The Ballroom

by Anna Hope

  A fragment of that morning’s Times came back to him: the King – reported to be shooting in Yorkshire, at Bolton Abbey. That was the direction the shots had come from; it could well be the King’s shooting party he heard. Likely even! Charles stayed where he was, sitting amongst the bracken, staring out at the small grey puffs of gun smoke in the distance, before taking his water bottle from his pack and swigging from it, pouring a little on to his hand and rubbing it over his head and neck.

  He knew there were troops stationed in London, in Hyde Park and Regent’s Park and parks in the East End. He could picture them, sweltering in their bearskins and uniforms, bayonets flashing in the broiling sun. He turned to the west and shaded his eyes. There had been rioting on the streets of Liverpool, hundreds of thousands of men. Churchill had sent HMS Antrim up the west coast, and she was moored, west-south-west of where he sat, on the Mersey between Liverpool and Birkenhead. Over two thousand cavalry and their officers on board. It only took Churchill to give the order to fire.

  Churchill’s guns in Liverpool. The King’s up here on the moor. Men in the streets.

  On the idle hill of summer,

  … far I hear the steady drummer,

  Drumming like a noise in dreams.

  Chaos. He felt it, hovering at the edge of things.

  There could be no sticking plasters now; the wound must be cauterized, root and branch.

  The Feeble-Minded Bill would be the true revolution the country needed. In a generation or less there would be no industrial action. No workers plagued by unemployment or want. Enough jobs to go around. Such beauty to its simplicity!

  A plan was rising within him, a bold plan, but a plan that, if it succeeded, might transform his fortunes along with those of the asylum, the superintendent, even the country itself. Sharston had the opportunity to become a different kind of hospital, one that specialized in prevention rather than cure.

  Soames would soon see.

  He had sent his letter to Churchill.

  Charles stood and raised his arms to the wide blue sky. It was a time for bold action, time for superior men to step into the light.

  John

  LATE AFTERNOON AND they were working in the slaughterhouse, a huge barn on the outskirts of the grounds. The butchers had gone home for the day, and it was the job of Dan and John to clean the tables and sluice down the cobbled floor. The air was thick with the sweet-metal tang of blood. Above their heads, the marbled, emptied carcasses of pigs swung from their hooks. Thunder rumbled in the distance, somewhere over the moor. Light came through high windows, but the glass was crusted with dirt, and the light fell murky and green. An attendant stood nearby: a young lad, smoking at the doorway.

  John scrubbed at the stains on his bench. The water in the bucket at his feet was pink. When it had grown red and greasy, he threw it on the ground, where it ran down slanted cobbles to a drain, then he went and filled his pail from the pump in the yard.

  He worked fast. The faster he worked, the more quickly his bucket needed changing, and the more often he went out. From the farmyard he could see the wood, see the edge of the field where he had lain with her. If he was quick, he might go back there. Even a minute would do.

  Dan was restless. At each rumble of thunder he would nod, as though murmuring a kind of assent. He kept muttering, flicking glances over to the attendant. They worked in silence until the attendant stepped outside.

  ‘There’s a war coming, mio Capitane.’ Dan’s voice was low. ‘That’s what I’m hearing. A war.’

  John looked up.

  ‘A real one this time. Not just out there.’ Dan jerked his head towards the door. ‘Not just a tug of war on a cricket field. Not just those jokers, but a real war, real men, out in the streets. Liverpool. That’s where to go.’

  John nodded; he had heard it too. The papers that reached them, days old though they were, were full of it. He had seen the pictures: the men packed on to the streets of Liverpool. Hundreds of policemen on horses.

  ‘It’s time.’ Dan balled up his cloth and chucked it on the stone slab.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Moving on.’

  ‘How?’

  Dan put his hands under his armpits and gave a low whistle. ‘You really asking me that, chavo? You really think I’m here cos they locked me up? You think I’m going to stay till I’m like those lads in there, sitting smeared in their shit? I’m only here cos I choose it. If I want to get out, I just go,’ he waved his hand towards the open door, ‘up, over and away. Like I always said.’

