The Hidden Dance

by Susan Wooldridge

  ‘You won’t tell Johnnie, will you? My husband. He hates to see me cry.’ She gave a faint wobbly smile. ‘He says it starts him off.’

  Mrs Webb looked dubious. She went to speak but, deciding against it, only nodded. Lily turned to her reflection once more and started to sweep the loose hair back from her face. How stupid of me to cry, she thought. And with a stranger. What would Johnnie say if he knew I’d let the side down so? At her side, she could see the other woman sitting quietly, keeping her counsel, her large hands folded in her lap. And Lily noticed how red-raw and rough they were but with the most perfectly buffed nails. Such big square hands, strong. Surely this woman will be discreet, after all, she’s had troubles of her own…

  A thought hit her.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Webb, I’m so sorry, how inconsiderate of me. With all you’ve been through, the tragedy of your daughter and—’

  The woman touched her arm. ‘Mrs Valley, we all have tragedies of our own and, wi’ the passing of time, we have to learn to bear them best we can. There’s no good to be got comparing; they all hurt whatever they’re made of. Oh, hullo. You feeling better, Mr Valley?’

  ‘Much, thanks, Mrs Webb.’

  Lily caught her breath; Johnnie once more had appeared from nowhere. She felt the sick terror rise – what was the matter? – and ducked her head to hide her face.

  ‘All’s fine,’ he said, and placed his hand firmly on her shoulder. She glanced up and saw he was smiling. ‘So, ladies, where can you get a cup of tea round here?’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ said Anthea in a tiny voice and held out her hand.

  ‘And that’s a very splendid get-up, if I may say so.’

  ‘I made pom-poms.’

  ‘Did you indeed,’ said Johnnie, taking her hand.

  But Anthea couldn’t delay; she tugged him off into the crowd, by now an old-hand at the tea table.

  He’s always so friendly, Lily thought and called out after him, ‘Another cup for us, darling.’

  Left alone together, she realised Mrs Webb was waiting for her to speak. She hesitated. After all, what to tell the woman? Leave it simple, say nothing, that’s what she and Johnnie had decided. She pointed to the scissors. ‘I’ll take those back to Madame, you’ve got your little ones to sort out.’

  ‘Bless you, she’s on this level. Cabin E213. And by the way, I’m here again this evening, once I’ve got them off. Doing a bit of sewing for Madame. If you’re in need of company.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘Are you sure everything’s all right, Mrs Valley?’

  ‘Quite, thank you.’

  She could hear her voice, cool. But it was dangerous to be too chummy. It was a slight, she knew, after the woman’s kindness but it couldn’t be helped. She looked across the room and saw Johnnie and Anthea making their way back to them.

  She caught the woman’s sleeve. ‘Quick, please. Am I presentable?’

  Mrs Webb nodded.

  ‘Just been talking to a steward and there’s all sorts of excitement up aloft in first class. Seems there’s a Totaliser.’ Johnnie put down a tray of mugs.

  ‘And what’s that when it’s at home?’ asked Mrs Webb. Anthea carefully placed a plate piled precariously high with slices of cake on the table.

  ‘Gambling, Mrs Webb.’ He sat down between the two women and Lily put her arm through his; it was nice to have him near again. ‘Bets are laid on how fast this ship is getting us across the water.’

  Mrs Webb gave him a decidedly old-fashioned look and helped herself to a slice of cake.

  ‘Is gambling what sheep do, Gran?’ asked Anthea, bobbling her pyramid of pom-poms under the bench.

  ‘Nay, more like a quick way for them that knows better to throw money away,’ answered her grandmother stoutly.

  ‘Quite right,’ said Johnnie. ‘I say, this cake’s jolly fine. So what have you ladies been up to?’

  ‘I made Freddie green pom-poms,’ said Anthea, standing up to show him. The little woolly balls cascaded everywhere. Lily and Johnnie were immediately on their knees. The child stared down at them.

  ‘And this, I think, is where we take our leave.’ Mrs Webb rose to her feet. ‘Come along, our Anthea. And take those pom-poms from Mrs Valley.’ Lily transferred the little balls into Anthea’s chubby arms as Johnnie gave Mrs Webb a solemn bow of farewell. Flustered, the woman managed a fluttering wave, and she and her granddaughter departed.

