The Hidden Dance

by Susan Wooldridge

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘Needlework woman, she’s in charge of all’t sewing and darning and that. She’s along corridor. Back in a tick.’ She bustled off.

  Lily sat down on the bench that ran the length of the wall and glanced quickly to left and right. No sign of Bagpipes Man, thank goodness. And Johnnie knew where she was as she’d put her nose round the cabin door after her walk on deck and he’d suggested, ‘Why not go back to the day room? All fine here, just finishing my book. I’ll join you in a bit for a cup of tea.’

  She sat very still and tried, as always, to confront and control the anxiety. Oh, for the fear to cease…

  She focused on a little group immediately in front of her. A wiry terrier of a man was straightening a tiny turban on the bobbing head of a little boy, the man’s big square hands surprisingly nimble as he adjusted the whorl of purple and gold. The little boy looked distinctly unhappy.

  And the little boy’s face, of course, became Nickie’s…

  Which birthday had he been the little clown? Was it only three years ago?

  She closed her eyes. Clear as clear she could hear… Mary. She could hear the maid whispering from behind a half-open door, ‘Wait, Nickie! The hat’s not straight.’ And then, ‘All right, now!’

  Through her fingers, obediently stretched over her eyes, she’d seen the bottom of the drawing-room door at Melsham swing wide and Nickie’s little feet come pattering in.

  He’d yelled in excitement, ‘Now, Mummy, now. Open your eyes!’

  There he stood; tall, almost to the height of her shoulder, his thick fringe pushed down onto his face by a smart pointy white hat, three magnificent pom-poms the size of dahlias adorning it, echoing the four others holding the baggy white suit together. A magnificent little clown.

  His face gleamed.

  ‘Tremendous! Oh, Nickie, haven’t Mary and I done well.’

  The maid’s face appeared round the door, laughing. But as suddenly the laughter dropped away, her attention caught by an unseen presence. ‘Good morning, Sir Charles.’ She gave a bobbed curtsey.

  ‘What’s going on in there?’

  Lily froze at the sound of her husband’s voice and, without thinking, she moved in front of Nickie to shield him.

  ‘Stop hiding about behind closed doors.’

  At an unseen command, Mary pushed wide the drawing-room door. Lily saw, coming down the marble staircase, the tall heavy man, preceded by a rambling dog. She watched numbly as the dog skittered away across the black-and-white tiled hall, the call of the outdoors more intoxicating than the trio hovering, lost, in the drawing room.

  The man arrived in the doorway. Mother, child and maid stood very still.

  Sir Charles surveyed the child up and down. Very quietly, he said, ‘You can’t seriously be thinking of dressing the boy like that. He looks like a bloody girl. Have you no sense, woman?’ Though his voice was quiet and controlled, his look was furious. She tucked her hand behind to Nickie. The little boy clutched it.

  Her husband turned to leave the room and without thinking, she cried after him. ‘But Charles, it’s his party—’

  She stopped; the big man was turning back.

  Almost in a whisper, he said, ‘Get those clothes off him. I won’t say it again.’

  And then Lily saw the tidal wave of disappointment so overwhelm her son that the boy’s terror of his father, for once, was drowned. He ran past the big man, out of the room, pulling the heavy door with all his might. It caused a thundering slam, equalled only by the roar of his father.

  ‘Nicholas!’

  ‘Missus, missus.’ Someone was tugging at her sleeve. Lily’s eyes shot open. ‘Missus, what’s matter wi’ yer?’

  She struggled to catch her breath; Charles’s voice was roaring in her ears. She heard herself gasp out loud.

  ‘Missus?’ the little girl persisted, shaking her arm.

  ‘Stop that, Anthea,’ commanded Mrs Webb. ‘Put woolbag down on’t table and stop thy gawking.’

  Lily covered her mouth with her hand and realised she was shaking.

  ‘Hush now, lass. Don’t take on so.’ Momentarily, she’d felt the woman’s hand on her arm.

  ‘Come along, let’s pull up this table, Anthea.’

  At her side, the large woman started to bustle noisily around, unloading white sheets and all the necessary tools – scissors, pins, needle and thread – collected from Madame.

