‘Excuse me?’ Vinny blinked at him, as if he were looking at some worm that had just crawled up through the floorboards.
‘That’s my girl you’re dancing with, so I’d be obliged if you’d hand her over and sling your hook.’
Vinny’s hazel eyes widened in mock surprise. ‘Hand her over? What is she, a parcel? Anyway, who says she’s your girl?’
‘I do.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah, that’s right! So beat it.’
‘Aren’t you even going to apologise for abandoning her, for leaving her standing out in the street all on her own for an hour?’
‘I might apologise to her, not to you, buster. Move.’
Harriet finally found her voice. ‘Excuse me, but would you mind not speaking about me as if I’m not here. Vinny’s right, you did abandon me, quite without warning. You stood me up, so what gives you the right to march in and ask him to hand me over, just as if I were a bit of baggage you forgot to pick up?’
Steve looked surprised by this response. ‘But I can explain.’
‘I’m not sure I want to listen to your excuses.’
‘They aren’t excuses. I thought you’d wait for me, Harriet, not go off with someone else. You’re my girl, so of course you belong to me.’
Vinny stifled a guffaw of laughter, and, still holding Harriet firmly in his arms, quietly remarked, ‘Is that right, babe, do you belong to him? And there’s me thinking you were a free and independent-minded young woman.’
‘So I am,’ Harriet hotly protested, inflamed by Steve’s assumption that she’d still be hanging around waiting for him, all pathetic and needy. ‘Sorry, Steve. I’m dancing with Vinny right now. Would you mind getting out of the way as you’re causing a scene. You can ask me again later, when I’m free,’ and resting her cheek against Vinny’s, she let him sway her in his arms, in time to the music.
Tight lipped, Steve whirled on his heels and strode away without another word. When the dance was over Harriet could see no sign of him. Her stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. She’d obviously upset him by not rushing straight into his arms, as she might eagerly have done only a week ago. But she really didn’t care. He’d let her down by not supporting her against his parents’ disapproval. How things had changed. Oh, but she didn’t want to lose him.
‘Take no notice of wonder-boy,’ Vinny was saying as he nibbled her ear lobe. ‘Doesn’t know how to treat a girl. Say what you like about me, I do know how to give a chick a good time.’
Harriet gave Vinny a vague smile, but her mind was on Steve. She couldn’t instantly stop loving him simply because he was in a sulk, or didn’t quite know how to handle this complicated situation. Maybe she was being a bit hard on him. He was confused about it all, and so was she. Then Harriet caught sight of him across the dance floor, and, politely excusing herself to Vinny, began to make her way towards him, unable to resist allowing her beloved Steve one last chance to apologise.
Before she reached him the music started up again and, after casting a furious glare in her direction, he turned away and asked a blonde to dance. The girl almost fell into his arms, obviously delighted to be asked, and Steve eagerly wrapped his arms about her.
Harriet stopped dead, hugely embarrassed that she should be left standing in the middle of the dance floor, so obviously snubbed. Vinny saw her dilemma and was back at her elbow in a second. ‘Come on, babe, let’s get some fresh air.’
Feeling weak, and shaken by Steve’s rebuff, Harriet allowed Vinny to lead her outside. He pressed her up against a wall and started to kiss her with the same kind of energy and single-mindedness that he’d demonstrated on stage earlier. Harriet offered no resistance. At any other time she might have slapped him away, but tonight her self-esteem was at an all-time low.
Harriet was hurting badly, feeling let down by Steve’s thoughtless arrogance. Not only had he failed to support her against his mother’s sarcasm then ignored her all week, but he’d turned up at the dance over an hour late, and taken it for granted she’d still be hanging around waiting for him. What cheek! And to add insult to injury, he now had his arms wrapped around that blonde.
Maybe she was the kind of nice girl his mother would approve of. Perhaps he agreed with his parents sudden change of attitude towards her, and didn’t feel the need to show Harriet any respect either. She felt a deep sense of shame, as if she’d committed some sin or other, instantly quenched by a stir of hot fury that roared through her veins. How dare Steve treat her with such contempt!