  ‘They’ll send men after you.’

  Dan gave a low laugh, shaking his head. ‘They won’t find me though, will they? When I scarper, I’m gone. You should come with me, chavo.’ He turned towards the door, where small pieces of seeds, or dust, the last shavings of summer, hung in the light. ‘Wind’s changed. I tell you, you’ll be better sheltering on the moor than here. Death all around here now.’ He turned back, eyes sharp and glittering, a challenge in them. ‘This land is us, chavo. You understand? We are the land. And these blind bastards …’ He shook his head. ‘When men at the bottom have their souls leave them, they end up in here. But when men at the top do, they end up dangerous. What do you say, mio Capitane?’

  John regarded his friend: the deep lines of his face, his fuzz of hair lit by the sun.

  ‘Your heart’s back now, chavo,’ said Dan softly. ‘Time to go.’

  John looked away. He tipped his bucket on the stones, watched its contents swirl and eddy down the drain. Water and blood. ‘Have ye some matches there, Riley?’

  Dan palmed a box and threw it low towards him. John pocketed them, lifted his pail and went outside.

  As he bent to the pump, he took deep lungfuls of air. The sky was low and grey, but the air was sweet. He lifted the pump handle then let it fall, the water running over his hands, washing away the blood.

  Liverpool.

  The brawling cacophony of the docks. The welcome he had been given, men spitting and jeering as he stumbled down the plank of the boat, half mad with fatigue, clothes crusted with salt spray. The part of the city where the Irish lived, and the men and women who lived there. The close, stinking courts, the shifting, temporary nature of it all; all of them waiting to get away, to America, to wherever the hell, not understanding, or coming slow to the knowing, that they were already as away as many of them would get.

  The seeping disappointment of it all. Gathering in the early-morning drizzle, hoping to be hired for the day, punching and jostling to the front to get seen. Old men on their knees for a job. The shame of it. The all-round shame of it.

  He might not know much about war, but he knew a little about Liverpool, enough to know he never wanted to go back.

  Still, plenty of the men who were caged in those sheds with him, begging for work, would be out on those streets now. Slaking their shame with anger. The thought made him uneasy. Dan’s words had got under his skin; he could not fathom where his allegiance lay.

  His bucket was filled with water, and he carried it to the door of the slaughterhouse where the attendant was picking at his nail. ‘Do ye mind if I take a minute there?’ The young man shrugged, and John put down his pail and made for the low wall, his blood quickening as the place where they had lain came into view. A black scatter of crows was there now, the last of the gleaners, picking away at the stumps of the crop.

  He saw her there beside him, heard again the way she had cried out. He had not thought a woman could cry like that, like an animal, with no thought of being heard. He saw her face, her white neck stretched, her eyes closed and then open wide and fastened on his, pulling him, until he could hold back no longer and let himself be taken down.

  He did not need a war to come and remake the world; in her he could be made new.

  And yet, beneath this he felt a great, growing unease. Dan was right. He was well again. His heart was back. And if he was well, he should not be here.

  We should run, she had said. They had been
free, and he had persuaded her to stay.

  What had he thought? That the summer would last for ever?

  John hoisted his pail and went inside, where the air was thick and close. Dan, whistling, did not meet his eyes.

  Ella

  SHE SEEMED TO tire more easily. Perhaps it was the heat, but it was harder to lift and wring the sheets, and to haul heavy baskets of wet clothes around the room. Often, when she looked up, Ella would see Clem’s eyes following her, wide with a hurt that she did not know how to salve.

  As Friday approached, though, Clem’s mood changed. She barely let Ella from her sight, speaking excitedly of the dance and of the letter that would surely come. But it troubled Ella: a letter from John, speaking of what had passed between them, was too close a thing to share with Clem, and yet Clem was pining, looking forward to it as though she were starving and it was food.

  At the end of the morning’s work, Ella was happy to reach the day room where she could sit in her chair and close her eyes and think of him.

  On Thursday she was woken by shouts.

