Prized Possessions (11 page)

‘You have taught him everything else,' Aunt Teresa said.

‘Dominic does not want to dance.'

‘He
should
want to dance. That's all I'm saying.'

‘Where would I take him? To the Palais? How do you think that would look? A man of his stature turning up at the Calcutta?'

‘There are other places.'

‘What other places?'

‘On the coast,' Teresa said.

‘What do you know about the coast?'

‘I've heard.'

Guido picked an olive from a bowl on the dresser, sucked on it thoughtfully, then spat the pit into his palm. He straightened the hump on his shoulders so that he towered over the tiny, seal-like woman. He didn't ask where she had heard, or what she had heard. He knew that she would not betray her confidantes. It would be the girls, the day-maids from Govan, who had brought her gossip. They were sharp creatures, shrewd enough to keep out of his way but he didn't doubt that they could be lippy when it suited them.

‘Ballrooms,' Teresa said.

‘I do not know what you're talking about,' Guido said.

‘Girls,' Teresa said. ‘Romance.'

‘You think that's what your nephew needs – romance?'

‘He is too much with old men, like you. Boy of his age needs sweethearts.'

‘Is
this
your cure for a loss of appetite?' Guido said. ‘Perhaps he's only constipated and could be cured by a dose of senna.'

‘Why does he not like the girls?' Aunt Teresa persisted. ‘Is there something wrong with him?'

‘There is nothing wrong with him,' Guido said, bridling. ‘If he wants girls he knows where to find them. He can pick a nice Italian girl from the Community if he really wants romance. If it's the other thing, the quick thing, he can find that too, without my encouragement or assistance.'

‘He is not favoured in the Community.'

‘No, he is too quiet for his own good.'

‘It's because he is not a good Catholic, because he—'

Guido spat another olive pit into his palm and closed his fist. ‘Be careful, old woman. It is not for you to criticise Dominic, even if he is your nephew.'

‘I worry for him.'

‘Worry for yourself,' Guido said. ‘Dominic does what he was put here to do. Right now it's all as smooth as cream – but it may not always be so.'

‘Is there trouble?' Teresa raised her brows. ‘Trouble with the police?'

‘Do not ask questions.' Guido paused. ‘No, no trouble with the police.'

‘Then he needs a sweetheart,' Teresa said.

‘Jesus and Joseph!'

‘He should not be so much alone.'

‘So I should take him dancing, uh? To one of these ballrooms, uh?'

‘Find him a sweetheart,' Teresa said, ‘or better still, a bride.'

‘Sure, sure,' said Uncle Guido. ‘I will order him up a bride.'

‘Why should you not?' Teresa said. ‘It's time he married.'

She watched her husband, wondering if her advice would strike home.

‘Yes,' Guido said, after a pause. ‘Maybe, for once, you are right.'

And Teresa gave a little nod, and prudently said no more.

*   *   *

Stuart Royce and the Roysters had held on to the contract at the Calcutta Road Palais de Danse for going on a year and a half. That in itself was a feat that bordered on the miraculous, for the Brothers Grimm – actual name Grimsdyke – were notoriously slippery when it came to paying out wages. If it hadn't been for the intervention of certain individuals like Jackie and Dennis Hallop, and the transfer of modest sums in ‘management' fees, then poor old Stuart would probably have had to beg for his bread, or leave.

The Manones knew nothing of the arrangement between the Hallops, the bandleader and the Grimsdykes, although the Manones had put up big money to get the brothers started in the first place.

Rather to Dominic's surprise, the loan, with interest, had been paid off in full within two years of the Palais opening its doors to the public. Apparently it hadn't occurred to Dominic or Uncle Guido that it was almost impossible for a ballroom to fail even in the midst of a slump and that the Brothers Grimm, whatever their other faults, sure knew how to run a dance-hall.

The Calcutta was mobbed every night of the week.

