Dancing in the Dark

by Maureen Lee

  She did see him again, only two days later. He came into the laundry, this time bearing two white shirts that already looked perfectly clean. She looked up from the press and found him smiling at her intently as if she was the only woman in the world, never mind the laundry.

  “I’d like these laundered, please.”

  Flo had to swallow several times before she could answer. “You need to take them round the front and Mr Si Fritz will give you a ticket,” she said, in a voice that sounded as if it belonged to someone else.

  He frowned. “Does that mean I won’t see you when I collect them?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she said, still in someone else’s voice.

  He flung the shirts over his shoulder, stuck his thumbs in his belt and rocked back on his heels. “In that case, I’ll not beat about the bush. Would you like to come for a walk with me one night, Flo? We can have a bevy on the way—you’re old enough to go in boozers, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll be nineteen in May,” Flo said faintly. “Though I’ve never been in a booz—a pub before.”

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything.” He winked.

  “See you tomorrer night then, eight o’clock outside the Mystery gates, the Smithdown Road end.”

  “Rightio.” She watched him leave, knowing that she’d done something terribly wrong. She felt very adult and worldly wise, as if she was much older than Sally and Martha. Tomorrow night she was going out with a married man and the thing was she didn’t care!

  “What did he want?” Olive Knott brought her down to earth with a sharp nudge in the ribs.

  “He brought his shirts to the wrong place. I sent him round the front.”

  Olive’s brow creased worriedly. “He didn’t ask you out, did he?”

  For the first time in her life Flo lied. “No.”

  “He’s got his eye on you, that’s plain to see. Oh, he has a way with him, there’s no denying it, but it’s best for nice girls like you to stay clear of men like Tommy O’Mara, Flo.”

  But Flo was lost. She would have gone out with Tommy O’Mara if Olive had declared him to be the divil himself.

  Friday was another dull day and there was drizzle on and off until early evening when a late sun appeared. It looked as soft as a jelly in the dusky blue sky, and its gentle rays filled the air with gold dust.

  Flo felt very odd as she made her way to the Mystery.

  Every step that took her nearer seemed of momentous significance, as if she was walking towards her destiny, and that after tonight nothing would ever be the same again. She thought of the lie she’d told at home—that she was calling on Josie Driver who’d been off sick and Mr Fritz wanted to know how she was, which had been all she could think of when Martha demanded to know where she was going.

  When she arrived Tommy was already there. He was standing outside the gates, “whistling, wearing a dark blue suit that looked a bit too big, a white and blue striped shirt with a high stiff collar, and a grey tie. A slightly more respectable tweed cap was set at the same jaunty angle on the back of his curly head. The mere sight of the swaggering, audacious figure made Flo feel quite faint.

  “There you are!” He smiled. “You’re late. I was worried you might have changed your mind.”

  The thought had never entered her head. She smiled nervously and said, “Hello.”

  “You look nice,” he said appreciatively. “Green suits you. It sets off your eyes. That was the first thing I noticed when I came into the laundry, those green eyes.

  I bet you have stacks of fellers chasing after you.”

  “Not exactly,” Flo mumbled.

  “In that case, the fellers round here must be mad!”

  When he linked her arm Flo could smell a mixture of strong tobacco and carbolic soap. She got the peculiar feeling in her tummy again as they began to stroll through the park, though the Mystery was more like a playing-field: a vast expanse of grass surrounded by trees. The Liverpool-to-London railway line ran along one side.

  The trees were bursting into life, ready for summer, and pale sunlight filtered through the branches, making dappled patterns on the green grass underneath.

  Without any prompting, Tommy briefly told her the story of his life. He’d been born in Ireland, in the county of Limerick, and had come to Liverpool ten years ago when he was twenty. “I’ve got fourteen brothers and sisters, half of ‘em still at home. I send me mam a few bob when I’ve got it to spare.’

  Flo said she thought that very generous. She asked where he worked.

  “I’m a fitter at Cammell Laird’s in Birkenhead,” he said boastfully. “You should see this ship we’re building at the moment. It’s a T-class submarine, the Thetis. Guess how much it’s costing?”

