‘And no one knows where the key is,’ said Dunn.
‘Nor even if there is a key, sir. All we have are stories.’
‘Ah well,’ said Skins. ‘Have to stick to earning an honest living, I suppose.’
The flunkey looked as though he believed being a musician was a far from honest way to earn a living, but he bowed politely and went on his way.
Skins clapped and listened to the sound reverberating around the room.
‘We always sound good and lively in here,’ he said. ‘It’s like playing in a church.’
‘When was the last time you played in a church?’ said Dunn.
‘Tell the truth, I haven’t even been inside a church since me and Ellie got spliced. It’s what I imagine it must be like to play in a church. Are we expecting many eager dance students? That’ll deaden the sound a bit.’
‘Not a clue, mate. All done through Mickey, like I said. All I know is we’re playing at seven for a dance lesson and we’ll be done by nine. Refreshment, I’ve been promised, will be provided.’
‘That’s a turn-up. They usually have good nosh here.’
There were some chairs stacked in a corner of the stage, so Dunn arranged five of them for the band. Skins had a little stool of his own, while Dunn and Mickey stood throughout. During instrumental numbers Mickey would leave the stage and find a bar stool to perch on, preferably where he could be easily approached by his many adoring female fans. Dunn often grumbled that he was the only one who stood up all night.
The rest of Skins’s drum set arrived and he set everything up in his usual spot, stage left. He gave everything a quick tap to make sure it was all in order, adjusted the snare drum head a little, and went to sit on one of the chairs next to Dunn.
‘What time is everyone here?’ he said.
Dunn looked at his watch. ‘About now, I reckon.’
Nothing happened.
‘It would have been fantastic if they’d all walked in just then, wouldn’t it?’ said Skins.
‘I’d change my bill matter to “Mystic Barty, prognosticator and bass player to the aristocracy”. We’d be swamped with bookings. We’d—’
The door opened and a fresh flunkey entered, followed by Blanche and Puddle. Benny and Elk weren’t far behind.
‘It’s all in the timing, mate,’ said Skins. ‘It’s always about the timing.’ He stood up. ‘Welcome, one and all. The Dizzy Heights rhythm section is proud to welcome you to our humble whatsaname. Please, come in. Make yourselves at home. We have laid out chairs for you, fashioned from the finest . . . wood. Cushions available on request.’ He turned to the flunkey. ‘Cushions?’
The flunkey looked at him blankly.
‘Are there cushions, old mate?’
‘Cushions?’ said the flunkey, who was clearly unused to receiving requests from anyone other than club members.
‘Cushions, yes. For the comfort of the band’s delicate posteriors.’
‘I shall have to enquire.’
‘You do that, me old china. Pot of tea wouldn’t go amiss if the kettle’s on.’
The flunkey flunked off.
‘I’ve taken a liking to playing this gaff,’ said Puddle. ‘I could definitely get used to places like this.’
‘Some of us have played the Royal Albert Hall.’ Eustace had entered unseen while Skins was asking about the soft furnishings.
‘Meanwhile, some of us have to make do with cushy little jobs playing for dance lessons for a handful of toffs.’ Mickey had been close behind him. ‘You take what you can get in our line of work. And this’ll do nicely, thank you very much.’
‘If you’d rather play second trumpet in a provincial symphony orchestra, darling, I’m sure they’d be delighted to have you back,’ said Blanche. ‘We’d get by without you somehow.’
‘Now then, now then,’ said Skins. ‘Let’s not fall out. Mickey’s right – this is a cushy number. Think of it as a paid rehearsal. Half a crown says we don’t get to play even one number all the way through before the dance teacher stops us to correct someone’s entrechat.’
‘That’s a ballet jump, you nit,’ said Blanche. ‘But I apologize, Eustace. I should love to play the Royal Albert Hall. You have every right to be proud.’
Eustace harrumphed and stalked to his usual seat, where he took his trumpet from its case and fitted the mouthpiece.
‘Who’s the dance teacher?’ asked Puddle. ‘Anyone know him?’
‘It’s a her,’ said a voice from the door. ‘Millie Mitchell, at your service.’
A tall, slender woman with her jet-black hair cut in a boyish bob strode into the room. She spotted Mickey, who had turned to greet her. They walked together towards the corner of the room to discuss the arrangements for the evening.
At first glance her elegant movement seemed almost impossibly perfect, but after a few steps across the room Skins spotted the tiniest limp. An old injury, perhaps, but it might explain why this graceful beauty was eking out a living teaching moneyed oafs to dance instead of knocking them dead on the West End stage. Or even the ballet. She moved like a ballet dancer, he thought. Although maybe she was a little too tall. Then again, loads of people seemed tall compared with him. Maybe she—
His thoughts were interrupted by a nudge in the ribs from an amused Puddle.
‘Don’t drool, darling, you’re a married man,’ she said.
‘No drooling here,’ said Skins. ‘Barty’s your boy if you want drool. I was just exercising the old detective skills. The lady has a limp.’
‘A limp what?’ said Dunn.
‘You’ll have to forgive him,’ said Skins. ‘He can’t help himself.’
‘He’s right, though,’ said Dunn. ‘I was drooling slightly.’
‘As well you might,’ said Puddle. ‘I’d not kick her out of bed.’
Skins looked at her quizzically. ‘I didn’t know you were—’
‘I’m not, darling, but look at her. A goddess made flesh. What mortal wouldn’t sell their soul for just a glance from those perfect blue eyes? And those legs. My god, if I had legs like that . . .’
Blanche had joined them on the stage. ‘What would you do if you had legs like that?’
‘What wouldn’t I do, darling? With every eligible male in the place drooling on their shoes’ – she indicated Dunn, who had returned to his own contemplation of the living incarnation of Terpsichore standing at the other end of the ballroom – ‘the world would be mine and everything that’s in it.’
Blanche was less impressed. ‘You see girls like that everywhere. We had one in the Fannies in the war. All legs and . . .’ She held up her cupped hands in front of her chest. ‘She was a so-so nurse, but the boys adored her. They used to joke about getting shot again just so they could come and see her.’
‘You see?’ said Puddle. ‘Who wouldn’t want power like that?’
‘Yes, but she wasn’t happy. Takes more than a shower of drooling Tommies to make you happy.’
‘Well, if my fairy godmother turns up and offers me the chance to look like that, I’ll not be turning her down.’