Dancing Days
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CHAPTER 1
We wove a web in childhood,
A web of sunny air;
1942
At the foot of the stairs, eight-year-old Ana stood quiet and still - listening. From behind the closed door at the far end of the dim hallway came muted sounds distinguishable only to someone as familiar with them as she – this only child of the big old house. She knew these predictable mid-morning sounds by heart; those of her mother – periodic weary sighs and the clink of after breakfast washing-up; and those of her father - the rustle of newspaper and fingers drumming the kitchen table, absent-mindedly. There was no talk between mother and father but, that being the norm, Ana didn’t notice the lack of it.
Satisfied that her parents were where she expected them to be, Ana crept up the first flight of stairs, turned on the landing and on up the second flight, turned again and continued on up the third. Then, along the narrow top corridor she skipped and happy that she was out of earshot now she began to hum to herself - one of those tunes she was in the habit of making up a habit like so many of her habits which really got on her mother’s nerves. On reaching the end door she paused, stopped off humming and with head cocked to one side she listened intently to the music playing on the gramophone within and then, when a break came, she knocked.
“Enter,” a refined voice commanded in response and in Ana went, head now bobbing in time as the music started up again.
Unlike the windows in the rest of the house, with their layer of grime, their dense, yellowed net curtains, and their bulky, never more than half-opened fusty velvet drapes, the windows in this room actually let light in and now, warm July sun flooded it. And sitting there serenely was Celia, on her rocking chair, open book on lap. In the sunlight, her wrinkles - as delicate as a spider’s web, criss-crossing the pale, baby-soft skin of her face - were accentuated and her head of smooth, silver-grey hair, knotted in a neat bun, shone more silver than grey.
Celia was smiling now as Ana came skipping over to her.
“Morning Celia,” said Ana and after kissing Celia on the cheek, she immediately proceeded to climb clumsily up onto her lap, seemingly deaf to her old friend’s protests - half-hearted in any case - since, at the same time, she removed the book from her lap and shifted her position to accommodate the girl.
“You know we’re both getting too old for this Anastasia,” chided Celia.
“For what?” asked Ana, settling herself down.
“For a great big girl like you to be sitting on this old lady’s lap.”
Ana paid her no heed but brought her face in close to Celia’s, enjoying the feel of her skin against her own.
“What’s this song called again?” she asked after a while.
“The Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves,” Celia told her. “Do you like it?”
Ana listened for a few moments, then she nodded.
“Yeah, especially the bits where they all join in and it gets really, really loud.”
“Yes, well,” said Celia, stroking the child’s blond-white hair, “somehow I didn’t think it would be the quiet bits you’d find appealing.”
Falling silent, they listened to the music and the room returned to the stillness which had preceded Ana’s entrance. Still, that is, but for Ana’s legs for, with laces hanging untied and socks midway down strong, tanned calves, they dangled out over Celia’s own, swinging to the music just that little too vigorously for Celia’s comfort. But then, as soon as chorus came to an end, Ana promptly hopped down from Celia’s lap and raced over to the gramophone.
“Can I put that song on again?” she asked.
“Ah Ana, can you not let a record play out just for once? Why is that you always want to hear the same pieces over and over again?”
“Because I like them. Because they’re the best bits.”
“But how can you know if you don’t give the rest a chance?”
“Ah Celia, please,” Ana pleaded, looking over her shoulder at Celia but with her hand still hovering over the needle. “Please.”
“Oh alright. Just once more and it’s loud enough so please don’t turn it...”
But the end of her sentence was drowned out for within a split second Ana had
managed to reset the needle and to turn the volume to high.
And now, restless child that she was, she was looking around the room, wondering what there was for her to do. Her roving eye came to Celia’s dressing-table and rested there for a moment as she weighed up its potential to amuse.
“Hmmm,” she murmured, considering its possibilities and then, deciding they were considerable indeed, she made a beeline for it.
“You’re going to trip over those laces, you know,” Celia cautioned over the music but Ana just glanced down, shrugged,and carried on across the room. “So why aren’t you at school today?” Celia called over, watching Ana as she now surveyed the contents of the dressing-table, the concentration on her little face belying the fact that she was already very familiar with every single string of precious beads, with every bottle of expensive perfume.
