‘I knew Bianca and Kathleen would get on,’ said Margo her face squeezed with enthusiasm. Keeping a fraction of an eye on her leaning mother, she said: ‘There’s a pop group performing in the town tonight.’ She studied Korky unsurely. ‘Perhaps you could both go.’ She simpered. ‘She’s got no one to play with here. I can’t let her go by herself. She’s only fifteen.’
‘They’re called the Bay Watchers,’ Bianca informed Korky.
Korky looked at Savage for an escape but he said: ‘Why don’t you go?’ She bared her teeth and muttered: ‘Well, later.’ She produced a fulsome smile for Margo. ‘There’s dancing in the hotel, you say?’
‘Ah, but not your sort of dancing,’ argued the woman. She did not like the look of Korky. ‘You’d be much better with the . . . the . . .’
‘Bay Watchers,’ reminded Bianca proudly.
The old mother interrupted the exchange by beginning to slip sideways. ‘She’s dozing off,’ said Margo. ‘I’ll have to get her to bed.’ She waved girlishly to them both and caught her mother heavily but with some deftness in the same movement.
The Ryde Romantics were warming to a waltz when Savage and Korky crept covertly downstairs. They had intended to escape to a pub by the harbour but Margo was lying in the shadows. ’You’re here!’ she exclaimed as though there had been a major search for them. ‘Now come along. I will buy you a drink. Both.’
Bianca was sprawled, wan and moody, in a cane chair near the bar. She wore a short skirt and thick black tights. In the background the lights were pink, lending an ethereal glow to the faces of the band. Margo indicated two chairs.
‘It’s not your sort of music, I know, Kathleen,’ sympathised Margo as she turned to get the attention of the waiter. ‘The . . . er . . . Bay . . .’
‘Watchers,’ provided Bianca sipping through a straw.
‘Yes, the Bay Watchers. You’ll be able to . . .’
‘Rave it up,’ muttered Korky transferring her dulled eyes to Savage.
‘You’ll enjoy it,’ he said. He was aware of a strange contrary feeling of not wanting her to go. She looked unhappy.
‘You will,’ enthused Margo looking meaningfully at Savage. ‘You younger set.’
The waiter came over. People had, Margo said, come from a distance to the dance. It was the only weekday dance left. The tables about the floor were full and twenty couples moved moonily now to a foxtrot. Korky grimly ordered a whisky. Margo hesitated and glanced at Savage. ‘I’ll have one too,’ suggested Bianca. ‘You will not!’ retorted her mother like a scarcely controlled explosion. ‘You’re only fifteen.’
‘That’s my age, not my fault,’ said the girl cheekily. She rose in Korky’s estimation.
‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ Margo warned incisively. ‘Or off to bed you go. And no Bay Watchers.’
Her voice trailed a little as though she immediately regretted the threat. ‘Just be reasonable,’ she suggested with a stiff smile. ‘For once. Please.’
Margo and Savage were dancing. He moved tentatively but the dance was slow and she helped and prompted, her full bosom supportively against him. From her distance Korky thought how good he looked now, his upright body, his head in profile, his smile. When they turned Margo pushed.
‘My mum fancies your dad,’ mentioned Bianca.
‘He’s not my dad,’ muttered Korky fiercely. She took a breath. ‘He’s my lover.’
‘He is!’ Bianca was enthralled. She leaned eagerly. ‘Christ, what’s it like?’
Korky swallowed. ‘Well . . . not properly. But he’s not my dad either.’
‘What is he then?’
‘All right, he is my dad. I was only sending you up.’
‘My mum fancies him,’ repeated Bianca overcoming her disappointment. ‘She doesn’t get many chances. My father went off and she has to drag around my granny. But she’s the one with the money.’
‘Why is she always falling over?’ enquired Korky. ‘Your gran.’
‘Because she’s tired,’ shrugged Bianca. They continued observing the close couple on the dance floor. Margo was laughing girlishly. ‘Shit,’ muttered Korky.
‘My gran doesn’t mind,’ said Bianca mistaking the oath for an expression of sympathy. ‘She still thinks it’s years ago. She’s eighty or ninety.’
The music finished. Korky watched grimly as Savage and Margo slowed and stopped. They remained on the floor for a moment as the other dancers dispersed, still close, their left hands held, their right arms about each other. Margo was chattering. Unhurriedly, reluctantly it seemed to Korky, they uncoupled and walked towards them.
