Dancing on Deansgate

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘I understand how you feel, love, and your uncle might be a bit of a chancer, but you’ve got to admire his ambition. He’s thinking ahead, for when the war ends. There’ll be money to be made then, one way or another.’

  ‘Yes, but how does he intend to make it? There won’t be enough money to be made out of selling a bit of beer, not for Bernie Delaney. What is this property going to be exactly? He won’t say.’

  ‘Does it matter so long as you and your mam can get away from Cumberland Street and from being at his beck and call all day. You’ll be able to play your trumpet to your heart’s content then. Perhaps for the customers, or even hold one of your dances there.’

  ‘If he’ll let me, which I very much doubt.’

  ‘True, I could easily have clocked him one that Sunday when he insulted you over your music. What has he got against you?’

  ‘Don’t ask. It has a long history, all concerned over being jealous of my dad. Daft business. As a result, he’ll make life difficult for me any way he can.’

  Following that Sunday tea when Steve had so valiantly stood up to her uncle, she’d tried once more playing the trumpet in the house, stuffing the horn with a large handkerchief to mute the sound. Cora had listened enthralled as Jess had played Gershwin’s The Man I Love, dreamily saying how wonderful it sounded.

  ‘Eeh love, that fair brought tears to my eyes. You have a gift, you really do.’

  Bubbling with happiness, Jess had hugged the older woman, pressing close against the apple softness of her cheeks and singing in her ear, ‘Someday he’ll come along, the man I love,’ and they’d both laughed.

  ‘Eeh, happen he has already, love. Play some more. Go on, I could listen all day.’

  And she did. They’d enjoyed a wonderful afternoon together with Jess playing tune after tune, including But Not For Me from the musical Girl Crazy. Cora had been happily singing ‘A lucky star’s above, but not for me,’ when Bernie had burst in from the back yard where he’d apparently been sorting his spoils.

  ‘Stop that racket at once.’

  Had it not been for Cora’s intervention, Jess might once more have been deprived of an instrument.

  It would certainly be good to get away from Bernie’s volatile temper, no matter what the truth about his new scheme.

  But Jess had no intention of leaving a good job at the tea room to go and work for her uncle behind the bar of a public house, as she’d already made clear. She felt well able to stand up to his bullying in that direction, at least, knowing that Mr Simmons would be loath to lose her.

  Her concern for Lizzie was another matter, a public house being the last place her drunken mother should be living. She remained vulnerable and if too much was expected of her could very easily slip back into her old habits. Jess was aware of her secret drinking but at a loss to know how to prevent it. Keeping Lizzie on the straight and narrow was a full time occupation, demanding constant vigilance. And how could she do that and work as well?

  Explaining none of this to the man she loved, Jess leaned into his shoulder as she smiled ruefully up at Steve. ‘I suppose you’re right and I should stop worrying. I’d just like to know what Bernie’s up to, that’s all. I’ve asked him point blank and he simply won’t say.’

  ‘Oh that’s easy to explain. Keeping his plans secret is all about power. Why should he tell you anything? Being a woman, you wouldn’t understand business matters.’

  She stopped walking to stand and stare at him. ‘What has being a woman got to do with anything? I’ve a brain in my head, same as him, same as you, same as any man in fact.’

  Steve held up his hands by way of defence. ‘I didn’t say that was my opinion. It’s the way he thinks, that men and women are different.’

  ‘So you don’t believe men are more intelligent than women?’

  ‘Course they are,’ ducking as she took a swing at him, then catching her in his arms and laughing more than ever at her show of temper. ‘No, of course I don’t think they’re more intelligent. Except in the case of present company.’

  ‘Drat you, Steve Wyman, I’ll . . .’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I shall - er - kiss you to death if you say one more word against women.’