“Summer holidays have started. Don’t you remember? I know I told you.”
“Oh yes, of course. And tell me, what are you going to do with all that time off?”
“Don’t know,” answered a preoccupied Ana picking up this, then that - a mirror, a brooch, a stick of lipstick – only to carelessly discard them again after a cursory examination.
“Did Adrian get his holidays as well today?” asked Celia, referring to the boy next door, two years younger than Ana but her very best friend – apart from Celia although, Adrian maintained that he really was since you couldn’t be best friends with an old lady. “Says who?” Ana had demanded furiously when he’d informed her as much but Adrian didn’t know, he just knew that you couldn’t; that it was a stupid thing to say.
“Yep,” answered Ana now. “But he’s gone into town with his mother. He has to get his eyes tested.” Then she sighed. “Again!” she added, throwing her own eyes up to heaven. “You know, he’ll be killed from all those tests,” she said, mimicking the world-weary tone of her mother. She picked up a bottle of perfume, sniffed it, made a face, put it back down again and then went on. “Adrian’s mother says that he’s got a lazy eye or something and that he might have to wear a patch over it.” Finding the next perfume more to her liking she daubed some behind her ears and on her wrists. “But they’ll be back soon,” she said. Then, changing the subject completely she asked,
“Celia can I dress up today?”
“Ah Ana,” groaned Celia, thinking of the chaos Ana always left in her wake.
Ana ran back over to her and began to plead somewhat dramatically.
“Please, please, please Celia, I beg of you.” She grabbed one of Celia’s hands in her own and brought it close into her chest. “Please Celia, please.”
“Oh go on, I suppose you can. Seeing that it is the first day of your holidays.”
Ana ran back across the room and immediately pulled open every single drawer in the dressing-table. There she stood for a few moments surveying their contents before setting to work. Well practised at this particular ritual, her little hands worked rapidly and expertly extracting all she needed: a pair of purple evening gloves, an evening shawl - purple too but edged with silver tassels, and a much larger second shawl which was coloured pink. This pink shawl she put on first wrapping it around her body to serve her as a dress, next she draped the purple shawl over her shoulders and finally, she put on the gloves which were much too big so she rolled them down to her elbows. And then to the jewellery. After opening each and every box on the dressing-table, she stood there for a while, her eyes shining, her glance darting from one box to another and then, magpie-like, she greedily reached out and selected the most glittery, the gaudiest, the very biggest pieces. First, the huge ruby brooch which she used to secure the pink shawl around her body; next, a triple string of pearls and several of Celia’s heaviest gold necklaces which she piled on around her neck; and lastly, several gold bracelets, bangles and enough rings with precious stones for each of her fingers. Then she cast her eyes over the boxes one last time to check if there was anything she cared to add, there wasn’t, and so she turned to the wardrobe’s full length mirror and considered her reflection.
“There’s something missing,” she said, staring at herself critically. “Hmmm,” she sighed contemplatively as she pretended to think although Celia already knew precisely what it was she was after. “I know what it is,” she finally announced. “I need a hat.” But it wasn’t just any old hat she as after. “Celia, do you think I could wear your Ladies’ Day hat?” she asked, just exactly as Celia had anticipated.
“Ah Ana,” Celia sighed. “You know it’s far too big for you.”
“Please, please Celia,” pleaded Ana. “Please. It is the first day of my holidays.”
Knowing from experience that it was easier to give in straight off, Celia got up, went over and opened the wardrobe, then reached up to the top shelf and brought down one of several hatboxes. From this she took out a great concoction of a thing, her own handiwork from the days when she’d worked as a milliner. Deep red and decorated with gigantic fabric roses, it had won her first prize on Ladies’ Day at the Horseshow in the RDS years ago and the ensuing publicity had done wonders for her then fledgling business, had really been the cause of it taking off and, as a consequence, she’d enormous sentimental attachment to it. She turned around now to see Ana looking covetously up at the hat so she dropped it onto her head and it sizes too big covered the little girl’s face down as far as her chin.