The unexpected anger at least helped to offset the pain that was clenching her heart, and she put her arms around Vinny’s neck and began to kiss him with renewed fervour.
Steve Blackstock could go take a long walk off a short pier, as Nan would say. He’d had his chance and lost it.
Chapter Eleven
On the Saturday morning following her committee meeting, Rose asked, ‘Can we have us tea early tonight? Only I’m off round to Irma’s to have me cards read.’
Harriet didn’t seem to hear as she placed a plate of scrambled eggs on toast before her grandmother. She kept endlessly going over what had happened at the dance the previous night, wondering what became of Steve after he’d waltzed off with that blonde. She hadn’t seen him again all evening. But then she’d spent rather a long time outside getting some ‘fresh air’ with Vinny Turner.
Oh, she did hope Steve didn’t see her necking with him. That would be too embarrassing. Harriet was feeling just a little ashamed of her reckless behaviour, already having second thoughts over accepting an invitation to see Vinny again tonight. That had come about as a moment of rebellion because she suspected Steve had gone off with the blonde.
Joyce’s voice intruded sharply upon her thoughts. ‘I asked for salt and pepper. You can’t even set a breakfast table properly.’
Harriet brought the cruet without comment, then turning to her grandmother, finally answered her question. ‘Course we can have supper early, Nan, no problem. Just tell me what would you’d like to eat.’
‘Nay, chuck, I don’t mind. Whatever you cook is allus delicious. Something I can chew easy with these new false teeth of mine.’
‘An early tea would suit me too as I’m going out myself, as a matter of fact, to the pictures with a friend.’
‘It might not suit me,’ Grant complained, in his habitual whine.
Both Harriet and Rose ignored him.
‘You off out with young Steve?’ Rose queried with a teasing wink, but to her surprise, Harriet shook her head.
‘No, not tonight.’
‘Eeh, that’s a turn up for the book, I thought you and him were like that,’ Nan said, crossing her fingers, which wasn’t easy with a piece of toast clutched in them.
‘So who are you going with?’ Joyce sharply enquired.
‘Anyone I know?’ Grant added.
Harriet cast him a vague smile. ‘I do hope not.’
Rose smacked her grandson’s hand as he reached for the last slice of toast. ‘You keep yer nose out, you. Leave the poor lass alone. If her and Steve are having problems it’s nowt to do wi’ you. Anyroad, I’m going to solve all our problems tonight with a throw of them cards. Irma’s ability at fortune telling is unsurpassed.’
Joyce snorted her derision. ‘Lot of superstitious nonsense.’
‘Course it is, and I believe every word.’
‘There’s a fool born every minute.’
Rose laughed. ‘Well, I can’t help how I were born. At least I haven’t made a life-time’s career of being one, like some folk I could mention.’
Joyce glared at her mother, but said nothing further.
Grant simply grinned, thinking that he might make it his business to find out exactly who it was Harriet was seeing tonight. It could well prove interesting.
Joyce endured a long, tiring day at the salon and when finally she shut up for the day, was delighted to discover that everyone, including her mother, had indeed gone out for the evening. Har
riet had left supper for her under a plate in the oven to keep warm. She turned it off, her mind returning instinctively that long ago party.
Joyce had been dreadfully upset by what had happened at her friend Eileen’s house. She felt unclean, dirty and despoiled. The first thing she did when she got home that night was to run a bath, far more than the regulatory few inches, and she soaped herself all over, inside and out. Joyce was appalled by what had happened to her, and, once the first shock passed, had sobbed her heart out.
Who would want to marry her now? No respectable man, that was for sure. Certainly not a handsome sailor. She was ruined, desecrated, violated. Her hopes and dreams for a better future were quite gone. She’d end up under the arches with the other prossies.
