1951
IT ISN’T THAT MY MOTHER wouldn’t like the idea or would forbid me from going to the dance. Quite the opposite. She’d want to know everything: who was there, if I’d danced with anyone and if so, who he was, and what sort of family he’s from. I’d never hear the end of it. It’s why I left the house in my ordinary clothes, telling her I was going to Ann’s to work on a school project. I’m not even friends with Ann. And of course I don’t mention Lucy.
I park my bicycle outside the town hall and wait anxiously. Already girls are beginning to arrive in twos and threes, giggling and clutching each other’s arms. A handful of boys lurk on the other side of the road in their peaked caps, smoking cigarettes, pretending not to be interested yet giving themselves away with constant glances and readjustments of their jackets.
She’s stepping out of her father’s Austin Somerset. A yellow dress, nipped in at the waist, with a fashionable square neckline. Shoes with a small heel. She’s wearing her hair in a stylish updo.
‘Edie.’ She calls to me and waves.
I wave back, hardly believing it’s my name she’s calling, and then she is rushing across the road towards me. Up close I can see she’s wearing make-up, a thin chain with a rose pendant, and tiny silver clip-on pearl and sapphire earrings. Perhaps she borrowed the earrings from her mother. I imagine Barbara Theddle to have an extensive jewellery collection: she’s rarely seen out without a string of pearls at her neck.
‘Your hair is lovely,’ I tell her. ‘You look like an air hostess.’
Lucy laughs. ‘They’re so glamorous, aren’t they? And all those places you’d see. But there’s no money in it. Not that that’s what the girls are interested in . . .’
I give her a questioning glance and she links her arm through mine.
‘The pilots, silly. They’re all hoping to bag one.’
I blush. ‘You still look lovely. I like your earrings.’
‘Oh, they’re my mother’s. A present from a sweetheart many years ago, although I doubt my father knows that.’ She laughs.
We head straight to the ladies’ room, Lucy waiting outside whilst I change into my Sunday dress with the sweet pea print. It’s my second-best dress after the blue voile, but my mother would be livid if I damaged that one: she spent ages making it and the material was expensive.
‘Here,’ Lucy says, glancing down at my brown lace-ups. She reaches into her bag. ‘I brought you some shoes. I wasn’t sure you’d have any.’
I take the shoes from Lucy – navy blue with small heels and an ankle strap.
‘Are you sure . . . ?’
‘Of course.’
We enter the hall to find the dance in full swing. Colourful dresses, shined shoes, slicked-back hair, shy smiles and cheerful chatter. Paper streamers have been hung from the ceiling. The band is playing a swing tune and Reverend Thurby is bustling around, throwing away empty paper cups. A few couples are spinning and bopping on the dance floor.
In Lucy’s shoes, I feel tall and glamorous. Pushing my shoulders back, I experience a new sense of confidence. I think of what I’d usually be doing on a Saturday night: lying on my bed reading Malory Towers or Jane Eyre for the millionth time, or in the kitchen with my mother helping with the dishes, listening to a dreary old play on the wireless. That Edie Green doesn’t seem anything to do with me anymore. Being with Lucy feels as though someone has opened a window and I am experiencing a rush of cold air on my face.
There are plenty of girls I recognise from school, and some I don’t. I expect they’ve come from the neighbouring towns and villages. Word must have gotten around that the band was coming. Most of the girls who aren’t dancing stand around in groups stealing glances at the boys; others are sitting down on the benches provided. Judy, Ann and Linda are at the refreshment table: Fruit Punch and Ices. Linda is wearing a salmon-coloured dress that washes out her pale complexion, and Ann has far too much eyeliner on. Judy notices us; she waves at Lucy, stares at me, then looks away.
I’ve been walking to and from school with Lucy for three weeks now. The envious glances of the other girls when Lucy meets me at the gate at four o’clock have not gone unnoticed. I don’t care. I always thought Lucy and I could be friends; it feels perfectly natural, as if it should have been this way all along, and walking to and from school has become my favourite time of day. My diary is filled with suns.
Yesterday, after school, Lucy had youth orchestra practice in the town hall and I went with her and waited, even though it is the wrong way for me. I didn’t mind. I enjoyed sitting outside on the step, plucking at the daisies, listening to the youth of Ludthorpe play sketchy renditions of Bach or Vivaldi. Not that I’m one to talk – I don’t know much about classical music. My mother prefers to listen to popular stuff, swing and jazz.