‘Was it a nice dance?’ enquired Korky sourly.
‘Heavenly,’ said Margo with her lush smile. She turned to Savage. ‘Wasn’t it, Frank?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Savage avoiding Korky’s eyes. ‘I’m afraid I am a bit rusty, that’s all.’
‘We’ll have the next one,’ said Korky decisively. She began to get to her feet. ‘Come on, they’re starting.’
‘It’s a cha-cha-cha,’ warned Margo with a hint of foregone triumph. Bianca smirked towards Korky.
‘We always dance the cha-cha-cha,’ Korky returned with soft tartness. ‘When we’re at home.’ Her eyes challenged Savage. ‘Don’t we, Frank?’
Savage responded weakly. ‘All the time.’ He took a desperate swallow of his Scotch and allowed Korky to tow him on to the dance floor.
He stood woodenly, his hands held out in front, solid as a big puppet. ‘I can’t dance this,’ he protested hoarsely. ‘Not the cha-cha-cha.’ His worried eyes went to the feet of the dancers already primping into the steps, but Korky had fixed him with a small smile. ‘’Course you can,’ she encouraged privately. ‘You just plonk your legs up and down to the music.’ She held out her thin arms to him and they got into position a foot apart. ‘Plonkie, plonk, plonk, plonk, plonkie, plonk,’ she encouraged. His eyes were still swivelling. ‘Don’t do that, you look like a scared bloody horse,’ she told him softly. ‘We’ll do it our way. Plonk, plonk, plonk. That’s right. Keep going.’ Her smile grew and glowed as they pumped up and down on the same spot, his lumbering legs and her light limbs like different pistons. ‘That’s right, you’ve got it,’ she breathed happily. She allowed herself a sharp scan towards Margo and was gratified to see her observing from behind a deep scowl; Bianca’s head had dropped to one side, her expression envious.
Savage’s anxiety began to ease. No one was laughing, no one was even watching them. The dancers were too intent on their own intricate patterns. ‘Plonk, plonk, plonk,’ sang Korky to him. ‘Now let’s turn when we do it. This way. Plonk, plonk, plonkie, plonk.’ He revolved slowly, nervously, still keeping his feet pumping, but no less ponderously, in time with the music. Korky pushed herself closer to him, her flimsy frame against his chest, their legs brushing.
‘Oh, Savage,’ she breathed happily. ‘We’re dancing, Savage, we’re dancing.’
At the end of the tune he insisted that they should quit the floor. ‘My knees have gone,’ he whispered. She laughed and kept laughing so that Margo could see, as they returned to the table.
‘That was good,’ said Bianca with envious enthusiasm.
‘It looked very difficult,’ sniffed her mother. It was a time for decisions. She looked at her watch. ‘It’s almost ten. Do you two want to be off now?’
‘It started at nine,’ said Bianca her eyes going pleadingly towards Korky. ‘Shall we?’
‘Oh, all right,’ responded Korky like someone now sure of their ground. ‘We’ll give it a go.’ She sniffed airily. ‘Watch out the Bay Watchers.’
‘Gosport’s top band,’ quoted Bianca. Her face fell. ‘Wherever Gosport is.’ The girls picked up their hand-bags.
‘Have you got enough money?’ Margo asked her daughter. ‘You had five pounds at the weekend.’
Korky looked embarrassed for Bianca. ‘I’ve got some,’ Bianca replied low-voiced. ‘Enough to get in and for some coke.’
Margo seemed pleas
ed but then became stern. ‘Don’t drink anything else,’ she warned. Her eyes fixed her daughter and then transferred briefly to Korky. ‘Understand?’
Bianca nodded and Korky said brazenly: ‘You don’t drink coke.’
‘What then,’ demanded Margo, ‘do you do with it?’
‘She’s joking,’ interrupted Savage. He scowled at Korky. ‘Don’t joke like that.’ He rose. ‘I’ll take you into town. You’ll have to get a taxi back.’
Margo lifted her full eyes to him. ‘Don’t be long, Frank,’ she said. ‘Don’t you go in there with them.’
He laughed mildly and said he thought it was unlikely. ‘I’ll be here,’ she promised.
Outside it was blowing wet. As they went towards the car Korky whispered against the wind: ‘Watch out for that Margo. She’s after you, Savage. Before you know it she’ll have you.’
