Rebel without a claus, p.2
Christmas with the Variety Girls, page 2
‘Ah, we were wrong,’ Frances said as he pulled out a chair. ‘At least one person in the house slept.’ The tension in the room seemed to break as the boy settled himself at the table, his back to the kitchen door. The moment to speak of Imogen had slipped away from her. The kettle began to whistle, and she went back into the kitchen, poured hot water into the bowl, then ran some cold into it.
‘Refill it, Frances. I’ll make some tea,’ Jessie shouted through. Frances did, then stripped to her slip and washed. Jessie came in and busied herself behind her. The smell of bacon filled the kitchen and the fat sizzled when Jessie cracked the eggs into the frying pan. Frances’s stomach felt hollow, but she wasn’t hungry. Were any of the others? Or was Jessie simply going through the motions?
When Frances was finished, she dressed, poured the water away and cleaned everything down. Jessie filled the teapot, Frances sliced the bread and took it into the room along with butter, plates and cutlery. The two of them went back for the bacon and eggs. Eddie reached across for a slice of bread and Grace slapped his hand.
‘Wait.’ Her tone was light but firm and Eddie sat back and did as he was told.
Geraldine started pouring the tea as the girls sat down, side by side, at the table. Frances tried not to look up at the clock over the mantelpiece but couldn’t help herself. Half past eight. Surely, it must be later than that. Had it stopped? Grace gestured to Eddie that he was now allowed to help himself. The boy grinned and Grace smiled back at him as he took a slice and placed it on his plate. Frances watched Grace as she studied her son, the worry clear in her eyes. She caught Frances looking and they exchanged a smile. Grace would understand. Any mother would.
Jessie cut a slice of bread in half, scraped a little butter across it, lifted it, then put it down again. ‘Surely Chamberlain will be able to resolve things peacefully? He said it was peace with honour not so long ago. Hitler must keep his word.’
‘People say lots of things,’ Geraldine said. ‘It’s what they do that counts.’ Frances nodded her head. Johnny’s words had been empty promises. If only she’d been so wise.
‘And the Germans have already moved into Poland,’ Eddie said, taking a tug at the crust then dipping it back into the yolk.
‘But we have to hope for the best, don’t we?’ Jessie was almost pleading for the others to agree with her. Geraldine sliced through her bacon while Grace reached across for the salt and sprinkled it over her egg. Frances looked down at her plate. She should eat. She should tell them. She picked up her fork.
‘We do, darling,’ Grace said. ‘And you have so much to look forward to. You’re on your way, now. Before long you’ll be down in London, your name in lights.’
‘Not in a blackout it won’t, Mum,’ Eddie said. ‘It won’t be allowed.’ Grace glowered at him and he shrugged. He reached for a cup and ladled in three spoonfuls of sugar. Grace raised an eyebrow. ‘What?’ He quickly stirred the tea, took a quick gulp. ‘I’m caddying for Mr Archer; I need the energy. It’s a long walk around that golf course.’
Grace replaced her cup on the saucer. ‘Surely Mr Archer won’t be on the golf course, today of all days.’
Eddie nodded, hurrying to finish another mouthful of food. ‘He said he would. He told me that he wasn’t going to spoil a good round of golf for something he couldn’t influence.’
Frances watched the boy. What could any of them do? If it was war, everything would change, for every one of them. They would all have to carry on as best they could.
‘I suppose we can’t really argue with that.’
‘I agree with you, Frances; Mr Archer is being very practical,’ Geraldine said. ‘But mark my words, it will affect us all. As it did the last time.’
Grace briefly closed her eyes. Was she remembering her husband, Davey, who had fought in the Great War? He had returned a broken man, as so many of them had. Frances tried a piece of bacon. It was salty and her mouth watered. Grace picked up her knife and fork. ‘We will all have influence when we get called to action.’
‘Well, anyway, I’m going, Mum,’ Eddie said with his mouth full. ‘And listening to the radio won’t change things. I don’t want to miss out on the half-crown he pays me. If he doesn’t turn up, I’ll come home. It’s easier now I have my bike.’ His words were almost lost in his chewing and he caught a crumb before it fell to the table.
