The Hidden Dance

by Susan Wooldridge

  ‘One potato, two potato, three potato, four,’ sang Anthea, up and down the corridor outside.

  ‘Now, let me ’ave a look at yer.’ Turning her grandson round, she stood him next to his new friend and, despite herself, smiled. The two boys couldn’t have been more different. There was Billy, tall and gangly, though band-box smart in his mulberry uniform, pill-box hat dipping to the left ear and a gleaming trail of tiny brass buttons down the front of a neatly fitting jacket. (Only a rather spotty face detracted from this otherwise polished appearance.) Beside him, Freddie looked wider, smaller and scruffier, his face round and soft, though Mrs Webb was pleased to see a touch of colour in those chubby cheeks, the sea air doing the child some good. But, as ever, she was only too aware of the boy’s shabby clothes. His short grey trousers were too tight – at twelve years old, the lad was growing fast, though outward rather than upward, she feared. His plimsolls were grubby but at least his rumpled green aertex shirt was hidden by the grey jumper he’d just pulled on. But even this, knitted by herself, she knew to sport a large neat darn on each elbow.

  ‘Have you two had some hot food?’ she asked.

  ‘Just on our way there now, ma’am.’ The bellboy gave Mrs Webb a little bow.

  ‘Get along, pair o’ yer,’ chucked the woman, seemingly unimpressed by the lad’s courtesy.

  In the vast crew’s Mess room the noise was enormous, swollen by a medley of languages and the constant steam-whistle of a giant tea-urn. Freddie stood frozen in the doorway and stared. Sailors trooped back forth, plates piled high with shiny food, the air ripe with the aroma of sardines, fried eggs, black pudding and sausages.

  ‘Come on, my son,’ shouted Billy over his shoulder, ‘we haven’t got all day.’

  They found themselves a seat in the midst of the bustle and, side by side, proceeded to demolish a mound of tripe and onions followed by a large plate of bread, butter and strawberry jam. Fred munched and stared about him but not a word was exchanged, eating being the matter in hand. And to that end Billy was content. He liked his new pal. In young Fred Webb he recognised a kindred spirit, and as the older of the two, Billy being fourteen and Fred twelve, he knew enough of life to spot a ‘bit of a loner’ like himself. What’s more, only the day before, knowing the value of a few coins, he’d been able to put his new friend in the way of a job – that of ship’s kennel-hand and apprentice dog-handler, an opportunity young Fred had jumped at.

  Their meal finished, Billy took a final slurp of tea and pushed back his stool. ‘Come on, Fred, no more skiving; back to work. We’ll go back to the kennels by way of the printing room on E deck.’ He waved a piece of paper. ‘Got these boxing-match details to deliver.’ And before Freddie could say anything, the bellboy was off, setting a sharp pace.

  ‘I know it’s a bit of a round-about – along to E deck and then up to the kennels – but it’s as good a way as any for you to see something of the old tug.’ A gangling youth, Billy was cantilevered for the moment between man and boy. Ill at ease with himself, his face slowly erupting into a nest of spots, when he talked of ‘the old tug’, he felt different; his heart melted and his face stopped itching. He cast a loving eye about him. More than anything, he wanted his new pal to share his passion.

  ‘The SS Etoile’s not a superliner, Fred my son, not like the Europa or the Bremen, but she’s got class. She was painted grey in the war and could carry up to two thousand men, and then she was put over to oil in 1923 but they had to make her funnels longer ’cos all the passengers got covered in smuts!’ Speeding along, he rattled out the facts.

  Billy had been brought up in a little house overlooking Southampton Docks which, down the years, echoed to tales of the sea, Grandfather Bottle being a seaman also. All through his childhood, he’d wander all over the docks and into the Ocean Terminal to see the great big liners. And on Sailing Day, scampering between towers of luggage, he’d tuck himself away and watch these majestic worlds slowly depart for all corners of the earth. He had a dream – though he’d never dared believe it would come true – one day he’d sail away on one of ’em…

  ‘But my dream did come true! Three years, a bellboy, me.’ He grinned down at Freddie puffing along beside him. ‘I can tell you the tonnage, length and weight of the Etoile, and I loves every inch of her. You know, in this job,’ he put a hand to his pill-box hat, ‘I can be, one minute, climbing through the boiler casings, and then I push open a hatch and I’m there in the middle of all them swanky passengers. Best of both worlds.’

