Rebel without a claus, p.10
Christmas with the Variety Girls, page 10
‘I’ll be fine. It’s only five-minute walk. I’m getting used to it now and the moon’s still quite bright.’
Lil got to her feet. ‘It’s been nice talking to you, Frances. I think you and me will get along fine.’
Frances grinned, pulled aside the curtain over the back door, and repeated Big Malc’s words, ‘Lock up after me, Lil.’
Lil grinned too. ‘Aye, I will.’
It was cool outside after the warmth of the small sitting room and she stood for a minute, letting her eyes become accustomed to the darkness before opening the back gate and stepping out into the street. Her feet stung and she reeked of stale ale and nicotine, but it had been a good night. Lil was grand to work for and even if Jack got another show going, she’d be happy to work the odd shift with Lil. Tonight she had felt closer to confiding in Lil than she ever had to Jessie and it saddened her. But Lil had lived, she would understand. She snapped the latch and stepped out, pulling the gate shut; as she did so someone came up close behind her and she froze, her heart thumping wildly. She turned quickly. If she screamed, would Lil hear?
‘Sorry, sorry, Frances.’ She recognised the voice. ‘It’s Wilf, s-s-s-sorry. I didn’t want to frighten you.’ He put his hands out but didn’t touch her, awkward, embarrassed. ‘It’s so dark in the blackout and I didn’t want you walking home alone.’ He was agitated, shifting from one foot to the other.
She pressed her hand to her chest and could feel her heart hammering away.
‘Lord, you half-scared me to death, Wilf! Have you been waiting here all that time?’ As her eyes adjusted further, she could see his distraught expression and she felt for him. ‘You daft thing, I’m perfectly all right. It’s not far.’ His face fell and she softened. ‘But thanks, Wilf, that’s very chivalrous of you.’ She started to walk, her legs still trembling from the shock. ‘You mustn’t lurk about on corners, Wilf. You’ll give someone a heart attack.’ She adjusted the strap on her shoulder. ‘I was about to batter you with my gas mask.’ She laughed and he said again, ‘Sorry, Frances.’
She nudged him with her arm. ‘Don’t let me hear you say sorry again. Let’s get home, ’cos I’m shattered.’ They walked along in silence because she was too tired to make small talk. ‘This is me,’ she said as she came to the house.
‘Bye, Frances,’ he said quietly, walking on down to the bottom of the street. He was a boy, not much older than Eddie, and she said a silent prayer that this war wouldn’t last; that, unlike the Great War, it really would be over by Christmas. She watched him turn into the house by the alleyway, put her key in the lock and went inside, ready to fall into bed.
Chapter 8
The vans were already lined up, steam pouring out from the chimney of the Little Laundry on Barkhouse Lane. The air smelled of soap and coal from the hopper that heated the boiler and a steady stream of women and girls spilled into the entrance doors. Ginny hurried to join them. Alf Naylor was leaning against the back wall, having a last drag on his fag, and he lifted his hand in greeting, knocking the ash away with his finger at the same time. He winked at her.
‘Here’s our lovely dancing girl, bright as the morning.’ It made her smile, even though she didn’t feel much like it. He took another drag, flicked his fag end to the floor, ground it with his heel and kicked it alongside the others he’d smoked that week. It was only Tuesday and already there was a tidy pile in the corner. He rubbed his hands together. ‘Better get in there before ol’ droopy drawers gets stroppy.’ He stood back to let her pass and Phyl came running up, her arms high, pulling back her hair and securing it with an elastic band.
‘Made it!’ she called, following Ginny inside. The overwhelming smell of soap made Ginny nauseous and she stepped to one side, closing her eyes for a second, wishing she’d eaten something. Phyl clocked in and Ginny took her card from the slot, waiting for her turn.
Edna Bowers was standing against the wall, looking as if she’d sucked on a lemon, pristine in her white overall and turban.
‘Get your backside in sharpish, Thompson. We don’t have time for prima donnas here.’
Alf closed the door, bringing with him the tang of nicotine, and Ginny tried not to breathe.
‘Leave the kid alone, Edna. Poor lass has barely set foot in the place and you’re on her back.’
Edna sneered. ‘As well I might be. I haven’t got time for slackers.’ She disappeared into the laundry, the double doors banging behind her.
