Dancing in the Dark

by Maureen Lee

  The living room was very big, only partially furnished and rather dark, but there was a separate bedroom, a kitchen, and, wonder of wonders, a bathroom with a lavatory. There was even electric light. Everywhere smelt strongly of damp, but all in all, the place was much grander than anywhere Flo had hoped to find.

  “Fritz had the gas fire installed. He used to turn it on now ‘n’ again during the winter, case the damp spread through the house.”

  Flo gazed in awe at the efficient-looking fire. Imagine not having to fetch in coal every day! Imagine just pressing a switch for the light, and sitting on the lavatory indoors!

  “I’m not sure if I can afford the rent for a place like this.”

  “I haven’t said what the rent will be, have I? You’d make your own meals and pay your own gas and electricity—there’s separate meters down here.” Stella pursed her lips. “Five bob a week’ll do.”

  “But you could get as much as seven and six!”

  “I could ask ten bob in this part of town, but you’d be doing me a favour if you take it.”

  “What sort of favour?”

  Stella ignored her and went to stand at the rear window, which overlooked a rather grubby little yard.

  “Just look at that!” she said tonelessly. “Walls, bricks, dirt!

  Back in Ireland all we could see from our winders was green fields, trees and sky, with the lakes of Killarney sparkling in the distance. It’s like living in a prison here.”

  She seemed to have forgotten that Flo was there. “It was something Fritz could never understand, that there’s some things more important than money, like good clean air and a sweet, blowing wind. All that concerned him was his bloody laundry.”

  Flo twisted her hands together uncomfortably, not sure what to say. The Fritzes had always seemed such a happy couple.

  “Oh, well.” Stella turned away. “The palliasse for the bed’s up in the loft, case it got damp. I’ll fetch it down, as well as a mat for in front of the fire and a few other bits and pieces. Those chairs aren’t too comfortable, but there’s not much I can do about it—Fritz used to come down here sometimes for a bit of peace and quiet. Me mam’ll give the place a good clean, though if you want it painting you’ll have to do it yourself. There’s some tins of distemper in the yard. It should be ready to move in by Monday.”

  It was awful leaving Sally, but when it came to saying goodbye to her mother, Flo felt cold. Mam hadn’t acted as badly as Martha, but Flo had never dreamed she could be so hard, preferring her daughter to go without her beloved baby rather than risk the faintest whiff of scandal.

  When she made her departure directly after tea on Monday Albert Colquitt wasn’t home. “Give him my love, Mam,” she said. “Tell him he’s been the best lodger in the world and I’ll never forget him.” She was aware of a white-faced Martha across the room. Her sister still looked stunned from their row the other night. Flo had ignored her ever since.

  Mam was close to tears. “For goodness sake, luv, you’d think you had no intention of setting foot in Burnett Street again. You can tell Albert that to his face next time you see him.”

  “Tara, Mam. Tara, Sal.” Flo slung the pillowcase containing all her worldly possessions over her shoulder like a sailor. She tried to force her lips to say the words, but they refused to obey, so she left the house without speaking to Martha.

  The first few months in William Square were thoroughly enjoyable. Perhaps the favour Stella had mentioned was having Flo look after the little Fritzes—not that the two eldest, Ben and Harry, were little any more. Aged thirteen and fourteen, they were almost as tall as Flo. They invaded the basement flat, all eight of them, on her first night there.

  “Have you come to live with us?”

  “Did you know our dad?”

  “Will you read us a book, Flo?”

  “Do you know how to play Strip Jack Naked?” Ben demanded.

  “The answer to every question is yes,” Flo grinned.

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes. Sit on me knee—what’s your name?—and I’ll read you the book.”

  “I’m Aileen.”

  “Come on, then, Aileen.”

  From that night on, Flo scarcely had time to have her tea before the children would come pouring down the concrete steps. By then Stella’s mother, Mrs McGonegal, had seen enough of her lively grandchildren. She was a withdrawn woman, shy, with a tight, unhappy face.

