‘Would you like a scone dear, and a refill of tea?’ Jess glanced up at a kindly face framed by a blue bonnet, and smiled.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
Just to see the Sally Army roll up and start serving tea, soup and sandwiches had lifted everyone’s spirit. There were some who said the smile alone was worth a tanner, but no money ever changed hands as they gave their services free. They might try to sell a few copies of their magazine, The War Cry, later. They never enquired what denomination you were, or even if you believed in any God at all, but simply offered to ‘serve and to succour’, providing what they called ‘the human touch’, and if you discovered the answer to your spiritual needs while they tended to your physical ones, so much the better but it was not in any way compulsory. It was really up to you.
Jess wasn’t sure what she believed in. Certainly Lizzie had made no effort to instil any sense of the spiritual in her, and she wouldn’t have dreamed of setting foot in a church herself, let alone take her daughter to one. At times Jess’s hopes for a good future was so clouded by depression over her mother, she felt a dreadful sense of bitterness. It was a hateful feeling, one she struggled to resist. She smiled again at the girl in the blue bonnet and asked if she’d made the delicious scones herself.
She gurgled with laughter. ‘Goodness no, we get them cheap from Simmons’s because they’re a bit stale. But still good, don’t you think?’
‘Delicious. But then they would be if Mr Simmons or Robert made them.’ How generous that family was. How kind and thoughtful. Jess couldn’t imagine Uncle Bernie doing anything which didn’t bring in a decent profit for himself.
Cora and the children were certainly glad of the scones, slightly stale or not, as well as the hot tea. She’d been in a dreadful state by the time the ARP Wardens had pulled them from the rubble, anxious to find her children and check all their limbs were in good working order. Miraculously they were, but Cora had only just stopped shaking. She looked pale and vulnerable drinking the tea with her children gathered close to her side, as if she had shrunk within her comfortable layer of fat. Her usually rosy face was the colour of parchment, her wire wool hair still in curling pins and her swollen ankles spilling out over the top of the inevitable carpet slippers. As always, there was about her person an underlying, acrid scent of sweat, on this occasion mixed with plaster dust and cordite.
The house was badly damaged, with the odd door and window blown out and the back scullery flattened completely, but it could be repaired and parts of it were still habitable, or would be when the smell of smoke had gone and the water from the fire hoses had dried up. Even more amazingly, the Anderson Shelter had withstood the blast intact, if with sugar spilled everywhere from the burst bags.
Bernie wasn’t too pleased about this. ‘There’ll be little hope of selling the stuff now its full of muck and plaster.’
‘Never mind love, it saved our lives, that sugar,’ Cora told him. ‘I’ll never hear another word against our Harry.’
Fortunately, Bernie had managed to close the door on this damning evidence of black marketeering before any rescue party arrived, who fortunately didn’t investigate too closely. They accepted, without protest, his decision not to leave the house or be checked over by the first aid people. They warned him of possible gas leaks, and of the further risk of fire but Bernie insisted he must look for a few personal possessions, then board the house up, so they left him to it. They had far more to worry about than nut cases who wanted to poke about in smoking ruins. Besides, it happened quite often, folk wanting to root through the rubble to find family pictures or stay to guard their precious belongings.
Jess ate the second scone and drank a third mug of tea . By this time Sam and Seb were curled up on their mother’s knee like a pair of puppies, fast asleep with thumbs in mouths. Sandra was snuffling and complaining about wanting to go home while Cora patted and soothed her, urging her to close her eyes and try to get some sleep.
Feeling at a loose end, and as if she didn’t quite belong in this moment of family togetherness, Jess volunteered to help serve tea. Besides the young girl in the bonnet with the pretty face and bright eyes who said her name was Harriet, there was one other girl, a qualified nurse in her main job, and a man, all in Salvation Army uniform. Another batch of bombed-out victims had arrived and the three of them seemed to be run off their feet.
‘You could brew a fresh pot,’ Harriet readily agreed. ‘This one is getting low.’