On Wednesday at lunchtime I was crossing the courtyard and Lucy was sitting with Judy Simpson at one of the picnic tables.
‘Would you like to join us, Edie?’ Lucy asked me. ‘We’ve plenty of space here. You needn’t use that awful bench, you know.’
Judy’s face was a picture. She glowered all the way through lunch whilst messily eating a sausage roll, glancing up at me and trying to get Lucy’s attention by going on about how beastly Miss Benson had been to us during maths.
‘She’s very fair, though,’ I said when Judy had finished her little speech. ‘I never understood long division before Miss Benson.’
‘Yes.’ Lucy immediately agreed with me. ‘I don’t think she’s all that horrid.’
Judy looked as though she’d been slapped, and I had to stifle a smile behind my sandwich. I know Judy is jealous of my new friendship with Lucy, that she can’t believe Lucy would rather spend time with me than with her. If Judy only knew that I share Lucy’s biggest secret.
I’ve tried to encourage Lucy to talk about Mr Wheaton but she is reluctant to discuss the subject other than to admit it was ‘all a mistake’, or ‘all over now, so there’s really nothing to talk about’, and to confirm, several times, that I haven’t told anyone. But then yesterday, I was walking along the lower corridor with Lucy between lessons when Mr Wheaton came along, carrying a pile of books. He stopped when he saw us and asked, casually, if Lucy could come to his office after school to talk about her French Revolution essay. Our essays were handed in a week ago, marked and given back to us. If he’d wanted to see Lucy, he would have said last week when we got our marks. What could he possibly want to see her about now?
Lucy confirmed she would, and Mr Wheaton had hurried off, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
‘Sorry, Edie. I guess I won’t be able to walk with you tonight,’ Lucy had said apologetically.
‘Are you sure it’s wise? Going to see him on your own.’
She’d glanced around nervously as if someone might have been listening to us. ‘Shh, of course. It’s fine. He’s still our teacher, isn’t he?’
I’d opened my mouth but was silenced by a cackle of girls exiting the library. We were absorbed into the general throng of the corridor and I didn’t think it a good idea to mention Mr Wheaton again, as much as I had wanted to.
I haven’t had a chance to ask Lucy what he wanted, but ever since he spoke to her in the corridor I’ve had a creeping, ominous feeling. After what happened between them, surely Mr Wheaton should be doing everything he can to keep away from Lucy, not approaching her in the corridor in front of her friends, brazenly asking to see her and giving no good reason?
A voice behind us. ‘Hello, Lucy. Have you been here long?’
It’s Rupert Mayhew with another boy. Rupert is dressed in a smart striped blazer and his hair is slick with Brylcreem. The second boy is wearing a green corduroy jacket and a red tie. They are both much better dressed than most of the other boys in the room. Rupert doesn’t look like he’s worked a day in his life. It’s hard to imagine him at the undergarment factory with his father, sitting in the office all day, overseeing the factory floor.
‘Oh, hello, Rupert,’ Lucy says casually, leaning in and giving him a friendly kiss on the cheek.
I can tell the kiss has pleased Rupert even though he smiles nonchalantly. There is an air of confidence and dignity about him, but something else too – the stress and anxiety of a young man whom others expect things of. A younger brother never quite matching up to the elder, perhaps.
I can see from the way he keeps glancing at Lucy that he’s smitten with her. Well, that doesn’t matter. He’s just a friend to Lucy. Still, my stomach quivers. I want Lucy to myself. I don’t want to lose her to Rupert. I picture him waiting outside the school gates ready to walk her home whilst I am left behind.
‘This is Ivor.’ Lucy gestures, for my benefit, to the boy in the red tie. ‘You’ve both met Edie, haven’t you?’
Rupert holds his hand out and I shake it. ‘I don’t believe we have,’ he says, smiling at me.
Rupert’s hand is cool but Ivor’s is warm and a little damp and I fight the urge to wipe my hand on my dress.
‘Well, for goodness’ sake, let’s dance!’ Lucy exclaims as the band starts up with a new song. ‘That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?’
