‘But what would you do with yourself all day?’ said Puddle. ‘You live for the thrill of the performance.’
‘I could do without all the whatchamacallit, though. The admin. I’m a singer, not an office clerk.’
‘We need a manager, sweetie,’ said Blanche. ‘I keep saying so.’
‘Not sure we can afford it. They’d want their ten per cent.’
‘My sister would do it for less,’ said Puddle.
Mickey laughed. ‘Your sister?’
‘Capable girl, my sister. She’d have the whole thing licked into shape in no time. She loves a bit of admin, does our Katy.’
‘We have enough trouble persuading some venues that it’s all right to have two women in the band, without having one doing the bookings.’
‘Well, if you change your mind, just let me know.’
‘Do we know what’s wrong with her?’ asked Blanche.
‘Puddle’s sister?’ said Mickey.
‘No, you simp, the Foot-Tappers’ sax player. Nice girl. Vera.’
‘You know her?’
‘There’s not many of us granted the great honour and privilege of being allowed to play men’s music. We stick close, us musical girls. I’ll take her some flowers.’
Mickey untied the string from his speaking trumpet and walked off, shaking his head.
The room filled rapidly with excitable revellers. Some sat at the tables around the edge of the room, sipping their cocktails and champagne, but many more had already taken up their places on the dance floor. All were chattering excitedly.
Club rules dictated that gentlemen must be dressed in dinner suits (black tie was just about acceptable) or mess dress uniforms as appropriate. For the lady guests, though, the sky was the only limit. Some still preferred long evening gowns, but the more daring, younger women were in knee-length cocktail dresses. One young flapper, gleaming in a gold-sequinned affair, neatly complemented the newly installed ‘mirror ball’ that glinted over the dance floor. Headdresses abounded, ranging from elegantly simple jewelled bands to elaborate constructions topped with enormous ostrich feathers.
But no matter how any of them were dressed, they were all itching to get started.
At precisely the appointed hour, Skins counted the Dizzy Heights in and the dancing began. As always, the dancers’ enthusiasm was woefully unmatched by their dancing skills, but nobody seemed to care. And why should they?
Dunn caught sight of the Alphabet Gang and leaned down to point them out to Skins.
‘That dancing lesson doesn’t seem to have done them any good,’ he said.
‘Leave them alone,’ said Skins with a grin. ‘They’re having a good time.’
‘Where’s your missus?’
‘Over there with . . . I want to say Dudley?’
‘That’s his real name,’ said Dunn. ‘Danny, they call him.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, she’s over there with him. Probably tapping him for all the gen on the secret treasure. She’s quite excited by it all.’
‘As long as she doesn’t scare him off.’
‘She’s a canny one, our Ellie. She knows what she’s doing. Unlike Danny. Blimey, but he’s rubbish.’
Dunn laughed. His attention turned to Millie Mitchell. She wasn’t the sort of woman he usually went out with – and she was obviously very much in love with Charlie anyway – but there was something about her. She was a beauty, it was true, but there must be more to it than that. Perhaps it was her self-assurance, he thought. Or her grace on the dance floor? Most likely her utter unavailability, he decided, and turned his attention back to the complex bassline of the current tune.
He smiled to himself as he hit every note spot on. This, he was forced to admit, was what it was really all about. Women came and went – well, they did in his life, at any rate – but the thrill of making music with his friends never left him. By their collective, coordinated efforts, he and the other seven Dizzy Heights were making people want to dance. Dispensing joy, one bar at a time. What could possibly beat that?
After an hour, everyone – dancers and musicians alike – was ready for a break. The band retired to the back room that had been set aside for them, while the dancers settled at tables and waited for the liveried staff to bring more cocktails and champagne.
The back room was quite a few cuts above the usual shabby green rooms in the other clubs and theatres they regularly played. The decor was classy, the chairs comfy, and the food and drink luxurious and plentiful. Dunn had had a quiet word with one of the committee members and there were now several bottles of champagne chilling in ice buckets on the table.
‘I could get used to this,’ said Elk, tucking in to something he thought might be called a vol-au-vent but wasn’t completely sure.
‘Now we’re the resident dance band, you might be able to,’ said Mickey.
There was a sudden commotion at the door.
Mickey and Elk looked over to see Millie Mitchell, her arm dripping blood, being helped by Barty Dunn. Everyone fell silent.
‘Come on in and sit down, love,’ he said.
‘Blimey,’ said Mickey. ‘Look at the state of you. What happened?’
‘Nothing dreadful,’ she said. ‘One of the Alphabet Oafs blundered into me and knocked me on to a table. Broke a glass and gashed my arm. Ernie said there might be a first aid kit in here.’
‘Whereabouts?’ called Blanche from the other side of the room.
‘He didn’t say. Charlie would know. He tried to come with me but he . . . well, he passed out. He’s a bit of a cissy when it comes to blood.’
Blanche had searched the sideboard on her side of the room and had found an old army first aid haversack. She brought it over to where Dunn and Puddle were tending to the wounded dance teacher.
‘Blanche will take care of you – she was a Fanny,’ said Puddle. ‘Shut up, Skins.’
Despite being married to a former member of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, Skins still took childish delight in their nickname. ‘I didn’t say nothing.’
‘But you were thinking it. I could see your silly smirk from here.’
‘You know me too well. I get in trouble with Ellie all the time when she talks about the Fannies. Where is my lovely wife, by the way? I thought she’d be helping. This is just her sort of thing.’
‘She had to see to Charlie,’ said Millie. ‘The fainting.’
Blanche removed the napkin that had been inexpertly wrapped around Millie’s arm and began to examine the wound. ‘Can someone get me a bowl of water and some more clean napkins, please? Or tea towels?’ She looked more closely before re-covering the gash and pressing the napkin tight. ‘I think this is going to need stitches, Millie dear. If there’s a suture kit in the bag, do you mind me doing it? Or would you rather we get you to a hospital?’
Millie smiled. ‘You were a nurse in the war, they said?’
‘I was.’
‘Then by all means, go ahead.’
The water and napkins arrived and Blanche set about making running repairs to Millie’s arm.
‘Where did you serve?’ asked Millie. Her arm was beginning to feel extremely sore and she wanted to take her mind off it.