Page 40 of The Midnight Carousel

Maisie follows James through a series of grimy corridors, twisting first left, then right, and right again; then they descend a staircase and arrive at another long corridor, at the end of which is a set of double doors guarded by a huge man in a dark fur coat and green trilby.

‘Evening, Bernard. It’s quiet tonight,’ James remarks, handing over a dollar.

Bernard shrugs. ‘Wednesdays never see much action.’

He bangs twice on the double doors, pauses and bangs three times in quick succession. A few seconds later, the doors swing open from the other side to reveal a sight Maisie could never have imagined.

A cavernous space bedecked in red-and-silver swags of silk reveals a stage where a smiling man in a tuxedo is singing an upbeat tune Maisie doesn’t recognize, surrounded by an orchestra.

Milling about, lounging at the bar, dancing, are people of every colour, dressed like exotic creatures of the night.

Fascinated, Maisie can’t take her eyes off them.

A tall man sporting a live snake around his neck like a scarf parades past, followed by an assortment of bejewelled young women.

Most surprising are the gaming tables set up in a dark corner, crowded with excited patrons throwing in their bets.

Gambling is illegal, so it’s no wonder Bernard is careful about who he lets in the club.

As she watches the roulette wheel spin, Maisie is reminded of the carousel.

‘Let’s find a table,’ James shouts over the buzz.

He shepherds Maisie through the room, greeting faces in the crowd with shouts of ‘How’s business, Nigel?’ or ‘Good to see you, Johnny.’ Maisie can tell that he’s at home in this hurly-burly, and she’s surprised at how quickly he’s adapted.

As they settle in a booth near the back with a view of the stage, a bald waiter appears.

‘A gin sling for me, Curly.’ James turns to Maisie. ‘What’ll you have, Maisie?’

Something stronger will take the edge off.

‘A vodka. Make it a double, please,’ she says, having been inspired by Nancy to try it for the first time.

He looks at her, surprised, but makes no comment.

The volume of the saxophone rises, and it becomes too noisy to talk.

Sitting back to enjoy the music, Maisie tries to assimilate into these strange new surroundings.

She’s out of place here, prim in her buttoned-up, floor-length gown and tense seated next to James.

The other women are dazzlers, carefree and laughing, in slinky dresses that show their legs, their cleavage.

Confident, they dance with abandon, flirt with men, smoke.

Women her age. Women her colour. Women darker and lighter than Maisie.

It makes her wonder what she’s been missing out on all these years.

The wine she consumed this evening before leaving is beginning to wear off and she wills the waiter to appear with her drink. Melancholy is threatening to creep in. She wishes, despite herself, that it was Laurent here with her. But Laurent is back in France with his wife.

The waiter glides back to the table, deposits the drinks and glides away. Maisie gulps down the vodka, slams the glass on the table. Good riddance to Laurent.

James grins. ‘Atta girl, Maisie.’ He lifts his glass. ‘To the great nation of America, where women can come to clubs like this and do whatever they please.’

There’s a lull in the music and conversation breaks out on the surrounding tables.

‘It seems like you’re really embracing America,’ Maisie comments.

‘And it’s embracing me. I like it here. I like the opportunities, the people… and I like the women…’

James sips his drink, eyes Maisie over the glass. Emboldened by the heady atmosphere in here, she holds his gaze. He finishes his drink and wipes his mouth with a napkin from a pile on the table.

‘Don’t you miss England?’ she asks.

‘Do you?’ he counters.

It’s been nine years since she left the country of her birth, but Maisie still remembers the sunrise colours of the flowerbeds on her last day at Jesserton.

‘I have some fond memories,’ she admits.

His eyebrows shoot up. ‘Well, I hate to break it to you, but the war changed a lot of things. There are strikes, riots, food shortages.’ He looks more thoughtful than Maisie has ever seen him.

‘It wasn’t easy returning from the frontline and finding there were no jobs for those of us that had put our lives on the line,’ he admits.

‘But in America they can see what I’m made of. Working in the club is a first step.’

The double vodka must have hit Maisie’s system, because the room is beginning to spin. She takes in the scene of performers on stage, the croupiers, the waiters and bar staff and can’t decide how James fits in.

‘What do you do in the club?’ she asks.

He leans back in the seat as though he’s trying to appear casual. ‘If there’s trouble amongst the patrons, I help out.’

It seems an unnecessarily vague answer. He signals to the waiter to bring more drinks, then refocuses on Maisie.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to America with Sir Malcolm when we spoke at Jesserton? You made it seem like you were returning to your previous home on Canvey Island.’

His directness takes Maisie by surprise. She thinks back to that morning beneath the weeping willow tree, his overbearing presence, the snatched kiss.

‘Because we hardly knew each other, and you were full of yourself,’ she answers, any tact drowned by the vodka.

‘Fair enough,’ he laughs. ‘Though I’d prefer to call it driven. I know what I want, Maisie, and I go all out to get it.’

More drinks appear as the singer bows and disappears behind a gold curtain.

