Bernie cleared his throat, a warning sound which made Cora cast a nervous glance in his direction. ‘Eeh, hark at me, rabbiting on. I’ll fetch the trifle, shall I?’ And leaping from the table Cora hastily began to clear and stack plates. Jess got up to help, while Lizzie patted her pockets for a cigarette, remembered Jess had deprived her of these too and sank into a deep sulk.
While the women worked, Bernie closely examined their visitor, wondering whether this relationship could be turned to his advantage. He hated to miss an opportunity for using somebody who might prove useful and, judging by Steve Byrom’s comments earlier, he was clearly a man with views. ‘So what line are you in then? How come you aren’t in uniform?’
‘Aircraft building. Can’t say too much about that, sorry. Pretty hush-hush.’
Cora placed a dish of trifle before him with a small flourish of triumph. ‘Course it is. Let the lad enjoy his tea in peace.’
‘My word, Mrs Delaney, that looks grand.’ Steve tucked in with relish, having been previously warned by Jess not to ask how she’d got hold of the coupons, despite all the fruit and cream.
Bernie’s interest had perked up considerably at talk of an aircraft factory as he wondered whether he could get his hand on a load of screws or bolts. ‘I suppose security must be pretty tight at them places?’ he blithely enquired.
‘I’ll say. Tight as a drum. We’re searched going in and coming out. The pressure is immense but I let off steam by spending my evenings playing in a dance band.’
‘A dance band?’ Bernie said the word with utter contempt since he could think of no possible benefit from knowing someone in a dance band. What was there to trade from there? Sheet music was useless, and he’d not got more than a few quid for that blasted trumpet when he’d finally found someone to take it off his hands. ‘Why would you do that? Does it make you much money?’
Steve laughed, shaking his head. ‘Wish it did. The pay can vary, depending on the booking but no, that isn’t the main reason I do it. I just love music, and being a part of that scene.’
Bernie gave a disparaging growl deep in his throat. ‘Our Jess took a notion into her head to play a flamin’ trumpet, with the Sally Army of all people. I soon put a stop to that, making it plain she wasn’t to play it any more. Daft as a brush she is, and twice as useless. I wouldn’t mind if she was any good, but she’s like a troop of tom cats on the prowl.’
There was a short silence. Sam and Seb looked about them, bemused, as if expecting a troop of tom cats to appear out of nowhere that very minute. Sandra giggled and Lizzie gave a snort of laughter which turned into a loud hiccup as a result of the snifter of gin she’d just downed in place of water.
Cora said, ‘Now Bernie love, don’t start on that, not when we have visitors.’
‘Start on what? I’m not starting on anything. I’m simply stating a plain fact. Having my ear drums blasted day and night with that caterwauling, wasn’t my idea of domestic bliss. I put a stop to it, and quite rightly.’
‘I think Jess is rather good actually,’ Steve said, smiling proudly at her.
Bernie’s mouth dropped open. He was not accustomed to anyone daring to challenge his word, not at his own table, and didn’t quite know how to deal with it. ‘What did you say?’
Ignoring his host’s nasty scowl Steve turned to Lizzie and blithely continued, ‘You must be so proud of your daughter’s musical talent, Mrs Delaney.’
Lizzie, unable to resist masculine charm and feeling very slightly woozy, gave a weak smile and agreed. ‘Jess takes after her father who is quite gifted in that direction.’
Jess tried to intervene and prevent what instinct told her was coming next but Steve grasped the hand she was flapping at him and held it firmly in his own. ‘She played at the Ritz the other afternoon and stunned her listeners rigid. What a talent she has. Pity we can’t bottle it and sell it to the troops, we’d win this war in no time then. Vera Lynn had better watch out, or they might adopt a very different sort of force’s sweetheart.’
Bernie was staring at his niece, dumbfounded. ‘You played at the Ritz? How did you manage that? Didn’t I get rid of that flaming trumpet, to make damned sure you never played it again?’
Jess hung her head, not knowing what to say for the best, for whatever she did say would be wrong. She should’ve known this visit would turn into a disaster. Steve had unwittingly dropped her right in it. Uncle Bernie would never let her hear the last of this, never.
