Big Dreams for the West End Girls

by Elaine Roberts

  Also by Elaine Roberts

  The Foyles Bookshop Girls

  The Foyles Bookshop Girls at War

  Christmas at the Foyles Bookshop

  The West End Girls

  Big Dreams for the West End Girls

  BIG DREAMS FOR THE WEST END GIRLS

  Elaine Roberts

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Elaine Roberts, 2021

  The moral right of Elaine Roberts to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  E ISBN 9781838933517

  PB ISBN 9781800246096

  Cover design © CC Book Design

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  To all the wonderful readers and their continual support.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  1

  Joyce Taylor dropped the dirty dishes in the sink at London’s Meet and Feast Café. Turning round, her eyes widened as she stared at Simon Hitchin. ‘I can’t believe this. Why are you telling me now?’ She mopped away beads of perspiration. ‘What will you do?’

  The bell above the café door chimed for what felt like the hundredth time in the last half an hour. Joyce peered through the serving hatch.

  Simon shrugged, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around her as he took in how hot and worn out she looked. ‘I may not have any choice.’

  Two stout grey-haired ladies stepped inside, jostling with their shopping bags. ‘Well, Enid, at least ’aving to keep yer ’ead down against that wind yer don’t see those blooming Kitchener war posters everywhere.’ The bell rang out again as the door slammed shut behind them.

  Was he serious about closing the café? She would have no excuse to see him every day. Joyce looked back at the man she loved. He looked as tired as she felt. She tried to batten down the love she felt for him, fighting the urge to wrap her arms around him. Now wasn’t the time to show her feelings for him. What would she do if he rejected her? She would end up losing her job and any chance of them having a future together. ‘I can tell you this, Simon: it’s your café so you need to decide whether you can just let go of your father’s dream. No one can decide for you.’

  Her hand automatically rested on the locket she wore around her neck as she found herself repeating her late father’s words. ‘There’s always a choice. You may not like it, but there’s always a choice.’ Once the words were out she did wonder if that was true; after all look where she had ended up.

  She sighed. ‘I’ve got to get back to work. I’ve got Uncle Arthur clearing tables and making pots of tea, bless him. He only popped in for a cuppa. We’re so busy again today. If the last month or so continues then we’re going to need to hire some help.’

  Simon sighed. ‘I know, I just don’t know how I’m going to pay the wages. It’s hard enough finding the money for the rent and to pay you for the wonderful cakes and bread you make. I don’t seem to have time to stop to think about it all.’

  Joyce blushed, remembering how he had encouraged her to bring in a cake she had baked so he could try it. ‘Thank you, I’m obviously pleased you enjoyed my baking and encouraged it…’ She closed her eyes for a second, trying not to think about how her feelings had changed in the years she had worked for him. ‘But you just need to make some changes because getting the people through the door isn’t the problem.’ Forcing herself to smile, Joyce marched back into the café.

  Enid scanned the occupied tables and looked over at Joyce. ‘Hello, lovey, yer busy again today. Can yer squeeze two small ones in?’

  Joyce couldn’t help smiling as the woman dropped her shopping bag and unwrapped her woollen scarf. ‘I’m sure we can, Enid. Take a seat.’ Joyce indicated the chairs standing against the wall. ‘It might be five minutes though.’ She turned her attention to her order pad, adding cake to an existing bill for the young soldier and his girl sitting at table nine. She crossed it out again, ignoring the guilt that took hold of her – the least she could do was give them free tea and cake.

  Enid rubbed her hands together. ‘That’s all right. At least it’s warm in ’ere.’ She looked around her before turning to her friend. ‘We mustn’t forget to tell that young soldier over there that we’re proud and they’re all doing a good job protecting us. They need to know we’re behind ’em every step of the way; after all they’re laying their lives on the line for our king and country.’ Enid glanced back at Joyce. ‘I was reading in the paper about that Zeppelin raid on Sandringham. These are scary times.’

  Joyce dropped her pencil on the counter and tucked a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear. ‘I’ve heard customers talking about it.’ She paused. ‘I’m not sure I even know what a Zeppelin is.’

  Enid shrugged before giving Joyce a bleak look. ‘I fink it’s like a giant hot air balloon, only it carries bombs and people.’

  Joyce shook her head. ‘It’s frightening and you can’t help wondering what can come of it, except death and destruction.’ She automatically adjusted the frilled straps of the bib to her treasured knee-length white apron. Her slender fingers sought her embroidered name in the corner, which her mother had lovingly stitched before she had unexpectedly passed away with tuberculosis. Would she be disappointed if she knew Joyce was a waitress in a café instead of the great cook she imagined she would be? That dream had died with her mother. Had she made the right decisions? Had she felt she had a choice? Joyce sighed. What did it matter? It all seemed a lifetime ago now. She glanced over where the soldier was sitting, holding his girl’s hand. Would Simon finally do what his friends had already done? She hoped not. Shaking her head, she deftly slid the cake knife under the slice of homemade Victoria sponge. A customer caught her attention. ‘I won’t be a moment, sir.’