  According to Stella, she missed Ireland and its wide open spaces even more than her daughter and couldn’t wait to get back. “And she’s petrified of the air raids. She won’t come with us to the shelter but crawls under the bed and doesn’t come out till the all-clear goes.”

  On Sunday afternoons, Flo took the children for walks. They formed a crocodile all the way to the Pier Head and back again. Sometimes, she took the older ones to the pictures, where they saw Will Hay and Tommy Trinder and laughed till they cried. She suspected Harry had a crush on her, so treated him more tenderly than the others, which only made the crush worse.

  A week after Flo moved, Sally came to see her and was startled to find the room full of little Fritzes. “Have you started a school or something?”

  “Aren’t they lovely?” Flo said blissfully. “I can’t wait for Christmas. I thought I’d be spending it all by meself for the first time in me life, but Stella’s invited me upstairs.”

  She still saw a trace of disapproval in the little Irishwoman’s eyes whenever they spoke. “I’m making decorations for the tree and it’s lovely wandering round the shops at dinner-time looking for prezzies for the kids. I’m buying one a week.”

  But by the time Christmas arrived, Stella Fritz, her mother, and her eight children had all gone.

  After what everyone called “the raid to end all raids” at the end of November, when for seven and a half long hours the city of Liverpool suffered a murderous attack from the air, a night when 180 people were killed in one single tragic incident, December brought blessed relief. “I think Mr Hitler is going to let us spend the festive season in peace,” one of the twins remarked.

  She spoke too soon. At twenty past six that night, all hell broke loose as wave after wave of enemy bombers unloaded their lethal cargo of incendiary and high-explosive bombs. The city was racked by explosions for nine and a half hours. Fires crackled furiously, the flames transforming the dark sky into an umbrella of crimson.

  Ambulances and fire engines screamed through the shattered streets.

  Would the dreadful night ever end, Flo wondered, as she sat in the public shelter with the two smallest Fritzes on her knee. It hardly seemed possible that William Square could still be standing. As she tried to comfort the children, she was overcome with worry for her family and her little son.

  At one point, Stella muttered, “It’s all right for Fritz, isn’t it? He’s safe and sound on the Isle of Man.”

  At last the all-clear sounded at four o’clock in the morning; the long piercing whine had never been so welcome. Stella gathered the children together and made for home. William Square was just round the corner, and in the red glow the houses appeared miraculously intact. A small fire sizzled cheerfully in the central garden area where an incendiary bomb had fallen and several trees and bushes were alight.

  “I’ll help put the kids to bed,” Flo offered.

  “It’s all right,” Stella said tiredly, “you see to yourself, Flo. Forget about opening up on time tomorrer. The twins have got a key—that’s if they turn up themselves.”

  She sighed. “I wonder how me mammy is?”

  When Flo woke it was broad daylight. The birds were singing merrily. She jumped out of bed, intent on getting to work as quickly as possible—not because she was conscientious but she wanted to make sure that Clement and Burnett Streets hadn’t been hit. After a cat’s lick, she threw on the clothes she’d worn the day before.

  Before leaving, she went upstairs to ask after Mrs McGonegal. To her astonishment, Stella Fritz opened the door wearing her best grey coat and an
astrakhan hat with a matching grey bow. Her eyes were shining, and she looked happier than Flo had ever seen her, even in the days when she and Mr Fritz had seemed such an ideal married couple. “I was about to come and see you,” she cried. “Come in, Flo. We’re off to Ireland this afternoon, to me uncle Kieran’s farm in County Kerry. Me mam’s over the moon. Oh, I know there’s no gas or electricity, the privy’s in the garden and you have to draw water from a well, but it’s better than being blown to pieces in a raid.”

  “I’ll miss you.” Flo was devastated when she saw the row of suitcases in the hall. It was the little Fritzes she’d really miss. She looked forward to their regular invasion of her room, the walks, the visits to the pictures. Upstairs, she could hear their excited cries as they ran from room to room and supposed they were collecting their favourite possessions to take to Ireland.

  “The children are dead upset you’re being left behind,”

  Stella said, looking anything but upset herself, “but I said to them, ‘Flo’s going to take care of things back here.

