Dancing on Deansgate

by Freda Lightfoot

  Or she would simply sit and stare into the abyss of guilt and fear, for deep down she knew there was only one person to blame. Herself. Johnny was her child, hers and Steve’s, as Cora had insisted all along. Certainly not Bernie’s. It had been wrong of her to expect Doug to care for him. He was her responsibility entirely, hers alone. And if he died, she could blame no one but herself.

  By morning, baby Johnny was showing definite signs of improvement but it was carefully explained to Jess that the burns would take time to heal and there was always the risk of infection. It would be some weeks before they knew for certain that he was out of danger.

  When Leah reached home in the late morning, Harry was waiting for her. ‘Have you been seeing a fancy man too? Is that where you’ve been?’

  ‘That is not where I’ve been. I’ve been with Jess at the hospital.’ She began to tell him about little Johnny’s accident, but he wasn’t listening. He carried on shouting and roaring at her and Leah turned from him in disgust. Worn out and tired from the long bus journey, traumatised by the long night of waiting and drained from helping Jess cope with the guarded optimism of the hospital, all she wanted to do was drop into bed and sleep.

  Harry followed her into the bedroom, still yelling. ‘I heard all about that Steve character having it off with Jess.’

  Leah was surprised. ‘How did you hear?’

  ‘It’s common knowledge. The gossip is all over the pub. Cheap little tart. Is that what you get up to on these gigs? Shaming us all.’ He’d been furious that Jess had turned the tables on him by insisting she only give him money in return for ownership of the club. Why wasn’t she scared of him like everyone else? It didn’t make sense. How dare the trollop defy him?

  True, the down-payment, as she termed it, had allowed him to fend off Little Jimmy for a bit but he couldn’t go on in this fashion. He was going to have to accept her terms, or go under. The electricity board were threatening to cut off the electric and the phone had already been disconnected. How could a chap do business with such problems on his hands? And Little Jimmy would be back tomorrow, or the day after, demanding the rest of his dosh.

  To add insult to injury, now his wife had turned up late, and she hadn’t even been paid for the best part of a week’s work away from home. Some tale about Jess not having time to think of it. All excuses, in Harry’s opinion. God knows what the little tarts got up to. He was having none of it.

  ‘What kind of a mother are you?’ he shouted, pleased to see that she, at least, cowered away from him, recognising that he still held the power. Perhaps now was the moment to reinforce that fact.

  Harry hadn’t allowed her to take baby Susie on tour with her, insisting that he could look after his daughter very well himself. Now he made it clear that if she transgressed, she’d never see her child again.

  Leah began to tremble, knowing that whatever else he might be, Harry was a devoted father. And the thought of losing Susie didn’t bear thinking about. That must never happen. She attempted a reassuring smile, usually the best way to placate him when he was in one of his bad moods, since he hated tears. ‘Don’t be silly, of course I haven’t been seeing anyone.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘As if I would! Jess and Steve are old friends. I thought she might marry him at one time, but that has nothing at all to do with me. Why would I want to have a fancy man when I’ve got you, and little Susie. I wouldn’t take the risk of losing her, you can be sure of that, Harry, if nothing else.’

  Sometimes it didn’t seem to matter what she did or what she said: whether she pleaded, teased or begged, he seemed to be beyond reason, his course of action as unstoppable as an express train. So it was on this occasion. He punched her anyway, with his fist, right in the stomach; a favourite spot since no one could see the bruises, then pushed her face down on the bed, ripped off her clothes and drove into her with the kind of unremitting force that had nothing at all do with love.

  ‘That’ll teach you not to make a cuckold of me.’

  ‘But I didn’t . . .’

  ‘Shut your mouth. That’s what you’ll get if you ever do.’

  Apparently satisfied that he’d brought her to heel and properly subdued her, he stormed out of the flat, and it wasn’t hard to guess where he was going.

