Dancing on Deansgate
1940
1
It was dark in the cellar so the girl felt quite safe in not pulling down the blind, despite blackout restrictions. At least the darkness within helped her to see better what was happening outside in the street, although the light was fading fast on this grey December afternoon. The gentle brown eyes were just about on a level with the pavement as she peered up through the grimy window set high in the wall. Had anyone taken the trouble to look in, they would have seen how huge they appeared in the pale oval of her face; a face which bore the marks of her mother’s beauty yet with none of its brittleness. These cheeks were round and soft, the chin square and firm, giving an air of strength to the wan features. Even in the semi-darkness, light glimmered in the long strands of shining brown hair. Looking for all the world as if it had been cut with a knife and fork, the girl made no attempt to keep it tidy but allowed it to sweep carelessly about her face, as if the tumbling curls could shelter her from the world and hide the fear which filled those wide, startled eyes.
Her vision was limited through the grille that covered the window, and what little she could see was obscured by booted feet as shoppers dashed along in search of last-minute presents, turning the snow underfoot to a grey slush. War or no war, it was still Christmas.
Somewhere, beyond the periphery of her vision, she could hear a band: The Salvation Army playing ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’, and despite her fear that the raids might start again at any moment the sound brought a sensation of strange excitement, a quickening of her pulse. The soft, rose-pink lips broke into a wistful smile for, at fifteen, Jess Delaney wanted to be out amongst the crowds listening to the band, to be a part of the festive scene instead of missing all the fun, confined as she was in her own private hell-hole night after night. At first she’d made little complaint, not seeing it as important, simply another of Lizzie’s eccentricities.
But now it was all too serious.
They were calling it the Christmas Blitz. It had started a few nights ago and in no time the whole of Manchester had seemed to be in flames, making everyone fear for their life. Enemy bombers had come again the next night, following the line of the canal system right into the heart of the city, pounding the life out of it for hour upon hour. Amongst others, Piccadilly had been hit, the Victoria Buildings destroyed, as well as damage done to the famous Free Trade Hall. A landmine had even fallen on Victoria Station. Who would know if one small house were bombed and a young girl lay buried beneath it? Who would trouble to come looking for her? Jess would much rather have gone to an air raid shelter along with the rest of Deansgate Village, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it.
‘Don’t lock me in,’ she’d protested as she’d watched Lizzie apply the scarlet lipstick to her full mouth, frizz up her hair and generally attempt to make herself as appealing as possible. Lizzie had a weakness, several in fact, but the main ones came, as she herself was fond of saying, either in a glass or a pair of trousers.
‘Don’t you start yer fratching. I’ve no time to listen, not now. I have to pop out and do a bit of business. Anyroad, you’ll be safe enough in the cellar. No jerry bombs’ll get you here. Solid as a rock is this house.’
Had she offered these words of comfort in any tone of voice other than careless and disinterested, Jess might well have believed her. She always wanted to. If you couldn’t trust your own mother then who could you trust? But in Lizzie’s case, Jess had learned from long experience that it simply wasn’t wise to do so. Lizzie never put anyone’s needs before her own, not even those of her own daughter, as her behaviour showed all too clearly.
Now, all Jess could do was listen to the street door bang shut and with a sinking of her heart, watch her mother’s feet in their inappropriately high heels trip by window above.
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