  She’ll look after the house.” I’ll leave you the keys, luv, and if you’d just take a look round once a week, like, make sure everything’s all right.”

  So, that was the favour. Flo had been installed downstairs so that Mrs Fritz could up and leave “whenever she liked, safe in the knowledge that the house would be cared for in her absence. Flo wasn’t too bothered that she’d been used. It still meant she’d got a lovely flat dead cheap. But now it appeared she’d have the flat for nothing in return for ‘services’. Would she mind running the water in cold weather, save the pipes from icing up, lighting a fire now and then to keep the place aired, opening the windows occasionally so it wouldn’t smell musty?

  “What’s happening to the laundry?” Flo asked, when Stella had finished reeling off instructions.

  “You’ll be in charge from now on, luv,” Stella said carelessly. “Take on more women, if you can. I’ll write and tell you how to put the money in the bank each week.”

  “Right,” said Flo stoutly, as yet more responsibility was heaped on her young shoulders. “I’ll just go upstairs and say tara to the children.”

  She was about to leave the room, when Stella came over and gripped her by the arms. Her good humour had evaporated and her face was hard. “There’s something I’d like cleared up before I go.”

  “What’s that?” Flo asked nervously.

  “I know full well why you left the laundry that time.

  Tell me truthfully, was it my Fritz who fathered your child?”

  The question was so outlandish that Flo laughed aloud.

  “Of course not! What on earth gave you that idea?”

  “I just wondered, that’s all.” She smiled and squeezed Flo’s arms. “You’re a grand girl, Flo. I’m sorry I was horrible in the past, but everything got on top of me.

  And I always had me suspicions about you and Fritz.

  Now, say tara to the kids, and tell them to come down and we’ll be on our way.”

  It didn’t seem possible but the raid that night was even heavier than the one the night before. For more than ten hours, an endless stream of fire-bombs and explosives fell on Liverpool. Flo didn’t bother with the shelter, but stayed in bed trying to read a novel she’d found upstairs.

  She did the same the following night when the raid was even longer. The house seemed no less safe than a brick shelter, and at least she was warm and comfortable and could make a cup of tea whenever she liked.

  Each morning, she left promptly for work, although she hadn’t had a wink of sleep, and on the way made sure that Clement Street and Burnett Street were still standing.

  On Christmas Day she went early to Mass, then spent the morning tidying up after the Fritzes. In their excitement, the children had left clothes and toys everywhere, and there were dirty dishes in the back kitchen. Flo moved from room to room, feeling like a ghost in the big silent house, picking things up, putting them away, gathering together the dirty clothes to wash. She helped herself to a few items for downstairs; a tablecloth, a saucepan, a teapot, more books, and supposed she’d better use up the fresh food that had been left behind—the bacon looked like best back—and Mrs McGonegal had walked miles in search of dried fruit for that Christmas cake.

  She went into the living room and sat in the huge bay window beside the tree that she’d helped to decorate.

  William Square was deserted, though there must be celebrations going on behind the blank windows. As if to confirm that this was so, a motor car drew up a few doors away and a couple with two children got out. The man opened the boot and handed the children several boxes wrapped in red paper. Flo remembered the presents she’d bought for the Fritzes, which were still hidden under her bed, away from their prying eyes. She’d take them to one of them rest centres that looked after people who’d lost everything in the blitz, let some other kids have the benefit.

  The house was so quiet, you could almost sense the quietness ticking away like a bomb. They’d just be finishing dinner in Burnett Street and starting on the sherry. Sally had said that Albert would be there, and Jock. No one would be coming to see Flo because they thought she was spending Christmas with the Fritzes. Flo sniffed dejectedly. It would be easy to have a good ould cry, but the situation was entirely of her own making. If she’d turned down Tommy O’Mara when he’d asked her to go for a walk, she’d be part of the group sitting round the table in Burnett Street with Martha rationing out the sherry.