He grinned and patted her bottom and she kissed him on the cheek. ‘It’s blowing up my skirt,’ complained Bianca waiting on the other side of the car.
He drove them the mile into the harbour town, across the bridge and around the cornered streets. ‘You can hear it,’ said Korky easing down the window. ‘It’s over there somewhere.’
Two more narrow bends and they saw the unmistakable venue. The front of the sober hall was gaudily lit and surrounded by a crowd, its heads illuminated. ‘The greats of Gosport,’ muttered Korky.
‘I hope we can get in,’ said Bianca. ‘I’m not allowed usually.’
‘Look after her,’ said Savage to Korky. ‘And yourself.’
‘She’s sound with me,’ she answered. She kissed him on the cheek again and got from the car. ‘If that Margo tries anything,’ she whispered, ‘say you’ve been wounded.’ She regarded him as if she meant it and then turned and went with Bianca. He was pleased that she held the girl’s hand as they approached the lights and the music thumping over the cut-out of the crowd. He waited in the car. They went through the figures at the fringe and did not re-emerge. He waited another three minutes hoping she would come back, and then drove off.
‘You’ve been hours,’ Margo complained winsomely. ‘I missed you.’
Uneasily he sat down in the wicker chair. There were fewer people dancing now. ‘I got another Scotch for you,’ she said. ‘Were the girls all right?’
‘Yes, fine. There was a terrific din and a huge crowd of kids there, but they went in all right and I waited for a couple of minutes. It looked like my idea of hell.’
‘It’s all so uncivilised, it seems to me,’ she sighed. She looked moodily into her gin. ‘In my day . . .’ She coloured. ‘And that was not so long ago. It all seemed so much gentler. What did she mean by coke? Not what I . . . ?’
‘She was joking,’ Savage told her quickly. ‘It’s typical of her.’
‘She’s very . . . lively. What happened to your wife?’
‘We’re separated. We’re divorcing.’
‘Does . . . Korky . . . live with your wife?’
‘No. She lives with me.’
‘Oh. That’s a responsibility, isn’t it?’ She wanted to pursue the questioning but she was also eyeing the possibilities of the dance floor. The band were winding into a waltz. ‘Shall we dance?’ she said. ‘Before they pack up.’
‘Yes . . . yes, of course. I can manage this one.’
She laughed enticingly, girlishly, over her shoulder at him as they went towards the floor. The lights had dropped to purple. Some of the dancers were still engaged in dextrous ballroom steps but most were now lying close against each other as though exhausted. Margo stood, big and blonde, her arms held invitingly, her smile deep. He put his arms properly about her, about the roll of her waist, and began to plod the three-step movement.
‘You don’t have to count,’ she reproved softly. ‘I’ll count for you. And relax. You’re not marching.’ She eased him closer to her lacy front, her perfume engulfed him. ‘Why does she call you Savage?’ she enquired into his ear.
‘Korky?’
‘Korky,’ she confirmed.
‘Oh, it’s just habit,’ he replied uneasily. ‘I call her Korky and she usually calls me Savage, that’s all.’
‘It’s very matey.’
‘I suppose it is in a way.’ He moved closer against her to try and prevent further questions. She did not ask any. Her full arms went around his neck and he felt the heat of her face. She pushed her stomach against him. He mentally counted: ‘One, two, three. One, two, three . . .’
They danced in a romantic glow. He found it easier now. ‘That’s better, relax,’ she said against his ear. ‘You’re more fun like this.’
The band played low, the lights gleamed pinkly. She moved her warm face and kissed him luxuriously on the lips. He returned the kiss. ‘Let’s go, shall we,’ she suggested secretly.
Almost blindly he followed her from the floor. She was tall, her backside still swaying to the music as she went before him. ‘Don’t let’s wait,’ she whispered. ‘They’ll be playing the national anthem.’
Holding hands they left the lounge and crept by the empty reception desk. ‘Goodnight sir. Goodnight madam,’ recited the half-concealed night porter. ‘Would you like a morning paper?’
Dumbly they shook their heads at the single inference and released their hands. He retreated somewhere and they went up the stairs together arms about each other’s waists. Then, round the bend, they saw her mother, wearing a tented nightdress of coloured stripes, sitting, legs horribly apart, on the top landing. Her eyes were closed, her toothless mouth agape. ‘I want a drink,’ she demanded cranking up her lids. ‘And I want it now.’
