The Hidden Dance

by Susan Wooldridge

  For a woman of ample proportion, the contest with her shape had become more than a challenge; it had become an obsession. In pursuit of a lither outline, she had travelled far and wide from one health spa to the next – Denglers to Brides, Baden-Baden to Orsier – though in reality she was having to rely more and more upon the sadistic strictures of her foundation garments. She had thus been briefly heartened to read that morning that ‘the bosom was making a gentle reappearance’, though disheartened to note that ‘the jersey belted over pleats’ was this season to be ‘de rigeur’. No, whatever the magazines commanded, she would remain loyal to her dressmaker’s ‘youthful’ designs, designs that she felt disguised and flattered her shape so well.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw her friend and companion Dora Carroll bustling her way across the room towards her. Although Lady Slocombe would have preferred to travel with her husband, Sir Charteris, in recent years various business engagements appeared to coincide each time she had wished to journey abroad. Hence, not wishing to travel alone – her maid, Timms, obviously did not count as any kind of companion – Lavinia had asked her friend, Dora Carroll, to accompany her. Dora was no fool. A middle-aged woman of no private means, she was practical in her acceptance of the unspoken arrangement, acquiescing in the wayward mood and manner of her friend in exchange for a glimpse of the world she would hitherto have only dreamt about.

  ‘Here we are, Lavinia, the lunchtime edition of the ship’s newspaper has just been delivered.’ Dora placed a folded copy in front of Lady Slocombe. Her ladyship grimaced.

  ‘Are you not well, Lavinia dear?’ Seemingly all concern, Dora was well used to Lavinia’s wily ways; she knew better than to ignore any expression of displeasure.

  ‘I fear the food is not to the standard it once was,’ her ladyship exhorted. ‘I have been kept awake most of the night and I still have the most dreadful dyspepsia.’

  Dora chose not to mention the hearty meal her friend had consumed the night before, nor the recent four-course luncheon. Instead she dropped her voice and suggested with some solicitude, ‘Perhaps a small brandy and soda might settle things.’

  ‘Oh, Dora, do stop fussing. Just read me the headlines.’

  Anything for a quiet life, thought Dora, and unfolding the paper, glanced down the front page. ‘That Mr Hitler seems to be making a mark for himself in Germany,’ and she looked brightly at her friend, checking whether to continue or not.

  ‘No politics, thank you – and certainly no foreign politics.’

  Dora looked back again. ‘Oh, listen to this, Lavinia dear! The Americans have made a moving picture about a giant gorilla who climbs the Empire State building.’ She looked up gaily. ‘I do hope we won’t be meeting him on our shopping expedition down Fifth Avenue!’

  ‘Don’t be patently absurd,’ snapped her ladyship, instantly squashing any attempt at levity. ‘Let me have that – I don’t know why you can’t find anything of interest. Now, where are my spectacles?’

  As Lady Slocombe lent towards the commodious handbag at her feet, Dora, despite herself, let out a gasp. ‘Oh, my goodness!’

  Lavinia’s head came up instantly. ‘What?’ she demanded.

  ‘Oh nothing, Lavinia, just – erm—’ She awkwardly shuffled the newspaper and folded back the front page.

  ‘Please don’t fib, Dora. Will you do me the courtesy of reading out whatever it is you have spotted.’

  ‘Oh no, Lavinia, it’s really nothing—’

  Lady Slocombe was silent; she held her friend’s eye.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ said Dora reluctantly, and read out, her voice soft, ‘“Aristocrat’s Wife Vanishes.”’

  ‘Please speak up, we are not in church.’

  Dora cleared her throat. ‘“Lady Lily Sutton, 39, wife of wealthy business tycoon Sir Charles Sutton, has mysteriously disappeared. Sources close to her husband, who owns the fashionable department store, Sutton’s, in London’s West End, said he was very concerned for his wife’s safety, fearing she may have suffered some kind of memory loss. Scotland Yard has been notified. Until the last election Sir Charles was Conservative MP for Freston North, when he stepped down in order to pursue his business career full time—”’ Dora hesitated. ‘There’s more, shall I read on?’

  But for once Lavinia Slocombe was without words. She sat like a monument, very still, her face pale as stone.