  As if to illustrate this he unlinked a chain across their path and led them up an outer gangway. ‘Here we are,’ he announced, ‘the print shop. Now, when we go inside, leave me to handle matters.’

  But Freddie had other things on his mind. ‘What time is it? Me dinner break’s near over—’

  ‘Don’t you worry. We’ll deliver these fight details and get you along to the kennels, all in good time.’

  They ducked out of the wind and entered a tiny dusty office cluttered with ledgers, printing blocks and old newspapers. The ship’s print shop, it was responsible for turning out hundreds of daily items: menu cards and posters, notices and news-sheets. Amid this paper bedlam, however, there was a concentrated silence, the two occupants huddling over a large old desk, scanning sheets of newspaper, the only sound the rat-tat-tat of the ship’s wireless tapping away from an inner room. The boys hovered in the doorway.

  The younger of the two men looked up and – much to Billy’s surprise – declared, ‘Hello, young Fred.’

  ‘This is m’Uncle Barney,’ swallowed the chubby boy. ‘He works here.’

  ‘How do,’ said Billy.

  Beaky and boney, Barney Webb now unfolded himself from the reading desk and stood up, tall and exceptionally thin. ‘Come to see my office, lad?’ But before Freddie could answer, the older man had snapped, ‘Let’s have a bit of quiet, we’re trying to work in here!’ Barney swiftly folded himself down again.

  ‘That’s Al, the editor,’ Billy whispered.

  ‘What they doing?’ asked Freddie, staring only at his uncle.

  ‘Sorting through stuff for tomorrow’s Poseidon Post.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Ship’s newspaper. For the first-class passengers.’

  ‘I can hear you, boy!’ cried Al the editor. A dedicated newspaperman, he was wearing a green visor and had a cigar-butt clamped between his lips. ‘Speak up or hold your tongue, some of us are trying to work. Read out what you’ve spotted so far, Barney.’

  ‘Well, boss, Daily Express’ front page has a couple of headlines we could use. And there’s an eyewitness account of the fire in Germany—’

  ‘Read that out. See if it stands up.’

  Barney Webb straightened the newspaper and cleared his throat. Billy nodded at Freddie and put a finger to his lips.

  ‘“The fire broke out at 9.45 tonight in the Assembly Hall of the Reichstag. After twenty minutes of fascinated watching, I suddenly saw the famous black motor car of Adolf Hitler slide past. I rushed after them and was just in time to attach myself to the fringe of Hitler’s party as they entered the Reichstag.”’

  Al stood listening carefully, chewing on his cigar. The smell of old tobacco was heavy in the little office.

  ‘“We stride across the lobby filled with smoke. Hitler watched the firemen for a few minutes, a savage fury burning from his blue eyes. It was then he turned to me. ‘God grant,’ he said, ‘that this is the work of the Communists. You are witnessing the beginning of a great new epoch in German history. This fire is the beginning.”’

  Barney stopped. ‘That’s it, boss.’ He checked down the bottom of the page. ‘Says here, D Sefton Delmer’s the journalist.’

  ‘Mm.’ Al pulled heavily on the butt, his face revealing neither enjoyment nor displeasure. ‘Well, it’s colourful, nice bit of detail even though it’s a couple of days old. Might go down well.’ The editor swung round. ‘Now, what can I do for you two young men?’

  Billy
got out his piece of paper. ‘Details of tomorrow night’s boxing match. The trainer says, if you’re generous, can he have twenty posters?’

  ‘Cheek,’ muttered the editor and turned back to his newspapers.

  Barney Webb twitched the details out of Billy’s hand. ‘Let’s have a look, then.’

  ‘There’s a 50 guinea purse an’ all,’ said Billy, grinning at Freddie. The boy pulled at his sock.

  ‘I remember the first boxing match I saw,’ murmured the editor. ‘Kid Lewis and that Georges Carpentier. Olympia, 1922. Cracking, it was.’ In his reverie, he tugged on his cigar but it had gone out; he turned in irritation to the boys. ‘You two, get along. Take those menu cards up to Mr Doyle on D deck. If he wants any more printing up, I’m on a tea break. And you can deliver the lunchtime editions up to first class while you’re at it.’

  ‘Aye, aye, mate,’ said Billy cheerfully, scooping up the menu cards, a hessian sack of newspapers and his new companion.