  ‘I thought they’d never go.’ Lily sank down onto the bench.

  Johnnie sat beside her once again and snuggled her hand into his pocket. ‘You’ve been crying.’

  She turned her face away from him. ‘Oh, Johnnie.’

  ‘My love, we’re so nearly there—’

  She could hear the strain in his voice but even so she cut him off crossly. ‘I feel so tired. We must have been mad to think we could pull this off.’ The bad temper brought brief, fleeting comfort. ‘I don’t know if I can go through with this – I mean, what if we’re caught?’ There, it was said, the unsayable.

  She looked at him, suddenly scared. She hadn’t meant to voice the terror, she hadn’t meant to tempt the Fates…

  In a firm even voice Johnnie replied, ‘Don’t say that, Lily, don’t even think it.’

  She nodded feebly. Behind him in the dark port-hole, she caught sight of her face. She looked wretched and sad, her hair astray at the neck. She turned away.

  After a bit he said, ‘I’ve missed you. It’s been all of an hour.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m so bad-tempered, I don’t seem able to stop myself half the time.’

  He grinned. ‘“Mrs Lily Valley.”’

  ‘Don’t. It sounds so ridiculous. I wish we’d chosen a more convincing name.’

  ‘If it’s good enough for Sam and Mary,’ he said, ‘it’s good enough for us.’

  She nodded.

  They sat watching the toings and froings.

  London. May 1926

  Lily was picked up in the motor car from the doctor’s consulting rooms. She had been sedated after her uncontrollable bout of tears, Doctor Mallard prescribing one of his powders. And now how happy she felt! Speaker’s Corner and the memory of a fight drifted through her mind… Police helmets bobbing about in great ladles of custard sauce… Mmm, she was so hungry…

  When she got home, Mary tucked her up in bed immediately. Doctor’s orders.

  ‘Sing me Nickie’s song, Mary.’ She patted the eiderdown for Mary to sit beside her. It was lovely; all the fear had gone. Nickie was going to have a little brother or sister.

  ‘Hush a bye baby on the treetop—’ crooned Mary softly. The nursery song gave her Nickie. If she closed her eyes, she could see him, she could feel her boy. She looked across at her dressing table to Nickie’s photograph. My darling, soon there will be two of you children and Daddy will love us again. She caught her reflection in the looking-glass. A woman gazing and gazing, clear sky eyes. Upon the pillow lay sunny marmalade hair. Was that really her? Not a cloud in the sky. Clever Doctor Mallard, her mind lifting away and away.

  ‘Everything’s going to be all right, Mary.’

  ‘When the wind blows the cradle will rock—’

  ‘Charles is going to love us again, no more “fancy piece”—’

  ‘Down will come baby, cradle and all.’

  ‘Nickie’s going to have a little brother or sister.’

  ‘Oh, mum.’ She felt Mary squeeze her hand. But Lily wanted more; she wanted celebration. She opened her arms wide and the maid fell into them and held her tight as tight and rocked her.

  ‘We’ll tell Charles at a good moment. Perhaps when this beastly strike is over.’ She knew Mary would hug the precious news to herself; she wouldn’t even share it with Cook.

  ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ she sang, and fell asleep.

  But now she was awake again, wide awake. All around, she felt the cry of sick alarm. Sitting on the landing in the dark, she stared out at the night sky. London, hushed. She wasn’t actual
ly looking at anything, her every sense was focused on any sound rising from two floors below. She sat with her arms wrapped round her legs. And prayed.

  As St Mary’s, Bryanston Square, had struck two, she’d heard the motor car draw up and Charles thunder into the night-time house. She’d run from her bed, still woozy from Doctor Mallard’s powders, and taken up her post on the landing. ‘Where is my wife?’ She didn’t hear Watkin’s reply as he held the front door for his master. Nor it seems did Sir Charles. ‘For God’s sake, speak up, man!’ These days she could tell exactly how much he’d drunk by the sound of his step; tonight as she listened, she felt danger rise up through the house.

  A heavy door banged shut. Then all was silent.

  The house stood primed, electric and alive.

  She held her breath, trying to make out Charles’s movements below. A door squeaked open above making her leap to her feet. Mary, her head a crown of curlers, was leaning over the banisters.