  Chapter Four

  SS Etoile. Mid-afternoon

  Four decks below, Lily, swiftly leaving the cabin, was brought up short by the unexpected darkness of the passage. The lights dismal, each bulb throwing a custard-yellow glow that held no brightness, she stood leaning against the wall, her body throbbing from the incessant thundering boom of the engines below her.

  ‘I’ll just stand on deck for a couple of minutes,’ she’d told Johnnie. ‘Get a mouthful of fresh air.’ Quickly leaving the cabin, she’d ignored his look, reasoning that after his rabbit stew and apple pud he was quite happy to stay put with his pipe and his book. Anyway, she’d be much better company after a walk on deck alone…

  Up ahead a pair of doors banged open and two children raced down the drab corridor, their cheeks red as apples from the outdoor air. Dressed in leather bootees, sturdy coats and woolly pixie hoods, they were both about six years old.

  ‘Bang bang, missus!’ The boy pointed a silver toy gun at her. She dutifully raised her hands. He ran on unimpressed.

  ‘We’re scaring big people,’ confided his little sister huskily, hopping from foot to foot.

  At that moment, a steward appeared at the far end carrying a trouser-press.

  ‘There’s one, let’s shoot him,’ yelled the little boy. ‘Joyce, come on!’ and before Joyce could refuse, she was dragged towards the steward. ‘Bang bang! You’re dead!’

  Ignoring the death threat, the man sashayed past and away down the corridor.

  Both children hollered happily through the far swing door, leaving Lily listening to their wild yells echoing back along the passage.

  Nickie, she thought, joyfully playing. Cowboys and Indians…

  ‘For Christ’s sake, silence that child or I’ll do it myself!’ And once again her husband’s hated voice slashes through the gentle memory. She hears, sees, feels Charles roaring insanely over the banisters at Melsham, his hefty face sweating and purple. She’s rushing from the drawing room in time to see Nickie scrambling from his wig-wam under the stairs, a game indoors for a rainy day, the wretched child standing, frail and white, frozen under his father’s glare.

  She looks up. Charles is starting to descend, heavily, slowly; there is excitement in this chase. And Lily catches the menacing oily gleam, the look she knows only too well, the look that presages terrible danger. Frantically, she pushes Nickie down the kitchen passageway…

  ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’

  In the dark bleak passage of the ship, a sailor was standing at her side, his hand hovering to prevent her faint or fall. Shaking, a numb impotence suffusing her, she leant on the sailor’s outstretched arm, unable to speak. She focused on the beefy red hand, streaked with petrol, and wretchedly dumb, found she could only raise her eyes and nod at the man.

  My God, she thought, to think I let him near Nickie. Why could we never get away from him? Why were we so endlessly in his thrall?

  ‘Ma’am, I’ll call the doc, shall I? You’re very pale.’ She caught the stern steady tone of the man’s voice, as if talking to a child or invalid – and with every ounce of strength, she closed her mind and forced herself to smile.

  ‘Thank you, I’ll be fine. Just a touch of sea-sickness.’

  The man looked unconvinced.

  ‘Really I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure—’

  Lily nodded and released his arm. She walked slowly away from him along the ill-lit passage. Away from the sounds of the children, away from the terror of the memory, and pushed through the swing doors.

  For God’s sake, Lily, breathe… The old family tra
ining… Breathe… No feeling… Absent yourself…

  She stood, staring at nothing, until at last her mind was a blank.

  Eventually, she became aware of a strange whirring sound. Looking about her, she realised she was standing in a small lobby facing an electric lift. Somewhere, high up the shaft, the noise stopped abruptly and she heard the iron-clanging of a pair of gates opening and closing, and then the whirr steadily started again. Focusing, she saw she was staring at a panel of buttons.

  AFT ‘E’ DECK ELEVATOR (Not for use of steerage passengers)

  C deck ‘Shelter’ (2nd Class Library, Gymnasium, sheltered promenade)

  D deck ‘Saloon’ (Squash Court)

  E deck ‘Upper’ (2nd and 3rd class open public areas)

  F deck ‘Middle’(3rd class passenger General Room)

  G deck ‘Lower’ (Swimming pool, Turkish baths)

  Where would she go if she had the chance? The gymnasium, the library? Down here in steerage, there were only two places to ‘escape’ to – the third-class general room and the poop deck.