  ‘See you later, young Fred,’ Barney Webb shouted after his nephew.

  The boys climbed to D deck, delivered the cards and, scooting up the outside companionway, clambered back on deck. Despite the force of the wind and their streaming eyes, the two raced each other only to find themselves caught up in a feeble attempt at an egg-and-spoon race. Passengers battled wayward winds that whipped hats and scarves in front of faces, and for a full five minutes the boys hurtled here and there returning spilt eggs to grumpy contestants.

  With the race over, they ran the remainder of the quarter mile deck, arriving alongside a giant funnel which housed the kennels. As they turned into the entrance, with just two minutes left of Freddie’s dinner break, the air was suddenly filled with the sound of barking dogs. They stood holding their sides, laughing and gasping for breath.

  The inside of the kennels had all the circular airiness of a circus tent, the medley of barks and yelps rising high into the funnel. Light danced at eye-level through a ring of port-holes, beneath which separate stalls housed a variety of dogs, this fine day all in loud and boisterous form.

  It was not, however, the insistent barking of the inmates but a harsh booming human voice that brought the young lads up short and finally stifled their laughter. Before them stood a hill of a woman carrying an elderly fur, a library book and a large gentleman’s umbrella. But it was by her voice alone that Billy recognised the woman; often to be heard at full tilt in the first-class quarters, it rang out with the bark of Empire.

  Lady Lavinia Slocombe was dressed this lunchtime in a purple wool day-costume, and though only in her mid-forties, so heavy was her make-up – a pale mask relieved by a severe gash of lipstick the colour of her suit – it made her appear several years older. Her face was further framed by a bright pink cloche hat, the whimsical colour of which was somewhat at odds with the haughty heaviness of her bulldog features.

  ‘That’s the culprit!’ The woman’s hand flailed out towards Freddie Webb. The boy stood stunned.

  Billy would have run but such was his loyalty to his new friend, he decided to remain manfully at his side. Young Freddie, however, was having none of it. Instantly recovering his senses, he turned tail and ran blindly into the unseen figure of a tall thin woman standing behind him. There was a soft ‘poof’ of pain as the boy’s head thumped into the woman’s middle and both staggered apart with a moan.

  Ignoring this mewl of pain, Lady Slocombe grabbed the nearest bit of the gasping Fred, his left ear, causing the lad to let out a further singing yell of pain. A quick to-do followed, he trying to yank away from the big woman whilst Billy bobbed helplessly at his side.

  ‘Enough now, s’il vous plait. Enough!’ Mr Degas, the kennel master, had spoken.

  All stopped and all was momentarily still; except for Freddie, who stood wriggling helplessly.

  Lady Slocombe drew herself together and, ignoring the boy held disdainfully between her fingertips, snorted, ‘I expected my beautiful little Gainsborough to be in your exclusive care, Mr Degas. Not abandoned to be walked by some common little urchin.’ Gainsborough, the ‘beautiful little dog’ in question, was snapping round and round her feet on a smart leather lead.

  Billy looked from the dog to Mr Degas. What would the kennel master do next? A small neat Frenchman, though possessing a great knowledge and enjoyment of all things canine, he had an intense dislike of one thing – the large bossy owners of spoilt little dogs. But for the moment Billy saw the man had no expression on his face – a face which sported a little waxed moustache, an ornately stiff affair somewhat at odds with his floppy morose features.

  Suddenly the man made his move. He bent forward at speed, gathered up the ‘beautiful Gainsborough’ and popped him into her ladyship’s arms. Such was Lady Slocombe’s surprise, she let go of Freddie’s ear and her mouth clamped shut. With the boy released and the woman successfully silenced, the kennel master started to speak very quickly.

  ‘My lady, let me assure you your beautiful animal is constantly in my thoughts. As for Monsieur Freddie here,’ the boy was tenderly rubbing a very scarlet ear, ‘he has a particularly gentle touch when dealing with animals as sensitive as your ladyship’s. For that reason, I have chosen him as little Gainsborough’s walker.’

  The small dog in question now let out a piercing yap and, flustered, Lady Slocombe turned swiftly and dumped the animal unceremoniously into the arms of the thin woman at her side. With the arrival of the dog, the woman was forced to stop rubbing her sore middle.