‘Oh Mother, oh God, oh shit,’ itemised Margo fervently. Disappointment and embarrassment crammed her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to Savage with a pathetic politeness. ‘She’ll have to have a drink. She’ll never settle down otherwise. She’ll come looking for me.’
‘I can see you’ve got a problem,’ he said. He tried not to look at the old lady. His voice firmed. ‘Let’s sort it out.’
‘Help me heave her up, will you,’ pleaded Margo. ‘If I can only get her upright, that’s half the battle.’
Between them they caught hold of the woman like a heavy sack. He had a fleeting memory of instructing in casualty evacuation under fire. Margo knew what was required. It needed a complex manoeuvre to get her mother to her feet and to stagger with her along the landing to a substantial ornamental couch where they eased her down. The base of her body spread out as though in relief. ‘She’ll be all right there,’ said Margo hopefully. ‘Propped up.’
‘I’ll get her a drink,’ suggested Savage. ‘What does she want?’
‘Guinness,’ ordered the old lady in a businesslike way. ‘Two bottles.’
‘Right,’ he said and retreated down the stairs. The bar was just closing, the band had ceased and were packing their instruments, the dancers were leaving. ‘Guinness,’ he said to the barman. ‘Two bottles please.’
The man, who had observed their coming together during the evening and their eventual clasped departure, raised his eyebrows a trifle and said: ‘Really? Well, you never know, do you, with women . . .’
Savage regarded him levelly. ‘It’s for her mother.’
‘Ah, so that’s it,’ said the barman. He produced two bottles from below the bar. ‘Opened now?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Savage sulkily. ‘You’d better.’
The barman eased the tops from the bottles and handed them across. Savage signed the bill. ‘Have a nice night,’ said the man blandly.
Savage grimaced and went towards the lobby. He could hear Margo’s cajoling voice from the top of the stairs. ‘Now, come on, Mummy, promise you’ll go back. Your Guinness is coming. Here it comes now.’
‘I had them take the tops off,’ said Savage as he reached the scene and handed over the bottles.
‘That’s good,’ approved Margo. ‘She’ll drink them both, one after the other. I’d better take her into her room. Come on, Mummy. We’ve got the Guinn
ess. Two bottles.’
‘Opened?’ enquired the old lady pedantically.
‘Yes, they’re opened.’ Margo raised her pencilled eyebrows at Savage then blew him a promising kiss.
The old lady missed nothing. ‘You and your bloody men,’ she complained.
‘Come on, dear,’ Margo ordered firmly. She made an aside to Savage. ‘Dangle the bottles.’
He felt odd dangling a brace of Guinness bottles in front of the woman’s big folded face but it was enough to encourage her slowly back to her room. At the door Margo paused. ‘She’ll drop off soon. But I’ll have to stay with her.’ She blew another kiss. ‘See you later.’
Gratefully Savage reached his room. After considering it, he locked the door. It was eleven thirty. He undressed and got into bed. Perhaps she had meant tomorrow. After half an hour he was drifting into a relieved sleep when there was a tap at the door. ‘It’s me,’ she called through. ‘Margo.’ He opened the door. She looked sad and embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. It looks like it’s off. She’s got downstairs now. Will you help me retrieve her again? Please.’
Savage pulled on his dressing gown and rubbed his face. She waited on the landing looking over the stairwell. ‘She’s sitting at the bottom,’ she reported. She clutched his arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Frank,’ she told him suddenly tearful. ‘I wanted to come, really I did. But the moment I turned my back she was downstairs.’ Her face curled. ‘The old cow.’
‘Let’s see what we can do,’ said Savage inadequately. ‘She’s not a small woman.’
‘Sixteen stone,’ muttered Margo like a curse. ‘Dead-weight.’
The old lady was snoring asleep when they reached her, her backside on the third stair, her head propped against the bannisters, in her striped nightdress like a beach tent toppled by the wind. ‘Come on, Mummy,’ cajoled Margo. ‘Mr Savage is going to help you.’
The gnarled eyelids rose painfully. ‘You again,’ she sniffed at him. She heaved her face around to her daughter. ‘You and your men, Margo. I never had the chance of men.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ responded Margo tartly. ‘Come on, we’re going to get you back to bed.’
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