Dancing in the Dark by Maureen Lee Read Free Book Online Page B

recently—Bing Crosby. “Dancing in the dark,” a voice like melting chocolate crooned.
    What had Flo Clancy done to make her the black sheep of the family? Why had Gran refused to mention her name? Bel, Flo’s old friend, had asked Charmian Smith to ring Gran after the funeral because “that’s the way Flo wanted it”. What had happened between the sisters to make them dislike each other so much? And why had Flo kept cuttings of a submarine disaster beside her bed?
    I would almost certainly never know the truth about Auntie Flo, but what did it matter? As the lamp slowly turned and dark shadows swept the ceiling of the room and the music reached a crescendo, filling every nook and corner, I took a long, deep breath and allowed myself to be sucked into the enchantment of it all. A quite unexpected thing had happened, something quite wonderful.
    I had never felt so much at peace with myself before.

Flo
    Flo Clancy opened her eyes, saw that the fingers on the brass alarm clock on the tallboy were pointing to half past seven, and nearly screamed. She’d be late for work! She was about to leap out of bed when she remembered it was Whit Monday and she could lie in.
    Whew! She peeped over the covers at her sisters, both fast asleep in the double bed only a few feet away. Martha would have done her nut if she’d been woken early. Flo pursed her lips and blew gently at Sally who was sleeping on the outside, but Sal’s brown eyelashes merely flickered before she turned over, dead to the world.
    But Flo was wide awake and it was a sin to stay in bed on such a lovely morning. She sat up carefully—the springs of the single bed creaked like blazes—and stretched her arms. The sun streamed through the thin curtains making the roses on the floorcloth seem almost real. She poked her feet out and wriggled her white toes.
    As usual, the bedclothes were a mess—her sisters refused to sleep with her, claiming she fidgeted nonstop the whole night long.
    Shall I get up and risk disturbing our Martha? Flo mused. She’d have to get dressed in the little space between the wardrobe and the tallboy. Since their dear dad, a railwayman, had died two years ago—struck by a train on the lines near Edge Hill station—and they’d had to take in a lodger, the girls could no longer wander round the little house in Burnett Street half dressed.
    The frock Martha had worn last night when she’d gone with Albert Colquitt, their lodger, to see Bette Davis in The Little boxes was hanging outside the wardrobe. Flo glared at it. What a miserable garment, dark grey with grey buttons, more suitable for a funeral than a night out with the man you hoped to marry. She transferred her gaze to her sister’s head, which could just be seen above the green eiderdown. How on earth could she sleep with her hair screwed up in a million metal curlers? And did someone of only twenty-two really need to smear her face with layers of cold cream so she looked as if she’d been carved out of a block of lard?
    Oh dear! She was having nasty thoughts about Martha again and she loved her just as much as she loved Mam and Sally and Mr Fritz who owned the laundry where she worked. But since dear Dad died, what with Mam not feeling too well, Martha seemed to think it was her job as the eldest to be In Charge and keep her sisters in line. Not that Dad had ever been strict—he’d been a soft ould thing. Flo’s eyes prickled with tears. It was still hard to get used to him not being there.
    She couldn’t stand being in bed a minute longer. She eased herself out and got dressed quickly in her best pink frock with white piping on the collar and the cuffs of the short puffed sleeves. That afternoon, she and Sal were off to New Brighton on the ferry.
    As she crept downstairs, she could hear Mam snoring in the front bedroom. There was no sound from the parlour. Mr Colquitt must have gone to work, poor man. Flo felt for him. As a ticket inspector on the trams, he had to work on