  Lily felt the panic subside. She sat up. Pushing away the wretched memory, she made herself look at the podgy serious child, the child that wasn’t Nickie. The little girl was hugging the sturdy table leg with wobbly white arms, heaving fruitlessly. Across the way the wiry little man, noticing the struggle, abandoned his grandson’s turban and, with a courtly doff of his cap and an ‘allow me, ladies’, drew the table alongside. His voice had the lilt and twinkle of Ireland. Mrs Webb granted him a gracious nod and, turning back, winked at Lily. She managed a smile in return and, with the table drawn up and the scissors, needle, card and woolbag at the ready, Lily got to her feet.

  ‘All right, lass? Don’t stand before you’re able.’ Immediately, Mrs Webb was at her side.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ She turned to the child. ‘So, do you want pom-poms, Anthea?’

  ‘What’s pom-poms?’

  ‘I’ll show you. Very useful to know about pom-poms.’

  Mrs Webb and the child watched as, out of a ravel of wool, Lily proceeded to chop and cut until a wondrous pom-pom emerged. The little arms, so densely freckled, wobbled as Anthea clapped delightedly.

  ‘Madame says we can keep the scissors until after tea,’ said Mrs Webb. ‘It’s ironing of an afternoon next door.’

  ‘Ironing?’

  ‘For all’t first-class passengers. You should have a look in there. They’ve rows and rows of ironing boards set up. Now, what do you want us to do?’

  ‘Firstly, Anthea, what colour do you want your pom-poms?’

  The girl stood silent.

  ‘I think they should be blue,’ suggested her grandmother.

  ‘Red,’ said the little girl.

  They all set to and, constantly asking Anthea’s opinion with as much care and attention as any Bond Street dressmaker, Lily observed the child slowly come to life. The pale fat cheeks pinkened and, her voice found, the little girl began to chat, wriggling with increasing vigour as the pantaloon suit grew between them.

  ‘I want to show Freddie! I want to show Freddie!’

  ‘Stand still, Anthea, I’ll not tell thee again,’ said her grandmother sharply. There was a momentary stillness and the jacket was pinned into place.

  ‘Freddie is our Anthea’s big brother,’ Mrs Webb popped into this bit of quiet. ‘And my grandson.’ Lily could hear the swell of pride. ‘He walks the dogs on this here ship. And he’s higher up than any of us – ship’s kennels is in one of them big funnels.’

  ‘The funnel?’ Lily stopped, pins in her mouth.

  ‘Aye, but there’s nowt to worry on. They say two are real funnels and third’s a dummy.’

  ‘No, what fun!’ Lily started pinning again. ‘And is Freddie good with dogs?’

  ‘More than like. Barney, that’s me youngest son, works in’t printing shop along here on E deck. Well, Freddie got this job—’

  ‘Freddie – your grandson?’ Lily stopped pinning completely; trying to unravel the Webb family tree demanded full concentration.

  ‘Aye, that’s the ticket.’ Mrs Webb beamed comfortably and settled into a chat, a mother hen on her nest. ‘Well, our Freddie, he’s twelve. Never been away from home but the lad seems happy enough with’t dogs, bless him. And it brings us in a few coppers. Turn, Anthea, love.’

  ‘And is Barney Freddie and Anthea’s father?’ asked Lily, pinning completely forgotten.

  ‘Nay, nay.’ Mrs Webb laughed. ‘He’s only twenty-one. He’s your uncle, in’t he, Anthea?’

  The little girl didn’t appear to hear.

  Mrs Webb said, ‘Go and get that bucket over
there to put the bits in.’

  The child got up and slowly walked away; her grandmother dropped her voice. ‘Anthea and Freddie’s mam, she that was my eldest daughter, my Em, passed away five year ago. 30th March 1928, it was. A fire in the shop where she worked.’

  Shocked, Lily turned and saw that the sweet smiling face had gone still and held no expression at all.

  The child arrived back, cradling a big red bucket. ‘So, now I’m their gran and their mam. Aren’t I, love?’ Mrs Webb was smiling down at the little girl and Lily saw the warmth of love for this tubby sullen grandchild.

  ‘And how old are you, Anthea?’ Lily asked.

  ‘She’s ten and three-quarters, aren’t you, my love?’

  But Anthea had more important matters on her mind. ‘Gran, what about Freddie? Where’s his clown?’

  ‘Well, we can’t ask Mrs Valley—’

  ‘Oh, yes we can,’ said Lily firmly. ‘Anyway, I like making things and this time, Anthea, you can cut out the hat-brim like I showed you before, and you can also make Freddie’s pom-poms.’