Steve, perhaps realising some of this, said quickly. ‘Oh, it was my trumpet, not hers. She borrowed the instrument from me.’
The glance of gratitude she sent him was intercepted by her uncle and all too accurately interpreted. ‘Do you think I was born yesterday? You would say that, wouldn’t you? I know a bare faced lie when I hear one. Where is it lass? Upstairs? Go and fetch it.’
‘I can explain. . .’
‘Go and fetch it this minute.’ Bernie was on his feet now, his voice raised in temper, sending the trifle dishes spinning to the floor as he slammed his fist down upon the table and glared furiously at the pair of them. ‘I’ll not be bested in my own home.’ He jerked one thumb in the direction of the door. ‘And you, young man, can fling your hook. Jess is under-age and I say where she goes and what she does. If I put a stop to something, it stays stopped. Understand? Got that? I’ll have no bloody trumpet playing in this house. I had enough of that poncy, arty-farty rubbish with her dad. If this little madam has time on her hands, I can find a better use for it, see if I can’t. Do I make myself clear?’
Steve, looking deathly pale and deeply concerned; had half risen to his feet. Jess squeezed his hand by way of reassurance. ‘It’s all right. You go. I can handle this.’
‘Like hell you can. I’m not leaving you to handle anything, not on your own.’
‘I can manage, really I can. It won’t help, your being here. It’ll only make matters worse.’ She was almost in tears now, urging him to go, wanting this whole scene never to have taken place. Oh, why did her uncle always have to spoil everything?
Looking Bernie straight in the eye, Steve said, ‘The trumpet she has is most definitely mine, and if anything – unfortunate - should happen to it, I’m going to be very, very angry. Very angry indeed! Even more important, if any harm should come to Jess here, simply for having possession of it, or playing at the Ritz, or for any other reason for that matter, I won’t be responsible for my actions. Do I make myself clear?
Then turning to Jess he continued more quietly, ‘I’ll go because you insist that I do, but I’ll be back later, just to check you’re all right.’ And politely thanking Cora once more for entertaining him so royally, he collected his hat and made for the door.
Tears filled her eyes. Nobody had ever stood up to Bernie like that before, not so steadfastly, nor on her behalf. ‘No, wait Steve. I’m coming with you.’ At the door she paused to look back at her uncle sitting frozen in his seat, his face like thunder, and took a deep breath. ‘I’ll be back when you’ve calmed down a bit but I’ll not give my music up for anyone. I thought I’d already made that perfectly clear. You’d do well to remember that I’m not a kid any longer and I’ll do as I please.’
‘Like bleedin’ hell you will.’ But the words went unheard as Jess and Steve escaped into the street, hand in hand.
Sidling up to her father’s side, Sandra said in her nasal, whining voice, ‘That little madam has got the better of you again, Dad. I’m surprised you stand for it.’
Bernie flung out a hand and knocked his daughter flying, making her howl in surprised anguish. As the twins tuned up in unified sympathy and Cora rushed to pet her offspring, Bernie threw the remains of the trifle to the floor then trod through the resulting mess and stormed out of the house.
‘Jake’s pesky daughter might have won the opening skirmish, but I shall win the flaming battle. See if I don’t.’
Not too far away, across on Deansgate, Leah was making every effort to resist her mother’s insistence that
she play a little Mozart to entertain the Gartsides. Muriel had invited them to tea, along with their beloved son, the ubiquitous Ambrose, and Leah was having great difficulty in maintaining the expected level of politeness one should adopt for guests.
Perhaps her mother had been right in one respect, he no longer resembled a suet pudding, all fat and squashy with red currants pitted into his skin. He looked more like a pink slice of Spam in a sandwich as he sat on the sofa between his even more substantial parents. Leah could hardly bear to look at him without feeling a huge urge to laugh.
His mother had spent the last hour or more listing his virtues and attributes, explaining at length how her precious son would soon be going to university to train as a doctor, and she was hoping this would be considered as suitable war work in place of active service.
‘He is due his call-up soon and I am terrified of losing him. He really must finish his education, war or no war.’