Rupert obligingly offers Lucy his hand, leading her to the dance floor where they begin to move in time with the music, another fast swing. Lucy dances beautifully, twirling and spinning assuredly yet elegantly, in full possession of herself. Most of the girls sitting on the benches are watching Lucy and Rupert and I have to admit they make quite a pair. They’ve known each other a long time, I remind myself; that’s why they’re so comfortable together.
‘Do you dance, Edie?’
Ivor has leaned over and is talking close to my ear. His breath smells of humbugs but it isn’t unpleasant.
‘Oh. Not really. I mean, only a little. I’m not very good.’
‘Well, I’m not much good either, but we could give it a go if you like.’
Taking Ivor’s arm, stepping onto the floor, I can feel the rhythm of the music pulsing through my body and somehow the steps come to me. I dance cautiously at first, then with more conviction. Just feel the music, my mother used to tell me as we waltzed or bopped across the hearthrug. Ivor isn’t a bad dancer at all, a little clumsy at first but then he relaxes and leads well. He seems to enjoy letting me twirl away and come back to him. I go faster and faster, feeling exhilarated, the images and colours blurring in front of my eyes: the hem of a dress, an open collar, a flash of lipstick.
When the dance ends, I thank him politely. The band starts up again, a waltz this time. The dance floor is already thronged with entwined couples. Ivor looks at me with a slight shrug as if to say, shall we do this one too? But then Lucy appears. ‘Time to swap partners,’ she tells us. A flicker of disappointment crosses Rupert’s face but then he’s smiling, leading me to a clear spot on the floor.
I try to remember the steps but I don’t feel quite so at ease with Rupert. Perhaps because I know he’d prefer to be dancing with Lucy. I concentrate on my feet, not wanting to make a fool of myself and remembering those waltzes with my mother. Quick, quick, slow, Edie. Keep your arms up. That’s it.
‘How long have you known Lucy?’ Rupert asks as we dance, his hand firmly placed on the small of my back.
‘Oh, just a little while,’ I shout into his ear. ‘We go to school together.’
‘I’m going to marry her.’
I almost stop in surprise but Rupert doesn’t seem to notice; he continues to move us effortlessly around the floor. We’re further away from the band now which makes it easier to hear him.
‘You’re going to marry Lucy? Have you asked her then?’
Rupert laughs. ‘No, of course not. Not yet. We’ll have to wait a year or two. Well, until she’s eighteen, I expect.’
‘What makes you think she’ll say yes?’
Rupert’s eyes sparkle. ‘Of course she’ll say yes. We’re great together. Everyone has always known we’ll get married one day. She’s hardly going to say no, is she?’
‘But I thought you were just friends?’
‘Is that what she told you?’
I say nothing, not wanting to betray Lucy.
‘Well, she would say that. I mean, nothing’s official yet.’
A lump rises in my throat. Why did Lucy lie to me? And what else isn’t she telling me?
The song ends and Rupert takes up with Judy, who practically throws her arms around him, smiling gleefully.
I look around, scanning the room, but can’t see Lucy anywhere.
Eventually I find her outside, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette and with a cup of fruit punch. The evening is warm for the first week of May. A light breeze rustles the newly unfurled leaves and the air is tinged with smoke; someone must be having a bonfire.
‘Oh, hello, Edie. Do you want one?’ She offers me a cigarette.
I shake my head. ‘No, thanks.’
‘Here, have some of this, then.’
I take a sip of the punch, the taste sweet and plummy, then hand it back to her.
‘Rupert’s quite a good dancer, really, isn’t he?’
I frown. ‘He says he’s going to marry you. Are you going steady then?’
Lucy flinches and takes a drag on her cigarette. ‘We’re all far too young to get married, Edie,’ she says quietly.
‘Still, it doesn’t seem right. That Rupert thinks you’re going steady but you say you’re not. You should tell him now so he’s clear about it.’
Lifting her chin, she exhales a plume of smoke then sighs heavily. ‘I know. But I suppose I don’t want to hurt him. And I’ve got a lot going on right now.’
My throat tightens. ‘It’s Mr Wheaton, isn’t it? When he asked to see you yesterday . . .’
Lucy’s cheeks colour. She has finished her cigarette and stamps on it with the heel of her shoe, rubbing it into the gravel.
‘He didn’t want to see you about your essay, did he?’
‘No,’ she says, glancing at me coyly then leaning back against the wall.