She’d spent the next hour or two in self-chastisement, berating herself up for being all kinds of a fool, telling herself she should have made a run for it the minute she’d seen what state the young man was in. But then the lad had seemed quite merry, really quite jolly at first, and non-threatening. How was she to know he’d turn nasty?
After a while she dried her tears, pushed back her hair and started to think more clearly. Who knew about this? No one. It became very clear to her in a moment of complete lucidity, that the least said, soonest mended. She didn’t even know his name, and he was so drunk she doubted he would recognise her even if he did ever see her again. The chances were he wouldn’t remember anything about it. With luck, their paths would never cross again and this whole unpleasant episode could be swept aside and forgotten.
Joyce made up her mind not to tell a soul, certainly not her own mother who was a strong Methodist and didn’t believe in hanky-panky before marriage, nor strong liquor at any time. Rose would be sure to accuse her of drinking, even though she hadn’t touched a drop. Her mother would castigate her for even being at a party where strong drink was being served, and no doubt blame Joyce for things getting out of hand.
She could almost hear her saying it. ‘You should have had more sense. Boys will be boys. You shouldn’t have even been at a party where there was alcohol.’
It simply wasn’t worth risking the arguments that would surely follow simply for a bit of sympathy. Nor had Joyce any wish to lose her reputation, which was very important to her.
Silence, that was the answer. Joyce had no intention of allowing one drunken sailor to ruin her life. Who would believe in her innocence? What was she supposed to do, for goodness sake, report this silly young man, whose name she didn’t even know, to the police? And what would they do? Nothing! They’d tell her off for being so stupid as to let him. Men always stuck together, didn’t they?
Besides, they’d hardly be likely to blame a young serviceman for wanting a bit of fun before he went off to fight for his country. They’d remind her there was a war on, that tensions were running high, that whisky and fear can do funny things to a bloke, and that the young man might be dead next week.
Joyce made up her mind. If her friends didn’t know, if no one knew, then no one could ever turn round and accuse her of behaving like a tart.
A week or two later, to her great surprise and delight, she did get a letter from Stan, and Joyce knew instantly that she’d made the right decision. She ripped open the envelope and read the letter with fast beating heart. He was apologising for not having written sooner, explaining that he’d had a hard job finding out her address, and weren’t they a pair of daft clucks for not having thought of that. He’d been granted a few day’s leave following his initial training, and could they please meet up?
Joyce wrote back at once to say, yes please.
She was brought out of her reverie by the jingle of the doorbell. And as she hurried down to let her lover in, hungry for something other than food, Joyce thought how she deserved this bit of pleasure in her life. She loved it when she and Joe were able to enjoy a little privacy, making the most of these few hours alone to slip into bed together. It never took him long to get out of his working togs and between the sheets. Joe liked his bit of fun and was a generous lover, always making sure that Joyce was happy too.
And he made a point of remembering to keep her well provided with rum and coke, Joyce’s favourite tipple. They were soon cuddled up against the pillows, sipping their drinks contentedly together.
‘So poor Irma’s on her own again this evening?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Do you reckon she suspects?’
‘I’ve no idea. She wouldn’t dream of telling me what she thinks.’
‘Why, because she’s used to you and your women?’
‘Nay, Joyce love, you’re the only one for me.’
‘But not the first.’ It was not a question.
Joe took a long swallow of his drink. He was more a beer man himself, but went through with this little ritual of sipping a rum and coke after their love making session for Joyce’s benefit. It made him feel as if he were pleasing her. But where was the point in pretending she was the first? It was no secret that he had many notches on his belt, of which he was really quite proud. ‘Well, that might be true, love, but it’s best to be the last, isn’t it, rather than the first?’
‘Ooh, Joe, what a smarmy old softy you are. I bet you say that to all the girls,’ Joyce giggled, giving him a smacking kiss on his bristled cheek. ‘I could really fancy you, if I weren’t taken,’ she teased. ‘Ooh, silly me, what am I saying? I’m not taken, am I? I’m free as air, at last, which you seem to have failed to notice.’