  Sherry! There were half a dozen bottles on the top shelf of the larder. She went into the kitchen, collected a bottle, and was about to take everything downstairs when she noticed the wireless in an alcove beside the fireplace. Unlike Albert’s battery set, this one had an electric plug. It was also far superior to Albert’s. The Bakelite casing had a tortoiseshell pattern, the gold mesh shaped like a fan.

  She spent the rest of the day drinking sherry, half reading a book, half listening to the wireless, and told herself she was having a good time. It wasn’t until a man with a lovely deep voice began to sing “Dancing in the Dark”, that she had a good ould cry.

  On Boxing Day Flo moved the furniture into the middle of the room and distempered the basement a nice fresh lemon. It needed two coats and she was exhausted by the time she had finished and stood admiring her handiwork.

  The room had brightened up considerably, but the blackout curtains looked dead miserable. She raided upstairs and found several sets of bronze cretonne curtains, which she hung over the blackout. The place was beginning to look like home.

  Home! Flo sat on one of the lumpy chairs and put her finger thoughtfully to her chin. She had a home, yes, but she hadn’t got a life. The idea of spending more nights alone listening to the wireless made her spirits wilt, and she didn’t fancy going to dances or the pictures on her own. Having two sisters not much older than herself meant she’d never gone out of her way to make friends.

  Bel was the closest to a friend she’d ever had, but Bel wasn’t much use up in Scotland. Of course, she could always change her job so that she worked with women of her own age, but she felt honour-bound to keep the business going for Mr Fritz.

  “I’ll take up voluntary work!” she said aloud. It would occupy the evenings, and she’d always wanted to do something towards the war effort. “I’ll join the Women’s Voluntary Service, or help at a rest centre. And Albert said there’s even women fire-fighters. I’ll make up me mind what to do in the new year.”

  Next day, Sally and Jock whizzed in and out, but Flo didn’t mention that the Fritzes had gone because Sally might have felt obliged to stay—and you could tell that she and Jock couldn’t wait to be by themselves. The day after, Mam came into the laundry to see how she was and Flo said she was fine. She didn’t want Mam thinking she regretted leaving home, because she didn’t. She might have experienced the most wretched Christmas imaginable, but she’d willingly go through the whole thing again rather than live in the same house as Martha.


  More than anything, she couldn’t stand the idea of anyone feeling sorry for her, though by the time New Year’s Eve arrived, Flo was feeling very sorry for herself.

  A party was going on across the square, a pianist was thumping out all the latest tunes: “We’ll Meet Again”, “You Were Never Lovelier”, “When You Wish Upon a Star . . . ” In Upper Parliament Street, people could be heard singing at the tops of their voices. There’d been little in the way of raids since Christmas, and no doubt everyone felt it was safe to roam the streets again. She switched on the wireless, but the disembodied voices emphasised rather than eased her sense of isolation. She contemplated going early to bed with a book and a glass of sherry—there were only two bottles left—but ever since she was a little girl she’d always been up and about when the clocks chimed in the New Year. She remembered sitting on Dad’s knee, everybody kissing and hugging and wishing each other a happy new year, then singing “Auld Lang Syne”.

  I could gatecrash that party! She smiled at the thought, and a memory surfaced: Josie Driver, God rest her soul, had once mentioned ending up on St George’s Plateau on New Year’s Eve. “Everyone was stewed to the eyeballs, but we had a dead good time.”

  Flo threw on a coat. She’d go into town. At least there would be other human beings around, even if she didn’t know them, and they could be as drunk as lords for all she cared. She hadn’t been a hundred per cent sober herself since finding that sherry.

  The sky was beautifully clear, lit by a half-moon and a million dazzling stars, so it was easy to see in the blackout.

  Music could be heard coming from the Rialto ballroom and from most of the pubs she passed. People seemed to be enjoying themselves more than ever this year, as if they had put the war to the back of their minds for this one special night.

  When she arrived in the city centre it was far too early, and her heart sank when there wasn’t a soul to be seen on St George’s Plateau. What on earth shall I do with meself till midnight? she wondered. She began to walk slowly towards the Pier Head, aware that she was the only woman alone. The pubs were still open—they must have got an extension because it was New Year’s Eve.