‘Thanks, Alf.’
He winked at her. ‘You don’t have to thank me, lass. Take no notice of her. Her bark’s worse than her bite.’
Phyl grabbed her arm. ‘Come on, Dolly Daydream. She’ll be barking again if you don’t get a shake on.’ Ginny followed Phyl into the cloakroom, where they hung their coats and left their bags. Women were hurrying into the main laundry room, the doors held open, the warm air flooding into the cloakroom. Ginny quickly pulled on her blue overall, tucking her hair inside the matching hat. She tried not to think of the heat, which would worsen as the day went on. Betty, from the hand-ironing team, put a hairgrip between her teeth to stretch it open, then used it to secure her starched cap.
‘You look a bit peaky, Ginny. Are you all right?’
Ginny nodded.
‘I’m fine. Couldn’t sleep, that’s all.’
‘Me neither,’ the woman said, patting down her overall and sticking out her large bosom. ‘I’ll be glad when Eric buggers off back to sea. The sound of his snoring is like a ruddy foghorn when he’s had a drink. I bet they can hear ’im at t’other end of our street.’
Phyl laughed. ‘I heard him in mine. I thought it was an earthquake.’
Ginny grinned. It was a lot like the banter they had in the dressing rooms before they went on stage and she enjoyed the good-natured leg-pulling. If she didn’t feel so bad she’d join in, but her head felt like cotton wool and her mouth tasted of rust.
‘We’ll see if you’re still laughing when you’re wed to our Terry and he’s the foghorn!’ Betty strode after the others and Ginny and Phyl followed. The room was beginning to hum with the sound of the washers, the whoosh of water and clatter of the wicker baskets being pushed along the floor once they had been sorted. Ginny had worked there for five days now and was beginning to get used to the overwhelming smell of soda that had burned her nostrils on the first day. At first it had seemed fresh and she’d associated it with cleanliness and her mother, but over time, as the building grew hot with toil, it only added to her sense of sickness and detachment. Over by the machines Vera and Sylv were on sorting, sifting through the linen and clothing that was piled high in wicker baskets, before being loaded into the machines. They would be moved into the dryers then on to the steam rolling irons. In the far corner was a row of ironing boards, where six girls stood pressing shirts and fine silk blouses.
Phyl and Ginny went to the flat steam roller and picked up a sheet, grabbing the four corners, folding it in half then half again before feeding it through the machine.
‘By heck, my mum would’ve loved to have one of these years ago,’ she called to Phyl. ‘The hours she spent ironing, breaking her back.’ Her mum been almost permanently bent over an iron, a pile of clothing behind her, but always finding a smile for Ginny no matter how tired she was.
‘Aye, must be ruddy lovely to have the luxury of having your laundry done for ya. How the other ’alf live, eh?’
She reached down for another sheet, waited while Ginny found the corners.
‘I keep worrying about our Dan and Kenny, gone off in the army,’ Phyl said. ‘We ain’t heard from ’em yet. I wish they hadn’t gone so soon.’ Ginny tugged at the sheets and Phyl did the same. It made her think of her own brothers. All four of them had escaped, one by one, as soon as they could, taking whatever work that would get them away from their dad’s fists. Would they have joined up too?
‘It’s early days,’ Ginny said, trying to concentrate as sounds in the laundry grew louder, raising her voice. ‘I expect you’ll hear from them before long.’
Phyl tilted her chin upwards.
‘Aye, just me being impatient.’ She grinned. ‘Never could wait, not even for the lavvy.’ Ginny laughed and the two of them fell quiet as the noise grew louder and made conversation nigh on impossible. They worked quietly, using mime and their facial expressions to communicate. The room became much hotter as the steam presses worked their magic, the dryers and washers rumbling along in the background. Light flooded in through the doors that Alf had wedged open and ‘Sticky’ Sam went around with his pole and opened the top windows to let in some air. The room was lit by long lights high in the ceiling. It added to the heat and stuffiness and she felt herself stumble forward as she leant into the wicker basket for another sheet.
Phyl caught her hand and steadied her. ‘You don’t look well, are you sure you can manage?’
Ginny rested one hand on the basket, pressing her lips together as she felt bile rising again. She focused on the ground, not the noise of the machines, nor the heat.