  The wooden chair creaked as Enid unbuttoned her long black coat. ‘You’re rushed off yer feet ain’t yer, lovey?’

  Joyce nodded. After picking up the tea plate and cake fork, she weaved between the tables, and then carefully placing the items in front of the young woman. She walked over to the man who had caught h
er attention earlier and she pasted on her best smile. ‘Yes, sir, I’m sorry about the wait. What can I get you?’

  ‘Just the bill.’ The elderly man scowled. ‘You should get some help in.’

  Nodding, Joyce’s tiredness engulfed her. ‘I’ll do your bill right away, sir.’ As she carried on there was a thud of something hitting the floor. Joyce looked down to try to see what it was. It was just visible under a chair. Her throat tightened and tears threatened to make a fool of her as she stooped down and scooped up her locket. She sucked in her breath and examined the gold chain. A link had broken. Joyce blinked quickly. Her chest tightened. She would never be able to afford to get it repaired. Joyce took a couple of breaths before walking over to the counter and carefully placing it on the side where she could see it. Her eyes were sore and red with unshed tears.

  The man startled Joyce. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt but I need to pay my bill.’

  ‘No, sir, it should be me who’s sorry.’ She found his ticket and totted up the hot drinks and the egg sandwiches he’d had.

  The man studied her for a moment. ‘It’s obvious you’re busy and I shouldn’t be taking my bad day out on you.’

  Joyce forced a smile. ‘Thank you, but I shouldn’t have kept you waiting.’

  The man handed her a silver florin.

  ‘Thank you, sir, two shillings. I’ll just get your change.’

  ‘Keep it – you deserve it.’ He turned to walk away but stopped to look back. ‘By the way, I don’t know where you get your bread from but it’s delicious.’

  Joyce smiled as pride welled up inside her. She silently gave thanks to her mother. ‘Thank you, that’s most generous of you.’ She watched him as the bell chimed and again when the door closed, bringing her back to reality. There was a chink of coins as Joyce took the change from the till and dropped it in the jar next to it. ‘Right, Enid, let me clear the table, then it’s all yours.’

  ‘Thank you, lovey.’

  Joyce loaded the tray with the used crockery and cutlery. She placed the salt and pepper pots on the chair before giving the table a thorough wipe-over and placing them back in the centre of the table.

  ‘That’s lovely, so we’ll just ’ave our usual tea and toast please.’

  Joyce jerked at Enid’s voice behind her. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you were standing behind me. I’ll get it ordered now for you.’ She picked up the tray and headed back towards the counter.

  ‘Can we have another pot of tea please?’

  Joyce nodded as she walked past the young lady who was sitting with someone who looked like a much older version of her. She took the tray of crockery through to the kitchen and placed it on the side near the sink. ‘Enid’s in. She and her friend want the usual couple of rounds of toast.’ Without a backward glance at Simon she rushed out of the kitchen to start making a couple of pots of tea.

  The doorbell chimed, indicating the café door had opened. The heat and various cooking smells escaped from inside the café, swallowed up into the cold air invading every corner. The bell rang out again as the door shut.

  Joyce couldn’t stop the sigh escaping from her as she spooned the tea leaves into the china teapot. She closed the tea caddy and peered over her shoulder at the suited towering dark-haired man. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Harris, and what can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s Monday, Miss Taylor. I believe you know – as I know – it’s rent day.’

  Joyce forced a smile. ‘You’ll need to speak to Simon, er … I mean Mr Hitchin.’ She turned and poured boiling water into the teapots.

  Mr Harris frowned and sniffed. ‘Is something burning?’

  Joyce looked through the serving hatch and saw the smoke spiralling into the air. ‘Simon, something’s burning?’ She turned and ran into the kitchen just as Simon pulled some charred bread from the range.

  ‘It’s only the toast, no harm done.’

  ‘One of these days you’re going to burn the place down.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s fair, Joyce. I’ve a lot going on at the moment and I was washing up some plates.’ Simon shook his head. ‘It’s not the end of the world. I can start again.’

  Joyce immediately looked contrite; she rested her hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry, I’m tired and panicked, and on top of that the landlord is here for his rent.’

  Simon, forgetting the trials of the day, let the love he felt shine through as he gently ran his fingers down her soft cheek. ‘There’s no need to be. I shouldn’t try and do two things at once.’

  Joyce’s lips parted, hungry to feel his lips on hers.

  ‘I’m still here, waiting,’ Mr Harris bellowed from the other side of the serving hatch.