  So this was married life. Little more than two years into it, and the mere prospect of spending the rest of her life with this brute, was driving her to the brink of insanity. Lying weeping on the bed, nursing the latest in a long line of sores and bruises, Leah wondered what on earth she’d ever seen in him? What had happened to the handsome, teasing, flirtatious man she’d married? Where was the love, the care, the cheerful banter, the excitement and fun they’d once enjoyed together? It had all gone, or else had never existed in the first place and he’d tricked her, been playing a game till he had her in his thrall, able to do with her what he willed.

  Leah had known for quite a while about the other girls, about Queenie and her little empire of tarts who came and went with dizzying regularity in the club below. She’d gone looking for him one night and found him in bed with a young girl who still looked as if she should be in school. At first she’d been upset, screamed and railed, feeling betrayed and degraded at sharing her husband with a prostitute. ‘Don’t think you can come to me, after you’ve slept with such creatures,’ she’d shrieked at him, but Harry had only laughed.

  ‘Why would it matter? They don’t object to you.’

  ‘I’m your wife! I deserve better.’

  ‘You should be thankful for what you get. I’m considered quite a catch round here. Anyroad, don’t worry, love, I’ll not see you go short.’ And he’d slammed her up against the wall, ripped open her blouse, pushed up her skirt to take her there and then on the top landing, in full view of the silly little whore.

  ‘Whoops, spare my blushes,’ the girl had said, and gone off giggling.

  Leah had ceased to care what he did after that. At least while Harry was tasting their favours, he was leaving her alone.

  All Harry thought about now - perhaps all he’d ever cared about – was the club, apart from himself, that is. And all he ever talked about was money. How he could get more. What he would spend it on when he did.

  Leah knew that he spent money as quickly as he made it. Cash dribbled through his fingers like water. Now that lights were allowed once again, he left them on all the time and ran up huge electricity bills. He gave the tenants too much time to pay their rents because they were often his only customers in the bar, and he needed them around. And the illegal card school met less frequently these days, now that so many of the GIs were returning home. They’d never been particularly troubled about rules and regulations, not during the war, perfectly willing to take a risk for the sake of a bit of fun to liven those difficult times. Other servicemen had joined in for the same reason, along with more nefarious characters, the kind Harry would have been wiser not to have in the club at all.

  Now everything was changing. Men were going home to their families, trying to take up life where they’d left off six years earlier, or start new ones. They were busy finding themselves new jobs, opening businesses, thrilled by the prospect of peace and filled with hope for the future. This left Harry with the dross, not only making less profit but also with the kind of customer who didn’t like to wait to get paid, if money was due to them. Leah knew that her husband was more and more finding himself in a tight corner, with gambling and liquor bills to pay and not enough money coming in. Which made him a loose canon, and who knew what he might do next?

  Jess sat by her son’s bedside day after day, week after week for as long and as often as she was allowed, frequently defying the nurses whenever they tried to shoo her out and send her home.

  ‘Rules are rules. They have to be kept,’ the stern, plump nurse would say. ‘We don’t want little Johnny to get an infection, now do we? Visiting is two o’clock until three each day, not a minute more. Now you must go home, Mrs Morgan, and get some
rest yourself.’

  In Jess’s opinion she no longer had a home to go to. Her one, all-consuming desire was for Johnny to get well again. What would happen after that, she didn’t know, and really didn’t care. And so she went to Cora, pacing her floor for a change, paying no attention to the comings and goings of children in the little house, refusing to eat, growing thinner by the day in her anguish, till finally, alerted by Cora to her plight, Steve came for her and took charge.

  ‘You’re wasting away, Jess. What good will you be then to Johnny? Come with me, love. Let me take care of you.’ And, with deep and loving thankfulness, she did.

  It was six weeks before the baby was allowed home, by which time Jess’s marriage was over. She’d left Doug, given up all pretence of their being a happy couple, and moved in with Steve. If this was wrong, then so be it. To Jess’s way of thinking, they belonged together and who better to care for the pair of them, than Johnny’s own father.