“Bloody hell,” came her muffled voice.
Celia removed the hat and looked down at Ana crossly.
“What did you say?” she demanded.
“I said … I said it doesn’t fit very well,” answered Ana.
Celia stared at her disbelievingly.
“You’re a little liar, do you know that?” she asked but despite herself she was smiling. “What do you think your mother would say if she heard you using language like that?”
Ana shrugged, smirked, then answered, “She’d bloody well eat me.”
Celia left out a loud laugh causing Ana to look up at her in surprise.
“You shouldn’t be laughing,” she scolded. “Mother will say that you’re encouraging me.”
“You’re a ticket Anastasia Moore, you really are.”
“A bloody ticket?”
Celia shook her head.
“No, not funny anymore Ana. Now you’re trying too hard.”
Spotting a pillowcase in the bundle of clean laundry on the bed nearby, Celia picked it up and stuffed it inside the hat then put the hat back on Ana’s head.
“That’s better,” said Ana looking approvingly at her reflection.
Then, keeping her head absolutely steady for the hat was balancing precariously, she opened the wardrobe, carefully knelt down in front of it and, holding the hat in place with one hand, she began pulling out Celia’s shoes with the other, being careful not to lose the too-loose rings and bracelets.
“There’s nothing suitable here,” she said in disgust as she considered and tossed aside shoe after shoe. “Boring, boring, boring,” she muttered. “How come you don’t have any nice ones Celia? Nice purple ones or red ones?”
“What do you think I am? A lady of the night?”
“What’s that?”
“What about that black pair with the buckles?” asked Celia, ignoring the question. “Wouldn’t they be nice on you?”
“What’s a lady of the night?”
“I said, won’t that black pair do you?”
“Aha, they’re the ones I always end up wearing,” whined Ana. “But what’s a lady of the…”
“Pity about you,” interrupted Celia. Then she noticed a length of purple cloth hanging from one of the drawers that Ana had been rummaging through. “Bring that over to me,” she said, pointing to it. “And my sewing basket.”
“What for?”
“Just once Ana can’t you do what I ask without bombarding me with questions?”
“Humph,” sighed Ana but she obeyed her all the same.
“Now up onto the bed with you,” Celia ordered, taking the cloth and the sewing basket from her. “And take off your shoes and socks.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“But why?”
“Alright, don’t bother so,” said Celia and she picked up her book again.
“All right, all right, I’m just doing it,” muttered Ana. She took off her shoes and socks and then climbed up onto the bed.
Celia set to work. She slit the cloth in half, wrapped a piece around each of Ana’s feet and got her to hold them in place while she threaded the needle. Then she began to sew. Within ten minutes she’d transformed the cloth into two little slippers, each prettily decorated with a flower bud and a bow and a sprinkling of sequins. As she was coming to a finish she could hardly keep Ana still and, as soon as she broke off the last thread, the fidgety child wriggled down from the bed, ran to the centre of the room and pirouetted in front of the wardrobe mirror.
Celia picked up her book and began to read once again whilst Ana entertained herself with make-believe games.
“How do you do Mrs Montgomery?” she asked her reflection. “I must say, you’re looking absolutely marvellous. Tell me, are you enjoying this evening’s…” she broke off. “Celia,” she asked, “what’s the name again for a party held in the evening time?”
“Soiree,” answered Celia.
“Are you enjoying this evening’s soiree Mrs Montgomery?” Ana asked her reflection.
“You don’t say evening’s soiree, you just say soiree,” Celia informed her
“Ha?”
“Not ha? Say pardon.”
“What?” demanded Ana.
“Not what either. That’s rude.”
“Why?”
Before Celia had a chance to explain, they heard Ana’s mother at the foot of the stairs.
“Anastasia! Anastasia!” she shouted crossly. “Are you up there?”
Both Celia and Ana looked at one another. Neither answered.
“Anastasia!” called her mother again.
“She’s up here Mrs Moore. I’ll send her down to you,” called out Celia.
