Dancing on Deansgate

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Look, I’m not tarting myself up just to get bookings,’ Adele protested. ‘I’m a serious musician. Don’t you agree Miss Mona? Aren’t I right?’

  ‘Well, dear, we have to please the customers.’

  Jess would listen to all their worries and concerns and try to steer them on a middle course, gently point out that they could do both. Look feminine, and prove that they were skilled musicians.

  Playing at the Lad’s Club became a regular booking and, following this success, Jess persuaded a few more managers to give them a try. But glamour was indeed considered an essential part of the gig. It was made clear to her that the public expected it. The girls were required to look good in order to attract the custom.

  ‘The boys like to see a pretty girl. It reminds them what they’re fighting for,’ said one manager, and since he’d just booked them for every Friday over the next six weeks, the girls smiled and charmingly agreed.

  The next day Jess went to Kendals department store and bought a bolt of blue taffeta for new gowns. They were about to turn into glamour Queens.

  Having made his plans, which he largely meant to keep to himself at this stage, Bernie proudly announced to Jess that he’d found them a property he thought would be just the ticket.

  ‘It suffered considerable damage in the blitz but has great potential.’

  Jess’s first instinct was to refuse but she bit back her protests. Money was still tight and much as she longed for complete independence, she couldn’t afford to be too stubborn. She decided to play for time. ‘Where is it, this house?’

  ‘It’s a commercial property on Deansgate. I mean to open it up as a public house-cum-club for servicemen, but you and Lizzie can be the ones to live on the premises, to act as caretakers like. It’ll make a nice home for the pair of you, and useful for me to have someone living in. It’ll be rent free of course. I can’t say fairer than that, now can I?’

  Surprised though she was by this sudden show of generosity, Jess desperately longed for independence, so damped down any lingering doubts about still being obliged to live on premises her uncle owned. What did it matter who supplied the roof over their heads, so long as it was separate from his own?

  ‘I’ll look it over then,’ she agreed, trying not to be concerned when her uncle gave one of his sly grins.

  ‘Rightio,’ Bernie cheerily remarked, and went off whistling.

  He’d very nearly decided against involving his sons in the scheme but common sense prevailed. Tommy might have turned honest, but Harry and Bert had more sense. The pair quickly volunteered for the job of barmen, and to find a supply of booze, which was useful. You couldn’t run a pub without beer.

  Harry suggested they employ girls to wait on and act as hostesses. ‘I know one or two who might be interested. Queenie Shaw for one. Quite a looker, she is. And amenable, you know what I mean? I could check a few more out, ask around her friends like.’

  ‘They’d need to be tasty, high class lasses,’ Bernie warned. ‘Fresh and young. No old scrubbers. We need to provide the right sort of tone for the place. I’m not running a knocking shop.’

  Harry widened his eyes in mock innocence. ‘Never thought you were, Dad. Though what these girls get up to after they’ve served the drinks, is up to them, right?’

  Bernie smirked. ‘So long as I get my cut.’

  ‘Goes without saying.’

  Bernie was more than happy to leave this little matter in Harry’s capable hands, and father and son did seem to be on the same wavelength for once. He couldn’t wait to see his name over the door, proudly proclaiming that he’d well and truly arrived. One up from a common-or-garden pub, Delaney’s of Deansgate would be a classy sort of place where a bloke could buy a drink, enjoy a game of cards and place the odd bet (discreetly of course, since it wouldn’t be strictly legal), as well as the more usual dominoes and darts. And what with all these yanks pouring into the city, business should be good.

  ‘A bit of flash and razzmatazz won’t come amiss.’ Bernie felt he needed to make his mark, and Harry and Bert would make certain that no one else would try to move in on his patch.

  Oh aye, they were handy lads to have around.

  Jess’s first viewing of the property did not exactly fill her with unmitigated optimism. It was situated close to the junction of Tonman Street, near Campfield Market. A busy thoroughfare and not one she would have chosen as a place to live. The building itself looked half derelict as it had clearly been hit by a high explosive bomb at some point. Surprisingly, the walls remained intact, for all it lacked doors and windows, part of the roof was missing and here and there were huge gaps in the flooring. When Bernie asked her what she thought, Jess was hard put to know how to reply.