  A door-slam rang up the stairs. Both women flattened themselves into the darkness. The landing light below had been thrown on; Charles was coming up.

  ‘Lily, where are you?’ he roared; he was moving at speed.

  She raced down the half-flight to her bedroom; she could lock the door against him. She managed to pass through just as he reached the first-floor landing. She scrambled with the handle, but it was too late. He barged through the door, fell back and slammed it shut with his weight.

  ‘You bitch! My God, you’ll pay for this!’

  She heard herself say, her voice remarkably steady, ‘Charles, what is it?’

  His face was extraordinary, the rage distorting. A mottled gargoyle, purple, pulsating. Then to her surprise he appeared to ignore her. He turned away to the door. Was he leaving? She heard the key in the lock. He turned back.

  Carefully, deliberately, he started to advance towards her. Now the terror fully bloomed within her. She backed away around the bed, the fear, unbelievable, strangling her thoughts, her breath. She tried to keep the terror from her face, she didn’t want to inflame him further, but he was still following.

  ‘Your darling brother, a wretched little traitor!’

  ‘Oh Charles—’ Her cry was cut off by the first slap, the sound cracking through the stillness of the night.

  She gasped, winded – and as she struggled for her breath she saw his hand swing back a second time. ‘Oh no! Oh Charles, don’t – I’m pregnant!’ The revelation spun from her.

  Momentarily he stopped and stood swaying slightly, bull-broad. ‘You lying cow! I’ve not been near you—’

  ‘Oh, Charles, please – after the Ambrose party?’ Desperately, she tried to keep the pleading from her voice. ‘You must remember—’

  Another slap the side of her head, her ear; the pain precise, crystal clear.

  All was quiet – and then, through the ringing, singing pain, she heard a far-away knocking. ‘My lady, my lady, open the door! Oh, my lady, are you all right?’

  Charles leant over her and slowly raised his hand. He didn’t strike. ‘Get rid of her!’

  She found herself stumbling round the bed. She looked back over her shoulder, the man nodded. She turned the key in the door and opened it.

  Mary’s face was white, tears in her eyes.

  ‘Go away, Mary. Please!’

  From behind he shoved her out of the way and, with his bulk, slammed shut the door.

  She prayed, Please look after the child. I know he’ll hurt me but please look after my child.

  He pulled her round to face him, his voice low and furious. ‘There, there, in front of all the world—’ She felt the spray of his spit on her face.

  ‘Charles, I can explain. No, please. Oh! Please! Not again!’ His fist balled and she felt the pounding thump to her stomach. All the breath left her; she buckled to the floor.

  ‘All right, Lily, my darling treacherous little wife, explain to me.’ Though so drunk, the man’s fury gave his words speed and lucidity. ‘Explain why your pansy brother is standing outside Number Ten, making a monkey of me with his fucking Strike Committee. You and your rotten family—’

  She lay crouched on the floor making herself as small as she could. She saw his feet start to move to the door. ‘You revolt me!’ There was an extraordinary loathing in his voice.

  He was gone, banging across the landing, slamming the door of his dressing room.

  Everything was quiet.

  She lay very still, huddled on the carpet, ashamed and terrified at the enormous anger she had provoked in the man. Slowly the shame and terror waned but only because an extraordinary new pain reared into life and tore relentlessly through her. She hugged the pain to her, trying to make it a friend, trying to bargain with it to let her keep the baby.

  All through the night, even though she knew Mary was sitting outside, Lily wouldn’t let her in. When in the morning she finally allowed the maid to enter, she was bleeding profusely. At midday, she lost the baby.

  Afterwards, the only way she knew how to survive was to speak of that night just once, and that was to Mary. She made the maid swear on the Bible never to tell anyone. Anything. It was a private affair. Anyway, who would have guessed her husband would do such a thing? After all, he had left her face completely unmarked.

  Chapter Eight

  SS Etoile. Evening

  Up in first class, the post-prandial atmosphere of the Savoy Room had been soothingly enhanced by the alluring scents of Cuban cigars and Turkish coffee. Though for many passengers, the biggest pleasure of all was the calmer waters of this evening’s ocean.

