‘I’m pretty sure we can get those clothes a bit drier for you, too,’ he said. ‘At least get them pressed – that should make a difference.’
‘It’s all right to sit about the club in our underwear, then?’ said Skins. ‘I mean, I’m game, but I didn’t think it was that sort of place.’
Charlie laughed. ‘We keep a supply of bags and shirts for just such occasions. Accidents will happen, and all that. I’m sure we’ll have something in your size till your own things are a bit drier.’
They allowed themselves to be led off to another room to change. On the way out, they met Millie.
‘Oh, hello, you two,’ she said. ‘You look like a couple of drowned rats. Are they looking after you?’
‘Just off to get our clothes dried,’ said Dunn. ‘See you later?’
‘If you can bear it. You’re quite the best band I’ve worked with. You’re all set up?’
‘Everything’s ready to go. We just need the rest of the band and some dry clothes, then we’re all yours.’
‘Good-o,’ she said. ‘See you in half an hour.’
They left her waiting for an escort to take her into the bar.
Skins and Dunn were in a small side room in the club where one of the servants had laid out clean, dry clothes for them. They were still in their underwear and trying to decide if it would be funny for them each to spend the rest of the evening in the trousers intended for the other.
‘We could just put them on and not say anything,’ suggested Skins. ‘It would be a scream.’
‘It’s all right for you, short-arse, but how would I even fit in yours?’
‘Oh, go on,’ insisted Skins. ‘Just try it.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘We’re not decent,’ said Skins in a falsetto.
The door opened and Blanche popped her head round. ‘Are you two idiots nearly ready? Eustace wants to warm up.’
Skins giggled, still in falsetto. ‘But we’re still in our unmentionables.’
‘I can see that. Hurry up and get some bloody trousers on.’
‘Aye-aye, Captain.’
‘Oh, Blanche,’ said Dunn. ‘Umm . . . before you go . . . can I . . . can I have a quick word?’
‘Only if you’re wearing trousers,’ she said.
‘Right you are.’
He struggled into the nearest pair, which happened to be the ones intended for Skins. Before he could complain, Skins had pulled on the other pair and was heading out the door.
‘I’ll leave you to it, mate,’ he said. ‘Got to check the drums.’
He waddled off in his oversized trousers.
‘What can I do for you?’ said Blanche. She raised an eyebrow as Dunn attempted to button up the much smaller trousers.
‘Skins’s idea,’ he said. ‘He thought it would be funny if we were wearing each other’s kecks.’
‘Hilarious,’ she said, dryly.
‘I’ll get him back so we can swap. So . . . well, now . . . the thing is . . .’
‘Spit it out, darling. It’s not like you to be tongue-tied.’
‘It isn’t, is it? But . . . you see . . . what I was wondering . . . Do you fancy dinner one night?’
She looked at him quizzically. ‘A tryst? An . . . assignation?’ She paused. ‘A date?’
‘Well, dinner, at any rate. Do you fancy it? Just the two of us? Somewhere up West? Nice bottle of plonk? Bit of a chat? See how things go?’
She thought for a moment. ‘All right, then. Why not?’
‘Really?’
‘I was wondering when you’d ask, to be honest.’
‘Wizard.’
‘But it’s all off if you ever say “wizard” again.’
‘Right you are,’ he said. ‘Thursday evening? Pick you up at eight?’
‘That would be lovely.’
He smiled broadly. ‘Could you do me a favour now, though, please? Could you go and get our idiot drummer? I’m not playing for the Alphabet Chumps in these.’ He indicated the ill-fitting trousers.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I think you look rather dashing.’
But she set off in search of the puckish percussionist nevertheless.
To the surprise of no one in the band, the dance lesson was another hilarious mess. In fairness, the participants clearly didn’t expect much else, either, so the whole thing was extremely good-natured. Millie gave her instructions, the band played a few phrases of an appropriate song, the Alphabet Gang galumphed about, Millie shouted, the band stopped. Repeat until exhausted.
Millie called for the halftime break just as the beer and sandwiches arrived. She excused herself and left by the door at the other end of the room as the trays were being brought in through the main door. The Alphabets descended on the drinks table and helped themselves. Danny, the awkwardly angular, shy Alphabet, brought one of the trays over to the band.
‘We were a bit remiss last time,’ he said timidly. ‘We only supplied beer. The other chaps – the Muswell Hill Mugwumps or whatever they’re called – had a young lady playing the horn thing—’
‘Saxophone?’ suggested Dunn.
‘That’s the chap. Anyway, she preferred a Sidecar. One week it was a Gin Rickey. So I brought one of each for the ladies.’
‘That’s very thoughtful, sweetie, thank you,’ said Blanche. ‘What do you think, Pudds? Gin or cognac?’
‘I’m a gin girl all the way,’ said Puddle. ‘You know me.’
They took the proffered glasses, clinked them, and raised them in a toast to the Alphabet Gang.
‘Here’s mud in all your eyes,’ said Puddle.
Danny smiled and handed out beer to the rest of the band.
‘What did you say to him?’ asked Blanche once he had returned to his pals.
‘Here’s mud in your eye. Barty said it the other day. It’s the latest thing, apparently.’
‘From America,’ Dunn confirmed. ‘Got to stay hip in our game, doll.’
Blanche gave an exasperated shake of the head and took a sip of her cocktail.
‘That’s very tasty,’ she said, smacking her lips. ‘The members can’t dance, but someone on their staff makes a damn fine Sidecar.’
The break lasted just long enough for the drinks to be drunk and the sandwiches to be eaten – the Alphabet Gang were itching to get back to their lesson. Millie had promised that if they showed her they’d made some progress with the basic Charleston steps, she’d show them something new to wow everyone at the next Friday night dance, even though they might not use it in the contest. They hadn’t actually made much progress, but she cheerfully agreed that they’d been working hard, and assured them that the secrets of the new steps would be vouchsafed them after the break. To a man, they agreed that ‘impressing fillies on the dance floor’ was more important than drinking beer, and pressed eagerly for a return to work.
Of course, it was a slog. The usual suspects – Alfie and Ernie – made a complete dog’s dinner of it, failing entirely to marshal any of their limbs to follow the instructions given them by the ever-patient Millie. Bertie, his hair so thickly coated with Brilliantine that it now looked as though it had been replaced with a Bakelite wig, made a half-decent fist of it but still seemed unable to introduce his head and neck into the action. Danny’s interpretation was more or less accurate, but still hampered by his tendency to jerky angularity. Only Charlie looked as though he actually belonged anywhere near a dance floor, and he was soon being ribbed by his pals who accused him of cheating.