moving so you don’t have to sit still for long.
“Hey, Hettie!”
“Did you get in, then? Did you see it? Dalton’s? Saturday night?”
She turns to see that a ring of girls has gathered behind her, their faces expectant; hungry animals, waiting for the scraps. “Yes, we did.”
“So it’s real, then?”
“It’s real, all right. It’s so hidden, though, you’d never know it was there.”
The girls seem to exhale as one, and she can almost feel their breath alight on her, gilding her with their envy. She thinks of telling them about the dancers, about the way those people moved, as though they didn’t care, but it’s just too tricky to explain.
“And what about the band? Were they as good as the Dixies?”
“The band was
killing
.”
“And Di’s man? What’s he like?”
“Smitten. And rich.”
The girls sigh and draw away, back to the mirrors, their powder and cigarettes, giving last-minute adjustments to their faces, their hair. Hettie pulls her dance shoes out of her bag and sits down to buckle them on, warmed by a rare glow of satisfaction. She is envied for once. It may not be nice but it still feels good.
Di rushes in, just in time, pulling a face, whips off her coat, and changes at lightning speed, as the door opens and Grayson’s head appears around it.
“Time, ladies.” He claps his hands. “Out onto that floor.” He puts his head into the room and sniffs theatrically. “And if I catch
any
of you smoking that’ll be pay docked for a week.”
The girls move out into the chilly corridor, Hettie and Di at the back, the boys coming out of the dressing room opposite. Twelve of them, all dressed in their suits, ready for the afternoon shift.
The usual mix of feelings compete in Hettie as the dancers pass through the big double doors onto the floor. There is no doubt that the Palais is spectacular. Everything out here is Chinese: the whole dance floor covered by a re-creation of a pagoda roof; painted glass and lacquer panels showing Chinese scenes are hung around; and the ceiling is supported by tall black columns, all of which are decorated in dazzling golden letters. In the middle of the floor is a miniature mountain, with a fountain running down its sides, and beneath one of the two smaller replica temples, the band is warming up.
The first time she saw the Palais was when she came down for her audition on a cold day in January. Parts of it were still roped off, then, and the sound of hammering and sawing formed a background to the thumping piano accompaniment as Grayson drilled the hopeful dancers in front of a severe-looking woman who barked out orders and culled the men and women from five hundred to eighty during the course of the day.
Even then, in the club’s unfinished state, smelling of shavings and planed wood, you could feel it was going to be something special.
There were the adverts placed in all the local newspapers:
Palais de Danse
THE TALK OF LONDON!
Largest and most luxurious dancing palace in Europe!
Two jazz bands.
Lady and Gentleman Instructors.
Evening Dress Optional
Hettie used to cut them out of the paper and leave them on the kitchen table for her mother to read.
Six thousand people turned up that first weekend, and when Hettie stepped out onto the dance floor that first time, seeing the Palais in all its glory, it truly did seem like a palace.
But what Hettie soon came to realize was that none of its splendor was meant for the staff. It was all for the punters, for the ones who had paid their two and six. For Hettie and Di and the other dancers, the Pen waited. As it still waits.
They file in now, boys on one side, girls on the other, heads bowed as Grayson inspects the line for any cardigans or visible hankies, anyone slouching, any contraband cigarettes or knitting needles that might while away the dances that you spend unpicked. His gaze rakes them.
General Grayson:
That’s what the boys call him, especially the ones who were out in
“Hey, Hettie!”
“Did you get in, then? Did you see it? Dalton’s? Saturday night?”
She turns to see that a ring of girls has gathered behind her, their faces expectant; hungry animals, waiting for the scraps. “Yes, we did.”
“So it’s real, then?”
“It’s real, all right. It’s so hidden, though, you’d never know it was there.”
The girls seem to exhale as one, and she can almost feel their breath alight on her, gilding her with their envy. She thinks of telling them about the dancers, about the way those people moved, as though they didn’t care, but it’s just too tricky to explain.
“And what about the band? Were they as good as the Dixies?”
“The band was
killing
.”
“And Di’s man? What’s he like?”
“Smitten. And rich.”
The girls sigh and draw away, back to the mirrors, their powder and cigarettes, giving last-minute adjustments to their faces, their hair. Hettie pulls her dance shoes out of her bag and sits down to buckle them on, warmed by a rare glow of satisfaction. She is envied for once. It may not be nice but it still feels good.
Di rushes in, just in time, pulling a face, whips off her coat, and changes at lightning speed, as the door opens and Grayson’s head appears around it.
“Time, ladies.” He claps his hands. “Out onto that floor.” He puts his head into the room and sniffs theatrically. “And if I catch
any
of you smoking that’ll be pay docked for a week.”
The girls move out into the chilly corridor, Hettie and Di at the back, the boys coming out of the dressing room opposite. Twelve of them, all dressed in their suits, ready for the afternoon shift.
The usual mix of feelings compete in Hettie as the dancers pass through the big double doors onto the floor. There is no doubt that the Palais is spectacular. Everything out here is Chinese: the whole dance floor covered by a re-creation of a pagoda roof; painted glass and lacquer panels showing Chinese scenes are hung around; and the ceiling is supported by tall black columns, all of which are decorated in dazzling golden letters. In the middle of the floor is a miniature mountain, with a fountain running down its sides, and beneath one of the two smaller replica temples, the band is warming up.
The first time she saw the Palais was when she came down for her audition on a cold day in January. Parts of it were still roped off, then, and the sound of hammering and sawing formed a background to the thumping piano accompaniment as Grayson drilled the hopeful dancers in front of a severe-looking woman who barked out orders and culled the men and women from five hundred to eighty during the course of the day.
Even then, in the club’s unfinished state, smelling of shavings and planed wood, you could feel it was going to be something special.
There were the adverts placed in all the local newspapers:
Palais de Danse
THE TALK OF LONDON!
Largest and most luxurious dancing palace in Europe!
Two jazz bands.
Lady and Gentleman Instructors.
Evening Dress Optional
Hettie used to cut them out of the paper and leave them on the kitchen table for her mother to read.
Six thousand people turned up that first weekend, and when Hettie stepped out onto the dance floor that first time, seeing the Palais in all its glory, it truly did seem like a palace.
But what Hettie soon came to realize was that none of its splendor was meant for the staff. It was all for the punters, for the ones who had paid their two and six. For Hettie and Di and the other dancers, the Pen waited. As it still waits.
They file in now, boys on one side, girls on the other, heads bowed as Grayson inspects the line for any cardigans or visible hankies, anyone slouching, any contraband cigarettes or knitting needles that might while away the dances that you spend unpicked. His gaze rakes them.
General Grayson:
That’s what the boys call him, especially the ones who were out in
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