Dancing on Deansgate Read online

  ‘Hello, you look like you’re enjoying the music, and since this is a ladies’ choice, may I have the pleasure?’

  Jess really didn’t know where she had found the words, or the courage to ask. She nearly turned and fled as he lifted his gaze to frown up at her. In the long silence that followed she felt quite certain that he would refuse and she would have to creep away, rejected and humiliated. Jess could feel her heart beating wildly against her breast bone. Why was he studying her so intently?

  The next instant the frown melted away and, unbelievably, he was actually smiling at her. ‘I don’t do fancy steps.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘That’s OK then.’

  He had a thatch of tousled, red-brown hair which looked in dire need of cutting, and the kind of face which was surely made for smiling, round and open with a seemingly permanent upward tilt to the wide mouth. And hazel green eyes that sparkled with ready mischief from beneath half closed lids as he continued to consider her with a quiet scrutiny.

  The next instant he took her in his arms and swung her effortlessly on to the dance floor. He proved to be a far better dancer than he’d claimed and somehow, without any apparent effort, managed to steer her amongst the throng of couples without bumping into any of them, pulling her close should there appear to be any danger of someone crashing into them. Jess rather enjoyed the sensation. She felt cherished and protected, perfectly at ease in his arms.

  When he talked, he looked directly into her eyes, giving the impression that he truly cared what she thought, that he was interested in her opinion. Jess smiled up at him, utterly enthralled.

  ‘The name’s Steve Wyman,’ he told her. ‘I work at A.V. Roe as an aircraft engineer, a reserved occupation. And yes, I like music so much I play in a band most evenings. Tonight is my night off.’

  ‘So what are you doing here then?’

  ‘I was told I might be needed, after all. Hal, the band leader, thought there was a risk some of the lads might not show up and asked me to hang around, just in case. Waste of time, as you can see, except it isn’t now that I’m dancing with you.’

  The dance ended and he asked if she’d like a coffee.

  Jess flushed and shook her head. ‘No thanks, we’ve just had a lemonade.’ He looked disappointed and she was too naïve to realise that the offer had simply been a ruse, to keep her to himself for a while longer.

  The music changed, a fox-trot this time and breathlessly Jess strived to keep up with his expert steps while she asked what instrument he played.

  ‘Sax, trumpet, cornet, comb and paper. Whatever I’m paid to play.’

  ‘It must be marvellous to be in a band.’

  He chuckled softly, negotiated a reverse and half turn and then slowed his step so they could talk more easily. ‘Don’t you believe it. It’s hot, sweaty, and tiring work.’

  ‘It always seems so glamorous. Don’t tell me all the girls aren’t desperate to get to know you.’ She remembered her own boldness in asking him to dance. No wonder he was laughing.

  ‘You haven’t told me your name, or anything about yourself. What do you do?’

  But before she could answer, Jess found herself elbowed out of the way by a very determined girl in WAAF uniform. ‘Excuse me,’ the girl said, casting Jess a bright smile of triumph. Jess caught a glimpse of regret in his hazel-eyed gaze as the pair whirled away and she could only smile ruefully before turning and going in search of Leah. It was ten-twenty, very nearly time to go home. But at least she could tell Leah that she’d clicked too. Almost.

  Chapter Six

  Going dancing with Jess became a regular part of their routine, though not always to somewhere as grand as the Plaza. Sometimes they would go to the Co-operative rooms, to various church halls, or take the bus to the ballroom at High Street Baths. Robert and his fiancé nearly always accompanied them. Mrs Simmons, however, was growing dissatisfied over the length of time it was taking for a suitable candidate to step forward and claim her daughter’s hand in marriage, at least one of which she might approve.

  Leah had just spent the better part of an hour explaining why it was she didn’t care for Ambrose Gartside: that he was boring and spotty and she had no intention of accepting any invitation to go to the pictures, have supper with him, go for a walk or any other ploy he could think of to get her on his own.

  Muriel was unimpressed by her protest. ‘How do you know he’s boring if you’ve never spent any time with him? Ambrose might have a fascinating hobby, or wonderful plans for the future, and the poor boy will grow out of his spots in time. He’s eighteen, about to start work in his father’s printing business, quiet and well mannered, and comes from a very good family.’

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘Oh, I know darling, you don’t like me saying such things but I’m not being snobby, really I’m not. I’m simply being sensible. The Gartsides’ are business people, like ourselves, and believe in hard work and endeavour. Coming from a similar sort of background to your own is so very important.’

  Leah knew that her lovely, charming mother was nothing if not practical. She was the kind of woman who made lists for everything. She knew to the last pickled onion what she had in her larder, the price butter was last year, when the loft had last been cleared out, or the dining room dusted and when they would require attention again. She sent her husband’s suits regularly to the dry cleaners, kept his humidor well stocked with his favourite cigars, and woe betide the tobacconist if he’d sold out just when dear Clifford needed fresh supplies.