  To see father and son together at last, filled her with an indescribable joy. How on earth she could have believed that this precious boy was anyone’s son but Steve’s, Jess really couldn’t imagine. How very foolish she’d been. Just seeing them together told her instantly that Cora had been right all along. Johnny was clearly Steve’s son, same hair, same smile, even the tilt of his head. And it was wonderful to see them taking such delight in each other.

  ‘Forget the past,’ Steve told her. ‘We can put all those mistakes behind us and begin again.’

  ‘What about Doug? I’m still married, don’t forget.’

  ‘I love you. We’re together. That’s all that really counts.’

  And best of all, Johnny was on the mend, the end of the poor little boy’s misery was at last in sight. His scars would take a little time to heal but the plaster was off, his little legs looked pale and thin but strong and straight and firm, and it was all too evident that he was eager to walk. He was constantly trying to pull himself up by the table leg or a chair arm.

  Even so, Jess remained consumed by guilt and she lost interest in everything, including her precious band. Where both Bernie and Doug had tried, for different reasons, to stop her playing her trumpet, her son’s accident succeeded. She locked it away and declared that she would never pick it up again. ‘No more music. If I hadn’t put the needs of the band before those of my own child, then he wouldn’t be in the condition he’s in now.’

  Everyone: Cora, Leah, Steve, all the girls in the band, insisted that this was nonsense, that she was not to blame. But she refused to listen. From now on she meant to be a full time mother. Jess wanted to put everything right. If there was to be a new beginning, she wanted it to be as perfect as possible. She longed to be free to marry Steve. Besides, she hadn’t told him yet, but she rather thought that she was again pregnant.

  She went to see Doug, began by apologising for the unhappiness she had caused him, and for blaming him for the accident. ‘I should never have agreed to marry you in the first place when I was in love with someone else, and had even borne his child. I’m so sorry. My only excuse is that at the time, I still believed that Johnny might be Bernie’s, a result of the rape.

  ‘I can see now that he couldn’t possibly be. He isn’t in the least bit like him. It’s Steve he resembles. Seeing them together, there is absolutely no doubt in my mind. He’s clearly Steve’s son, and having found each other again, we both know that we can’t risk it happening a second time. We want to marry, to be a proper family, so I’m asking you to release me from my promise, and to give me my freedom.’

  Doug looked at her for a long moment, then he smiled and said, ‘Of course I forgive you for blaming me. I realise you were upset, Jess, so there really is no need for you to apologise at all. I won’t even bear you any grudge for this silly little fling you’ve had with that dreadful musician. You’re still my wife and, so far as I’m concerned, always will be, so there’s absolutely no necessity for you to consider leaving. You, and - little Johnny - are welcome to stay. This is your rightful home, after all. Now, what are you making me for my tea, love?’

  Jess stared at him, aghast. ‘You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you? You can’t even say my child’s name without stumbling over it,’ and she walked out the door. Divorce or no divorce, she’d no intention of ever going back.

  Leah dragged herself out of bed just before midnight, and went to make herself a mug of hot milk. Harry was either out, or sleeping with one of his girls, as usual. She never asked what he was doing or where he’d been, as she really didn’t want to know. But the flat felt empty and silent, deeply depressing. She went and checked on baby Susie, fast asleep flat on her stomach in her crib, and Leah’s heart softened with love for her child. If only there were some way of getting right away from Harry Delaney, an escape, a place to go where he wouldn’t ever find her.

  The trouble was, she didn’t have any money, which galled her somewhat as she’d earned plenty from the band but had been forced to hand over every penny to her husband. A thought struck her. There was no safe, so perhaps he hid it somewhere. Surely he didn’t gamble it all away. If she could find enough money tucked away some place, she’d take Susie and run. They could go to Liverpool, catch the ferry to Ireland. Somewhere far away from Harry Delaney, where he would never think to look. No matter what the cost, she couldn’t go on like this any longer.