Ambrose looked as miserable as Leah felt as he stared at the floor in gloomy silence.
‘The war can’t last for ever,’ Mr Simmons assured her, clearly wishing to draw a line under this fruitless, and seemingly endless discussion. ‘Even if Ambrose is called up, I doubt he’d be in any real danger. Genuine advances are being made, we’re hitting factories in France, our convoys are reaching Russian waters and with the help of American armoured divisions, it won’t be long now before Hitler throws in the towel.’
‘Ah, but you can afford to take such a relaxed view since you do not have a son about to be sent into active service.’
Cliff Simmons looked momentarily stunned, as if Robert’s bravery and not his poor eyesight had been called into question. ‘We are all affected by the war in some way or other, dear lady.’
Muriel stepped quickly to her husband’s aid by taking her daughter’s elbow and almost dragging Leah from the chair where she’d been skulking for the entire evening. ‘I think, darling, we’d all appreciate being lifted out of our war gloom, perhaps with a little Mozart?’
Leah thought this might be much more likely to depress them still further. Hadn’t she suffered from years of being to coerced to play whatever her mother thought suitable? But seeing how her father’s brow darkened ominously, she obediently made her way over to the pianoforte. No point in making a fuss now as there’d be confrontation enough later when she’d told them all about Harry. Once her mother discovered she’d been dating a Delaney she’d have a heart attack for sure.
Not that Leah really cared. She’d been out with him twice more since that first date, going a little further along that dangerous road each time. They were having a marvellous time together so what did it matter if their backgrounds were slightly different? They lived only a few streets apart in Deansgate village. Their respective families were both working class folk. There surely wasn’t that much to choose between them?
Except that her parents, Leah realised, would not see it that way. To Muriel, the Delaneys were the lowest of low. How could she convince her otherwise: that the son need not be tarred by the same brush as his father?
Leah placed her fingers on the keys preparatory to launching into Muriel’s favourite piece, The Moonlight Sonata, when her mother artlessly suggested that Ambrose could turn the pages for her, almost as if this were a spontaneous thought that had occurred to her on the spur of the moment, and had not been planned in fine detail hours earlier.
Mrs Gartside gave her son a gentle nudge. ‘Go along dear. I’m sure Leah would appreciate your assistance.’ He might have been five years old, and not a young man about to go off to war.
Finding Ambrose at her side, scowling slightly yet clearly ready to behave like the good, obedient son he undoubtedly was, all Leah’s nerve endings seemed to fizz with suppressed fury. Why would he imagine that she needed or wanted his assistance? Men were so arrogant, always believing themselves to be indispensable. He was probably peeved with her for not looking suitably grateful for his assistance. She’d largely ignored him all evening, which Leah fully intended to go on doing. What did he think he was doing, for heavens sake? Behaving like a damned puppet while his mother pulled the strings?
But was she any better?
‘You must stay in on Sunday,’ her own mother had insisted, without even enquiring whether she wished to do so or not. ‘I’ve invited the Gartsides.’ She’d then gone on to inform Leah how she would be expected to entertain them on the pianoforte. Now she was ordering her to play Mozart, knowing full well that he was a composer she disliked immensely.
Leah felt rather like some nineteenth century young miss being asked to perform at a musical soiree. Perhaps she should be wearing a pretty Empire line gown instead of pale blue slacks and sweater. Yet despite her resentment, here she was seated at the piano, about to do exactly as she was bid. What next? Jump in the lake? Marry Ambrose? Leah recklessly decided that if she had a choice in the matter, she’d choose the former.
But of course she did have a choice! What was she thinking of? This wasn’t some romantic novel but her life, and she, not her mother, must be in control of it.
Leah glanced up at Ambrose ready to tell him, in a fit of rebellion, that she really didn’t need his help and for the first time recognised a similar panic in him. For a moment Leah was so stunned that she met his gaze unflinching, instead of avoiding it as she usually did. He didn’t look like a loyal son at all, more like a rabbit caught in a trap. He wasn’t enjoying these parental machinations any more than she was.