  But worse even than this concern over domestic minutiae was her obsession with her children. She had always kept a close record of their progress: first tooth, when they started walking, the dates when they’d suffered from measles, chicken pox and so on. It was now a habit that she was quite unable to break. She continued to keep a careful note of their school reports, lists and addresses of all their friends annotated with her opinions on their suitability, as well as a diary with dates such as when Robert or Leah were next due to visit the dentist, even though they were both perfectly capable of organising these matters for themselves now that they were grown up.

  ‘Why is it important to come from similar backgrounds?’ Leah grumbled.

  ‘I beg your pardon, dear?’

  ‘Why should it matter? For what purpose?’ Since she knew very well, Leah wondered why she bothered asking. Perhaps in yet another bid to secure her independence.

  ‘So that you’ll get along perfectly, should you wish to – to see him again.’

  ‘You mean marry, don’t you?’ Leah challenged. ‘Why can’t you be honest with me Mother, and say so? You’re picking him out as a likely candidate for a husband, aren’t you? For God’s sake, I’m only just turned seventeen!’

  As always at this point in the argument, Leah would begin to feel trapped and thoroughly exasperated. Time and again they’d had this conversation which nearly always concerned some young man her mother currently favoured. All of them equally dreadful.

  Robert had, at one time, likewise found this sort of manipulative behaviour on the part of his beloved mother particularly galling. Having failed his medical for the army because of poor eyesight and flat feet of all things, he’d been driven to working for the family firm, much against his will.

  Muriel had been delighted to keep her son safe at home and had taken advantage of the situation by introducing him to Sophie Winstock, the daughter of a friend from her local bridge club, whose husband was a chemist of some substance in the city centre. She’d engineered various social functions between the two families in order to bring the young couple together, and now a wedding was planned for two years hence, and a new house had been built for the happy pair. Always supposing the war was over and done with by then, of course.

  Robert gave every appearance of being content with his lot, but occasionally would rebel about something or other, not being allowed to join the ARP for instance, and Leah sometimes wondered if her brother still yearned
for a different sort of life altogether.

  Now she feared that her parents were embarking upon a similar campaign with her. Leah adored her parents and in her heart knew they would never force her into a marriage she didn’t want. Nevertheless, their immensely reasonable arguments, persistent persuasion, and intense sense of logic, felt at times like psychological bullying. What Leah feared most was that one day she might be at such a low ebb that she would agree to go out with one of these dull young men her mother procured for her, if only for the sake of peace.

  Perhaps this was why her tone had been sharper than she intended.

  Muriel was greatly offended. ‘Please don’t be rude and shout, darling. It isn’t polite. I only want what’s best for you, as every good mother should. What is so wrong in that?’

  ‘What is wrong with allowing me to grow up and please myself? For me to get a job, have fun, and live a little before making long term decisions I don’t yet feel ready for?’

  Muriel Simmons clicked her tongue with impatience, shaking her head in despair at her daughter while adopting the tone of voice she might have used on a six year old. ‘Of course I don’t expect you to marry for a long while yet darling. How very silly of you to suggest it, but we must plan ahead. You can’t simply allow life to happen, as if by accident.’

  ‘Why can’t I?’

  ‘Because it isn’t done. It isn’t sensible.’

  ‘Or practical.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Well of course one must be seen to mingle with the right people.’

  ‘Absolutely, darling,’ not recognising the irony in her daughter’s tone and thinking this meant that she finally understood and agreed.

  Leah sighed and gave up, knowing she was not getting her point across at all.

  After every raid, the streets of Manchester would look increasingly battered as huge areas of the city were wiped out and the numbers of bombed-out buildings grew week by week. There were sandbags everywhere and not a place name in sight.

  Much of the centre had gone, although here and there an historic building could still be seen protruding out of the heaps of rubble. The Old Wellington Inn stood proud next to the ruins that were once the Old Shambles. The elegant circular building that was the Central Library looked as fine as ever, though the Gaiety Theatre nearby was on the verge of collapse. Tragically, even Salford Royal Infirmary was bombed, a number of the nurses killed.

  Unfazed, Mancunians soldiered on, knowing their city inside out and resolving to defend it. Roads might often be blocked and ambulances face long detours in order to reach the wounded; the local buses might look dented and very much the worse for wear from their efforts to get through, yet it didn’t prevent them from trying. And as the list of casualties and fatalities grew, many were equipped with stretchers and doubled up as first aid vehicles, or to transfer patients away from danger. The Salvation Army too somehow managed to be there at the right moment with their mobile canteens.

  ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’ became the oft-heard cry. Everyone was determined to do their bit. Except for one or two notable exceptions. Harry Delaney, for one.

  Never for a moment did he think of offering his services to the community. Harry had avoided call-up by sending his mate George Macintyre to have the medical meant for him. Since George had a dodgy ticker and carried Harry’s identity papers, that had got him off the hook nicely. When it came to Bert’s call-up a year later, George had gone again, this time wearing spectacles as a disguise, but it had been a different doctor so nobody had recognised him. It cost thirty quid each time but Bernie had gladly paid, considering it worth every penny. George had done well too out of the deal, now with a nice little business going.

