“I thought Milly might send a few bits and pieces at Christmas. A plum pudding in a tin, or something like that. But not this . . .”
“She is a very kind person, your Milly.”
“She is. There’s just so much . . . I want you to have some of the fabric. You can have a new dress. And the shoes—”
“No,” Miriam said. “Absolutely not. Those shoes are for you. Nothing could induce me to wear them. And you must make yourself a new dress. This blue, the color of the sky—this will be perfect for you.”
“Then you must have the other length of rayon. I insist.”
“Your Milly sent the fabric for you.”
“Yes, but she seems to have forgotten that I have ginger hair. I look a fright in purple. If you don’t use it, the fabric will just sit there.”
Once Miriam had agreed to a dress, Ann borrowed a pattern from Miss Holliday in the sewing workroom, which Mr. Hartnell allowed as long as they were making garments for their own use. They’d worked on the dresses after hours, first sewing up the long seams with the help of Miss Ireland, one of the machinists. At home, they did the finer work of finishing and fitting in the sitting room, the wireless singing in the background. There was no mirror in the house, apart from a small one over the sink in the washroom, so she’d had to trust Miriam’s assessment that the completed frock fit her perfectly.
They’d finished their frocks and then, a day or two later, Ethel had suggested a night out to say farewell to Doris, whose wedding was fast approaching.
“We’ll have supper at the Corner House, and then we’ll go dancing. At the Paramount, or maybe the Astoria. That’s closer. Bring your best frocks and your dancing shoes in the morning, and we’ll get gussied up in the cloakroom.”
At first Miriam was the reluctant one. “I don’t know how to dance,” she’d protested.
“You must come,” Ann had insisted. “Doris will be hurt if I don’t go, but I’m nervous as it is. And we don’t even have to dance. We can stand there and hold up the wall together.”
There were nine of them all told: herself, Miriam, Doris, Ruthie and Ethel; Betty and Dorothy from sewing; Jessie from the millinery workroom; and Carmen, one of the Hartnell house models and so beautiful it was like having a film star in their midst. They’d shared round powder and lipstick, admired one another’s frocks and hairstyles, and just like that another hour had passed and they still hadn’t left the cloakroom.
So they said good night to Miss Duley, who warned them to be careful and for heaven’s sake stay well clear of men in uniform, and they raced to the Corner House around the corner. While the others tucked into their suppers with gusto, Ann discovered her appetite had been replaced by a stomach full of butterflies. It wouldn’t do to waste the perfectly good meal she’d been served, though, so she ate every scrap of her Welsh rarebit. It might as well have been sawdust.
Her apprehension finally began to melt away on their walk to the Astoria. The temperature had dropped a few degrees, a welcome relief after the late afternoon heat, and it was easy to imagine, as they strolled along Oxford Street, that life would always be this carefree and easy. That happiness might be found in a new frock and some pretty shoes and an evening out with friends.
She’d never been to the dance hall at the Astoria before, although she’d walked past it any number of times. There was already a queue to get in, snaking down the two flights of stairs to the basement ballroom, but it moved quickly enough. She handed over her admission, a startling three-and-six for the evening, and followed along as Ethel and Doris debated where they ought to sit. Ethel wanted a table on the mezzanine that circled the dance floor, and thereby provided a better view of the proceedings, while Doris preferred a table on the main level, which had faster access to the dancing itself.
“The two of you can bicker all you like,” Carmen declared after a few minutes, “but the place is filling up and I don’t feel like standing. I’m getting a table. Come on, girls. Follow me.” One of the large tables under the mezzanine was empty, and was just big enough for them all to squeeze round.
That settled, Doris and Ethel set off to fetch drinks for everyone. Another tuppence from Ann’s pocket and, she hoped, the last she would spend that evening. It was a good thing she’d never made a habit of going out every weekend, otherwise she’d be living in the poorhouse by now.
Jessie and Carmen extracted packets of cigarettes from their handbags and offered them round, but only Miriam accepted.