  She turned quickly away from any temptation to call the lift and pushed through a further pair of doors onto the poop deck. In her hurry, a brace at the base of the door caught her heel and she almost fell.

  ‘Oi, oi, missus, you’ll take a pearler!’

  She found a brawny pair of arms around her. Once again a member of crew had come to her rescue and she was all but lifted onto the deck. ‘There now, catch yer breath and you’ll be right as rain.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she called after the sailor’s retreating back and stood, foolish from her tumble, tears very near.

  Dear God, please don’t let me cry. Not here… She pulled Mary’s tweed coat round her and the scent of her maid’s talcum powder, the smell of dusty roses, filled her with unbelievable longing for her friend. Oh, Mary, I need you so much at this moment. How could I even think of doing this without you? She hugged the coat to her, the one shred of comfort knowing Mary was at home, thinking of her and, no doubt, frantic for news.

  Taking a deep breath, Lily looked around – if she was on deck, she’d better get that mouthful of fresh air – and was shocked to discover she’d arrived in a small alien city. Whichever way she turned the view was obscured by large heavy machinery, vast hooded air vents, ropes of thick chains and the iron-tangle of a mighty crane rising high into the sky. All over the dull metal, people were leaning and lounging, giving the stern landscape a strange impression of comfort.

  But where was the sea? It had completely disappeared from view. She started forward, this absence of the ocean making her feel stranded and lost. She had to get her bearings. Edging past an untidy group straddling a lifeboat, she glimpsed the horizon, then the sea – grey on grey – and pushed with all her might against the hauling swell to reach the railings. She was alone here, free of the crowd, winds wildly tugging at her clothes, and she stood, one hand holding the smooth wooden railing, the other windmilling about trying to button her flapping coat.

  And there just beneath her was the sea. She stared down, her heart beating. It was so much nearer than she was used to up in first class. Raw, alive. Mesmerised by the rolling motion, enthralled by so much danger, so much power, she cradled the rail as the huge ship swayed its way through the heavy pewter waters, a great grey train skirting the ship’s bulk, foamily trailing away, away…

  Facing into the winds, she closed her eyes. She let the spray spit her face, relief in the tiny needles of pain, the roar of the ocean filling her head; tremendous, ear-numbing. She tried to let her mind fly away and, with her eyes and nose streaming, she felt at last the pain ease, the anxiety lulled for a moment.

  She turned her back on the hauling winds, leant against the railing and reached for her hankie. And saw ahead of her, in the middle of the deck, a crowd whooping round a blindfolded man. On his knees, children were nudging and knocking him as he crawled about desperately trying to scratch a tail onto a chalked pig’s porky rump. The laughter of the crowd was ear-splitting and, unexpectedly, Lily felt buoyed by this hard squealing energy.

  She staggered and swayed on her way, fighting the wind and climbing against the swell of the ocean, but before long, found her path blocked by a lifeboat. She leant towards it and held on, catching her breath, giving herself totally to the sway of the waves.

  Through the booming roar she became aware of a child’s tight tinny cries and, looking down, was stunned to see at her feet a tiny baby in a wooden vegetable box. Yelling its head off, the baby’s fat little fists were banging against the side of the rough cot. The mother, however – a fat woman never drawing breath – was ignoring it as she hung out her washing, an equally fat neighbour silently handing across pegs. Damp nappy-cloths flapped on a line slung between two lifeboats.

  Lily dropped to her knees. She must soothe the child; its squalling face was plum, the angry-red gums toothless. Poor little mite, it was teething.

  ‘Hey, what d’you think you’re doing?’ Lily felt a scuff on her shoulder and rose to find the fat mother, hand on hip, four-square in front of her.

  ‘Well?’ the woman demanded.

  ‘I thought I might—’

  ‘Might what, indeed?’

  ‘Oh, excuse me.’ Lily rapidly turned from the woman; she couldn’t cope.

  ‘Toffee-nosed bitch!’

  The insult trailed after her, the momentary hurt cutting unexpectedly deep and, hurrying on down the deck, Lily found herself praying the big woman wouldn’t follow, calling out further insults, urging her to turn and fight.

