“Good as gold,” he said to Mr. Allingham. “I thought you said this was a low place, like a speakeasy.”

“Speak easy yourself. They don’t like being called low down here.” Mr. Allingham leant close, speaking from the side of his mouth. “They’re too low for that. It’s a regular little hellhole,” he whispered. “It’s just warming up. They take their clothes off soon and do the hula hula; you’ll like that.”

“Nobody knows Lucille,” George Ring said. “Are you sure she isn’t Lucy? There’s a lovely Lucy.”

“No, Lucille.”

“ ‘She dwells beside the springs of Dove.’ I think I like Wordsworth better than Walter de la Mare sometimes. Do you know ‘Tintern Abbey’?”

Mrs. Dacey appeared at Samuel’s shoulder. “Doesn’t baby dance?” He shuddered at the cold touch of her hand on his neck. Not here. Not now. That terrible impersonal Bethesda rape of the fingers. He remembered that she had carried her umbrella even while she danced.

“I got a sister in Tintern,” said a man behind them.

“Tintern Abbey.” George Ring pouted and did not turn round.

“Not in the Abbey, she’s a waitress.”

“We were talking about a poem.”

“She’s not a bloody nun,” the man said.

The music stopped, but the two boys on the little platform still moved their hands and lips, beating out the dance in silence.

Mr. Allingham raised his fist. “Say that again and I’ll knock you down.”

“I’ll blow you down,” the man said. He puffed up his cheeks, and blew. His breath smelt of cloves.

“Now, now.” Mrs. Dacey levelled her umbrella.

“People shouldn’t go around insulting nuns then,” Mr. Allingham said as the ferrule taped his waistcoat.

“I’ll blow you down,” the man said. “I never insulted any nun. I’ve never spoken to a nun.”

“Now, now.” The umbrella drove for his eyes, and he ducked.

“You blow again,” said Mrs. Dacey politely, “I’ll push it up your snout and open it.”

“Don’t you loathe violence,” George Ring said. “I’ve always been a terrible pacifist. One drop of blood and I feel slimy all over. Shall we dance?”

He put his arm round Samuel’s waist and danced him away from the bar. The band began again though none of the couples had stopped dancing.

“But we’re two men,” Samuel said. “Is this a waltz?”

“They never play waltzes here, it’s just self-expression. Look, there’s two other men dancing.”

“I thought they were girls.”

“My friend thought you were a couple of girls,” George Ring said in a loud voice as they danced past them. Samuel looked at the floor, trying to follow the movements of George Ring’s feet. One, two, three, turn around, tap.

One of the young men squealed, “Come up and see my Aga Cooker.”

One, two, three, swirl and tap.

“What sort of a girl is Polly Dacey, really? Is she mad?”

I’m like thistledown, thought Samuel. Swirl about and swirl again, on the toes now, shake those hips.