‘Aye, course I’ve noticed. All the better for me that you are free.’ Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth Joe regretted them. He didn’t care to acknowledge how free Joyce was following her husband’s demise. Irma never complained about his little peccadilloes, and they rubbed along surprisingly well. She was a first rate cook, and he doubted Joyce would take such good care of him. He couldn’t quite see her keeping his overalls so dazzling white either, important on a food stall, or darning his favourite socks. So whatever had possessed him to say such a stupid thing? He was perfectly happy with the way things were, and had no wish to change the situation, which suited him well.
Joyce, however, took quite the opposite view. Now that her husband Stan had died, she was beginning to realise that maybe she wanted more than a quick tumble between the sheets. She had her future to think of, after all, and much as she enjoyed her little hairdressing business, she thought it was about time she relaxed a little more and let someone else look after her for a change.
‘All the better for me too,’ Joyce agreed. ‘You wouldn’t believe what I had to put up with, fetching and carrying for that man, suffering his black moods, trapped in this house.’
‘Eeh, I don’t know about trapped exactly, you and me seemed to get together quite regular, though of course nowhere near often enough,’ Joe hastily added, noting the glint in her glare.
‘Not to mention putting up with . . . other things which Stan foisted on me.’
Joe considered pretending not to understand, but then Joyce had dropped enough hints over these last months to give him a good picture of how things stood between herself and Harriet, so quietly remarked, ‘Well, at least the lass was able to share the load, once she got older.’
‘Huh, lot of use she was.’
Joyce genuinely believed that she’d sacrificed her life to Stan, that she’d spent much of it caring for a crippled husband, tied to the house in case he should need something. She conveniently ignored the fact that once Harriet was old enough, she had been the one who’d done the lion’s share of caring for her father.
Now, Joyce was entranced by the prospect of having the freedom to go out and about more and have a man take care of her for a change. It was an intoxicating thought, something she’d never been lucky enough to have. Joe Southworth featured largely in these plans for the future. He had a good business, wasn’t in bad shape for a man his age, and she was really quite fond of him.
‘So you will tell Irma soon then, now that we’re going to
be spending more time together? In fact, I was wondering if you’d like to move in.’
‘Move in? What, here, with you?’ Joe’s eyes widened with shock.
‘That was the general idea. Then when the divorce comes through, we can tie the knot all legal and above board. What do you say?’
Joe was too stunned to speak for a moment. This was the last thing he’d expected. ‘Nay, I could never do that.’
‘Why not?’
He floundered a little, wondering what he could possibly say to avoid this looming hazard. ‘Live o’er t’brush together, you mean? Nay, what would folk think? And Irma would never stand for it.’
Joyce chuckled. ‘Irma would have no say in the matter, and folk would only think what a laddo you are. A real man!’ She slid her hands between his legs and fondled the hot hardness of him. ‘I’ve ample proof of that, haven’t I?’
Joe loved it when she made him out to be a real lothario, as it was rather how he saw himself. ‘Yeah, but aren’t you a bit overcrowded here already, what with your mother, and Grant, and that young lass, of course. Harriet, for one, wouldn’t care to have me take her father’s place.’
‘She’ll do as she’s told,’ Joyce snapped, pulling his trousers off him just as he’d started to pull them on.
Joe certainly had no difficulty in performing an encore which brought great pleasure to them both, but whether he wished to make these little overtures into a life-long symphony, he couldn’t quite decide. He avoided further discussion by taking Joyce off to the Dog and Duck for her second rum and coke, where conversation could move along less dangerous lines.
What he didn’t appreciate was that once Joyce Ashton had set her mind on something, she generally got her way. Although if she were honest, that trait hadn’t always served her well in the past.
Joyce had been so excited that Stan had got back in touch that she’d agreed he may call for her at the house. She even introduced him to Rose, who managed to behave herself for once. Her mother didn’t bring out any old baby photographs, nor did she make any embarrassing jokes or tell boring little anecdotes about her as a little girl. She just sat smiling as she watched her daughter with her young man, clearly pleased to see her happy.
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