  She confessed she had absolutely no idea.

  “Three hundred thousand smackeroos!”

  “Three hundred thousand!” Flo gasped. “Is it made of gold or something?”

  He laughed and squeezed her arm. “No, but it’s the very latest design. You should see the instruments in the conning tower! And it’s got ten torpedo tubes. I don’t envy any German ships that come near the Thetis if there’s a war.”

  “There won’t be a war,” Flo said stubbornly.

  “That’s what women always say.” He chuckled.

  She realised he’d omitted to tell her about one important aspect of his life—his wife. There was silence for a while, except for his whistling, as they strolled across the grass and the April sun began to disappear behind the trees.

  Perhaps Tommy had read her thoughts, because he said suddenly, “I should have told you this before, Flo.

  I’m married.”

  “I know,” Flo said.

  He raised his finely drawn eyebrows in surprise. “Who told you?”

  “A woman at work, Olive Knott. She lives in the next street to you.”

  “Does she now.” He made a face. “I’m surprised you came, knowing, like.”

  Flo wasn’t in the least surprised: she’d have come even if she’d been told he had ten wives.

  They’d arrived at the other side of the Mystery and emerged into Gainsborough Road. Tommy steered her inside the first pub they came to. “What would you like to drink?” he asked.

  “I’ve no idea.” The only alcohol that ever crossed Flo’s lips was a small glass of sherry at Christmas.

  “I’ll get you a port and lemon. That’s what women usually like.”

  The pub was crowded. Flo glanced round when Tommy went to be served, worried someone might recognise her, but there were no familiar faces. She noticed that quite a few women were eyeing Tommy up and down as he waited at the bar, legs crossed nonchalantly at the ankles. Without doubt he was the best-looking man there—and he was with her! Flo gasped at the sheer magic of it all, just as Tommy turned round and winked.

  Her eyes flickered as she tried to wink back, but couldn’t quite manage it. Tommy laughed at her efforts as he came over with the drinks. “You know,” he whispered, “you’re the most beautiful girl here, Flo Clancy, perhaps the most beautiful in the whole of Liverpool.

  There’s something special between us, isn’t there? I recognised it the minute I set eyes on you. It’s something that doesn’t happen often between a man and a woman, but it’s happened between you and me.”

  Flo felt as if she wanted to cry. She also wanted to say something meaningful, but all she could think of was, “I suppose it has.”

  Tommy swallowed half his beer in one go, then returned the pint glass to the table with a thump. He took a tin of tobacco from his pocket and deftly rolled a ciggie out of the thick dark shreds that smelt of tar. He shoved the tin in Flo’s direction, but she shook her head.

  “It’s time I explained about Nancy,” he said grandly.

  “Nancy?”

  The wife. It’s not a genuine marriage, Flo, not in any respects.” He looked at her knowingly. “I met Nancy in Spain when I was fighting in the Civil War. She’s a gypsy. I won’t deny I fell for h
er hook, line and sinker. I would have married her proper, given the opportunity, but “stead, I did it Nancy’s way.” The way he told it it sounded like the most romantic novel ever written. He and Nancy had “plighted their troth”, as he put it, at a gypsy ceremony in a wood near Barcelona. “It means nowt in the eyes of British law or the Roman Catholic Church,” he said contemptuously. He’d been meaning to leave for a long time, and as soon as Nancy got better he’d be off like a shot. “Then I’ll be free to marry an English girl, proper, like, this time.” He clasped Flo’s hand and gazed deep into her eyes. “And you know who that’ll be, don’t you?”

  Flo felt the blood run hot through her body. She gulped. “What’s wrong with Nancy?”

  Tommy sighed. “It’s a bit embarrassing to explain, luv.

  It’s what’s called a woman’s complaint. She’s been to Smithdown Road ozzie and the doctors said it’ll all be cleared up in about six months. I don’t like to leave till she gets better,” he added virtuously.

