Dancing in the Dark (30 page)

“I’m ever so glad I came. It’s the first time I’ve enjoyed meself since Bob was killed.”

“Remember the day we met?” said Flo. “You were dead impatient because I was upset over Tommy O’Mara.

Now you know how I felt.”

“There’s a big difference.” Bel’s voice was unexpectedly tart. “Bob was worth crying over, not like Tommy O’Mara!”

“Oh, Bel! How can you say that when you never met him?”

Bel didn’t answer straight away. “Sorry, Flo,” she said eventually. “It was just the impression I got. But you’re well over him now, aren’t you?”

“I’m not sure if I ever will be. I’ve never met a man who comes anywhere near him.” Perhaps if Hugh hadn’t always been on her mind to remind her of Tommy’s existence, she might have put the memory away.

“It’s about time you got yourself a proper feller, girl,”

Bel snorted, “and stopped moping over a man who died three years ago. You’re twenty-two. You should be married by now, or at least courting.”

“You sound just like our Martha.” Flo laughed.

“Which reminds me,” Bel went on. “Why haven’t I been to see your Martha’s little girl?”

“I thought you didn’t like babies.”

“I didn’t until I lost the one I was expecting.” Bel’s lovely face became unbearably sad. “You’ve no idea what it feels like, Flo, having this little person growing inside you. When I had the miscarriage, it was like losing part of meself. Still,” she brightened, “that’s all in the past, and as Bob said to me in his lovely Scots accent just before he was posted to North Africa and we knew he might be killed, ‘I know you won’t forget me, girl, but don’t let the memory weigh you down, like unwanted baggage.

Go light into the future.”” Bel sniffed briefly. “He was ever so clever, my Bob.”

Flo envied her friend’s resilience and ability to look ahead. She spent too much time looking back.

“Anyroad,” Bel persisted, “what’s your Martha’s baby like?”

“I’ve no idea. I haven’t seen her.”

Bel’s reaction was entirely predictable. “Why ever not?” she screeched.

“Because me and our Martha had a falling out.”

“What over?”

“Mind your own business,” Flo said irritably, and although Bel pressed for ages to know why, she refused to say another word.

Next morning, the two girls left for Lime Street station, Bel trim and smart in her khaki uniform. Mr Fritz had insisted Flo see her on to the train, even though it meant she’d be hours late for work. He bade Bel a mournful farewell. “Take care of yourself in Egypt, there’s a good girl.” He put his hand over his heart. “I think I can already feel it breaking.”

Bel flung her arms around his neck. “You’re the heartbreaker, Fritz, you ould rascal. Us poor girls aren’t safe with chaps like you around. I’m surprised those poor women in the laundry get any work done at all.”

The station was packed with servicemen and women returning from leave or en route elsewhere in the British Isles. Bel found herself a seat on the London train and leaned out of the window. “He’s a lovely chap, that Fritz,” she said.

“I know.” Flo nodded.

“I think he fancies you.”

Flo was aghast. “Don’t talk daft, Bel Knox! We’re friends, that’s all. I’m very fond of him, but he’s got a wife and eight children in Ireland.”

Bel winked. “I think he’d sooner be more than friends.

Anyroad, it’s over between him and Stella. He told me.”

“Yes, but it still makes him a married man. And they’ll never get divorced, they’re Catholics.”

“For goodness’ sake, Flo. There’s a war on. Forget he’s married and let yourself go for once.”

The guard blew his whistle, the carriage doors were slammed, and the train began slowly to puff out of the station, Bel still hanging out of the window. Flo walked quickly along beside her. “One of the first things you said to me was that you didn’t approve of going out with married men.”

“Under the circumstances I’d make an exception in the case of you and Mr Fritz,” Bel said. By now, the train was going too fast for Flo to keep up. Bel shouted, “Think about it, Flo!”

“The thing is,” Flo said under her breath, waving to the redheaded figure until the face was just a blur, “I’m not sure if I fancy him, not in the way Bel’s on about. I’m not sure if I’ll ever fancy anyone again.”

1945

She recognised him immediately, a thin child, delicately boned like Flo herself, hair the colour of wheat. His round, innocent eyes were a beautiful dark green flecked with gold. The other children, boys first, had come charging through the school gates whooping like savages.