‘He’s right, of course, Grace,’ Geraldine said with authority. ‘Life will have to go on, no matter what the outcome. We must all be thinking ahead, like this young man.’ Frances saw him grow a little. He would be fifteen in a couple of weeks, still a boy but almost a man. Almost. If it was war and it went on and on, then Eddie would be called up. Frances shivered.
Grace said, brighter now, ‘I hope he’s right.’ She leant forward and ruffled his hair, smiling at her boy. ‘Better get yourself dressed. Unless you’re thinking of going around the golf links in your pyjamas.’ He grinned, pushing back the chair and getting to his feet. He took another swig of tea and rumbled up the stairs. Frances saw the fear return to Grace’s eyes as soon as he was gone. They were all putting on a face, weren’t they? She wasn’t alone in that. It was a scrap of comfort and she snatched at it.
‘Sounds like a herd of elephants,’ Jessie said.
Frances finished her tea, replaced her cup carefully in the saucer as worry enveloped her again. The waiting was interminable, the tick of the clock suddenly ominous. She glanced at it, was cross with herself, looked away. ‘Life will have to go on, won’t it? For us all.’
Geraldine sipped her tea. ‘Unless they close the theatres, of course.’
Frances twisted in her chair. ‘They won’t do that, surely?’ They had to keep the theatres open. Had to.
Geraldine held her saucer mid-air, her little finger pointing upwards. ‘They closed them in the last war. Didn’t they, Grace?’
Jessie turned to her mother, her list forgotten. ‘Did they, Mum?’
Grace sighed. ‘They did. That’s when your father signed up. He thought they would be closed for good. They weren’t, of course. They opened again a few weeks later.’ She paused; when she spoke, her voice was quieter. ‘Who knows what will happen this time?’
The silence was broken only when Eddie trundled down the stairs and stuck his head around the door. He was wearing his smart trousers and shirt, his hair tidy, and he kissed his mother and looked around at them all, puzzled. ‘What have I done?’
Grace took his hand, rubbed at his arm. ‘Nothing, my love. Off you go. Best not to let Mr Archer down.’
He shook his head. ‘Not a chance.’ He slipped out of the back door, calling, ‘See you later!’ They heard the clatter as he took hold of his bike, the rattle of the gate as he left.
Frances pushed her cup and saucer away and glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to nine. Time was grinding away. She must speak of Imogen. She glanced at Geraldine, then at Grace. Grace knew the theatre and the theatre was as good a place to start as any. She clasped her hands in her lap, took a deep breath. ‘Do you miss your dancing days, Grace?’
Grace sat back in her chair. ‘Sometimes, but not often.’
‘What did you do, Grace? You never said.’ Geraldine was curious and Frances relaxed a little. There hadn’t been time for them all to chat easily because Geraldine worked long hours at the dock offices in Grimsby and when she returned, the girls had already left for the theatre. Grace had only been at Barkhouse Lane for a few weeks and had been too ill for much conversation. It had been a slow recovery from walking pneumonia and it was still early days. No one had wanted to tire her more than necessary.
‘I was a ballerina,’ she said with pride, ‘and Davey was a renowned violinist. This was all before the Great War, of course.’ She paused, remembering. ‘The life is different, the discipline different.’
‘More respectable,’ Jessie offered.
Grace frowned, her dismay showing on her face. ‘Not at all. I’m not saying that what you girls do is not respectable.’
‘But it isn’t, Mum,’ Jessie countered. ‘If Aunt Iris knew I wanted to dance with the corps de ballet, she’d have treated me differently. You can’t say she wouldn’t.’ Jessie folded her arms across her chest and Frances wondered how Grace would answer. Her sister-in-law was a condescending snob, sour and pretentious. Frances had met her only briefly but once was enough. Over the past few years she had realised there were many people like Iris. The problem was you never knew who they were until it was too late.
Grace was reluctant to answer. ‘Possibly.’
Geraldine said, ‘Well, you can’t entirely blame your aunt, Jessie. Variety is the child of the Music Hall and so many of the big stars have succumbed to drink and depravity, squandering their fortunes. It hasn’t earned a reputation for loose morals for nothing.’