  ‘No!’ Clem was screaming. ‘No no no no no.’

  Clem and the Irish nurse seemed to be fighting. Ella scrambled to her feet. ‘What is it? Clem?’

  The nurse pulled away from the tussle, breathing hard, her cap askew. ‘She’s not allowed books any more.’

  A low moan came from Clem. ‘Give that back.’ She lunged at the nurse, hands flailing, but the woman twisted away. ‘Orders of the doctor,’ she said, a sly triumph to her tone.

  ‘Which doctor?’ Clem’s face was pale.

  ‘Dr Fuller.’ The woman took evident pleasure in the news.

  At this Clem collapsed, quite suddenly, like a puppet someone had let go of, her skirts pooling around her on the floor.

  ‘Clem.’ Ella came to kneel beside her. ‘They can’t mean it. I’m sure it’s wrong.’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ Clem said, in a hollow voice.

  ‘Clem.’ Ella reached out and touched her arm, but Clem pushed her off.

  ‘I said leave me alone.’

  At breakfast Clem did not eat her porridge, just two small spoonfuls before she pushed the bowl away.

  ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Ella had already finished hers.

  Clem shook her head.

  ‘Can I have it then?’

  Clem shrugged, and Ella pulled the bowl across the table towards her.

  At dinnertime it was the same: Clem took just a couple of mouthfuls of stew before pushing the plate away in distaste. This time Ella did not ask but reached for it and ate it gratefully. Clem hardly seemed to notice. At teatime she still ate nothing, and Ella was happy to take her bread and jam.

  But when, on the second day, Clem did the same, Ella pushed the porridge bowl back. ‘You have to eat, Clem.’

  Clem was staring out over the room of women.

  ‘I wonder if it hurts to live.’ She spoke almost under her breath. ‘And if they have to try. And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.’

  She turned her gaze on Ella. ‘What do you think they think?’ Her tone had changed; a new chill edge had come to her voice. ‘Do they think things will get better? Do they think they’ll get out?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ella quietly.

  ‘No,’ she said, with a brief, bitter laugh. ‘I don’t suppose you do.’

  ‘Clem,’ said Ella again. ‘You have to eat.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said Clem. ‘If you don’t eat it, then they’ll give it to the pigs.’

  That Friday morning the matron made an appearance in the dining room, and hands were clapped for quiet.

  ‘Tonight you are to go back to your wards. It has been decided that while this hot weather continues, there are to be no more dances. They will resume when the weather breaks.’

  A silence, then the beginnings of whimpering from the assembled women. A distant thrum started in Ella’s ears, as though she was suddenly underwater and all the sounds were strange. When she looked up, Clem’s face was pinched, the blood gone from her lips. ‘They can’t do that.’

  Ella didn’t answer. Outside her, the world was tilting away. But Clem was already on her feet, voice raised, hands carving shapes in the air. ‘You can’t do that. We have to dance.’

  Two nurses were walking quickly towards her.

  ‘Clem.’ Ella tugged on her skirt. ‘Don’t take on. They’ll give you the sleeves.’

  ‘Don’t take on?’ Clem spat down at her.

  She did sit then, just in time, but as the nurses hovered at her shoulder she leant over the table towards Ella. ‘Until the weather breaks? Don’t you see what that means? A month. Or more. Without any dancing.’

  Ella saw it, but it was happening a long way away, beyond the tide of her blood.

  Clem’s eyes were wide. ‘For God’s sake, Ella. Don’t you care? How long will it be without any letters?’

  She wanted to say she didn’t need letters. That she couldn’t read. She wanted to say that what was written on her skin was stronger than a hundred letters could be, but the sight of Clem’s white, wild face silenced her.

  That afternoon, instead of lining up to be checked for the dance, they were put in the day room and made to sit in their usual seats. The heat seemed closer, the fractious, flitting chorus of the women louder than ever. Clem’s voice was part of it now; she kept repeating the same few words: ‘No dance. No books. No dance. No books,’ staring at the air in front of her as her hands plucked in agitation at her skirts.