Maisie notices James’s eyes are now roaming the room, moving from the stage, where a curvy woman in red is getting ready to perform, to the entrance, where a party of ten are streaming in, and finally to a group of ladies in garish dresses who are gathered in the far corner.

‘Excuse me for one moment,’ he says.

James slides from the booth and dives through the crowd. Maisie watches him head towards a short man in a multicoloured vest. They talk for a moment before James hands him something.

‘Such a beautiful woman cannot possibly be James’s love interest.’ A wiry, middle-aged man sporting a twirly moustache and a velvet smoking jacket addresses Maisie. He sits down next to her. ‘Frederick Fortescue but call me Freddie.’

‘Maisie Marlowe. But I’m definitely not his love interest. We’ve known each other since childhood,’ she slurs.

His eyes glint as though he’s won the jackpot tonight, and he twiddles his moustache.

‘So what secrets from James’s youth can you share with me? Is his uncle really a duke, as he’s been telling everyone?’

Maisie flinches as Freddie arches his eyebrows playfully. She knocks back her second drink before answering.

‘If you tell me what you know about James, then I’ll tell you,’ she responds, deciding not to reveal to this total stranger that James has, of course, been exaggerating.

Freddie calls to the barman. Another round of drinks appears immediately, this time bright green shots. Absinthe.

‘Do you really want to know?’ he asks, his face falling serious.

The question catches her out. Before she can decide how to respond, James himself returns, his face an incandescent red.

‘Get out of here, Freddie. I’ll–’

Freddie jumps up as though he’s been struck by lightning before James can finish his sentence and escapes to the roulette table on the other side of the room. James sits down again. Maisie says nothing, downs her drink. The bitter taste of aniseed makes her involuntarily shudder.

The singer in the red dress begins to croon a haunting melody, a slow rhythm gradually ramping up until, with the blast of a trumpet, a dancing troupe parade on to the stage.

Half a dozen beautiful girls clad in thigh-length dresses kick their legs in perfect synchronicity.

Maisie is mesmerized. As their hips sway, they move as one, the colours of their barely there outfits swirling, the spotlights focused on bare flesh.

Breasts. Midriffs. When the girls turn around, bend over and wriggle their frilly knickers, the audience erupts, whooping and clapping.

Maisie is overcome with a sense of freedom. In this place, women hold the power. They gyrate against each other, tease men with their bodies. She thinks of her mother. Perhaps the desire to run wild courses through Maisie’s own blood. She could do anything here, and no one would tell her not to.

Suddenly Maisie is up on her feet. James cheers.

She’s in the midst of a tangle of bodies.

Drums beat. Boom-ba-ba-boom-ba-ba-boom .

Trumpets blow. Eee-waaa. She copies the women to her left, rotating her hips and flapping her arms. Then she doesn’t need to copy anyone, because the music swims into her senses and tells Maisie what to do.

Shimmy to the left, roll her limbs like a snake.

As she spins around and around, flashes of the room appear.

The blackjack table. Gleaming brass cocktail shakers on the bar.

Silver confetti falling from the ceiling. James watching intently.

Sweat pours down her neck. As Maisie undoes the top button of her dress, a hand slides on to her back.

A man has appeared behind her. A stranger in white tails and a yellow vest. He pushes his body close, one arm around Maisie’s waist as he sways gently from side to side.

She imagines that the fingers stroking her neck belong to Laurent and she arches her back.

Maisie is sinking, eyes closed, willing him to kiss her mouth.

Someone grabs her hand. James has appeared.

He twirls her on the spot as he breaks into a theatrical show of footwork.

Laughing in surprise, Maisie is guided sideways and forwards by him, trotting in step.

They move like this for several minutes.

When the song changes, James begins pulling her to the exit.

‘We’ve got to leave. Sabrina’s cousins are here, and they’re on the warpath,’ he explains.

He glances at the dancer in the centre of the troupe on stage: a pretty black-haired girl with long legs has her eyes fixed on him.

She’s out of step with the other dancers and her neighbours on each side begin to wobble.

The knock-on effect is a clumsy stumble by all six and a loud cheer from the audience.

Evidently, Sabrina is the dancer, and her cousins must be the five huge men striding towards them.

Following James from the room, she races past Bernard, taking the staircase at speed, pushing past groups heading downstairs and out into the night.

There’s shouting and the sound of many pairs of feet stampeding as she enters a narrow passageway that James has dived into.

He holds his index finger to his mouth, warning Maisie to keep quiet. When he signals it’s safe to come out, his face is sheepish.

‘Sorry to cut things short. Sabrina can’t get it into her head that it was a one-time thing,’ he explains. ‘Come to the jazz club again sometime once she’s calmed down.’

Maisie makes no comment as she hails a taxi and slips into the backseat. She has no interest in James’s love life. In the cool, clear air, she is dizzy, the blessed numbness of alcohol is quickly fading, and her head is throbbing.

Overtired by the time she gets home, Maisie thinks she hears jingly carousel music, though it must be past midnight. She peers into the distance. There’s no movement, and all is quiet now.