By the Friday of that week, Violet felt as if she would burst with excitement, a fact that wasn’t lost on Queenie as Violet sat down at the kitchen table and poured herself a cup of tea.
‘What’s got you all hot under the collar?’ Queenie asked, her hair still in curlers and liver-spotted hands wrapped firmly around her cup.
‘What do you mean?’ Violet helped herself to the remaining slice of toast on the table and spread it thinly with the last of that week’s butter ration.
‘You’re up to something,’ Queenie stated. ‘And it ain’t nothing to do with work neither.’
‘It’s the dance, Nan,’ Violet replied. ‘It’s all anyone can talk about.’
Not meeting her grandmother’s eye, Violet took a bite of toast and tried to ignore the way her cheeks had flamed red.
‘So I’ve heard. Maisie’s taking dance lessons.’ Queenie took a sip of tea and looked smug.
Violet met her gaze, eyes flashing with horror. ‘Why?’
Queenie shrugged. ‘I’ve a feeling she might fancy her chances.’
‘She’d better bleedin’ not!’ Violet cried. ‘I don’t want her showing me up.’
‘Oh leave off, Vi,’ Queenie said with a sigh. ‘Let the girl have a bit of fun. Strikes me she could do with a bit of that. She’s taken George’s departure very hard.’
Violet took another bite of toast. It was true. She had heard Maisie cry herself to sleep for several nights, but the past couple of days she’d appeared bright-eyed and cheerful. She had also beaten her to work, saying she had a couple of errands to run and making the journey herself.
‘She’s doing practice before work ain’t she?’ Violet said, the penny dropping.
Queenie nodded. ‘Winnie Adams’s niece is helping her. Apparently she knows her way around the dance floor.’
As Violet finished her toast she realised that was probably true. There was something in the way Temperance walked, she thought. She had a certain grace. Eamon had it too, the slow gait, the way his feet almost glided across the floor rather than walked. She caught herself and blushed again.
‘So I’ll ask you again why you’re so happy,’ Queenie said, pushing her cup away and reaching now for the cigarettes that lived permanently in the pocket of her housecoat.
‘No reason,’ Violet said.
Regarding her for a moment, Queenie put the cigarette to her lips and lit it. She took a long pull before she spoke. ‘My eye there ain’t, and I’ll tell you now it’s got bugger all to do with this dance. But you’re old enough to have your own secrets, you’ll tell me when you’re ready.’
Violet shot her grandmother a grateful smile. The truth was, a small part of her was desperate to share her news with someone, but a bigger part of her wanted to keep it to herself.
On Monday, as Eamon had helped her sort out the hangers in the cloakroom ready for the evening dance, he had asked her to tea.
‘I wondered if you might like to come for tea with me on Friday,’ he’d said earnestly as he handed her a hanger, his hand brushing against hers. ‘If you’re not working that is.’
A sudden thrill shot through her at his touch, and she turned to meet his gaze. ‘I’m not, and I should like that very much.’
‘Me too,’ Eamon replied, his eyes not leaving hers. ‘I’ll pick you up when your shift finishes if you like.’
And Violet had nodded, already mentally counting down the hours until she finished work. Although in a funny way, she thought, turning her face towards the window and enjoying the bright sunshine on her face, she already felt as if she did know him. She had felt it the moment they met. It was as if they were so drawn to each other they had no control over what lay ahead. Peering at Queenie, who by now had closed her eyes and was facing the sun, she had a feeling her grandmother would be the one to understand. But still, this notion of keeping the precious gift to herself won out. And she knew that although she would be proud to tell her grandmother soon, for the minute it felt like a luxury to have this private joy that was hers alone.
‘Violet!’ Betty’s voice pierced the silence, jolting both Queenie and Violet out of their reveries.
As Betty burst through the door, Violet regarded her mother with suspicion. Her mouth was set in a firm line and she looked as if she meant business.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘You haven’t given me your housekeeping this week, that’s what’s wrong,’ Betty snapped.
‘I have.’ Indignation flared in Violet. ‘I gave it to you Monday when I got paid.’
A flicker of confusion passed across Betty’s features. ‘Then where is it?’
‘Well you can’t blame George for this one,’ Queenie said pointedly. ‘The thieving git’s not even ’ere.’
‘That’s another thing,’ Betty said, ignoring Queenie’s barbed comment. ‘I ain’t seen you send your father a letter yet.’
‘I’ve been busy,’ Violet fumed.
‘Maisie’s sent him three already and he’s only been gone just over a week,’ Betty countered. ‘I should say she’s as busy as you.’
‘Busier with all this dancing I should say,’ Queenie muttered under her breath.
For a second Violet’s heart stopped as she thought her mother had heard what her grandmother had said. The last thing she or Maisie needed was further disapproval from their mother. But as her mother ransacked through her bag, no doubt looking for the housekeeping Violet had given her on Monday, it was clear she hadn’t heard.
‘Oh!’ Betty said now, pulling out a brown paper envelope. ‘Sorry, Vi, it was in ’ere all along.’
‘See,’ Violet said triumphantly, ‘not all your family are diddlin’ you.’