It had a late-nite opening, with offical blessing, on Fridays, when trained dancers in swirling skirts and dinner suits competed ferociously for prizes. On Wednesdays pipers and accordionists played for devotees of
teuchter
– that is, Highland – music and you could work up a sweat flinging some old granny across the floor or be put out of the game for a week if some old granny decided to turn the tables on you. Monday was tango nite, all passion and pulled muscles. Tuesdays and Thursdays saw the advent of paid partners, young men and pretty girls who languished under a code of morals stricter than the Book of Leviticus. And Saturday? Saturday was ‘crush' night when every Tom, Dick and Tabby who couldn't afford to go hunting up town packed the floor, toilets, corridors and staircases and, by half past ten o'clock, when the hall was filled to capacity, even spilled out into Calcutta Street to dance on the cobbles there.

As a dancer Jackie held himself in high esteem.

He had whiled away many a dreary afternoon cruising the floor of the Palais with a paid partner or receiving lessons in deportment from the more aloof young ladies who earned their sixpences at the Albert, the Imperial or the Locarno. He knew all the latest tunes and had perfected a series of ornate steps to enliven the standard walk-through of waltz, foxtrot and quickstep, and his tango was, well, just astonishing to behold, especially if you happened to be a specialist in spinal injuries.

Even bandleader Stuart Royce thought Jackie was the bee's knees and would snap his fingers and direct the overhead spot on to the couple who swept and swung and gyrated like true champions or who, when the lights were low, did a wonderful impersonation of mobile copulation hot enough to bring the house down, or the vice squad in.

It was all Babs Conway could do to keep up with him.

Sometimes she almost wished that she had taken up with Patsy Walsh instead of daft Jackie.

Patsy did not entirely approve of dancing. He regarded it as a bourgeois pastime and a distraction from life's grim realities. He would rail against it as a waste of time even as he held Polly in his arms and tried to stop her from leading. Patsy was awkward and unsure of himself. He wouldn't have been there at all if it hadn't been for Polly, who could charm the birds out of the trees when she set her mind to it and who still felt a need to keep a close eye on Babs who was becoming just too fond of Jackie Hallop, or so Polly thought.

Babs had told her that he was very manly, her Jackie, and not just on the dance floor. Three or four times now, filled with terpsichorean energy, he had almost had her knickers off in the lane behind the Palais. He also had a habit of clapping a hand to her bottom without warning which was not, emphatically not, Babs's idea of a romantic gesture. That said, she liked him,
really
liked him, and wouldn't
really
have exchanged him for a sobersides like Patsy Walsh.

Jackie had money, Jackie had juice and, even if he was a bit too grabby now and then, Babs knew that he liked her,
really
liked her.

She was flattered to be his girlfriend. The only thing that worried her was that the Hallops were such near neighbours that Mammy was bound to find out that her dear wee daughter wasn't popping out for an ice-cream or a bag of chips three or four nights in the week or that Saturday night wasn't reserved for going to the flicks with Polly and her pals.

It didn't take long for Babs to acquire a taste for deception. She soon discovered that ‘secret lives' were rendered more satisfying simply because they were secret and even Polly had to admit that hanging out with the Hallops provided relief from predictable days in the office and tedious nights at home.

Anyway, Babs said, Mammy had no right to chide them for going out with boys, not when she was ploughing full steam ahead after Mr Peabody, who not only looked as if he didn't know how to dance but who looked as if he didn't know how to blow his nose without a woman to find his hanky.

So Babs danced with her carefree, blue-suited beau and Polly danced with staid Patsy Walsh, winter deepened, Christmas approached and, however you chose to interpret it, love of some sort was definitely in the air.

Sweating like a pig, Jackie had gone off to the toilet, not, as most young men did, to partake of a hasty swig of spirits or a pull at a smuggled beer bottle, but just to mop himself with a handkerchief and comb his hair.

The band were playing ‘Make Believe', up-tempo.

Babs had glided out of the pack to find a seat by the long side wall.

She was dressed in a neat little frock of rather too heavy a material that Mammy had dug out of a second-hand store and had shortened for her. She was hot and sticky. She needed to cool down. She headed for a chair beside Polly but, just as the dancers closed around her, felt a tug on her arm and was pulled out on to the floor again, not by Jackie but by little Tommy Bonnar.

