France.
Twelve boys and twelve girls a shift.
Twenty dances in the afternoon (3–6) and twenty-five in the evening (8–12).
Sixpence a dance.
“Bloody freezing in here tonight,” hisses Di, as Grayson stalks past.
Grayson stops. He turns, slowly, and Di looks down at her hands. But there’s no time for reprimands since the heavy door is opening and the punters are streaming through; hundreds of them, even on a Monday night, heavy-footed on the sprung wooden floor.
The band makes a bit of a ragged start and the first few couples brave it out. It’s always a waltz first at the beginning of the shift. Hettie surveys the scrappy scene, hands in her armpits against the cold. If people ever bother to wear evening dress to the Palais they definitely don’t on a Monday, and the dance floor is a sludge of brown and black and gray, the men in lounge suits, the women mostly in blouses and skirts.
An upright matron trussed into a woolen two-piece is crossing the floor with a determined stride, heading toward the male Pen. Di nudges Hettie and giggles. “Here she is.” Across the aisle, Simon Randall sits up straighter, spits surreptitiously onto his hand, and smooths down his hair. The woman stops before him, holding a ticket coyly in her hand. Simon, smirking, takes it and lets himself out.
Hired.
Simon is one of the most popular men, rented out two afternoons a week by this same woman at eleven shillings a time. Not including tips.
The crowd is scattered now, some of them sitting at tables, a few buying drinks from the little cabins around the sides of the floor. The cavernous room is filling up, the dance floor thickening, the band sounding stronger, the afternoon starting to find its shape. Hettie’s eye catches a tall man, moving slowly among the crowd on the other side of the floor, and she sits up, heart hammering. It looks like him, the man from Dalton’s: Ed.
The Palais? I went there once.
She grips the rail. Would he come here looking for her?
The man steps out onto the dance floor, and she leans forward, the better to see. She’s almost standing in her seat, but as he comes closer she sees it isn’t him. This man, other than being tall, is nothing like him; this man has the hesitant, shuffling gait of the false-legged. You can tell them a mile off. You have to be careful with them; they can trample all over you and not even know.
“What was that about, then?” whispers Di.
“Nothing.” Hettie, feeling cross, shakes her head.
But the man has had his attention caught and is making his way across the floor. She knows the look: a little vague, half-whistling through his teeth, as though he is pretending not to know how this business works. “Afternoon,” he says, hands in his pockets.
“Good afternoon.”
“How much is all this malarkey, then?”
“Sixpence,” says Hettie.
“Sixpence?” The man looks aggrieved, his voice rising a notch. “But I’ve just paid two and six to get in.”
“Come with a partner,” Di chimes in, “if you don’t want to pay.”
The man flushes crimson.
Hettie feels immediately terrible. Her heart wilts, for him, for her, for the whole damn business. “You buy your ticket over there,” she says gently, indicating the cabin to her left. “It’s a fox-trot next.”
The man swallows. “I’ll come back,” he says, “shall I?” His
Shall I?
is aggressive, daring her to say no.
“Yes.” She smiles at him. “Please do.”
The man walks stiffly away, as though if he bumped into anything he might break and he and his dignity smash all over the floor.
Di snorts. “That’ll be fun.”
“It’s all right for you.” Hettie turns on her. “I need the money. I haven’t got a man who’ll buy me things, have I?”
Di’s mouth rounds into a surprised little
o
. “What’s got into you, then? Get out on the wrong side of bed, did you?”
Hettie shrugs. She doesn’t know why, but she’s irritated with Di today. With the Palais. With all of it.
Twelve boys and twelve girls a shift.
Twenty dances in the afternoon (3–6) and twenty-five in the evening (8–12).
Sixpence a dance.
“Bloody freezing in here tonight,” hisses Di, as Grayson stalks past.
Grayson stops. He turns, slowly, and Di looks down at her hands. But there’s no time for reprimands since the heavy door is opening and the punters are streaming through; hundreds of them, even on a Monday night, heavy-footed on the sprung wooden floor.
The band makes a bit of a ragged start and the first few couples brave it out. It’s always a waltz first at the beginning of the shift. Hettie surveys the scrappy scene, hands in her armpits against the cold. If people ever bother to wear evening dress to the Palais they definitely don’t on a Monday, and the dance floor is a sludge of brown and black and gray, the men in lounge suits, the women mostly in blouses and skirts.
An upright matron trussed into a woolen two-piece is crossing the floor with a determined stride, heading toward the male Pen. Di nudges Hettie and giggles. “Here she is.” Across the aisle, Simon Randall sits up straighter, spits surreptitiously onto his hand, and smooths down his hair. The woman stops before him, holding a ticket coyly in her hand. Simon, smirking, takes it and lets himself out.
Hired.
Simon is one of the most popular men, rented out two afternoons a week by this same woman at eleven shillings a time. Not including tips.
The crowd is scattered now, some of them sitting at tables, a few buying drinks from the little cabins around the sides of the floor. The cavernous room is filling up, the dance floor thickening, the band sounding stronger, the afternoon starting to find its shape. Hettie’s eye catches a tall man, moving slowly among the crowd on the other side of the floor, and she sits up, heart hammering. It looks like him, the man from Dalton’s: Ed.
The Palais? I went there once.
She grips the rail. Would he come here looking for her?
The man steps out onto the dance floor, and she leans forward, the better to see. She’s almost standing in her seat, but as he comes closer she sees it isn’t him. This man, other than being tall, is nothing like him; this man has the hesitant, shuffling gait of the false-legged. You can tell them a mile off. You have to be careful with them; they can trample all over you and not even know.
“What was that about, then?” whispers Di.
“Nothing.” Hettie, feeling cross, shakes her head.
But the man has had his attention caught and is making his way across the floor. She knows the look: a little vague, half-whistling through his teeth, as though he is pretending not to know how this business works. “Afternoon,” he says, hands in his pockets.
“Good afternoon.”
“How much is all this malarkey, then?”
“Sixpence,” says Hettie.
“Sixpence?” The man looks aggrieved, his voice rising a notch. “But I’ve just paid two and six to get in.”
“Come with a partner,” Di chimes in, “if you don’t want to pay.”
The man flushes crimson.
Hettie feels immediately terrible. Her heart wilts, for him, for her, for the whole damn business. “You buy your ticket over there,” she says gently, indicating the cabin to her left. “It’s a fox-trot next.”
The man swallows. “I’ll come back,” he says, “shall I?” His
Shall I?
is aggressive, daring her to say no.
“Yes.” She smiles at him. “Please do.”
The man walks stiffly away, as though if he bumped into anything he might break and he and his dignity smash all over the floor.
Di snorts. “That’ll be fun.”
“It’s all right for you.” Hettie turns on her. “I need the money. I haven’t got a man who’ll buy me things, have I?”
Di’s mouth rounds into a surprised little
o
. “What’s got into you, then? Get out on the wrong side of bed, did you?”
Hettie shrugs. She doesn’t know why, but she’s irritated with Di today. With the Palais. With all of it.
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