  Leah began searching drawers, tugging them out and riffling through them at reckless speed, frequently glancing over her shoulder, afraid that he might return at any moment and catch her in the act of plundering his belongings. She went through every pocket of his suits, even climbed up and examined the top of the wardrobe, but could find nothing. It was as she stood on the stool looking down at her own bedroom from this interesting and unusual angle, that she saw it. She noticed that one of the floorboards just under the bed, was a slightly different colour from all the rest and not quite so neatly fitted.

  Quickly, she jumped down, tossed aside a pegged rug which partially obscured it and tried to prise it up with her fingernails. It took a kitchen knife and finally a screw driver which she fetched from Harry’s tool box before she managed to lift out a small oblong cut into the full length of the board. Beneath, was a box hidden in the dusty depths, quite small and square. Pulling it out, Leah flung open the lid to stare in surprise and horror at the contents. A cameo brooch and a pretty blue necklace. She recognised it at once as one which an aunt had once brought her back from Madeira, items which had been stolen during that long ago air raid.

  ‘What the bleedin’ hell do you think you’re doing?’

  When he hit her this time, she didn’t get up.

  Harry was quite certain that he’d killed her. And if he had, he’d ruined everything. There was no way that Jess would give in to his demands, not if he’d done for her best friend. In which case he’d be forced to hand over the club, else how would he settle his debts with Little Jimmy? He couldn’t even use this flaming jewellery to get him out of trouble. He’d already been offered a derisory sum for the brooch and the necklace was glass, a worthless trinket, its only value pure sentiment. He again looked down at the inert body of his wife with open contempt.

  ‘Hardly worth dying for, you stupid cow.’

  It was then that it finally sank in that paying off his debts was the least of his worries. Harry really had no wish to feel the hangman’s rope about his neck. In the circumstances, he did the only logical thing. He ran.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  1947

  The lights were turned down low. Outside, snow was softly falling in what was proving to be the coldest winter on record, but here in a warm, cosy room on Deansgate, Delaney’s All Girls Band were playing a medley of their most requested numbers. They’d begun, as always with Don’t sit Under the Apple Tree, wandered down memory lane through all the old wartime hits such as Wish Me Luck, and Bye, Bye Blackbird. Then rip-roared their way through several more old favourites including Pennsylvania 65000 and Chattanooga Choo-Choo. Th
e customers were now jiving to In The Mood as the girls put all their hearts and souls into the number.

  As always on the nights when he wasn’t on stage himself in some dance hall or other, Steve was seated at the back with his arm about Jess. ‘They’re good, your girls, but with the best will in the world they don’t play nearly as well without you. It just doesn’t sound right.’

  Jess had kept to the vow she’d made and not touched her trumpet since the day Johnny had been scalded. Steve, along with the other band members, friends and family, had tried every way they could think of to persuade her to play. Steve tried again now.

  ‘Think of the waste. What would Mr Yoffey have to say about you neglecting such a God-given talent?’ They both still remembered with great affection, the old man who had sadly ended his days in the Isle-of-Man Alien’s camp but at least had lived a long and happy life until then, and been instrumental in bringing them together.

  Jess remained adamant. ‘Talented or not, there’s no reason why I should play. Look at the damage it caused.’

  Steve patiently reminded her that their son was not only fully recovered but a lively youngster who never sat still for a minute, tearing around the place as if to make up for all those sedentary, painful months he’d spent as a baby. His young sister, Jo, clearly adored him and at twenty-one months was desperately trying to catch up.

  ‘Yes, but look at Lizzie. Look what it did to her, having to spend all those months incarcerated in a mental institution where they fed her pills and potions, gave her cold baths and goodness knows what electro-therapy treatment. It doesn’t bear thinking of. No wonder she went off her head, raving like a maniac wanting to get out, or else slumped in depression. The poor woman didn’t know where she was, or why she was there. I know what it feels like to be locked up, and so does she, having served time in jail. Hadn’t she suffered enough?’

  ‘It probably saved her life, Jess. She’d have died of alcohol poisoning otherwise. You know she would.’