  ‘He’s going to have green ones,’ said Anthea authoritatively, and set about her new task with great poise.

  In the cosy orange light, the noisy dressing-up excitements of earlier were momentarily forgotten as a couple of large tea-urns appeared. There was a clatter of china, and mugs of tea were passed round with wedges of cake and trays of biscuits. Families munched together and Lily could see the tentative steps into new friendships as mugs and plates, piled high, were passed to and fro.

  At the two women’s feet, Anthea, insisting on wearing her new outfit, created a mound of green woolly pom-poms.

  Melsham, England. June 1931

  The little church hall was festooned with ribbons and early summer flowers. Clutches of bright daisies and purple anemones, sunny jonquils and sky-blue forget-me-nots, all the result of hard work ploughed into the groom’s family allotment; the toil had paid off tenfold.

  As Lily cast her eye round the hall, she was touched by the devotion with which heads were turned towards Johnnie, his Best Man speech commanding a hush – all were hanging on his every word. Beside him sat the bride and groom. Today Sam was scrubbed and grinning, surprise and delight constantly breaking through his solid demeanour – and dearest Mary, her round face, the soft pink of sugar mice, her eyes holding a special twinkle that made Lily think of an evening star.

  ‘For five years, ladies and gentlemen, Sam and I have shared a billet at the farm. Very amiably too, I may add. But now we’re parting company. He and his lovely bride are setting up home in one of the estate cottages. But I’ll miss his cooking, I can tell you. He can turn his hand to a more than tasty rabbit stew. Though I have to admit, I won’t miss his dirty socks.’

  There was a gust of cheerful laughter. From the beams, amidst flower-swags and paper pennants, a picture of the King gazed down. Along the centre of the small hall stood three long trestle tables, their crisp white linen cloths scattered with crumbs and crockery, the remnants of a hearty meal. Now people sat back, drinking and smoking, passing back big jugs of cider constantly in need of refilling.

  ‘I thought I was well and truly lumbered with those socks until a year ago, one wet November evening to be precise, driving his hay-cart home for tea, this knight if not in exactly shining armour, more like mucky overalls,’ Johnnie nodded at Sam, ‘offered a bedraggled damsel standing at the village bus stop, a lift. And one year on today, we’re here to toast the very happy couple as they start their new life together.’

  Casting round at the upturned faces, at that moment, he saw Lily and remained looking at her. She found herself beaming back at him across the village hall.

  (‘Oh, I was longing to talk to you again,’ he told her months later. ‘I saw your apricot hair and extraordinary golden eyes, and I thought, Of course that’s what I remember from our brief meeting at the County Fair.’)

  ‘So it gives me great pleasure to ask you to raise your glasses to the groom and his very beautiful bride.’

  The toast over, people rose, stretching legs and backs, everyone laughing and talking. Lily watched as the groom shook Johnnie’s hand mightily – the speech had rounded off the proceedings perfectly – then, turning, he nudged his bride forward. Johnnie kissed Mary’s cheek and Lily thought, I don’t think I’ve ever seen any bride look so happy.

  It was then she saw Johnnie break away from the happy couple and appear to be crossing to join her. She felt enormous delight that he should so immediately seek her out and watched as he moved through the small crowd, accepting pats on the back and the odd handshake. When he arrived, for a moment, he said nothing but grinned at her like a boy.

  ‘What have I done?’ Lily felt herself grinning back.

  ‘Nothing, it’s just jolly nice to see you again. I mean, with my speech over and done with.’ He ground to a halt.

  ‘Well, as my mother used to say, “I piped an eye”. Your speech was very touching.’

  ‘Oh dear, you cried.’

  ‘Ah, but I laughed also. A rare event these days.’ She looked down. It was absurd to feel sadness on such a moment. She made herself smile and look back up. ‘Well done. It was a lovely speech. Perfect.’

  ‘And I meant what I said about the beautiful bride. I hear it was all your handiwork.’

  ‘Well, not all. Her headdress was my handiwork, the veil was my grandmother’s. Isn’t Limoges lace lovely?’

  ‘But the headdress was wonderful.’ He looked hopelessly impressed.

  ‘I suppose, you could call it my hobby. I make hats, hence my lack of heart-failure earlier.’ She touched her hat. ‘I knew I could cobble something together out of the wreckage.’