He came alone, separate from the rest. She could guess one reason why he wasn’t part of the gang: the other lads wore shabby jerseys and baggy pants but this five-year old was neatly dressed in grey shorts with a firmly pressed crease, pullover, flannel shirt. Hugh O’Mara was the only child wearing a blazer and tie.

Nancy was a good mother, but not very sensitive. Flo would never have allowed her son to stand out in such a ridiculous getup.

Flo watched as he approached, a sensation in her gut akin to the one she’d had the first time she was on her way to meet his father. She thought of all the times when she’d glimpsed a dark-haired woman with a pushchair on the far side of the Mystery, or crossing the street leading a small boy by the hand. Either it had been someone else, or the woman and child had disappeared when she had hurried to catch up.

Now he was here, and in a few seconds he would be close enough to touch. Not that she would dare. Not just yet.

“Hello,” she said.

He looked at her, and she searched in his eyes for recognition, as if it was inevitable he would sense she wasn’t a stranger but his mam, his real flesh-and-blood mam. But there was nothing, just a shy glance.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” she asked. Like all the other children, he was carrying a large brown envelope.

“A photo. It’s of all the school taken together.”

“Can I see?”

He opened the envelope and took out the photo. “The infants are at the front. That’s me there.” He pointed to the end of the row, where he was sitting, knees crossed, looking serious. “Mr Carey said I spoilt it ‘cos I’m the only one not smiling.’

“Perhaps there wasn’t much to smile about that day.”

Flo turned the picture over. The photographer’s name was stamped on the back, which meant she could buy a copy for herself.

“I didn’t like having me photo taken much,” he said as they began to walk in the direction of Smithdown Road.

“Are you a friend of me mam’s?”

“No, but I know some people she knows. I knew your dad quite well.”

His eyes lit up. “Did ya? He died on a big ship under the sea, but the other boys won’t believe me when I tell them.”

“I believe you,” Flo declared. “I’ve got newspapers at home that tell all about it.”

“Can I come and see them?” he said eagerly. “I can read a bit.”

There was nothing Flo would have liked more, but she said, “I live too far away. Tell you what, though, I’ll come next Friday and bring the papers with me. We can sit on the grass in the Mystery and I’ll read them to you.”

“Can’t you come before?” The crestfallen look on his thin face was almost too much to bear. Flo wanted to snatch him up and carry him away. He was much too serious for a five-year-old. She’d like to teach him to laugh and sing, be happy. But it would be cruel to take him from the woman he thought was his mother, the woman he loved more than he would ever love Flo.

She said, “No, luv. I only get away from work on Fridays when I go to the bank. I should have been back ages ago. Me boss’ll be wondering where I am.”

The mam works in a sweetshop.”

“I know. Someone told me.” Martha and Nancy O’Mara still saw each other occasionally. Through Sally, Flo had learned that Nancy served in the shop till five o’clock, leaving ninety minutes during which Flo could see her son, although she could only be with him for a fraction of that time because of her own job. St Theresa’s junior and infants’ school was a few minutes away from the laundry.

“She brings me pear drops home sometimes, and dolly mixtures.” Unexpectedly, he reached up and put his small hand in hers. Flo could barely breathe as she touched her child for the first time. She stroked the back of his fingers with her thumb, wanting to cry as all sorts of emotions tumbled through her head. She said, knowing it sounded stupid, “I’d like to be your friend.”

He looked at her gravely. The mam doesn’t like me having friends.”

“Why not?” she asked in surprise.

“She said they’re a bad inf—” He stumbled over the word and rolled his eyes. “A bad inflex, or something.”

“A bad influence?”

“ ‘S right,’ he said.

“Perhaps I could be your secret friend.”

“Yes, please. I’d like that.”

They arrived at the laundry, where Mr Fritz was standing by the door looking concerned. He hurried towards them. “We were worried there’d been a holdup at the bank. Peggy thought you might have been shot.”

“Peggy’s seen too many films.”

“And who’s this?” He looked at Hugh benignly.

“This is my friend, Hugh O’Mara.” Flo pushed her son forward. “Hugh, say hello to me boss, Mr Fritz.”

“Hello,” Hugh said politely.

“Pleased to meet you, Hugh, old chap,” Mr Fritz said jovially.