  ‘Monsieur Degas.’ Lady Slocombe turned back majestically to the kennel master and bathed him in a frosty look. ‘If you think you can blind me with your so-called Gallic charm,’ she stared first at his spotty bow tie and then at his stiff little moustache, ‘you are very much mistaken. My maid, Timms here,’ she waved towards the thin woman, ‘informs me that this’ – here she paused to search for an adequate description of Freddie – ‘lout’ – she landed heavily and triumphantly on the word – ‘is nothing more than a “steerage passenger”.’

  ‘Just so, my lady,’ agreed Mr Degas. ‘And an eager and bright one with a natural talent whom, I’m sure you will agree, should be given a chance.’

  Her ladyship’s eyebrows curled up. ‘I trust you are not a Communist, Mr Degas.’

  She paused. No one spoke.

  The dog yapped into the silence and her ladyship took up the cudgels anew.

  ‘Unless there is not more vigilant attention employed whilst caring for the superior breeds, I will take the matter up with the captain himself.’ Mr Degas remained silent, his face a blank. ‘Although I have the sensitivity to realise’ – her ladyship’s voice grew louder – ‘that the captain has much on his mind during the day, I will await a suitable moment at dinner this evening.’ And catching sight of her maid holding the by now constantly barking dog, she finally snapped, ‘Timms, do stop holding Gainsborough as if he were an explosive device!’

  ‘Oh, my lady,’ wailed the pained Miss Timms.

  But ‘my lady’ had had more than enough. She motioned her maid to return the dog to the kennel master and, with that, the two women swept away.

  Mr Degas bowed low.

  When he stood upright, the Frenchman’s melancholy features had vanished; he was all smiles. But Freddie was having none of it.

  ‘She gives that dog nowt; she don’t want him!’ He scooped Gainsborough into his arms. ‘I tell thee, first bit o’ love the dog gets, he fair curls up happy like, but wi’ that frosty female, he does nowt but cry. And that – that – Timms one, she’s a right nosey parker an’ all. You can have your job, mister; I don’t want no more to do wi’ the likes of them.’ Throughout this speech, he’d been stroking the little dog, who now stopped barking and began to whimper softly.

  ‘Enough!’ commanded Mr Degas. ‘It’s very important, even if we may know better, we make the customer think they know best. C’est trés important. Monsieur Bottle here knows of what I speak.’

  ‘First rule, mate,’ Billy agreed.

&nbs
p; Mr Degas rested his hands on Freddie’s shoulders. ‘I mean what I say, you are trés sympathetique with the dogs. I hope you do not leave this job so soon?’

  Freddie looked down at his gym shoes. He liked Mr Degas – only yesterday he’d told Billy he was the first grown-up person not to treat him like a kiddie. And he liked the dogs, he’d had a right old run-around with them all. After a bit, he spoke. ‘All right, mister. I’ll stay.’

  ‘Thank you, my friend. Now take Gainsborough, give him water. And I must eat; this little contretemps has made me hungry. I return in an hour.’

  ‘And I’ve got these newspapers to deliver,’ said Billy Bottle. ‘See you later, Fred old son.’

  The first-class Paris lounge was sturdy and stuffy, the designer of the room having been heavily influenced by the seventeenth-century English manor house, here reproduced in the creamy moulded ceiling and walnut panelled walls. At the centre of one of these walls, opposite the long windows through which the sunshine now streamed, stood a vast carved wooden fireplace in which logs were stacked high, their crackle and fizz the only sounds punctuating the sedate murmurings of the lounge’s few passengers. There was an atmosphere of desultory anticipation; the room seemed to be holding its breath, afternoon tea the next big event.

  The insolence of the kennel master had put Lady Lavinia Slocombe into a decidedly ill humour. She sat in the middle of the Paris lounge in an armchair, glowering at all who came near her, bad-tempered and bored.

  Looking across the room she hailed a waiter; she was hungry. Although it had been less than an hour since she had consumed a large luncheon, she fancied something a little sweet to put her into a more cheerful frame of mind. However, when the man arrived at her side, after a momentary struggle of conscience, she ordered a slimming Brand’s Essence and water, and glanced back towards the copy of Vogue magazine she had just been reading.

  It instructed, ‘We shall be smart but not hard, we shall gird our loins, there will only be one silhouette this season – the youthful one.’ Lady Slocombe’s heart sunk at the prospect.