  ‘Oh well, in that case, I think they’re all stupid,’ and the two lovers quite forgot whatever nonsense it was they’d been sparring over, including Uncle Bernie and his entrepreneurial mysteries. There were far more important matters to deal with, after all. Besides, when he kissed her, as he was doing now, all other thoughts vanished from Jess’s head. And it was there, deep in the long grasses among the heady scent of bluebells, that they finally made love.

  When matters were quite clearly running out of control he paused only once to ask, ‘Are you sure?’ and, dazed with emotion, Jess was too choked to speak, could do no more than pull him closer and help him to undo her bra which impeded their closeness.

  She gave herself willingly to him because it seemed right for her to do so. She loved him, and deep inside knew that he felt the same way about her, even though he’d never said as much. Not yet he hadn’t, but he would. She was sure of it.

  Jess put all worries about her uncle, and her mother, from her mind. Nothing else seemed to matter but that she and Steve should share and explore these feelings they had for each other, in the only way possible. She felt exhilarated, filled with optimism for the future. She could make a success of her band. The world was her oyster, and she was in control of her own life now, not Uncle Bernie. Best of all, happiness and love were being offered to her at last, after all her troubles and disappointments. Wasn’t this what she’d always longed for? And who knew when she might find it again?

  Chapter Eighteen

  The club had been operational for a couple of months before Doug Morgan, disappointed over his lack success with Jess, decided to check it out. He’d become a regular at the Salvation Army mobile canteen and had on several occasions tried to ask her out but she’d always refused, much to his disappointment. She claimed to be busy with her All Girls’ band, which was proving to be most popular with the local dance halls.

  Jess was a pretty girl and he’d seen how men looked at her. Couldn’t keep their eyes off her when she played that trumpet. He believed that was partly because of the way her breasts strained against her uniform jacket when she raised her arms to play, eyes closed, lost in the music. Such movements were tantalising and surely she must realise the effect she had upon men?

  Jess Delaney fascinated and disappointed him all at the same time. Flaunting herself, yet with a certain naivety he found irresistible.

  Now he was curious to find out what Delaneys was all about. He’d heard talk of lavish bedroom fittings, rose-tinted lamps and satin sheets which could hardly be considered innocent. He didn’t understand how Jess could bear to live there. She’d told him very little about it, insisting that she’d nothing at all to do with the business side of things, that she still went every day to work in the tea room.

  Doug wasn’t sure he believed her.

  She’d no doubt been corrupted by that feckless mother of hers. She really oughtn’t to be living in that dreadful place on Deansgate. And so tonight, while Jess was doing her stint serving tea and sympathy at the mobile canteen, he’d made up his mind to visit the club and find out exactly what was going on. He wanted to see for himself if the rumours were true.

  ‘What’ll you have, just a drink or something more?’

  Brought abruptly from his thoughts Doug looked up to find himself confronted by Harry Delaney. Glass polishing cloth in hand, eyebrows raised in quizzically polite enquiry, he looked every inch the interested barman.

  Doug felt not a scrap of embarrassment. He could deal with Harry right enough. This was man’s business, after all, in a man’s world. Women were the mystery and always had been. What his own mother would have said about all of this, he really couldn’t imagine. But then he remembered that he knew very well what she would have said. She would have laug
hed and said that sex was a part of life, something to be enjoyed. Doug felt a spurt of the usual anger he felt towards her for thinking in that way. A mother’s love should be above corruption, not equated with sexual shenanigans. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to be?

  Jess too should be angry with her mother for letting her down, instead of forgiving her and constantly wanting to protect her. From what she’d told him, she’d been deprived of the joy of being nestled close in a mother’s arms, of being told how much she was loved, how she was all that mattered in her world. Something he had been privileged to enjoy, at least for a while.

  But then his mother had lied.

  He hadn’t been enough for her in the end. He’d pleased her in every way he could think of but still she’d turned from him for a man who wasn’t even her own husband, just when he’d needed her most. What sort of mother deserted her own child? Sometimes he was so angry with her, that it boiled up inside him. He still hated her for that betrayal, despite her being long dead. He felt at times as if he was on fire with it, consumed by his anger. Women, in Doug’s opinion, should be perfect, above such low desires and base needs.