‘Look I’m sorry.’ Betty pinched the bridge of her nose and Violet saw for a moment how tired her mother looked.
‘You all right?’ she said, getting to her feet and walking towards her mother.
Betty gave her a tired smile and nodded. ‘Just got a bit on me mind, that’s all.’
‘Nothing to do with that girl what came round last night is it?’ Queenie asked, opening her eyes and addressing her daughter-in-law.
‘What girl?’ Violet asked, puzzled.
Betty waved the question away. ‘Oh it was just some girl looking for your father. Used to work with him or something. She didn’t know he’d joined-up, said she had a message for him.’
Queenie raised an eyebrow. ‘More like a beating from one of his creditors. You sure it weren’t Old Robin’s girl? He’s got previous for getting one over on those that owe him a couple of quid by sending his daughter along to soften ’em up before he brings the heavies in.’
‘I dunno who it was,’ Betty snapped. ‘I sent her away with a flea in her ear, that’s all I do know.’ Her face softened as she slipped her bag on her shoulder. ‘Anyway, I’m off up the market, I’ll see you later.’
With that Violet watched her mother leave, sure there was something else wrong. Betty’s voice had been tired and clipped, and Violet had a feeling her mother hadn’t been entirely honest about who the girl was or what she wanted. Only glancing at her watch, Violet saw there was no time to think about it now. Slipping on her shoes and waving goodbye to her grandmother, Violet had her own business to attend to.
Reaching the Palais, Violet walked through the double doors towards the cloakroom, ready to start her daily cleaning and tidying duties. Only as she passed the practice room she was amazed to see Sybil and Renee hunched over what looked like a mound of shoes.
‘What’s all this?’ Violet asked.
Renee whirled around to smile at her. ‘Men’s dance shoes, love.’
Violet cast her gaze over the neatly sorted piles. There were hundreds of pairs.
‘But why?’
Sybil gave her a withering look. ‘It’s for the soldiers, so they don’t ruin the floor with their hobnail boots.’
‘The idea is they’ll swap their boots for a pair of classy dance shoes that don’t knacker the arse end of the maple,’ Renee explained. ‘You got time to give us a hand, love?’
Violet sensed it was more of an order than a question. Soon she got into a rhythm, piling and sorting.
‘Where’s everyone else?’ Violet asked.
At the question she noticed a flicker of irritation pass across Renee’s face. ‘Nancy’s up the synagogue seeing the rabbi about something and Temperance and Maisie haven’t been seen since they got in early.’
Violet said nothing. She had a very good idea where Maisie and Temperance were but knew better than to stir things up further.
‘This dance is already causing trouble,’ Renee continued. ‘As if lads’ll bother changing their shoes.’
‘You’re just sore ’cos you ain’t judging,’ Sybil jeered, a lock of her blonde bob falling in her face as she threw another pair of elevens into the pile.
‘That’s got nothing to do with it,’ Renee fired back.
But one look at Renee’s face told a different story. Violet looked at the angry redhead for a moment and felt sure there was more wrong than the fact she wasn’t involved in the dance competition. She hadn’t known Renee very long but she very much thought her bark was worse than her bite.
‘So where did all these shoes suddenly come from?’ Violet asked, eager to change the subject.
‘A lot of them were donated,’ Sybil said. ‘And Mrs Goldstein bought some too. She’s so generous.’
‘Not generous enough to put you in my dance pen,’ Renee said witheringly.
‘I don’t know why you won’t let me be a dancer,’ Sybil grumbled, as she threw a pair of eights into the pile.
‘Because you’ve a sense of timing that would make a busted clock look worth keeping,’ Renee quipped.
Sybil glared at Renee but as she opened her mouth to speak, Violet interrupted, in a bid to stop a war from breaking out.
‘So where d’you say the rest of these shoes came from?’ she asked again.
‘Some of ’em were lost property, and don’t even ask how fellas managed to lose their shoes,’ Renee said with an exasperated sigh.
‘Oh come on, Renee,’ Sybil jeered. ‘I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve been responsible for a fella losing his shoes, or his trousers come to that.’
Violet heard the slap before she saw Sybil suddenly clutching her cheek and Renee looking murderous and triumphant.
‘I have warned you, lady,’ Renee spat, getting to her feet and towering over Sybil. ‘Now p’raps you’ll learn, don’t take me on.’
Violet stood up, ready to intervene but she was too late, as Sybil launched herself at Renee. ‘I’ll kill you, you stupid cow.’
‘Stop it,’ Violet cried as she threw herself on the warring women and tried to pull them apart.
But the two were hell-bent on destroying each other as hands, feet and insults were traded quicker than bets on Grand National day.
Just then, Violet heard the sound of footsteps behind her and before she had a chance to see who it was, a tall young man appeared, his face a picture of fury.
‘Enough!’ he roared, pulling the two women apart.
It was the only thing that worked, and as the man successfully stood holding a woman in each hand, Violet realised she knew him – it was Archie Ledbetter, the butcher’s son.
Archie smiled at her in recognition.
‘Hello, Violet, fancy seeing you here.’