‘I drank some milk this morning.’ She looked up, smiled broadly. ‘I think it was off.’ She took up another sheet but felt lightheaded and leant again on the basket, gripping the side to steady herself.
Edna strutted over. ‘What’s going on? You’ll hold everyone up if you don’t keep it moving along the line.’ Ginny pulled herself upright but the sudden movement made her head swim.
‘She’s not well!’ Phyl shouted above the noise.
‘If she can’t do the job, she needs to get another one.’ Edna folded her arms across her chest. ‘I knew it was a mistake, taking her on. I can tell by her hands. Not used to a hard day’s work like the rest of us. Too busy pointing her pretty toes and showing her backside.’
Ginny wanted to laugh. If Edna saw her feet she would soon change her tune. The corns and blisters, the blackened nails and deformed toes. She hadn’t come across a dancer yet who liked her feet.
‘It won’t happen again, Edna. I drank some iffy milk. It’s upset my stomach.’
Edna scoffed. ‘Your own stupidity then. I was—’
‘Edna!’ Mr Edwards, the manager, was leaning over the rail on the upper floor where the offices were and calling down to her. She looked up. ‘Could I have you for a moment?’ She went off, shaking her head, and Phyl pulled a face.
‘Take no notice of misery guts. She looks like she drinks sour milk all day long!’
Ginny took up the sheet, ready to start again, glad that Edna had been called away. ‘I’ll try not to.’
The machines tumbled and turned and the sound was like thunder in her head as it grew hotter, and each time she checked the big clock on the back wall, the hands seemed to be in the same position. She looked up again, back to the press, leant down into the basket, tugged at a sheet with Phyl, stood up again. Her head spun, the windows seemed to tilt on the wall, and she heard Phyl call out, ‘Catch her!’ as she fell backwards onto the floor.
Her vision was blurry when she opened her eyes; someone was hauling her to sit upright, supporting her back. Phyl held a glass out and put it under her lips.
‘Try and sip it, Ginny.’ She tried to focus but Phyl’s face looked odd and misshapen and she blinked until her face became normal. She did as she was urged and sipped. The water was cool and she wanted to gulp it down, but Phyl kept drawing the glass away. Ginny shuffled more upright.
‘I’m absolutely fine. It’s the heat, that’s all it is. It’s taking a bit of getting used to.’ She couldn’t lose this job, for where would she find another, and she still had to find somewhere to stay. There were only two weeks more left on the flat.
Edna came back as Ginny got to her feet and took up a sheet. Her neck was hot and her forehead was burning, but she forced herself to keep going.
‘I knew it was a mistake taking you on. Only fit for prancing about the stage, showing what you’ve got to all and sundry.’
‘That’s unfair, Edna.’
‘You can keep your trap shut an’ all.’
Phyl glanced at the clock.
‘Time for our break anyway, Edna.’ She flipped the switch that stopped the rollers and turned her back on the woman. Taking the sheet from Ginny, she dropped it into the basket and leant in close to whisper in Ginny’s ear, ‘She’s an old sod, been here years. She’s never like that with the blokes, only us lasses – and that’s all there is left, mostly.’
‘I can’t blame her, Phyl. Theatricals don’t have the best of reputations, unless they’re famous. I don’t take it personal.’
‘She’s still an old sod.’ She put her hand under Ginny’s elbow. ‘Come on. Let’s get outside while we can.’
The girls sat or leant along the low wall as vans came and went with their loads of dirty or clean laundry. Being out in the fresh air was bliss and a cool breeze blew in off the sea, reviving her a little. Kath held out one of her potted beef sandwiches.
‘Get that down ya! Ya need something nourishing, there’s nothing on ya. Ya look like a filleted earwig.’
Ginny put her hand up, shook her head.
‘I’m fine, thanks, Kath. I must have caught a sickness bug – or it’s something I’ve eaten.’ She hadn’t eaten much for days, mostly from worry, partly to save money.
‘Yeh, course you ’ave,’ Sylv chipped in. She was leaning against the higher part of the wall and she pushed her bottom lip forward. ‘If you need any help with that sickness bug,’ she said, pointedly, ‘I know someone who can help.’