Flo knelt in front of the little boy and said, in a whisper, “If ever you’re in trouble, this is where you can find me.

I’m here every day from eight till half past five, and till one on Sat’days.” She stroked his cheek. “Remember that, won’t you, luv?”

He nodded. “But I don’t know your name!”

“It’s Flo Clancy.”

“All right, Flo.”

“Tara, now. I’ll see you next Friday.”

He trotted off in his smart clothes, clutching the brown envelope. Flo watched till he turned the corner, and still watched even after he’d gone, imagining him passing the shops in Smithdown Road on his way to Clement Street, where he would remain in the house, alone and friendless, until Nancy came.

“What’s the matter, Flo?” Mr Fritz said gently.

“Nothing.” Flo returned to work, and it wasn’t until she was inside that she became aware of the tears that were streaming down her cheeks.

For years Gerard Davies had been imploring Flo to marry him. After they’d first met in the Rialto, he’d come to Liverpool whenever he could and he wrote to her regularly. As far as he was concerned, Flo was his girl, his sweetheart. “We’ll see once the war’s over,” Flo would say, whenever the subject of marriage was raised.

The war had been over for three months, the lights were on again and the celebrations, the parties, the dancing in the streets were just memories. Gerard Davies had been demobbed and was back in Swansea. He wrote to demand that Flo keep her promise.

He wasn’t the only one of her young men to propose—she could have had half a dozen husbands by now—but he was the most persistent. Flo turned down the proposals as tactfully as she could. She didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. They would never know that things hadn’t been quite so wonderful for her as they had been for them. She put the lovely letters away to keep for always.

To Gerard Davies she wrote that she’d only said, “We’ll see,” when the war was over. She hadn’t promised anything. She said that she liked him very, very much, and felt honoured that he wanted her for his wife, but he deserved to marry a woman who loved him far more than she did.

Perhaps it was unfortunate that she found Gerard’s letter waiting on the doormat when she arrived home the day she’d met Hugh outside school for the first time, otherwise she might have given more serious consideration to his proposal. It would be nice to have a husband, children, a proper house. Sally, who was expecting her first baby in January, had got a nice council house in Huyton with gardens front and back. Jock would complete his naval service in two years’ time and they would settle down and raise their family. And Bel had got married again in Egypt to a chap called Ivor, who claimed to be descended from the Hungarian royal family. She enclosed a photo of herself dressed in a lavish lace outfit standing next to a haughty young man with an undeniably regal manner. “Ivor lives in the land of make-believe,”

Bel wrote. “He’s no more royal than my big toe, but he makes me laugh. I’ll never love another man the way I loved Bob, but me and Ivor are good company for each other. I’ll be back in Liverpool very soon and you can see him for yourself.” The letter was signed, “Bel (Szerb!)” and there was a
PS.
“By the way, I think I’m pregnant!”

Why can’t I make do with second best? Flo asked herself. Why am I haunted by memories of making love with Tommy O’Mara in the Mystery all those years ago?

And why am I obsessed with the son I can never have?

She knew that if she married Gerard, she would be only half a wife to him and half a mother to their children. It wouldn’t be fair on him or them. She stuck the stamp on the envelope containing the letter to him, thumping it angrily with her fist.

When Bel returned, it was with news of another miscarriage.

“The doctor said I’ll never carry a baby to full term. I’ve got a weak cervix,” she said. Flo nodded sympathetically, as if she knew what it meant.

Bel was upset, but determined not to take the doctor’s verdict as final. The and Ivor intend to try again. At least the trying’s fun.” She winked. “It’s about time you got married and tried it, Flo.”

“Perhaps, one day.”

“I take it nothing came of you and Mr Fritz?”

“You were imagining things. We’re just friends.”

Flo couldn’t take to Ivor, whose manner was as haughty as his appearance. He expected his wife to wait on him hand and foot. Bel had a third miscarriage, and went to work behind the handbag counter in Owen Owen’s department store, while Ivor lolled around in their flat in Upper Parliament Street, refusing so much as to wash a dish.

“He won’t get a job,” Bel raged. She came round to Flo’s often to complain and calm her nerves with sherry.

“Whenever I point out a suitable vacancy in the Echo, he claims it’s beneath him.”

“But it’s not beneath him to live off his wife?”