  ‘Clem?’ Ella said. But Clem did not look up or pause in her recitation.

  ‘No dance, no books. No dance, no books. Nodancenobooksnodance.’

  She turned her body away from the sight of Clem and shut her eyes. After a while, she slept, falling into a feverish dream in which she was back at the mill, and late, and Jim Christy, the pennyhoil man, was shutting the gate in her face, and she had her hands on the bars and was pleading with him to let her in. She woke to a tugging on her arm – Clem’s face close to hers, and the day room drenched with woozy golden light. ‘It’s time for the dance,’ she said.

  Ella blinked at her. ‘What dance?’

  Clem grinned, baring her teeth; there were small flecks of white at the edge of her lips. ‘If they won’t let us dance in the ballroom, then we’ll make our own. We’ll show them. We don’t need stupid Dr Fuller and his stupid violin. Come on.’ She yanked Ella by the arm. ‘If you get up, then I’ll play.’

  ‘Wait.’

  Clem made a small, impatient noise and turned on her heel. Ella stayed where she was, watching as Clem walked around the listless, sunken women, clapping her hands in their faces. ‘Wake up! Wake up! One day we’re all going to be dead.’

  The nurse on duty was watching, but lazily, with half an eye, as Clem lifted the lid of the piano and played a few brief bars of a piece that Ella recognized, a beautiful piece, one that Dr Fuller had played. For a moment the notes hung on the air, until they crashed into clashing chords. ‘If he won’t play for us,’ said Clem, ‘I’ll do it.’ Next came the first few bars of a waltz, and then she was away from the piano and on her feet, clapping and singing. ‘Da da-da Da da-da Da da-da Da da-da.’

  Old Germany was up, and Clem caught her, turning a hectic circle around the room. When they came close to where Ella was sitting, Clem span Old Germany around then let her go free. She turned to Ella, kicking her on the shin. ‘Get up then. Go on.’

  Clem grabbed her hands, and this time Ella allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. ‘One day you’ll be dead,’ said Clem, and then leant forward, putting her lips on Ella’s own. At first they were hard and bloodless, and then, as she pressed herself closer, they softened, and Ella felt the quick small flick of her tongue. ‘Pretend I’m him.’ Clem pulled back, placing her cheek on Ella’s, whispering into her ear. ‘Why don’t you just pretend I’m him?’ Then she span them off, singing tunelessly.

  Ella tried to find her footing, but Clem was too fast and
the spinning was making her dizzy. ‘Stop. Can you just—’

  ‘Stop bleating, would you, and dance.’

  Clem’s small, hard breasts pressed painfully against hers, the heel of her palms grinding against her own, until she hit the side of an armchair, and pain bloomed along Ella’s hip. She wrenched herself away, the movement taking her on to the floor, the room spinning, giddy, queasy, until she vomited between her hands. When there was nothing left inside her, she managed to stand. Her eyes were streaming. The back of her nose and throat stung. She wiped her face and eyes with her sleeve. Clem was standing a little way away, breathing hard, her arms folded, a look of contempt on her face.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Ella took a few paces towards her then faltered. ‘I just felt sick.’

  Clem made a snorting noise. ‘Well, you shouldn’t have eaten so much food at lunch, should you? That’s what you get for eating twice.’

  The next morning in the laundry, Clem was working on the other side of the room and so their paths did not cross, but at dinnertime, when Ella made her way over towards where she was sitting, ready to take her usual place, Clem looked up. ‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was very calm.

  ‘Sitting down.’

  ‘Not here.’

  Ella’s lips were dry. ‘Why not here?’

  ‘Because I don’t want you to.’ Clem’s face was smooth.

  Ella’s cheeks scalded as she made her way to an empty space on the far side of the hall. She felt tears wanting to come, so put the heels of her palms to her eyes and ground them out. All through dinner she kept her gaze fixed on her plate, but when she was finished eating she couldn’t help but look up to where Clem was sitting, arms folded over her chest, bowl in front of her, staring out at nothing.