  The guilt that had been lurking in a little corner of Flo’s mind about going out with a married man disappeared, along with the suspicion that he’d only told her about Nancy in case someone else did. Why, he was almost single! It seemed wise, though, not to mention him and his peculiar circumstances to her family. Martha, in particular, would never understand. She’d say nothing until they got engaged.

  “I trust you’ll keep what I’ve just said under your hat for now, luv,” Tommy said conspiratorially. “I don’t want people knowing me private business, like, till the time comes to tell them.”

  “I won’t breathe a word,” Flo assured him. “I’d already decided to keep you a secret.”

  “A secret! I like the idea of being the secret man in Flo Clancy’s life.” His brown eyes sparkled. “How about another drink before we go?”

  “No, ta.” The port and lemon had already gone to her head.

  “I’ll just have another quick pint, then we’ll be oft.”

  It was dark when they went outside. The sky glowed hazy orange where the sun had set, but was otherwise dark blue, almost black. They wandered hand in hand through the Mystery, the noise of the traffic behind growing fainter, until nothing could be heard except their feet on the grass, the slight rustle of the trees, and Tommy’s musical whistle.

  “What’s that tune?” Flo enquired. “I can’t quite place it.”

  “ ‘Dancing in the Dark.’ Have you never heard it before?”

  “I couldn’t remember what it was called.”

  He began to sing. “ ‘Dancing in the dark . . . ’ C’mon, Flo.” He grabbed her by the waist and twirled her around.

  Flo threw back her head and laughed. “ ‘Dancing in the dark,’ ‘ they sang together.

  They stopped when two men walked past and Flo shivered. “I forgot to bring a cardy.”

  Tommy put his arm around her shoulders. “You don’t feel cold.” He placed his hand on the back of her neck.

  “You feel hot. Your neck’s sweating.”

  She wasn’t sure if she was hot or cold. Her body felt as if it was on fire, yet she shivered again. Tommy’s hand pressed harder on her neck as he began to lead her towards a tree not far away. He pushed her against the broad trunk and took her in his arms. “I’ve been thinking of nothing else but this for days.”

  A train roared past on the furthest side of the park, the engine puffing eerie clouds of smoke. Flo thought about Dad, who’d been knocked down on that very same railway line, but not for long: Tommy’s lips were pressed against hers and she felt as if she was being sucked into a whirlpool. Her head spun and she seemed to be slipping down and down and down. She came to briefly and found herself lying on the damp grass with Tommy bent over her. He’d undone the front of her dress and his lips were seeking her breasts, his tongue tenderly touching her nipples. Flo arched her back and almost screamed because the sensation was so wonderful.

  She knew what was to come, she knew it was a bad thing, but she could no more have stopped him than she could have stopped the sun from rising the next morning.

  Tommy was pushing up her skirt, pulling away her underthings. There was the sound of her stockings tearing and she felt his callused hand between her legs. He was groaning, murmuring over and over, “I love you, Flo,” and she could hear other little breathless cries that she realised came from her own throat. All the while, she was running her fingers through his thick dark curls, kissing his ears, his neck . . .

  He felt so big when he entered her, and it hurt, but the hurt soon faded and turned into something else, something that no words had been invented to describe.

  It all ended in a wild, feverish explosion that left them shaken and exhausted, and with Flo convinced that the only reason she’d been born was to make love with Tommy O’Mara.

  “Jaysus, Flo!” he said hoarsely. “That was the best I’ve ever known.” After a while, he began to pull her clothes back on. “Get dressed, luv, else you’ll catch cold.”

  Flo touched his sensually curved lips with her finger, feeling the love flow from her heart right down her arm.

  “I love you, Tommy.”

  “I love you, girl.”

  There was the faint murmur of voices upstairs: Martha and Sally were awake. Flo leaped out of the chair to take them up a cup of tea. On the way to the back kitchen, she did a pirouette. She’d always been happy, but nowadays she was so happy she could bust—and it had all begun that night in the Mystery when she’d danced in the dark with Tommy.

  She and Sally had a wonderful day in New Brighton.