Frances was shocked by Geraldine’s remark. This wasn’t going the way she had wanted, and she straightened herself, wanting to stay calm, but her response had unnerved her. ‘That’s a tad unfair, Geraldine. There are plenty of people who behave like that, it’s not linked only to the theatre. Or movie stars, for that matter.’
The older woman was picking at crumbs on the table and placing them on her plate with a sprinkle of her fingers. ‘I agree, it’s merely an observation, not an opinion. But it seems more prevalent. The excess, the drama,’ Geraldine countered. ‘And young girls’ heads are easily turned by the lure of the bright lights and the glamour. More so than boys. Why, only last week there was the story of that young woman from Louth, a girl who had everything. Beauty, a private education, a good home … Off she went to London in search of stardom and ended up dying from some botched —’ She broke off abruptly, then continued, ‘Operation. Such a waste.’
‘But that could happen to anyone, Geraldine.’ Frances’s voice was high and she could feel her neck and face reddening. ‘She had dreams.’ Dreams that had led to disappointment, as they had done for her. The memories flooded in thick and fast, the pain of them intense, and she couldn’t bear it. Jessie turned and looked at her; Grace too. She was breathing too fast. She looked down and realised she was wringing her hands; she released them. It was all going wrong.
Geraldine remained calm. ‘Her expectations weren’t realistic, Frances. And you have to keep your wits about you. We’ve all heard stories like this. Charming young men who only have one thing on their minds.’ She turned to Jessie, eyebrows raised.
‘I won’t end up like that,’ Jessie snapped, affronted. ‘Harry’s not like that.’
How it irritated. Harry wasn’t like that, but Jessie had almost lost him, hadn’t she, flattered by the cocky comedian, Billy Lane, who had been second top of the bill during the summer season.
‘You have no idea how you’ll end up,’ Frances said, sharply. The girl was naïve. Frances had had to steer her clear of danger on more than one occasion. She’d had a lucky escape; Frances hadn’t been so fortunate. ‘Look how easily you fell for Billy Lane’s charms.’
‘Frances!’ Jessie was horrified, her mouth open, her hand to her chest, her face registering her disbelief.
Frances could have bitten off her tongue. Jessie hadn’t deserved that; she wasn’t that kind of girl – but then, neither was she. People would make up their own minds about her, whether she liked it or not. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, gently. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I’m truly sorry. You did nothing to lead Billy on. Billy is one of life’s chancers.’
‘My point exactly,’ Geraldine said. Frances held her gaze, fighting to hide her disappointment, feeling the hollowness in her stomach grow. She wouldn’t understand; life was too black and white for some people. And Geraldine was one of them.
Grace reached across and pressed at Frances’s arm. ‘It’s all right, Frances. We’re all feeling jumpy and out of sorts today.’ She leant back in her chair again. ‘None of us can know what lies ahead of us. Not now, not ever, really; we just have to make the best of it.’
Grace’s words didn’t help, didn’t soothe; words were empty, they gave Frances nothing to hold on to. She clutched the side of her chair. It was if the whole world had tilted and she was sliding off the edge. ‘Please forgive me, Jessie?’
Jessie shook her head, reaching out to take Frances’s hand, offering a sympathetic smile. ‘Nothing to forgive. Like Mum said, we’re all feeling rotten.’
Frances relaxed, but only a little. She had been shocked by Geraldine’s attitude and, even though she’d said it was merely an observation, Frances felt the imaginary metal armour she protected herself with clamp shut. She wouldn’t speak of Imogen here, not ever. She pushed back her chair and stood up, picking up her cigarettes and matches from the dresser and forced herself to smile, pretending that it had all been forgotten but her heart was heavy. ‘I’m going outside for a smoke. Leave the dishes. I’ll come back in and clear up, then I’ll give the kitchen a thorough clean.’
‘Good idea,’ Geraldine said, tapping the table with her palms. ‘I was thinking these windows could do with a wash – although it will be difficult with the tape across them.’
‘I’ll give you a hand, Frances.’ Jessie began stacking the plates. Grace got to her feet.