‘Well, what’s going on?’
‘It’s difficult to say, exactly.’
I press my lips together. ‘Is he – harassing you? Because if he is—’
‘He isn’t harassing me, Edie. We’re involved. I mean, we’re having an affair.’
I gape idiotically at her. ‘An affair?’
Lucy glances around nervously. ‘Shh. Keep your voice down, will you?’
But there is no one around, only two boys across the road on the green, too far away to hear us. One punches the other playfully on the arm and they laugh loudly, causing several pigeons to take off from the tree.
‘Has this been going on all this time? Since I saw you . . .’
‘Yes,’ she says.
I am cross with myself for believing her when she said it was over. ‘Lucy, this is very serious. He’s our teacher. He’s married.’
For some reason she begins to giggle loudly, then finishes with a snort. ‘Sorry,’ she says, covering her mouth with her hand. ‘I know all of that, really I do.’ She swallows and takes a breath. ‘It’s just that I’ve been waiting for something like this, something exciting, to happen to me my whole life. Now it finally has and I just can’t give it up.’ She looks earnestly at me, wanting me to understand. ‘And Max simply adores me.’
‘Max?’ I rub my forehead. Mr Wheaton. Our history teacher. A married man. It has been going on all this time and she never told me.
‘I’ve been seeing him outside of school,’ she continues. ‘We park up by the woods and talk and kiss . . .’ She grips my arm, her eyes ablaze. ‘I know we shouldn’t be doing it but I can’t tell you how wonderful it is. I get this delicious pain in my stomach just thinking about him.’
I stare at her.
‘Oh, Edie, don’t look at me like that. We’re not doing any harm. How can something that feels so divine possibly be doing any harm?’
I blink, not knowing what to say. The boys are crossing the road now, making their way back into the hall; I can hear the band playing ‘Take The A Train’.
‘What about Mr Wheaton’s wife? Don’t you feel awful?’
Lucy shrugs. ‘No, not really. I know I should, but I don’t. Max is so unhappy with her and people should be happy, Edie.’ She puts her hand on my arm. ‘It’s my secret. No one knows. You obviously mustn’t tell anyone.’ She shudders. ‘My parents would probably disown me and never talk to me again, like they did with Uncle Roland when he got divorced. My mother said she couldn’t cope with the scandal. Her own brother. Divorce!’
I lower my head, my stomach hardening. She said it was all over.
‘Why did you lie? You told me—’
‘Yes, well, it wasn’t a lie then. We did decide it mustn’t go on, but then when we saw each other again . . . Of course it was just impossible.’
I straighten my back. However shocked I feel, whatever I think, Lucy has trusted me with her secret. I’m her best friend, I must be. Otherwise she wouldn’t have told me. ‘Of course I won’t say anything,’ I tell her.
She turns and flings her arms around me and I stumble backward, surprised at the sudden embrace.
‘Gosh, it does feel good to tell someone,’ she says, releasing me. ‘It’s been eating me alive. I do feel dreadfully guilty about Rupert. I am awfully fond of him but it just isn’t the same. And I told you – my father doesn’t want me to go to college, he wants me to marry as soon as I finish school, live just up the road where he can keep an eye on me. He’d be delighted if I married Rupert, but I just can’t bear the thought of it all, of knowing exactly how it will be, staying here in Ludthorpe, being Mrs Mayhew . . . Max, well, it’s different. He’s a man. He’s had experience of things. We’re so perfect together, and I make him happy, I know I do. I’m happy too, happier than I’ve ever been, in fact.’ She smiles dreamily. ‘Max says he loves me.’
I blink at her in astonishment. How can Mr Wheaton possibly love her? I want to tell her not to be so stupid, but the thought nags at me that perhaps she’s right, and what do I know? Who am I to stand in the way of love, to give my inexperienced opinions? But the uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach lingers.
Lucy is dropping the cigarette packet into her handbag. ‘We’d better get back in, Edie. We’ve got time for a few more dances I should think. Rupert’s going to drive me home, he’s borrowed the car. I hope you don’t mind. My father only agreed to let me go if Rupert was going to be there to chaperone me. You’d think it was 1922 or something.’
She gulps down the last of the punch and before I can say anything else, she’s grabbing my hand and leading me back towards the hall, her little white shoes tap-tapping up the steps.