‘Right you are.’ Jess refilled the big urn and lit the gas beneath it. The next hour or so flew by as she filled and refilled the big brown teapots with scalding hot fresh tea time after time. Sometimes, she poured it out herself into tin mugs, seeing bowed heads lift, smiles turn up drooping mouths, and faces lined with grime and despair light up with pleasure and gratitude. At one point she took the mouth organ from her pocket and played them A Nightingale Sang in Berkley Square and everyone had a bit of a sing-song.
‘Eeh love, that was grand,’ one old woman said, wiping tears from her eyes.
There were a few others blowing noses or wiping away surreptitious tears, so she played a rousing version of She’s a Lassie from Lancashire to cheer them all up again. It was a good feeling.
To Jess, it seemed like a worthwhile thing to do. Better than cowering in a cellar, or even a sugar-bagged Anderson shelter. She wondered how Lizzie was faring. Was she having a sing-song and a mug of tea? Did they take the prisoners down to the shelter, she wondered? Feckless as her ma was, she really didn’t deserve to be in that awful place, let alone with all this going on. If only she could find somewhere better for them when she came out.
‘It’s Jess Delaney, isn’t it?’
Startled by this sudden interruption to her thoughts, Jess turned to find herself being closely scrutinised by an officer in Salvation Army uniform. He was a tall, thin man with a waxy moustache. He wore the peaked hat square on his head, beneath which a pair of large ears protruded. There was a gleaming badge pinned just above the hat band, plain strips of navy braid in horizontal lines across the front of his jacket, as well as a brighter variety on the shoulder epaulettes. He looked vaguely familiar to Jess, but she couldn’t put a name to him or know why he recognised her.
‘I’m Sergeant Buxton, or just plain Ted if you like. I knew your dad. How is the old codger then?’
Jess flushed with pleasure. It wasn’t often she met anyone who knew Jake, not since they’d moved out of Salford to be nearer the rest of the family after he’d gone off to war. ‘He’s overseas with the army.’
‘So I heard. I enjoyed your playing of the mouth organ, which isn’t as easy as it looks. Nice tone you got out of it. But then your dad was always musical. Good trumpet player, he was.’
Jess was surprised. ‘Was he? I never heard him play the trumpet. He used to play his accordion all the time.’
The sergeant’s eyes seemed to take on a challenging twinkle. ‘He could play pretty well any instrument he fancied, and I reckon you’ve inherited his talent. You’re a dab hand at the trumpet yourself, eh?’
Jess laughingly shook her head. ‘I’ve never tried to learn but I very much doubt it. All I can manage is this mouth organ.’
Sergeant Buxton frowned. ‘It wasn’t you then who blew that bugle last Christmas Eve?’
Jess gazed up into what had now become an alarming scrutiny and found herself at a complete loss for words. After all this time she’d thought she’d got away with it. Apparently not. Swallowing painfully, Jess knew there was no help for it but to own up.
‘I’m so sorry I dropped it. I was a bit startled by the noise it made. Was it badly dented? I’ve no money to pay for a new one just now but I’m hoping to get a better job soon, so I could save up. Pay a bit each week towards a new one for the band. Would that do?’
The sergeant heard her out in silence, listening to every breathless utterance. When she finally stopped talking, he started to chuckle, then put back his head and laughed for so loud and f
or so long that his hat fell off and he had to pick it up before it rolled away and got trodden on. ‘Eeh lass, if I’d known you were worrying so much over that, I’d have tried harder to find you. The bugle came to no harm at all, well not much anyroad. The odd dent won’t matter.’
‘Oh! I am glad.’ Relief swept through her. Jess really didn’t see how she could ever have earned enough to buy a new one, but felt she’d had to make the offer.
‘I did try to find you afterwards, as a matter of fact, but you’d left the house on Back Irwell Street, and I didn’t know where you’d gone. I’m glad to run into you again, though sorry about the circumstances, of course, particularly since you’ve been worrying about that bugle all this time. Daft happorth.’