His suit was brown and shabby, the same suit he wore when he did business, and the hat was not jaunty. Half an inch of cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

Babs said, ‘If you're gonna dance wi' me, Tommy, at least take the damned Woodbine out your mouth.'

He opened his lips, let the cigarette fall to the floor and, with odd grace, extinguished it with his heel as he turned her and glided away towards the far wall. He was hardly much bigger than Babs who, even for a girl, was not considered tall. He held her at a decent distance and was respectful enough to keep her from being trodden on in the crush.

Even so, she did not like dancing with Tommy Bonnar, did not like the smell of him, an ineradicable smell of nicotine and grease, not sharp but musty.

Babs said, loudly, ‘Jackie's in the—'

‘I know where Jackie is.'

‘Oh!'

‘I want a word wi' you in private,' Tommy told her.

‘Private? Is this your idea of private?' Babs had no respect for Tommy Bonnar, though Jackie had told her she should have. ‘Anyway, I haven't seen you here before. Don't you like dancin'? You're not bad for a wee guy.'

He pulled her closer, the movement abrupt.

‘How'd you like t' make a hundred quid?'

‘Whaaa-at?'

‘One hundred fins.'

‘If you think I'm that kinda…' Babs began, then said, ‘
How
much?'

‘You heard.' Tommy had his stubby little arm firmly around her, her breast trapped between his shoulder and armpit. He angled his face so that he could talk, and she could hear, even above the blare of the band. ‘Jeeze, you've a right high opinion o' yourself if you think you're worth that much.'

‘Thanks a million,' Babs said. ‘What
do
I have t' do for this mysterious hundred quid, then? Rob a bank?'

‘Not exactly,' Tommy Bonnar said.

‘What then?'

‘Where you work.'

‘Where I work?'

‘Aye, Central Warehouse.'

Babs laughed nervously. ‘I hope you're not suggestin' I rob the Central Warehouse Company?'

‘Not you,' Tommy said. ‘Not nobody.'

‘What the hell
is
this?' Babs said.

She had become aware of the music, of the circulation of the spotlight, its slants and sly gleams across the heads of the dancers around her. She suddenly felt that they were all looking at her.

She tried to throw her head back and laugh again but Tommy had placed a hand on her shoulder. She could feel his fingers pressing the fringe of damp hair at the nape of her neck. She wanted to shout for Jackie to come and rescue her but she'd a feeling that Jackie would not be there, that Jackie knew all about Mr Bonnar's proposal, whatever it might be.

‘We need a plan o' the buildin',' Tommy said.

‘I'm not Polly. I can't get you plans.'

‘We need to know certain things about the CWC.'

The band were lifting ‘Make Believe' to a crescendo, dancers whirling and spinning. Tommy led her away, spinning too.

As a dancer he was lighter than Jackie, more in control. He slewed her round once, then again, fast enough to take her breath away. The music climaxed and stopped. Everyone clapped, whistled, cheered. Tommy put an arm about her waist and stroked her wrist just as if he had nothing on his mind but romance.

‘If you're in,' he said, ‘I'll tell y' what to do when the time's right.'

‘Does Jackie know? Is he – in?'

‘With or without you, honey, he's in it up to his neck.'

‘What if I
don't
want in?' Babs said.

‘Walk away an' keep your trap shut.' Tommy lifted his hand from her wrist to her throat and traced a fine, tender, tickling little line with the ball of his thumb from her earlobe to the point of her chin. ‘Because if you don't…'

‘I get it,' Babs said. ‘Okay, okay. I get it.'

‘You wanna think about it?'

She glanced across the dance floor.

Jackie was back.

Daft, carefree, dance-crazy Jackie was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before. She was not inclined to wave.

She was calculating faster than she had ever done before.

She earned forty-eight bob a week. Mammy earned forty-two. Polly's wage was fixed by burgh rates at forty-six shillings. What did all that that come to? Seven quid a week, give or take, for the labour of three working women, three
honest
working women. No wonder Patsy ranted on about injustice.

‘I don't have to think about it, Mr Bonnar,' Babs said.

‘Meanin'?'

‘Count me in.'