have to learn to live with it.’

  Lexie watched her upper lip, fascinated at the way the lines in between the powder-caked hairs came and went with each word.

  ‘Your poor dear Poppa has passed away. He suffered a lot, Miss Ascher told me, and it was all very peaceful. Really it’s blessed release, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You do understand, dearie, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Madame,’ Lexie said, and then after a moment shook her head. ‘No, Madame.’

  Madame looked irritated for a moment and then tried again. ‘Your Poppa, dearie. He’s been ill?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Lexie said cheerfully. ‘Poppa’s always ill. He lies in bed all day and Bessie has to give him his dinner on a spoon.’ She didn’t tell Madame about the wet and dirty beds. That was something you didn’t tell strangers.

  Madame brightened. ‘Well, dear, you won’t be too surprised then to know he’s passed away. Gone to sleep, you know.’

  ‘He’s always asleep,’ Lexie said.

  Madame’s lips tightened. ‘He’s dead, dearie. Died this morning.’

  ‘Oh!’ Lexie said and then stared at Madame’s face, looking at her eyes now instead of that fascinating upper lip. ‘Oh. Poppa dead?’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ Madame Gansella said, and set her on her feet again and then stood brushing down her dress. ‘I’m afraid so. And Miss Ascher says it’s best you don’t go home till the shivah’s over. You’re staying here with me a week. It’s better. So go downstairs now, and change, but don’t put on your coat and hat, of course, and I’ll think of something for you to do this afternoon while I take a class of the big ones. Perhaps you can watch — yes, that’ll be nice for you. You can watch the
big ones. And then, when it’s all over, Miss Ascher will come and take you home —’

  She looked down at the child again for a moment before opening the door and shushing her out. ‘Oh, and yes — I wish you long life,’ she said and Lexie stared at her uncom-prehendingly and then went slowly downstairs.

  ‘I don’t know what’s got into her, and that’s a fact. And I’ll tell you something else. I think she’s gone meshuggah. She’s a crazy woman,’ Fanny said loudly and she sat down firmly at the table and folded her arms over her lace-fronted bosom. Always well dressed at the best of times, she had, in the last few years, become a very fashionable lady indeed, buying the most expensive materials for her dressmaker, Sadie Copper-man, to make up into elaborate ensembles of tight-waisted high-necked blouses and sweeping skirts with myriad tucks and trimmings, all surmounted by the most intricate of hairdressing modes with curls and fringes and swirls. She wore a good deal of jewellery too, but today was wearing only jet — if rather too much of it — in deference to her status as a mourner.

  ‘Ah, so she’s got a little maggot in her head!’ Dave said. ‘Listen, Fanny, they’ve all gone now — bad enough we have to sit here every day as it is. Do me a favour, let’s go home, eh? It’s hot in here —’ And he fanned his shining face with his homburg hat (for he too liked to dress fashionably) and glowered at Bessie, who was sitting silently on the low chair that was obligatory for mourners.

  She was the only one still so ensconced, for now the last of the visitors who had come to offer cakes and condolences in the traditional way had departed. Joe and Benny had gone to sit at the open window, where what little air there was from the fetid street outside was to be found on this hot August night.

  ‘Do me a favour, Bessie,’ Dave said after the pause had become painfully long. ‘Tell us where she is already! Believe me, no one’s goin’ to take the kid away from you. You think Fanny wants more problems than she’s already got with our little lobbus? That Monty’ll be the death of us yet, believe me! It’s just she wants to know where the child is! We all do — it’s only natural!’