Jess smiled ruefully. She found she quite liked Sergeant Buxton, and as she poured him some tea and made him a sandwich because he was ravenous having worked half the night, they continued to chat as if they were old friends. ‘Was it you that chased after me?’
‘Aye, not to tell you off though, love. I was a bit shaken when I heard you play that note. I’d never heard one so true, not played by a novice.’
If this surprised her, Jess was even more startled by his next words.
‘And if you really don’t know how to play the trumpet then you should learn. You have a natural gift.’
‘Natural gift? I don’t know what you mean.’
‘To put it simply, woodwind instruments have a reed in the mouthpiece that vibrates when you blow. With brass instruments it is the shape and position of the lips you make which produces the note. But the important thing is not to strain or push the breath, which you didn’t. Being relaxed is vital so that when you come to a high note you can deal with it sweetly. Course, there’s still a lot to learn. Scales and such like. And it would take a lot of practice, but I could teach you. If you were interested.’
Jess gasped. ‘If I were interested?’ She couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting to make music. ‘Could you really? Oh, but I don’t have an instrument. Or money to pay for lessons.’
Sergeant Buxton shrugged, as if these were minor matters. ‘We can always borrow one from the band and as for payment, look at what you’re doing now?’
‘What, pouring tea?’ She handed him his potted beef sandwich and he bit into it with gratitude.
‘Helping out. You could pay for your lessons by doing more of this, by working with us in the mobile canteens. We need all the help we can get. How about it? Is that a fair exchange?’
Jess could hardly believe what she was hearing. It seemed too good to be true. ‘You mean in return for making tea and sandwiches, I get to play the trumpet any time I like?’
‘Oh no, any time I Iike. Whenever I can find the time in between everything else I have to do. And you’ll have to learn to play the bugle as well so that instead of using your hard-earned brass to pay for the dents in the one you dropped, you can play a bugle in the band instead.’
Jess was laughing too by this time, because it was all so amazing. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Never more so.’ He held out a hand. ‘Is it a deal?’
Without hesitation, she firmly shook on their agreement.
Bernie stood at the corner of Back Irwell Street with a group of his cronies looking very much as if he was waiting for The Globe to open, and watched his two elder sons swagger off along Cumberland Street, hands in pockets, whistling tunelessly. They looked so innocent they must be up to something. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate with that niece of his, obstinate little baggage, not forgetting Lizzie who was likely to be let out before too long. With a growing family to support, as well as an appetite for the odd each-way bet and a pint or two at The Globe here, he needed to think of some way to improve his income. Money was getting worryingly tight.
What’s more, it’d be a living nightmare soon with two women in the same house. He could see it coming. And right now there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He certainly couldn’t afford to keep two houses going.
Cora wasn’t going to be the least bit happy to have Lizzie around the place, mainly because she had a suspicion that Jess wasn’t his niece at all; that she was in fact Bernie’s own child. He’d wondered the same himself once over, till he’d heard her play that mouth organ, then he’d known it was all a figment of his imagination. But she might well have been. He’d had a bit of a fling with Lizzie even before she married his brother. She hadn’t ever been the loyal sort. Not like Cora.
His missus didn’t have a bad bone in her flabby body, which was why he’d married her in the first place. He couldn’t be doing with strident women, with the kind who thought they were as good as any bloke. Cora knew her place, had always shown proper respect and gratitude for the fact he’d chosen her above more glamorous possibilities.
Oh aye, he’d had other irons in the fire when he was a lad, being quite the dandy in his day and not without his admirers. Only at the time he’d been of the opinion that devotion and loyalty were vital so far as a wife was concerned, certainly in his line of trade. And he wasn’t sorry he’d made that decision. Flirts and fancy pieces yielded nowt but trouble in the long run, as his brother’s hasty marriage had proved.
Poor old Jake, what a shame things had turned out so miserable for him. They’d got word just the other day that he was a POW, being held in a camp some place. Bernie smirked with pleasure at the thought of his more fortunate brother suffering for once in his life.