  They went on every single ride in the fairground, even the children’s ones. Sally complained afterwards she felt quite sick, though it was more likely caused by the fish and chips followed by a giant ice-cream cornet with strawberry topping. She recovered swiftly on the ferry back when they clicked with two sailors who invited them to the pictures. “Why did you turn them down?” she grumbled, on the tram home to Wavertree.

  “I didn’t fancy that Peter,” Flo replied. In fact, both sailors had been quite nice, but she was meeting Tommy at eight o’clock. Even if she wasn’t, she would have felt disloyal going out with another man.

  “I quite fancied Jock.” Her sister sighed. Sally was neither plain nor pretty, a bit like Dad with her neat brown hair and hazel eyes. She hadn’t had a date since the one with Brian Maloney, almost two months ago.

  Flo felt bad about the sailors. If it hadn’t been for Tommy she’d have gone like a shot. “You gave Jock your address, Sal. He might write,” she said hopefully.

  “And where are you off to?” Martha demanded that night when Flo came downstairs ready to go out.

  “I’m going to see Josie.” Unknown to Josie Driver, she and Flo had become the greatest of friends since Tommy had appeared on the scene. She met Josie twice a week, Mondays and Fridays. Josie would have been surprised to learn she was thinking of becoming a nun and needed someone in whom she could confide her deepest, most intimate thoughts while coming to such a major decision.

  Martha’s eyes looked suspicious behind her thick glasses. “Why do you need a red bow in your hair just to see Josie?”

  “I bought the ribbon in New Brighton,” Flo replied haughtily.

  “It looks very nice,” Albert Colquitt said, from the table where he was having his tea.

  “I think so, too,” Mam concurred.

  Martha gave up. “Don’t be too late.”

  “Have a nice time,” Flo called, as she slammed the door.

  Albert had just bought a wireless and everyone was staying in to listen to a play, Mam armed with two bottles of Guinness to “build her up”, although she’d been feeling better since the weather had improved. Flo shuddered to think of her sisters sitting in the parlour on Albert’s bed-settee.

  What a way for two young women to spend a bank-holiday evening!

  “I like your bow,” said Tommy.

  “I like your tie,” Flo sang.

  “I like your face, your eyes, your l
ips. I like every single little thing about you!” He picked her up and spun her around until they both felt dizzy and fell, laughing, on to the grass, whereupon he began to kiss her passionately.

  “It’s still broad daylight,” Flo murmured.

  “So it is.” He kissed her again and caressed her breasts.

  “We might get arrested and it’d be in the Echo.”

  “Would that matter?”

  “Not to me it wouldn’t,” Flo giggled, “but me mam wouldn’t be pleased and our Martha’d have a fit. Nancy wouldn’t like it either.”

  “Nancy would just have to lump it.” Nevertheless, he sat up and smoothed his unruly curls.

  Flo had never told him she’d seen Nancy. One day when she knew he was at work she’d set out for Clement Street, off Smithdown Road. It was a respectable street of small two-up, two-down houses. The windows shone, the steps had been scrubbed that morning. Flo paused across the road opposite number eighteen.

  So this was where he lived. Nancy must take pride in her house. The curtains were maroon cretonne, upstairs and down, and there were paper flowers in the parlour window. The front door and the window-sills were dark green, freshly painted. Flo’s heart missed a beat—had he painted them? She’d never ask because she didn’t want him to know she’d spied on his house.

  She walked up and down the street several times, keeping a close eye on number eighteen in case Nancy came out to clean the windows or brush the step. After about half an hour, when she was about to give up, a woman carrying a shopping basket came towards her from the direction of Smithdown road. Flo knew it was Nancy because she looked exactly like the gypsy Tommy had said she was. She was outstanding in her way, the sort of woman that would be described as handsome. Her skin was the colour of cinnamon, her eyes as black as night, and she had a big beaked nose and glossy black hair drawn back in a cushiony bun at the nape of her thin neck.

  “Mercy me!” Flo muttered. She wasn’t sure why, but something about the woman disturbed her. And what peculiar clothes she wore to go shopping! A flowing black skirt, red satin blouse and a brightly embroidered garment that wasn’t quite a jacket and wasn’t quite a shawl.