  ‘It’s very big, and in a sorry state.’

  ‘There you go again, never showing a morsel of gratitude.’

  ‘I only said it was big and in need of attention, which is plain to see. I didn’t say I wasn’t grateful. But why this particular property? Wouldn’t you get a better clientele at the other end of Deansgate, further away from the railway and the docks?’

  ‘Hark at her. La-di-dah,’ Lizzie said, fluffing out her stringy, hennaed hair.

  ‘Shut your trap, Lizzie, for God’s sake.’ Bernie turned to Jess with a sickly smile. ‘I got it cheap some months back, off a mate of mine. It’ll be right as ninepence when I’ve done it up a bit. I’ve organised some chaps to start work tomorrow. You won’t recognise it in a week or two.’

  Nor did she and, despite her misgivings, Jess soon became quite excited by the whole project.

  The upper floors and roof were repaired, doors and windows put back, the entire place cleared of the heaps of old brick, plaster and rubble. Its rebirth seemed to herald the promise of a new beginning, a world which one day wouldn’t be dominated by war, where people would be able to dust themselves off and start to live again.

  Everyone was saying that now the Americans were involved, it was all over bar the shouting. However optimistic this might be, Jess could only hope that they weren’t too far wrong. Perhaps when the war was finally over and her dad came home, they would at least have a decent place for him to live, and perhaps even a job waiting for him. Jess thought that if things had been different between her and Uncle Bernie, she might even have been persuaded to help make it so. But no one could claim them to be on good terms, for all his protestations of family loyalty.

  By the time the work was only halfway finished, Jess was awestruck. The property seemed to grow bigger every time she saw it. There were eight bedrooms plus living room, kitchen and bathrooms on the two upper floors, while the ground floor boasted two bar lounges and a snug. On the first floor there was also one long room which ran the full length of the building. Jess couldn’t help but visualise this room as a possible venue for a dance, and wondered if she dared approach Uncle Bernie with the suggestion.

  ‘What were you thinking of doing with that long room?’ she asked, but he only tapped the side of his nose and grinned, revealing chipped, tobacco stained teeth.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider letting us hold a dance there?’

  The expression on his face was answer enough. ‘I’m not playing silly kids’ games. I mean to make real money.’

  Jess rightly guessed this might well involve gambling, and asked no more questions. But she couldn’t resist calling in every evening on her way home from the tea room to watch in disbelief as richly patterned carpets were carried in and fitted in each and every room, save for the long one in question. Here, the wooden floors were stained and polished, as indeed were the rooms on the ground floor where a bar counter was also installed together with a brass foot rail around its perimeter.

  Next came the furniture, carried in by Harry and Bert: large beds, ornate wardrobes and dressing tables. Sofas and comfy chairs followed; together with tables of every size and shape, both for the upstairs rooms and for the ground floor. None of it utility stuff. Jess didn’t care to ask how Bernie had
acquired it. It must have cost him a small fortune.

  It was all becoming rather garish and brash, and she began to feel decidedly uneasy about the whole project.

  Whether it was their new glamorous look or the skill of their playing, their popularity increased with every new booking. The girls wore halter tops and swirling taffeta skirts, or a slinky number with a thigh high slit, which made it a little harder to play. As Adele pointed out, playing a tenor sax and trying to do battle with a strapless bra at the same time wasn’t easy. The strap cut into a bare neck, and high heels were so uncomfortable to wear for any length of time, that the girls would quietly slip them off once they were safely ensconced behind their music stands. Then they could feel free to wiggle their toes and stretch their aching feet, although Ena had a pair of comfy flatties handy, so she could operate her drum pedal.

  They did have one sticky moment when a ballroom manager took Jess to one side and suggested she drop Miss Mona. ‘She’s too old, dear. No one wants to look at her tired old face, or that white hair.’

  Jess took a deep breath, crossed her fingers and said, ‘If Miss Mona goes, we all go. I’d never find a replacement half as good.’