  Harry, of course, was much cleverer than George and as well as being naturally concerned with saving his own skin, he was as keen as his father to make a profit out of the war. He certainly meant to use his natural skills of subterfuge to great advantage.

  Now he took one look at the loaded van standing in the yard, checked it against the docket, and came to a snap decision. The driver had parked it up the night before to wait for its load, but this morning had sent his wife with a note to say he was sick. More likely hung over. Harry could quite easily have found another driver to move it, but why should he? What was one small van load of sugar? Who’d miss it? And even if they did, so long as he made sure the paperwork was up to scratch, no blame could be attached to himself. They’d assume some bugger had nipped into the yard overnight and nicked it. Such things happened all the time in a war.

  He turned to Bert. ‘We’re a driver short so we’ll just take this van over to t’depot. Gerrin.’

  ‘What, me an’ all? Why d’you need me? You’ll be back in a jiffy.’

  ‘Shut your noise and don’t argue. Can’t you spot an opportunity when you see one?’

  Harry admired his father and had always been eager to follow his lead. But he was twenty two for God’s sake and had no intention of playing second fiddle all his life. He wanted to become a big shot in his own right. There’d come a day, not too far off, when folks would have the same tone of respect in their voice with him, as they used whenever they spoke of Bernie Delaney. Harry knew he could achieve even greater heights than his father, if he put his mind to it.

  He was not so cautious, for one thing, being a bit of a gambler and not afraid to take risks. He enjoyed being in charge and making decisions, and had far more sense than his brother Bert, which wasn’t difficult admittedly. There was no reason why one day he shouldn’t be a man to be reckoned with. Generally speaking, folk liked him and thought him a sociable, easy-going sort of bloke. Women certainly did, seeing him as quite good looking with his square-jawed good looks and closely cropped fair hair. He’d never had any trouble in that department, and Harry knew how to keep a woman happy as well as in her place. Oh indeed he did!

  All he needed was a lucky break to make his mark. Perhaps this could be it. He climbed up into the cab. ‘Come on dummel-head. Shape yourself.’ Seconds later they were driving out of the loading bay. ‘Couldn’t be easier. Sweet as pie.’

  ‘Or sugar,’ Bert sniggered, fidgeting up and down in his seat as he swung this way and that to check they weren’t being followed. ‘That’ll show our Jess, eh? Who needs coupons? What now, Harry? Where we taking it?’

  ‘Home to Mam, plank-head, where else? She’ll be made up with this lot.’

  As usual during a raid, Lizzie was banged up in her cell, as was everyone else in Strangeways. ‘What if we get hit?’ she wanted to know, shaking with fear at the prospect of being trapped and left to burn in the ruins of a burning building.

  ‘Not even Mr Hitler would dare to hit His Majesty’s Prison,’ an officer told her as she turned the key in the lock. ‘This is the safest place to be. If he does, we’ll be well out of it and you won’t know what’s hit you, so let’s just hope your number isn’t on this one, eh?’

  Lizzie could follow the progress of the officer along the wing by the din that accompanied her, swelling like a tidal wave as each door banged shut and the rattling of tin plates or mugs on bars and iron bedsteads grew to a crescendo. Lizzie just sat with her head in her hands. Why bother shouting? Who was there to hear? There was no escape; no one in this hell-hole that she knew or cared about.

  Most of the old lags had been released at the start of the war for service or war work, but the cells had quickly filled up again. Most women were doing time for drink offences, ration fraud or assault. One woman had attacked her soldier husband when he’d come home on leave and admitted to an affair. But then she had split his skull open. Everyone said it was a wonder he was still alive but would never go soldiering again. There were the conchies of course, some more genuine than others. Other women were in for brothel-keeping, petty pilfering or child neglect. These last two were the most despised among the prisoners, even considered worse than the conchies, and Lizzie was one of their number.

  ‘Any woman who can leave her child
locked up in a cellar during an air raid, needs to be put against a wall and shot.’ This from her near neighbour, Gladys Cronshaw.

  Lizzie gasped, ‘How did you know?’

  Gladys tapped her nose. ‘We don’t miss much round here. And what we don’t know, we can find out. It’s the gossip what keeps us going, chuck.’

  Dry mouthed, Lizzie had attempted to defend herself, explaining how safe and clean the cellar was, how it had been in Jess’s interest to stay there, except that no one was listening. Gladys simply turned on her heel and walked away.

  But on the very first morning as she was making her way down the long metal staircase carrying her slops, she met Gladys coming up and was forced to retreat back up and start all over again, only to meet Gladys’s mate Hettie next time on the stairway. In the end it took five attempts before she managed to slop out. The women were allowed a chamber pot each night in their cell, which had to be washed out, dried and placed on the rack each morning. If, for any reason, they had to spend much time in their cell during the day, there was no similar concession. They just had to wait.

  But then Lizzie soon discovered that the prison officers treated the women with barely disguised contempt.

  Elsie, a young girl in for a similar offence to her own, said it was because they were so badly paid, and had very little training. ‘The best ones joined up at the start. This lot are just doing the absolute minimum, their bit for the war effort.’