thought of what she might do if Grace tells on her makes Grace shiver. However, Grace can’t work in a house where she can’t look the butler in the eye without going crimson, and she needs the position. It may not give her thirty shillings a month, but it gives her a good deal more than nothing. Nor does she want Joseph’s smiles to vanish.
‘It wasn’t me.’ When Mrs Wainwright asks her if she knows who it was, Grace shakes her head so as it might fall off.
Grace isn’t drinking, which puts her out between Mary and the two men, and they’re in a dance hall, all red velvet and smoke and a smell to the crowd that isn’t a smell but makes Grace think that dancing is not what it’s about here. Still, the band is playing the latest tunes, all animal dances they are, and Mary made Grace practise in their room, with the footsteps from the newspaper. Now Mary has danced off with her fellow and Grace has been left with Mr Pointer.
Call me Will, he’d said, but the familiarity sticks in her throat. He’s not a tall man but his limbs are steel wire and he has sharp narrow eyes that were darting from side to side at the beginning of the evening, but are lolling a bit now as the middle of his moustache dampens with beer. Grace can’t hear a word of what he’s saying, not with the band, and now he’s his arm tight around her shoulder and walking her on to the dance floor. It’s not one of the dances she knows. ‘I don’t know how to do this, Mr Pointer,’ she says, not knowing if he can hear her or not, but he keeps moving her on.
The couples around them are dancing closer than she’d like and Mr Pointer’s body’s near against hers. Grace tries to draw back, but he’s holding her tight as a trap, and coming in close so that there’s hot beer in her ear. It feels as though there’s a barrel-band across her chest and her lungs are only moving a little now, panting she is, and Mr Pointer goes ‘Oh’ and moves closer. Lord knows what she’ll feel of him next. ‘Come on,’ he says, but the thick air, the bodies, Mr Pointer’s locked-stiff arms are all making her feel ill. The dance floor’s so crowded there’s not a chance of keeping your distance, not that anybody on it looks like they want to. You’d’ve thought someone would put an end to it, in public, but it’s too dark, isn’t it, for anyone to see if they don’t want to. It’s the new dances, too, pushing you towards each other every few steps.
Grace puts her heel on the toe of Mr Pointer’s boot. The edge, quite careful, so as all her weight’s on just that tiny bit, and he steps back. She smiles, mouths ‘Pardon’, then ‘Excuse me’. He nods to the bar, with ‘I’ll see you there’. Grace wriggles into the crowd fast as she can, knocking through the elbows, she’s fetched her coat in a flash, then out the door into the strange street. They came here in a taxicab and what bus, or where the stop is, she doesn’t want to spend the time looking for. A taxi draws up and a group of men fall out, with one lady screeching with laughter. Good Lord, Grace thinks, the extravagance, what she earns in … but Grace looks back over her shoulder and thinks she can see Mr Pointer coming out the door. It is him, and he’s walking towards her. Grace’s heart is pounding and she knocks on the taxi’s front window a flutter of times in a second, until the driver looks at her as if she’s half crazed. Park Lane, she says, and he raises his eyebrows. Then she’s on that empty seat quick as she can, grabbing the leather strap inside and pulling the door shut. Once she’s moving, she looks back at Mr Pointer and waves at him. At least he might tell Mary she’s gone, if Mary’ll notice anything.
The cab is shaking from side to side as though the ground’s rumbling underneath, and each time it comes up behind a horse Grace is thrown forward as the driver brakes. Once she’s back in her seat, her eyes are fixed on the taxi meter as it clicks
‘It wasn’t me.’ When Mrs Wainwright asks her if she knows who it was, Grace shakes her head so as it might fall off.
Grace isn’t drinking, which puts her out between Mary and the two men, and they’re in a dance hall, all red velvet and smoke and a smell to the crowd that isn’t a smell but makes Grace think that dancing is not what it’s about here. Still, the band is playing the latest tunes, all animal dances they are, and Mary made Grace practise in their room, with the footsteps from the newspaper. Now Mary has danced off with her fellow and Grace has been left with Mr Pointer.
Call me Will, he’d said, but the familiarity sticks in her throat. He’s not a tall man but his limbs are steel wire and he has sharp narrow eyes that were darting from side to side at the beginning of the evening, but are lolling a bit now as the middle of his moustache dampens with beer. Grace can’t hear a word of what he’s saying, not with the band, and now he’s his arm tight around her shoulder and walking her on to the dance floor. It’s not one of the dances she knows. ‘I don’t know how to do this, Mr Pointer,’ she says, not knowing if he can hear her or not, but he keeps moving her on.
The couples around them are dancing closer than she’d like and Mr Pointer’s body’s near against hers. Grace tries to draw back, but he’s holding her tight as a trap, and coming in close so that there’s hot beer in her ear. It feels as though there’s a barrel-band across her chest and her lungs are only moving a little now, panting she is, and Mr Pointer goes ‘Oh’ and moves closer. Lord knows what she’ll feel of him next. ‘Come on,’ he says, but the thick air, the bodies, Mr Pointer’s locked-stiff arms are all making her feel ill. The dance floor’s so crowded there’s not a chance of keeping your distance, not that anybody on it looks like they want to. You’d’ve thought someone would put an end to it, in public, but it’s too dark, isn’t it, for anyone to see if they don’t want to. It’s the new dances, too, pushing you towards each other every few steps.
Grace puts her heel on the toe of Mr Pointer’s boot. The edge, quite careful, so as all her weight’s on just that tiny bit, and he steps back. She smiles, mouths ‘Pardon’, then ‘Excuse me’. He nods to the bar, with ‘I’ll see you there’. Grace wriggles into the crowd fast as she can, knocking through the elbows, she’s fetched her coat in a flash, then out the door into the strange street. They came here in a taxicab and what bus, or where the stop is, she doesn’t want to spend the time looking for. A taxi draws up and a group of men fall out, with one lady screeching with laughter. Good Lord, Grace thinks, the extravagance, what she earns in … but Grace looks back over her shoulder and thinks she can see Mr Pointer coming out the door. It is him, and he’s walking towards her. Grace’s heart is pounding and she knocks on the taxi’s front window a flutter of times in a second, until the driver looks at her as if she’s half crazed. Park Lane, she says, and he raises his eyebrows. Then she’s on that empty seat quick as she can, grabbing the leather strap inside and pulling the door shut. Once she’s moving, she looks back at Mr Pointer and waves at him. At least he might tell Mary she’s gone, if Mary’ll notice anything.
The cab is shaking from side to side as though the ground’s rumbling underneath, and each time it comes up behind a horse Grace is thrown forward as the driver brakes. Once she’s back in her seat, her eyes are fixed on the taxi meter as it clicks
Similar Books