  A long pause, and then a sigh. ‘All right, sweetheart, but get her to do something about herself, a bit of lipstick would help. Or dye her hair. Something! And tell her to take those spectacles off. They make her look like a schoolmarm.’

  Fortunately, Miss Mona was not averse to Lulu ‘dolling her up a bit’ as she put it, and the girls spent a riotous evening giving her a blue rinse and trying out different lipsticks and eye shadows. She was even persuaded to remove her specs, though she insisted on hanging them on a velvet string around her neck, just in case she forgot the music and needed to take a peep now and then.

  This glamorous allure might bring in the bookings, but sometimes worked to their detriment as they would find men hanging around outside the stage door as they left. ‘They must see us as easy meat,’ Adele complained, flashing her dark eyes and pouting ruby lips. ‘Not like little wifey waiting at home. Perhaps they consider it our patriotic duty to entertain them back stage as well.’

  ‘I might consider taking up the odd offer,’ Ena said, ‘were I not already double-booked with my Jeff and Pete. Two’s enough I suppose.’

  ‘I should think it is,’ Jess giggled, and neatly side-stepped one goggle-eyed sailor who seemed determined to persuade her to come for a little stroll with him down by the canal.

  ‘And kiss goodbye to your virginity on that little walk, assuming you’ve still got it,’ Leah said with a sly wink.

  ‘Fully intact as is yours, cheeky,’ Jess countered, laughing, and fortunately turned away at just that moment to watch Adele sign her autograph for a soldier, so didn’t notice her friend’s blush.

  ‘You’ve decided to be friendly again have you?’ Harry said, when he found Leah waiting for him outside Delaneys one afternoon, full of apologies for their quarrel and with the suggestion that he might like to come dancing, as a change from the flicks. ‘Am I supposed to be grateful that you’ve suddenly remembered me?’

  He’d been so annoyed when she’d turned up her nose and refused to see him for a while that he’d told himself he’d have nothing more to do with her ever. But one glimpse of that shapely little body of hers, and his mouth was watering.

  ‘I just thought you might still be interested. Sorry if I’ve neglected you but I’ve been a bit busy lately with the band. We’re settling into a routine now so I could just manage to squeeze you in.’ She said this with an air of indifference, as if it really were of no interest whether he agreed or not, yet inside she was quaking with nerves that he might refuse.

  He gave a crude, lop-sided smile. ‘Why not, I like a bit of a squeeze,’ making Leah blush.

  In that instant she saw him for what he was: a crude, rough bloke out for what he could get. What am I doing making myself look cheap chasing Harry Delaney, she asked herself. But then as he and Bert man-handled a piano into the new pub his father was setting up, she watched with trembling fascination and knew why. She simply couldn’t resist him. The rippling muscles beneath the grubby vest, the way his lazy, deep-lidded gaze slid over her as if stripping every stitch off her, set her pulses racing even while she was filled with guilt over her own shameless behaviour. He excited her, and really she must have him, no matter what the risks.

  Harry only had to look at her to feel randy and he glanced up and down the street, irritated suddenly by all the shoppers on Deansgate, the traffic and even the sight of a rozzer not too far off. Far too busy for a quick one. Inside, however, was another matter entirely. ‘Bert, go and get yourself a pint.’

  ‘I’m not thirsty, Harry.’

  ‘Aye you are. Be off with you.’

  Bert looked from one to other, got the message and skedaddled. Harry grabbed Leah by the arm and took her up to one of the bedrooms, empty save for a large, comfortable bed.

  ‘It’s not made up, and probably damp,’ Leah protested, her mother’s training suddenly coming to the fore.

  ‘Who needs sheets and pillows? Let’s just test the merchandise, shall we? Try it for size, like.’ And in no time at all, he had them fancy French knickers off and was satisfying his lust very nicely indeed.

  ‘Where are you getting all this stuff from?’ Jess challenged Harry a day or two later, but he only laughed and tapped the side of his nose in a fair imitation of his father.