  Joyce jerked back. She cleared her throat before speaking in a low throaty tone. ‘What … what are we going to do about Mr Harris?’

  ‘Are you listening to me or do I have to come in there?’

  Simon frowned before rubbing his hand over his face. ‘I don’t have time for him. Just pay him out of the till, if there’s enough, and put a note in there to remind me what the money was used for.’

  Joyce ran her hand down Simon’s arm. ‘I actually think there could be – it’s been non-stop today.’

  ‘Just give him what he wants. If there’s not enough he’ll have to come back.’

  Joyce nodded and turned to walk away. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him. ‘Keep an eye on the toast this time. We don’t need any more accidents.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Simon smiled. ‘And you get back to the customers.’

  Joyce walked back out to the counter and opened the till. ‘How much is it, Mr Harris?’

  ‘Six shillings but it will be going up.’

  Joyce stared at him. ‘I hope that means you’ll come and do some of the repairs we keep asking to be done.’

  Mr Harris’s mouth sat in a grim, tight line. ‘In due course, all in due course.’

  Joyce opened the till and took out three silver coins, holding them tight. ‘You’ve been saying that for months. Your father would turn in his grave if he knew how you’d let his property fall into disrepair.’

  Mr Harris held out his hand. ‘I’m not my father, and you need to stop moaning, otherwise the repairs will be the least of your worries.’

  Joyce dropped the three florins into his hand. ‘I’m not moaning, I’m just reminding you of your duty as a landlord.’

  Simon shouted, ‘Enid’s toast is ready.’

  Joyce turned to take the two tea plates. The bell chimed. She hoped that meant Mr Harris had left.

  Arthur stepped forward. ‘Let me take them for you.’ Reaching out, he took the plates before glancing at Joyce. ‘I tell you what you could do with: help clearing the tables, washing up and a nicer landlord.’

  Joyce smiled at her uncle. ‘Don’t I know it. You seem to be here helping out most days now, but the takings don’t reflect how busy we are.’

  Arthur frowned. ‘I’m just keeping an eye on you. You’re always so tired when you get home.’

  Joyce fiddled with her pencil. ‘You’ve been good to me. I know we’ve had some rough times together but you’ve always kept a roof over my head, particularly when my grandmother didn’t want me. I’m not sure I’ve ever thanked you for looking after me.’

  ‘There’s no need to thank me, especially when it was more you looking after me. You keep me going.’ Arthur looked around the café. ‘Anyway, I’ve been coming here for very selfish reasons.’

  Joyce tilted her head slightly. ‘That sounds ominous.’

  Arthur chuckled. ‘Not really, it’s since I had that slice of Victoria sponge. It reminded me of when you were a child and I’d visit and your mother would always insist I had a slice. Your mother was always so proud of you. She used to tell everyone how you’d one day be a great cook, and she wasn’t wrong.’

  Joyce’s smile gradually faded. ‘I remember, but I don’t think either of us thought she meant cooking cake for a café.’


  Enid called out. ‘Is that our toast?’

  Arthur peered over his shoulder. ‘Oh yes, I’m sorry.’ He patted Joyce’s arm before weaving his way to Enid’s table.

  *

  Ted peered up and down the road. It was early evening but darkness was closing in. The heavy snow that had fallen earlier crunched underfoot on the pavement but was slushy along the busy road as cars chugged past slowly, their drivers leaning forward to see the road.

  Ted smiled as two boys squealed with laughter, watching through hooded eyes as they threw snowballs at each other. His smile faded as he remembered playing for hours with his son and daughter, only stopping when the snow had numbed his fingers. He shook his head. There was no point in dwelling on what was lost; he had to stay focused.

  The London street lights were no longer lit for fear of helping the Germans find their way to their targets. Ted blew his warm breath on his hands and rubbed them together, while stamping the snow off his black highly polished shoes, before pushing open the door and walking into the Dog and Duck Public House. It was dark and smoky inside. He wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of tobacco mingled with the ale. Old men sat nursing their pints of beer. Some played dominoes, while others gave their support to a game of shove ha’penny in the far corner. Ted looked over at the group of men laughing and cheering as they leant over the board. The palm of his hand itched. Should he go over to check out the game? Surely a little bet wouldn’t hurt, would it?

  He pulled himself up. Not on this day; he had bigger fish to fry. He tipped the brim of his black hat at the barman, who nodded in response. ‘Is it all right to go through?’

  The barman rubbed a glass with an old rag; he studied him for a moment before nodding. ‘I’m surprised to see yer ’ere tonight.’

  Ted laughed with more confidence than he truly felt. ‘Yer know me, I can’t resist a game.’ He thrust his hand inside his black trouser pocket and pulled out a wad of pound notes. ‘I’ll take a bottle of whisky in with me.’