Dancing the Charleston Read online

  ‘Oh, do stop worrying, Aunty,’ I said. ‘We’re going up to London and that’s that. We’ll be like Dick Whittington and make our fortune. We’ll both have heaps of money, and we’ll live like ladies and have roasts every Sunday and cake for tea every single day.’

  We got to the railway station with five minutes to spare. Aunty bought our return tickets, wincing at the expense, arguing that I should go free because I could sit on her lap. I protested – I’d felt such a fool on the bus – but then the train came roaring into the station and we had to scramble over the bridge to the other platform.

  The third-class carriages were at the end, and it was a long way up. Aunty went first, showing more than her calves in her shortened dress. She dragged the big case up behind her, and then reached out to grab hold of me. The guard blew his whistle before I was safely inside, and for one terrible moment I thought the train was going to start while I was still dangling there helplessly, but I jumped up, and Aunty got the door shut behind me just in time.

  We collapsed onto the dusty seats, breathing heavily, both of us in a fluster.

  ‘First time on a train, ladies?’ said a lad sitting opposite us. He was wearing his cloth cap on backwards and had a checked handkerchief tied around his neck. He tipped his cap to us and gave us both a cheery grin.

  ‘Yes, and we’re going all the way to London!’ I said.

  ‘What are you going to see?’ he asked.

  ‘Harrods!’

  ‘There’s no need to tell everyone our business, Mona,’ Aunty said primly.

  I knew she wouldn’t approve of any lad wearing his cap like that, especially when he didn’t even bother with a tie. I wished she wasn’t so narrow-minded. And I suddenly realized why the lady in the bank had mocked her when she said the word business. She said it in such a prissy, pinched-nose way. She was trying to sound like the Somersets, but not succeeding.

  ‘Mona,’ said the lad. ‘Pretty name. Unusual.’

  ‘It was my mother’s middle name,’ I said.

  He looked at Aunty.

  ‘Oh, she’s not my mother, she’s my aunt. Mother died when I was born,’ I said, widening my eyes and using the hallowed tone that usually made people feel sorry for me.

  It worked too. ‘You poor little mite. Still, nice of your aunty to look after you,’ he said, giving her a nod.

  She sniffed, scarcely acknowledging it.

  ‘I’m Arty,’ he went on. ‘Short for Arthur.’

  ‘How do you do,’ I said politely.

  Aunty frowned. ‘Please be quiet now, Mona. Have a little nap. You were up early. I shall do the same.’ She looked at Arty. ‘Please excuse us,’ she said curtly.

  Arty pulled a sympathetic face at me. Aunty nudged me, so I closed my eyes. I opened them after a minute or so. Aunty had her own eyes closed, her lips pressed together. Arty winked at me. I did my best to wink back, though I’d never quite mastered the art. I must have pulled a weird lopsided face because he spluttered with laughter.

  ‘That’s enough now!’ said Aunty, opening her eyes. She bent towards my ear. ‘We’ll get out at the next station and find another carriage, away from this lout,’ she whispered.

  However, she must have weighed up the time it would take to get out of the carriage with her suitcase, my bag and me, and worried that we wouldn’t have time to go through the whole performance in reverse, so she didn’t risk it. I was glad, because Arty was funny and friendly and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

  ‘Have you ever been to Harrods?’ I asked him, though Aunty glared at me for starting another conversation.

  ‘Oh, many a time,’ he said. ‘I get all my clothes there, naturally – and all the furniture in my humble abode is Harrods’ finest.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, impressed.

  ‘He’s talking nonsense,’ Aunty hissed.

  ‘Course I am,’ Arty said cheerily. ‘The likes of me don’t even get in the front door. They have these military chaps in green uniform who turf you out if they think you’re not out the top drawer.’

  ‘They don’t!’ I said, thinking he was still having me on.

  However, this time Aunty looked anxious, and I wondered if he might be right. ‘As if you’d know,’ she said, trying to reassure herself.

  ‘I do know,’ said Arty. ‘I’ve got a mate lives in London, works up Billingsgate fish market, and after his shift we play this dare game, see. Nothing too wicked – just schoolboy stuff like tipping the bowler hat off of a business gent or singing a daft song at the tops of our voices. Anyways, he suggests we go to Knightsbridge, where all the toffs do their shopping, and we bowl into Harrods, talking all fruity voiced, but this huge chap in green grabs hold of us and escorts us out the store.’

  ‘My goodness! Just because he didn’t like the way you look?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, in my mate’s case it was maybe because he always reeks to high heaven,’ said Arty, laughing.

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t be allowed into a place like Harrods,’ Aunty sniffed.

  ‘Will they let us in, Aunty?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mona, of course they will,’ she said, though she didn’t sound certain.

  ‘Are you going to see your mate today?’ I asked Arty.

  ‘No, I’m going on a recce,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have a look-see at some jewellery.’

  ‘In Harrods?’

  ‘Well, they’re supposed to have the finest gems, but it would be a tad out of my league,’ he said cheerily. ‘Likewise Hatton Garden. But my mate’s tipped me off there’s some bargains to be had at Portobello Market, so I’ll try my luck there.’

  The only market I’d ever been to was in Hailbury, where they sold carrots and cabbages and apples, and chickens in cages that pecked you through the bars if you didn’t watch out. I wondered if Arty was joking again. Half the time he seemed to be talking a different language.

  ‘I’m getting this ring,’ he said, rubbing the third finger of his left hand. ‘For my girl,’ he added when I still looked blank. ‘I’ve been going out with this young lady for six months or more and it’s getting serious. I’m thinking of popping the question – you know, will she marry me?’

  ‘And will she?’

  ‘Not if she’s got any sense,’ Aunty murmured.

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ said Arty. ‘I’ve a feeling she’ll be thrilled, but I need a ring, see. No use taking her up west with me and finding I can’t afford a proper sparkler. I want to have one tucked in my pocket, ready. So what kind do you think she’d like, ladies?’ He looked at Aunty. ‘If some gent was to ask you to marry him, what kind of engagement ring would you fancy?’

  ‘I wouldn’t fancy any kind,’ said Aunty. ‘I’ve never wanted to marry.’

  I wondered if she was telling the truth. She’d never had any gentleman followers, and always spoke disparagingly of the men in Rook Green – of all men, apart from the Somersets. I’d often been told that I had a vivid imagination but, try as I might, I couldn’t conjure up any vision of Aunty tenderly courting.

  I wasn’t sure romance would ever happen to me either – though I did have a soft spot for Peter Robinson. And Roland Somerset, but he was unlikely to speak to me again, let alone propose.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Arty. ‘A lovely lady like you shouldn’t end up single. I bet you were a saucy minx back in the war.’

  He was obviously teasing now. Aunty should have laughed it off or said something crushing, but she went pink and bent her head.

  ‘No offence meant,’ Arty added.

  Aunty carried on staring into her lap. Arty pulled a face at me and didn’t say any more. After ten minutes or so his eyes closed and he fell asleep, his snores making it clear that he wasn’t pretending. Aunty winced.

  I stared out of the window. We were still in the countryside, but these were new hills, new trees, new hedges. I hadn’t realized how huge the country was. I remembered lisping ‘Tom, Tom, the Piper’s Son’ when I was little, lo