The talk over the lobster and steak was of events in Germany. Philip Renshaw thought Hitler was doing a good job. Woody’s father said: ‘According to today’s
‘Are you Catholic?’ asked Mr Renshaw in surprise.
‘No, Episcopalian.’
‘It’s not about religion, Philip,’ said Rosa crisply. ‘It’s about freedom.’ Woody’s mother had been an anarchist in her youth, and she was still a libertarian at heart.
Some people skipped the dinner and came later for the dancing, and more revellers appeared as the Dewars were served dessert. Woody kept his eyes peeled for Joanne. In the next room a band started to play ‘The Continental’, a hit from last year.
He could not say what it was about Joanne that had so captivated him. Most people would not call her a great beauty, though she was certainly striking. She looked like an Aztec queen, with high cheekbones and the same knife-blade nose as her father, Dave. Her hair was dark and thick and her skin an olive shade, no doubt because of her Persian ancestry. There was a brooding intensity about her that made Woody long to know her better, to make her relax and hear her murmur softly about nothing in particular. He felt that her formidable presence must signify a capacity for deep passion. Then he thought: Now who’s pretending to be an expert on women?
‘Are you looking out for someone, Woody?’ said Grandmama, who did not miss much.
Chuck sniggered knowingly.
‘Just wondering who’s coming to the dance,’ Woody replied casually, but he could not help blushing.
He still had not spotted her when his mother stood up and they all left the table. Disconsolate, he wandered into the ballroom to the strains of Benny Goodman’s ‘Moonglow’ – and there Joanne was: she must have come in when he wasn’t looking. His spirits lifted.
Tonight she wore a dramatically simple silver-grey silk dress with a deep V-neck that showed off her figure. She had looked sensational in a tennis skirt that revealed her long brown legs, but this was even more arousing. As she glided across the room, graceful and confident, she made Woody’s throat go dry.
He moved towards her, but the ballroom had filled up, and suddenly he was irritatingly popular: everyone wanted to talk to him. During his progress through the crowd he was surprised to see dull old Charlie Farquharson dancing with the vivacious Daisy Peshkov. He could not recall seeing Charlie dance with anyone, let alone a tootsie like Daisy. What had she done to bring him out of his shell?
By the time he reached Joanne, she was at the end of the room farthest from the band, and to his chagrin she was deep in discussion with a group of boys four or five years older than he. Fortunately, he was taller than most of them, so the difference was not too obvious. They were all holding Coke glasses, but Woody could smell Scotch: one of them must have a bottle in his pocket.
As he joined them, he heard Victor Dixon say: ‘No one’s in favour of lynching, but you have to understand the problems they have in the South.’
Woody knew that Senator Wagner had proposed a law to punish sheriffs who permitted lynchings – but President Roosevelt had refused to back the bill.
Joanne was outraged. ‘How can you say that, Victor? Lynching is murder! We don’t have to understand their problems, we have to stop them killing people!’
Woody was pleased to learn how much Joanne shared his political values. But clearly this was not a good time to ask her to dance, which was unfortunate.
‘You don’t get it, Joanne, honey,’ said Victor. ‘Those Southern Negroes are not really civilized.’
I might be young and inexperienced, Woody thought, but I wouldn’t have made the mistake of speaking so condescendingly to Joanne.
‘It’s the people who carry out lynchings who are uncivilized!’ she said.
Woody decided this was the moment to make his contribution to the argument. ‘Joanne is right,’ he said. He made his voice lower in pitch, to sound older. ‘There was a lynching in the home town of our help, Joe and Betty, who have looked after me and my brother since we were babies. Betty’s cousin was stripped naked and burned with a blowtorch, while a crowd watched. Then he was hanged.’ Victor glared at him, resentful of this kid who was taking Joanne’s attention away; but the others in the group listened with horrified interest. ‘I don’t care what his crime was,’ Woody said. ‘The white people who did that to him are savages.’
Victor said: ‘Your beloved President Roosevelt didn’t support the anti-lynch bill, though, did he?’
‘No, and that was very disappointing,’ said Woody. ‘I know why he made that decision: he was afraid that angry Southern congressmen would retaliate by sabotaging the New Deal. All the same, I would have liked him to tell them to go to hell.’
Victor said: ‘What do you know? You’re just a kid.’ He took a silver flask from his jacket pocket and topped up his drink.
Joanne said: ‘Woody’s political ideas are more grown-up than yours, Victor.’
Woody glowed. ‘Politics is kind of the family business,’ he said. Then he was irritated by a tug at his elbow. Too polite to ignore it, he turned to see Charlie Farquharson, perspiring from his exertions on the dance floor.
‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’ said Charlie.
Woody resisted the temptation to tell him to buzz off. Charlie was a likeable guy who did no harm to anyone. You had to feel sorry for a man with a mother like that. ‘What is it, Charlie?’ he said with as much good grace as he could muster.