  Mothers, wives, girlfriends, had to be taken proper care of. That was the man’s role, and he meant to find out the truth about this place so that he was in a better position to take care of Jess.

  ‘What’s on offer?’ he asked.

  ‘Anything you fancy, except cheap booze. I’ve orange juice, of the National variety. Rum punch, but that’s so diluted now there’s not much fight left in it. I might find something of more interest under the counter, but alcohol, being hard to come by, demands a high price, if you get my meaning. Of course, we have other pleasures on offer too,’ he said, giving a meaningful wink. ‘Dancing is the one thing we don’t have, but everything else is on offer. Discretion thrown in at no extra charge. So, what d’you fancy then? Why don’t you start with a drink and see if anything catches your eye.’

  He meant one of the girls, and Doug decided it would be more productive not to be coy. ‘Can I go straight upstairs then?’

  Harry smirked. This wasn’t exactly the sort of customer he’d been told to encourage. ‘Get ‘em tanked up on, spending a lot at the bar,’ that’s what his father had instructed.

  But this poor chap looked desperate. There was a fire in his eyes that needed quenching. Not that this greatly surprised Harry. He’d seen him around quite a bit, knew who he was, how he was always following Jess and panting after her. He’d got it bad and Harry knew how it felt to be on short rations. Though he would never admit it, there had been a time when, had it not been for Queenie Shaw, he’d have been reduced to paying for a bit of the other himself, so he felt some sympathy for him. ‘Aye, course you can. The customer’s always right and all that.’

  Fees were discussed, names and descriptions quietly provided before Harry handed over a key from under the counter and Doug quietly slipped through the door and up the stairs.

  He located the correct room all right, but didn’t attempt to go in. It was proof he needed, not physical gratification, so that he could convince Jess of what a mess she was getting into, and how he could look after her so much better.

  He carefully investigated the other rooms and when he finally found one which was occupied, peeped through a crack to watch.

  The girl was good, he’d give her that. Not much to look at but she knew her business. He could tell by the way she was riding the young soldier who lay beneath her, with such rollicking vigour. He certainly wasn’t complaining. He was pawing at her breasts and she had her head flung back, arching her throat so that the nipples sprang willingly into his greedy hands. Doug could almost feel himself getting aroused, just watching. Oh, she was good all right, and clearly enjoyed her work. But then his mother would have agreed that was essential too, in the circumstances, had she been here.

  ‘I think you should consider moving to other quarters,’ he told Jess, the next time he saw her at the canteen. He didn’t admit how he had come by his information, but rather put his concern in a roundabout way, one he felt appropriate for an innocent young girl of her tender years. ‘You’d not want to live where the law was being broken, now would you?’

  Already suspicious that there was illegal gambling going on in the long, upstairs room which she had coveted for a dance, Jess assumed that this was what Doug Morgan was referring to.

  ‘I have no control over what Uncle Bernie does, but that doesn’t mean I approve, or am in any way involved.’

  He could tell that she was angry. Even so, Doug couldn’t bring himself to leave well alone. ‘How can you help being involved, if you live there? I mean, what do all those girls do, for instance? Nothing respectable, I’ll warrant.’

  He could see at once that he’d made a bad mistake. She was furious.

  ‘What are you suggesting? It isn’t like that at all. Delaney’s is nothing but a glorified pub with rooms, and we take no part in that side of things beyond Mam acting as caretaker. It’s our home! And at least it provides decent employment for Harry and Bert, which is a change for the better.’

  ‘Folk will assume you’re one of them, one of those - girls.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ Again she looked daggers at him. ‘They’re waitresses and barmaids. What’s wrong with that?’

  He could see she was near to tears, that he’d pushed her too far, and was devastated when she rushed off and left him standing. What on earth had he done wrong? He’d only been trying to protect her.