The smile quickly faded as he watched his sons sidle out of an alley, obviously up to no good, and in broad daylight too. What a pair of toss-pots they were. He’d skelp the pair of them if they messed things up for him. Jake had got one over on him there too, by breeding the most intelligent and decent child of the whole Delaney bunch.
Perhaps that was why Cora didn’t hold it against Jess personally. She’d quite warmed to the lass. But then that was Cora, generous and open hearted to a fault.
Except where her man was concerned, and then she could be like a terrier with a rat if anyone threatened to stand in her way. Bernie had never considered himself to be a faithful husband, but he’d always been discreet. He felt he owed that to Cora, at least. So God help Lizzie if she was daft enough to flaunt their liaison too brazenly when she came to live with them in Cumberland Street. The fat would really be in the fire then.
He called after his sons. ‘Here, where you two off to?’
They turned, hesitated a moment before ambling reluctantly over. ‘Just having a nose around. See what’s doing.’
‘Well, keep me informed.’
‘Aye, course we will Dad. Don’t we always?’ Bernie edged them away from the growing crowd outside the pub, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘And fetch back something I can shift this time, as well as store easily. Not a van load of flipping sugar.’
‘Right!’ Both lads grinned amiably and nodded, glanced at each other then quickly away again.
Bernie caught the shifty look and inwardly groaned. Life was growing ever more complicated with these lads of his starting to flex their wings. Pickings on the black market weren’t so easy as they’d once been. One or two deals had fallen through lately, let alone that blasted sugar. The authorities were growing ever more suspicious and tended to make spot raids on shops, demanding to see receipts and examine stock rooms, checking out their sources of supply. So far Bernie had been lucky and not suffered such an inspection himself, although he’d had one or two close shaves, and once lost a substantial amount of produce when a grocer’s shop had been investigated by the powers-that-be, before the man had settled his account.
‘Have they had any problems here with air raids?’ Harry was asking, intruding on his thoughts and nodding in the direction of the pub doors, still fast shut.
Bernie frowned, struggling to concentrate on the implication behind the question. ‘Not that I know of. What sort of problems would that be exactly?’
Bert shuffled his feet while his cheeks fired beetroot red, ‘Oh you know,
things going missing like. Doors not shut proper.’
Harry gave his brother a hefty kick on the ankle but daft Bert just yelled out loud in protest. ‘Hey, what did you do that for, our Harry?’
‘Do what?’
Bert caught the glower on his brother’s face and realisation dawned. ‘Oh, right. Nowt.’
Bernie said, ‘What are you rattling on about Bert?’
‘Nowt Dad. He didn’t do nowt. Right, we’ll be off then, shall we? And we’ll remember what you said like.’
‘Aye, think on. Mind what you get up to. Things aren’t too easy at the moment. I don’t want any problems that I can’t handle.’
Harry snorted and there was the faintest note of irony in his voice. ‘There’s not much you can’t handle, Dad. See you,’ and giving a cheery wave, he thrust his hands back into his pockets, nudged his brother with one broad shoulder to make him get a move on, and the pair ambled off.
Eyes narrowing to slits, Bernie watched them vanish around the corner into Deansgate, and his shoulders drooped with weariness. His sons weren’t turning out to be the bonus he’d hoped for, and sadly he knew why that was. Drive and ambition they might have, but they lacked imagination and any degree of common sense. They went at things like a bull in the proverbial china shop, weren’t even very good at following orders, and he sensed a definite note of rebellion in the way they avoided answering his questions. Dumb insolence, you could call it.
What was most curious about their behaviour though, was that they very often went out on these expeditions during an air raid. Despite their being so afraid of getting hit, they didn’t seem to use the communal shelter on Dolefield very much at all. So where exactly did they go? Where were they heading now? What were they up to?
Damned if he’d be bested by his own sons. Bernie turned up his coat collar, shoved his hands deep in his pockets and loped off, deep in thought.
Dancing on Deansgate Page 9