‘In that case, I’ll be at my sewing machine if anyone wants me.’
They were all trying to act as if her outburst had never happened, but it had, and it was awkward. Frances was glad to leave the room.
By eleven, Jessie and Frances had cleaned every nook and cranny in the kitchen and swept and dusted the sitting room. Tackling the task with more vigour than necessary had helped dilute her disappointment, if nothing else, but Geraldine’s words dominated her thoughts. The girls had tried to sing as they worked but it had been half-hearted and they soon fell into a quiet rhythm as they scrubbed and mopped. As the clock chimed the hour, Geraldine removed her apron and hung it on the hook by the pantry door, patted her hair into place. The girls downed tools, washed and dried their hands. It was all so very ordinary. The same as it was every Sunday, she supposed, for she was always with Imogen then. She forced herself to picture her child playing in the garden, smiling. It helped her to keep her life in boxes. Separate, uncomplicated. Imogen was happy and that was all that mattered. She unfastened her apron and followed Jessie into the next room, where sunlight streamed through the window, catching the dust motes as they swirled and settled. The pair of them sat down and Frances was solemn as the two older women took their place at the table. One last glance at the clock. The Prime Minister was due to speak at a quarter past. Peace, please, let it be peace. Geraldine reached out and turned the dial on the wireless. Jessie was nibbling at her nails and Frances touched her shoulder. ‘It might not happen this time.’
The small room became unbearably stuffy. Geraldine got up and pushed the sash as high as it would go. The breeze was slight but welcome, the sun bright as it moved higher into the bluest of skies. Geraldine had picked up her book, but not turned a page. Grace had gone back into her room and returned with her embroidery, the light catching the steel of the needle as it moved in and out of the cloth. Frances looked at the clock and, as the hands moved around to the quarter hour, the familiar voice of the BBC announcer broke the uneasy quiet.
‘This is London.’
Geraldine marked her page, closed the book and placed it on the table. Grace lowered her sewing into her lap, Frances sat more upright in her chair. Jessie put down her pencil.
When Neville Chamberlain spoke, he sounded the old man he was, tired and weary. She knew it was bad news. They all did. And when he said that they were indeed at war, no one moved, no one spoke, but sat in the small silence as he continued to talk. War. It was war.
Frances glanced out of the window; the cat was stretched out on the wall, basking in the warmth. She saw the slight flicker of Geraldine’s eye as she acknowledged it. Frances tried to concentrate, but her thoughts were starting to tumble in her head. Harry would have to fight. Would Eddie? She looked at Grace’s face. It was rigid, as was Geraldine’s.
‘When I finish speaking,’ Chamberlain continued, ‘certain detailed announcements will be made on behalf of the government. Give these your close attention.’
Would they close the theatres as Geraldine had said? No, they mustn’t. They had to keep them open. She had to provide for Imogen. She must listen.
‘… it is of vital importance that you carry on with your jobs …’
Yes, that was good. They must carry on. She caught snatches, but not all of it, her thoughts too busy.
The silence as the speech ended was followed by the peal of bells. Small tears glistened on Grace’s cheeks and she reached in her sleeve for her handkerchief, rubbed briskly at her eyes and under her nose, returned the handkerchief.
‘How very silly of me.’ Jessie reached out, but Grace pulled herself upright. ‘Don’t fuss, Jessie. I’m perfectly all right.’ Frances admired her inner steel. Grace might be weakened by ill health but she was a strong woman. Frances would be strong too.
Geraldine stilled her with a finger to her lips as the BBC announcer spoke again.
‘This is London.’
Geraldine leant closer to the wireless.
‘Closing of places of entertainment.’ The announcer’s voice was crisp and without emotion. Frances gasped, her hand to her throat; she turned to Jessie, who was staring at the wireless.
The announcer continued. ‘All cinemas, theatres, and other places of entertainment are to be closed immediately, until further notice.’
Jessie sprang to her feet, but Frances tugged at her arm and pulled her down again.
‘Ssh,’ Geraldine hissed, but the words went over Frances’s head and out through the window. What else was there to know, she had lost her job, Jessie too, and any hopes of being with her daughter gone with it.