Feeling betrayed, Ana stared at her sulkily.
“She’d have come looking for you,” Celia explained in her own defence. “Now quick, out of those clothes. She’ll have a heart attack if she sees you dressed like that.”
Ana took off her finery and then went downstairs, to the kitchen.
“Yes mother?” she asked from where she stood at the doorway.
“Run up to the butcher’s and collect the meat I ordered earlier,” said Mrs Moore who was too preoccupied with the task of peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink to turn around.
“Now?” asked Ana.
As she waited for her mother to answer, she idly considered her father who was sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over his newspaper. She sometimes found it impossible to tell whether he was reading or whether he was just pretending to while he took a nap. Now, for instance, he seemed to be reading but, then again, he was very still. He was probably asleep she decided.
A sudden whack across the head put an end to her ruminations
“Of course now, you fool of a child,” her mother screamed at her. “When did you think I meant, next week?”
Ana ran out of their front gate, ran past Adrian Lloyd’s house next door and then down past the rest of the terrace of old Georgian redbrick houses, so typical of Dublin’s old inner suburbs. As she was turning the corner onto the main road, she suddenly noticed that she was still wearing the purple slippers. That they’d escaped her mother’s notice so far was nothing short of a miracle in Ana’s eyes but now she wondered how she’d manage to avoid having her see them when she arrived back with the meat. Such nonsense, as her mother would consider them no doubt, drove her crazy and that Ana had been found in Celia’s room meant that she was in trouble enough as it was. Her mother was forever telling her not to be bothering their paying guests, an ever-changing miscellany of people who filled the rooms of their vault of a house, all there on sufferance, welcome only for the rent they paid. But Ana knew she wasn’t bothering Celia. There were very pretty though she thought, slowing down to a trot to admire the slippers but then, remembering that her mother was waiting, she picked up speed again.
Seconds later, her foot went down on a sliver of glass carelessly discarded on the footpath and it sliced through the purple cloth and through the skin of her foot. Screaming in pain, Ana stumbled to the ground.
Mrs Moore answered the urgent knocking on the door to find her neighbour Mrs Lloyd standing there with Ana in her arms and a worried-looking Adrian at her side. She looked at her daughter first, at the ribbon-slippers and at the blood dripping from one foot and then she looked at Adrian who was keeping a comforting tight hold of one of Ana’s hands. To Mrs Moore he appeared positively ill for, fear of her and concern for Ana was making his wan face even more wan and his habitually runny nose runnier still. Noticing the fresh patch covering his left eye underneath the glasses she was somewhat puzzled by it.
“What the … the … the … blazes?” she began, stuttering with surprise. “Mrs Lloyd, what’s going on? What’s happened to the pair of them?” she demanded, looking in confusion from one to the other then back again. “What are those things on your feet Ana? Where’s the blood coming from? And what in the name of god is the matter with the young fella?” she asked staring down at Adrian. “Did he lose an eye or what?”
Mrs Lloyd was no great fan of Ana’s mother and now she roughly shoved past her and carried on down the hallway with Ana in her arms and Adrian following closely, struggling to maintain his grip on Ana’s hand.
“She cut her foot on some glass,” shouted back Mrs Lloyd. “We found her just as we were getting off of the bus. Tell me, is your husband here? If he is then send him for a doctor, quick now.”
“A doctor? Are you sure they need a doctor?” asked Mrs Moore, feeling real alarm for the first time at the thought of the expense. Then noticing that Mrs Lloyd was on her way into the good room she shouted after her. “No, no, not in there, you’ll get blood all over the place. Here, bring her into the kitchen. Jimmy,” she shouted as she followed Mrs Lloyd into the kitchen, “Jimmy, go fetch the doctor!”
Alerted to the commotion, Celia had come downstairs.
“And what are you gawking at?” Mrs Moore demanded, seeing her at the kitchen door. “Haven’t you done enough damage? Don’t think that I don’t recognise your handiwork. And what are you doing in here anyway? Can we have no privacy at all? Might I remind you that you pay for the room and not for the run of the house.”