  Bert said, ‘Don’t worry, there’s plenty more where that came from,’ which did nothing to ease her concerns. And that wasn’t the only puzzle. Who were all those bedrooms for?

  By the time she and Lizzie had finally moved in, setting out their few meagre possessions in the cavernous wardrobes and chests of drawers, her curiosity had reached mammoth proportions. Jess tried to express these concerns to her mother.

  ‘There’s just one thing, since there’s only the two of us, what are we supposed to do with so many bedrooms? Is it to be a boarding house as well as a pub, do you reckon? He hasn’t asked you to provide bed and breakfast for commercial travellers, or the armed forces, has he? Because you can’t cook to save your life, and I already have more than enough work, ta very much.’

  Lizzie shook her head in bemused ignorance. ‘He hasn’t said anything of the sort to me. But then I was quite happy in the old place, despite Cora, and would still be there if you hadn’t moaned so much.’

  Jess didn’t trouble to answer the accusation, knowing it would be a waste of time to attempt to explain to Lizzie the value of privacy and independence. All her mother wanted was to be near to her beloved Bernie. Cora, on the other hand, had been delighted to see her sister-law-law depart, and had gladly helped her to pack.

  ‘You know where we are Lizzie if you feel like a natter.’

  ‘I wouldn’t set foot back in this house again if you paid me,’ Lizzie had perversely responded.

  When Jess returned for the last load of their belongings, she’d had a private word with her aunt over a quick cuppa. ‘What are Bernie’s plans for this place, do you know? Is it to be a club, a pub, a boarding house or all three?’

  Cora said, ‘Nay, don’t ask me. He does as he pleases does our Bernie.’ And as Jess knew from past experience, Cora would never question her husband, not directly. Yet something was going on which Jess didn’t understand and she, for one, intended to ask a few questions of her own.

  She found him with the builders, sleeves rolled up, collar undone, though with a flat cap still in place on his head, perhaps to keep the dust out of his precious few strands of hair. He seemed to be happily putting up glass shelves which would presumably hold the liquor, while an electrician nearby was fixing wall lights in a lovely rose tinted hue.

  ‘So why is this place so big? What do you intend to do with all the other bedrooms, and the long room on the first floor?’ This latter seemed to increase in grandeur every time she saw it, now having sprouted chandeliers.

  To Jess’s intense disappointment,
though not in any way a surprise, Bernie refused to answer a single one of her questions.

  ‘You’ll be told what’s what, all in good time. Let’s just say we have our living to make and you’ll be no exception.’

  ‘I hope you know that Mam can’t cook, and has never managed to keep a house clean in her entire life. As for me, I have a job already which I’m not eager to leave, certainly not until I know what’s going on here.’

  ‘You get more like your dratted father every day,’ Bernie said, a nasty gleam in his eye that should have warned her against further comment. ‘You always have to argue, and look what happened to him. He went off to fight for King and country, to be a hero, and where is he now? God knows. So keep your nose out of my business. You’ll be kept informed, as and when.’ And refusing to say another word on the subject, he hitched his trousers up by the braces, and chuckling softly to himself lumbered off, screwdriver in hand, in search of another shelf.

  Jess watched him go with deep reservations. When Uncle Bernie was one minute his usual foul-mouthed self and the next sounding all happy and content, there was bound to be something he wasn’t telling her. She was beginning to regret accepting his offer of accommodation. Perhaps she’d been a bit hasty. This was no ordinary public house, and not at all the kind of home she’d planned for herself and Lizzie. She’d wanted a two up and two down of the kind they’d occupied in Back Irwell Street. This one was sumptuous to the point of grandeur, and enormous. Now why was that?

  ‘I don’t know what you’re worrying about,’ Steve said, as they walked along the canal bank on their usual Sunday afternoon stroll.

  His arm was around her waist, her head tucked into his shoulder. Just being with him made Jess feel supremely content. Were it not for these problems over her mother and Uncle Bernie niggling away and threatening to spoil everything, life would be quite perfect. But it was difficult to explain all of this, even to Steve. ‘I don’t trust him.’