  Delaney’s All Girls Band went from strength to strength. They liked to think that because they were women they were able to express more emotion in the music. Certainly men watching would fall in love with them on sight. But as well as keeping up their new glamorous image they also impressed with their musical skills, and the number of bookings proliferated. The band was becoming hugely popular and proving to be a serious rival to their male counterparts.

  Not that you would have thought so from the reports which appeared in the press. Photographs would be taken of them in their gorgeous gowns, smiling and holding their shining horns aloft, Leah perched provocatively on the lid of her piano, Ena with her drums. It all seemed like harmless fun even if it rankled slightly when the photographer called out for them to ‘flash a bit of leg, darling.’

  Jess was always at pains to explain their passion for the music, and how they trained hard. But the reporter would be more concerned with asking for their favourite recipes, how they did their hair and what beauty tips they could give to the lonely wives stuck at home.

  When the piece appeared in the paper it would say what fun it was for them, as if it took no serious musical effort at all. It stated how Jess had learned to play in the Salvation Army Bugle Band and spoke of her ‘fresh beauty’, describing how she worked in a cake shop, thus proving that she was just a fluffy little woman, with no brains or talent at all.

  The band didn’t go on tour, largely because they all had jobs during the day which must be kept up, but they did love to play for the troops, perhaps at a local army base or hospital. They would always allow time for comforting those young soldiers who seemed in need of it, smiling, teasing and flirting with them to ease their fears.

  The military were sometimes favoured with famous names such as George Formby, Joe Loss, Gracie Fields or Charlie Chester. But more often they were entertained by unknowns, like themselves. And Delaney’s All Girls’ Band could bring the house down.

  At first they’d felt somewhat overwhelmed to be faced by a room full of soldiers as the troops would go wild, whistling and cheering, stamping their feet and yelling, loving every minute of it.

  They always started a gig in the same way, with Leah and her classical piano trailing a few opening bars of some quite serious melody or other. The audience would listen in respectful silence. Then there would be a roll from the drums, a fanfare on the trumpet, the drums would answer back, cymbals crash and they’d be away, swinging into action playing Bugle Call Rag or St Louis Blues.


  Jess might do a trumpet solo or Leah improvise something on the piano, and of course everyone loved it when Ena became the focus of attraction on her drums. One night Miss Mona got so carried away she tossed aside her bow and started plucking the strings of her cello with her fingers. The troops went wild, and she never used it again after that.

  Once, at a function for naval officers on board a destroyer, Jess felt able to soothe the girls’ nerves by reminding them that these were a class above the ordinary enlisted men so there would surely be a bit more decorum. She was delighted when not only did they play terrific music that night, but looked pretty good too in new slinky gowns of gold sateen. Perhaps too good, for afterwards the Chief Petty Officer came round and invited them to ‘come and mingle, so they could have a drink with the boys.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,’ Jess said, glancing quickly around at the others to make sure they agreed with her. She could see at once that they did, perhaps with the exception of Ena, who was already giving the Chief Petty Officer the glad eye. How that girl ever imagined she could survive in a nunnery, Jess couldn’t imagine.

  ‘Come on now girls, be fair. You’ve got to be nice to the lads. They enjoy spending time with a pretty woman. A bit of fraternising does no harm at all. They deserve it.’

  ‘What, exactly are you suggesting?’ Adele asked, dark eyes narrowing to a dangerous slit.

  ‘Why do you think we invited you, and not a men’s band? Some of these guys might not see a woman again for months, if at all. Do them a favour, girls. Be generous. You know that’s what is expected. Why else would you have accepted the invitation?’

  Lulu poked him in the chest with her sharply pointed, fuchsia tipped finger and pushed him backwards out the door. ‘Sod off, you nasty little man. We’re musicians, not tarts!’

  They were very careful which bookings they took after that. Enlisted men, they discovered, were in fact far more respectful than the officers, certainly in their experience.