While chairs were being moved in preparation for the anticipated recital, lamps lit and blinds drawn Leah politely enquired if he read music, if only for the sake of something to say to fill an awkward moment.
Ambrose shook his head. ‘Only a little. Not really my thing.’
‘What is your thing?’ She felt a spurt of curiosity about this young man who had so little to say for himself.
‘I like rugby, any sport really. And fishing. I enjoy fishing most of all.’
‘Why fishing for heavens’ sake?’
‘I like the quiet on the canal bank.’
‘Ah.’ Leah nodded, struggling to understand anyone who preferred silence rather than filling their head with beautiful sounds. She lowered her voice to little above a whisper while riffling through sheet music. ‘What I mean is, I know what your mother wants for you, but what do you want? Do you wish to go to university and train to be a doctor, or else become a printer like your father?’
He leaned closer so that he wouldn’t be overheard, and there was almost a smile on his round face. ‘Neither. I’ve always intended to join up the minute they’ll have me. In fact, I’ve already been in touch. I’ll be going any day now, and I’ve every intention of staying in the army, war or no war. I want to become a regular soldier.’
Leah’s eyes widened and she could actually feel her mouth slacken and drop open in shock. Never, in all her life, would she have imagined him wanting such a thing, or being so brave as to go ahead and do it. How amazing people were.
‘And you haven’t told your parents?’ she whispered back in awed tones.
He shook his head.
‘Your mother won’t like it.’
‘Neither will yours.’ He grinned, and Leah gave a spurt of laughter which she quickly smothered with the flat of her hand.
‘No, indeed she won’t. OK, let’s really give them something to think about, shall we?’
She played the opening bars of the Moonlight Sonata, as directed, developing the mood of the piece nicely, aware of the hush of appreciation from the assembled company, of Ambrose seated beside her, anxiously following the notes and patiently waiting to turn the page at her signal.
But then with her left hand, she placed her finger and thumb together on the lowest note she could reach and drew them swiftly up the length of the keyboard, running one note into the next in a rising crescendo of sound, before lapsing into Tiger Rag.
Leah had always been more of an instinctive musician than one who followed notes, played
chromatic scales or studied appropriate exercises. Now she simply let rip, putting all her heart and soul and energy into the music. Jazz and swing were her thing, not boring fishing, or Mozart. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Ambrose’s square fingers happily tapping out the rhythm on his knee. When she was done and the music ended in an abrupt and startled silence, he burst into lavish applause. No one else moved a muscle.
Later that afternoon when the Gartsides had gone home in a flurry of excuses from Muriel, Leah made her apologies to her tight-lipped parents and declared herself in need of some fresh air. She escaped their frosty silence for an early evening stroll by the canal and, to her delight, found Harry waiting for her.
‘Was that him, your intended?’ he asked, jerking his head in the direction of where the Gartsides had driven off in their little Ford motor.
Leah gave a grunt of disdain. ‘He would be, if my mother had any say in the matter.’
‘Which she doesn’t?’
‘None at all.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Feel like a stroll?’
‘Can’t think of anything I’d like better.’
‘Can’t you?’ He grinned at her. ‘I can think of something far more exciting than walking.’
After that, it was the easiest thing in the world to finish what he’d started all those weeks before. With practised ease Harry slid the buttons of her dress undone, kissing her soft willing mouth all the while, probing it with his tongue, giving her no time to think as he peeled the dress from her naked shoulders. Removing her brassiere was soon dealt with and before she’d thought to protest about the knickers, which were indeed white, lacy, and very French, his excitement was by then at such a fever pitch that he’d ripped them off and was thrusting his way into her in seconds. And, judging by the way she moved beneath him, she wasn’t complaining.
True, there’d been a small startled cry as he’d entered her, which served only to inflame his passion further. Perhaps, because of her inexperience, she wasn’t quite as exciting as he’d hoped although taking a virgin always had its own kick of satisfaction. In no time at all it was over and Harry felt completely vindicated by his patience. No other bloke could ever have what he’d just taken. By heck, but he was a clever chap. Wasn’t he just?
Dancing on Deansgate Page 19