Ginny felt her face burn. Phyl flicked her cigarette end over the wall and slipped onto her feet, brushing down the back of her overall.
‘Take no notice of her, neither.’
It was a difficult afternoon; her back was aching like the very devil but at least the sickness had gone and for that she was grateful. She carried on with Phyl, bending, tugging and turning, folding and threading the sheets through the press. Her mam would weep if she could see her now.
‘When did you start dancing, Ginny?’
‘When I was a kid, three, four. My mam took in washing from the theatre folks to bring in extra money. She took me with her, whether I wanted to go or not.’ Phyl smiled and she carried on folding the sheets, feeding the machine. ‘She got me free dance lessons, acting, singing – whatever she could barter. She didn’t want me to be stuck doing laundry like her.’ She blushed. ‘Oh, that sounds awful! I didn’t mean—’
Phyl laughed.
‘Don’t apologise. Christ, if I could do summat else I’d be off like a shot! I’d be sticking two fingers up to Edna and singing as I went.’ She looked over to the other girls. ‘Some of us have already been talking about signing up ourselves. A ruddy regimental sergeant major will be a doddle after Edna.’ They looked over at her. ‘Atten-shun!’ Phyl saluted and the woman turned away. She reached in the basket for another two corners and took hold of them while Ginny found hers. ‘I hope you get back on stage soon, Ginny. I’ll come an’ see ya. We all will.’
They carried on and Ginny thought of her mother, pushing her forward, setting her on a path that she would never have for herself. No, she couldn’t stay here much longer. It would be as if her mother’s life had been worthless. She had to get back on the stage, she owed it to Mam and nothing was going to stop her, not women like Edna, or men like Billy Lane.
‘You’ve got a bit o’ colour in your cheeks now,’ Phyl shouted over the noise as they came together over the linen and picked up another sheet. ‘Feelin’ better?’
‘Tons. Whatever it was must have gone through me. I’ll be fine.’ She felt Edna’s eyes on her as the woman moved about the room and she steeled herself to keep going. Phyl was not convinced and she glanced to where Edna was, checking she was far enough away not to hear.
‘You still look iffy. Perhaps you should switch to sorting for a bit. It’s not so hot and you’ll be nearer the doors. I’ll work it so you can. You’ll get more of a rest while they wait for a delivery.’
Ginny was brisk. ‘Don’t worry about Edna. She’s a pussycat compared to some of my old dance teachers. I’ve danced all day and all night with blisters and corns on my feet, with torn ligaments and broken toes.’ Nothing was easy but you had to make it look as if you were just floating along with the breeze.
When the whistle blew at four, they hurried off to the cloakroom and collected their things. Phyl pulled on her coat and woolly hat, checked herself in the mirror.
‘Why don’t you come back with us for a bite to eat? Me mam won’t mind.’
It was kind but she felt too vulnerable, too exposed. They would ask questions and she was tired; she might slip up. She might cry. She mustn’t be weak.
‘Thanks, Phyl, but I’d best get back. I think I need an early night.’
Phyl rubbed at Ginny’s shoulder. ‘Course you do. Another time, then? When you’re feeling more chipper?’
Ginny buttoned her coat, pulled her beret from the pocket and put it on. ‘I’d like that.’
She walked out of the yard and onto Barkhouse Lane, lingering on the pavement as the other women streamed past her, back to their homes, their families. She looked down towards the house that Jessie and Frances shared. Jessie had invited her for tea on the Monday the other dancers had left and they’d all been so warm and welcoming … Oh, she longed to go there now, walk in and be part of their home. She shivered, wrapped her arms about herself and made her way to the end of the street, started to walk home then stopped, turned, looked down towards the sea. What was the point in rushing back? She made her way towards the Empire, knowing it would be locked but wanting to feel attached to something, feel that she mattered. She hurried past the shops, all shuttered, and arrived at the theatre. The photos of summer were still there, and she wished for a moment that she could roll back the days and start again. There was a picture of the star, Madeleine Moore, photos of the girls in their various costumes. She moved to the showcase at the other side of the door. The comedian, Billy Lane, was smiling out at her. How easily she’d fallen for his charms, eager to be loved. She touched the glass. Her fingertips were grubby with dirt and she spat on them, wiped them on her skirt. If only everything could be cleaned away so easily.