  Far off, the dance-band in the Starlight Room was playing ‘Tonight’s the Night.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Dora Carroll glanced at Lady Lavinia and saw that such soothing delights were completely lost on her friend. Indeed, Dora understood the large woman well enough to know that, at this moment, she was paying for over-indulgence at the captain’s table as she sat torn between returning to the solace of a Bromo-seltzer in her suite or responding to the challenge of a hand or two at cards. As always, the game of Bridge won. Lavinia drained her little coffee cup and attempted to heave herself from the sofa, all the while never ceasing to talk in her booming voice.

  ‘…and, my dear Dora, we are all aware that Grossman is not an entirely English name.’

  Throughout dinner, the presence of Nurse Grossman at Lord Clairmont’s side had continued to cause Lavinia considerable irritation and, no doubt, had contributed hugely to her subsequent indigestion. The fact that the young couple now sat across the room, looking very happy as they laughed at a game of Snap, did nothing to quell the woman’s bile.

  ‘Is it not, Lavinia dear?’ answered Dora. She had weathered a potentially explosive dinner at her friend’s side and now fervently wished for nothing other than a pleasant game of cards. Well used to Lavinia’s contrary ways, Dora was determined to pour all the soothing oil she could on the troubled waters of her friend’s liverish behaviour. ‘She looks a pleasant enough young woman to me.’

  ‘Dora, do use your eyes,’ said Lady Slocombe in an energetic whisper, her jowl dancing; she was not used to being contradicted. ‘She is quite obviously Jewish. Even to me. Which means her father is in trade or something a great deal worse.’

  ‘But, Lavinia, you yourself informed me the girl is a nurse.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Lady Lavinia cleared her throat. ‘And we have all seen how that profession has been used as a cover for quite unmentionable activities of the sort Miss Grossman, if I look closely at her common little face, is not entirely unaware.’

  Across the room, Lord Henry and his nurse played on, blissfully ignorant of this tirade.

  ‘Come, Lavinia,’ bustled Dora, ‘I think they’re about to start. Ah yes, there is dear Mrs Wells.’ With much relief, Dora spotted the arrival of the last of their Bridge four and the first rubber hove into view. Lady Slocombe, launching herself again from the sofa, this time managing to stand, was, however, not to be distracted.
r />   ‘In my young day,’ her Ladyship’s imperious tones swelled as she crossed towards the Bridge tables, ‘one could be assured when travelling on such a cruise as this that one’s position in life would be respected and indeed reflected by the captain inviting one to dine alongside friends and acquaintances of equal standing.’ Lady Slocombe chose to look neither to right nor left, simply presuming all were listening. ‘It made life a great deal easier; one was not expected to plunge about in conversation trying to understand and entertain the lower orders. Now I am not only expected to sit beside tradespeople but also Semites.’

  During this speech, without pause for breath, the large woman arrived at the Bridge table of her choice, sat herself down and, lifting her hand in a gesture of command, received the playing cards from an orderly. ‘I’ll cut for first deal,’ she announced as Dora puffed to a halt alongside. Across the lounge, Mrs Wells and her husband, a ruby-faced cleric, comfortably chatted their way towards the Bridge table, and in order to assemble these tardy troops, Lady Slocombe raised her voice and instructed sharply, ‘Do come along, you two. We really must begin. Just look at the time.’ As the players took their places, Lady Slocombe glanced down at her watch and, to everyone’s consternation, a trumpet of horror emitted from her ladyship’s lips. ‘My jewels! They’ve gone!’

  Dora immediately saw that the diamond bracelet, which usually resided beside her ladyship’s evening-watch, was not there. Concerned that her somewhat overexcited friend was about to spiral out of control, she swiftly attempted to bring common sense to the proceedings. ‘Lavinia dear, try to remember where you have been. Think back.’

  Swotting at her companion with a large handkerchief, Lavinia yapped, ‘Don’t be such a dunderhead, Dora. The two of us have been cheek by jowl all evening!’

  ‘Except when you retired to the ladies’ cloakroom,’ whispered the eternally-practical Dora. ‘Did you take it off, perhaps, to rinse your hands?’

  If she had hoped this suggestion would solve the problem she was immediately to realise otherwise, for, triumphant, Lavinia crowed, ‘Yes, that’s it!’ and swinging round, pointed officiously across the room. ‘That girl – in the cloakroom – that Grossman girl, she brushed against me. Call the steward!’