  Laughing, they slowly walked through the groups of people to an open doorway. The afternoon sunshine flooded in. They stood looking across a green towards the Saturday market packing up. Stalls were being dismantled and a very red-faced farmer was rounding up a small giddy flock of geese. The air was filled with outraged squawks.

  ‘How very enterprising of you,’ Johnnie said. ‘To actually make hats.’

  ‘It was Mother. Girls were not allowed to learn anything as useful as cooking and preserving, but we were allowed to learn how to sew and how to sing. I’ve ended up fairly skilled at the first and simply atrocious at the second.’

  ‘And how about your dancing?’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said hurriedly. ‘No dancing for me today.’ There was the sound of a fiddle and a pipe tuning up. ‘In fact, I think this is where I might fade away.’ She looked back across the heads of the party to where Sam and Mary stood laughing down at three little children attempting to dance round them. ‘I won’t say any goodbyes, everyone seems very preoccupied.’

  ‘Well then, let me walk you to your car.’

  She felt the lovely sunshine on her face as they stepped out into the warm afternoon. A gust of hope whistled through her heart.

  ‘May I say how mightily relieved I am,’ Johnnie said, ‘that you don’t expect me to glide you elegantly onto the dance floor. Delightful as it would be in theory, in practice I fear it would be disastrous.’

  She laughed. ‘I can’t remember the last time I danced. Though I used to be rather a dab-hand in my day.’

  When they arrived at the car, without letting herself think, she said, ‘It’s such a lovely afternoon I was thinking of having a walk and, um… Do you know the castle ruins?’

  ‘How splendid, a jaunt. Yes, please.’

  Wandering round the crumbling castle walls that afternoon, Lily slowly became aware that neither of them were taking in the architecture, the history or the breath-taking view from the ramparts; they were too busy walking and talking. On and on. And as the afternoon turned into dusk, Johnnie suggested a drink and they found themselves sitting on an old pub wall, side by side, amongst the market crowd. Shaded from the setting sun by a big mulberry tree, they sat sipping long glasses of local cider.

  Slowly as the evening drew in, the garden em
ptied and the crowd inside the pub swelled, throwing great bursts of chatter and song into the warm darkness outside. Under their mulberry tree, Johnnie and Lily tucked into wedges of cheese and pickle sandwiches as the evening shadows enfolded them, neither aware of the time.

  ‘I was numb after my wife Sarah and the baby died,’ Johnnie said. ‘I was so grateful when the war came, I joined up almost immediately. It seemed the answer to so many problems. Suddenly there was lots to do, lots of noise, no time to think. And if there was only room for one emotion, then that was fear. It’s funny,’ he looked at her, ‘we couldn’t ever admit that then, us soldiers. Even to ourselves.’

  ‘Couldn’t admit what?’

  ‘How scared we were. So scared, all the time.’ He shook his head. And Lily thought, This is a dear, gentle man. She looked at the thinning hair and lined face and longed to reach towards him, to touch him. Instead, she asked, ‘When your wife… when Sarah died in childbirth – and then the baby – well, wasn’t there anyone you could talk to, to share what must have been such terrible grief?’

  ‘Not really. Sarah had a mother, nice old stick, but she lived in Scotland. And anyway, in my family it was considered not done to air one’s feelings.’ Despite the seriousness of what he was saying, Lily nearly smiled; the chord of recognition.

  ‘And yet, my grief was so deep, I couldn’t have talked about it. In the end I think I sort of went to war to avenge the senseless death of my wife and child.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘In a way. Except by the time it was over, I just felt empty. No job. No wife. No life. The anger and that terrible cutting grief had gone but now there was nothing.’

  She thought, I do so understand, the emptiness.

  With her silence, he paused. ‘Forgive me, I’ve rather got carried away talking about myself—’

  ‘Not at all. It’s important.’ As if to emphasise this, she remarked, ‘Do you know, my mother lived her entire life thinking it was “common” to air one’s feelings. I often wonder, how did she survive?’

  She thought about this for a moment and then turned to him and grinned. ‘She used to say that pain was a suitable matter for discussion with the doctor but to complain of it otherwise was “commonplace”.’ She could picture her mother sitting upright, rigidly trained to silently suffer her father’s drunken infidelities. ‘Only nursemaids have pain, Lily.’ Poor Mother, she thought. And yet, in so many ways, like mother, like daughter…