  That’s what Charles would have done. Urged a fight. Added insults and taunts, challenging her. And as ever, she found herself blaming her lack of stamina, her lack of gumption to stand her ground. Oh, dear God, why have I never been able to defend myself? She knew the answer. From the very first battle of their marriage, even before Charles had hit her the first time, she had taught herself to submit, to absorb the horrors. Never to answer back.

  Perhaps if I had fought back? But then, she thought, everything would have been so different and I wouldn’t be here on this boat in the middle of the Atlantic…

  In the distance, her eye was caught by a rough, furious tug-of-war. The contestants were kicking and shoving and Lily pushed forward, grateful for the distraction. The shouts and ripe swearing were fierce – hooligans’ yells rising on the air – and it was only as she got nearer that Lily realised the ‘hooligan’ contestants were all women.

  Hurling themselves apart, straining along the rope, the women were screaming and alive, free of any modesty. Lily stared. All the women were bare-headed, their coats loose; the men, on the other hand, though mostly tie-less, wore cloth-caps. She thought of first class and how passengers would be smartly gloved and hatted and was equally struck by the zest with which these crowds were making the best of the fickle March winds. Up top, few would be braving the elements. Here, children were whooping and shouting, their elders making only a little less noise.

  She pulled off her headscarf and shook her hair free; she was sick of the tight pins. And suddenly sunlight flooded the decks, the bright fresh air bringing laughter and an unspoken sense of comradeship. Standing at the edge of the tug-of-war, Lily felt her spirits lift and she started to cheer on both teams.

  Instantly, she shrank back. Amongst the raw, ripe voices of the crowd, her voice sounded absurd; reedy and fastidious. People turned and looked at her and although the stares weren’t unfriendly, she felt exposed; a fraud and a fool. Dear God, do I always sound so wretchedly toffee-nosed? Ducking down her head, she slipped her scarf back on and pushed away from the crowd. She walked quickly on.

  The sun shot behind a cloud and the deck instantly presented itself hard and unfriendly. In a single moment, all had become cloud-drab and chilly. Lily shivered and pulled Mary’s coat around her. She must go back in, Johnnie would be waiting.

  London. May, 1926

  Again, the quiet. Just like yesterday.

  She lay listening, t
rying to catch the comfort of the early-morning sounds. Even tucked away here in Bryanston Square, she could usually hear the faint rumble of buses and trams trundling comfortably round Marble Arch. Perhaps it was still too early. She leant across and held her little clock into the stripe of early spring light that fell across her bed. No. Ten past six. Even so, still too early to telephone Melsham.

  She lay in the quiet, her heart heavy and weary. Where was Charles? Surely he couldn’t still be at the House at six o’clock in the morning. Anyway, he’s such a junior MP, even if they are all still working, what use could he be to any of them? This mad-cap notion – Charles, a Member of Parliament, it was utterly laughable… No, perhaps he’d left the House late and gone back to his department store; perhaps there had been some business matter? But in the middle of the night? Had he gone to meet someone?

  Where was he? Blast him. On and on her mind coiled, the unending jealousy tugging at her heart. And now she was stuck in London because those wretched men from the North of England were making all this unnecessary trouble…

  ‘’Morning, my lady.’

  ‘Oh lord, what time is it?’

  ‘Half past eight.’

  ‘I must have dozed off. I have to telephone Melsham.’ She sat up and immediately felt sick and dizzy. ‘Oh, drat.’

  The maid set down the tray and was at her side, pulling the blanket back up over her. ‘Now, don’t you get cold. It’s a bright morning but there’s still a crispness in the air.’

  ‘I feel so sick again, Mary. No, don’t open the curtains yet—’

  ‘Stay still. Here’s your hot lemon drink. That’ll settle things.’ She sipped slowly but the lemon-water was sharp; Mary hovered over her encouragingly. Lily pulled a face but the maid pointedly ignored her and started tucking and clucking around the room. Eventually finishing the drink, she allowed herself to be propped back up against the large full pillows. ‘Is Sir Charles in his dressing room?’ She felt unbelievably tired.

  ‘No, my lady, not that I’m aware of.’