The progress of the war had been defined during those middle years by events elsewhere than in London. The Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor and the entry of both America and Japan into the war in December 1941; the turning of the tide at El-Alamein in October 1942; the Germans’ siege of Stalingrad collapsing in defeat in January 1943. There wasn’t a Londoner who didn’t believe the war would be won; the only question was how long it would take.
Joy and optimism had spread through London like wildfire just a few weeks earlier, as news got out of the Normandy landings. Ellie had seen for herself the feverish activity in the docks; the convoys of troops, tank and artillery choking the surrounding roads, trucks bearing chalked-on slogans like ‘Look out Hitler’ and ‘Berlin or Bust’. It was rumoured that huge cages had been built on Wanstead Flats to hold the expected prisoners of war. Churchill’s promise that ten tons of bombs would be dropped on Germany for every one that had been dropped on the British Isles seemed about to be fulfilled. Nightly Ellie shivered with delight and exultation as she heard the roar of bombers making their way towards France to blow up the German fortifications and on into Germany itself.
But then just as people were about to think the end was in sight, the V-1s, or doodle-bugs, came.
The first time Ellie heard one, she’d thought it was merely a shot-down enemy plane. There had been an ear-shattering roar of engines, a blast of flame from the exhaust and then silence. A few seconds later came a loud explosion and a pall of smoke and dust rising over the houses. Soon she was to discover that it had really been a pilotless rocket, capable of even greater devastation than the old incendiaries. Suddenly everyone was steeling themselves again. People were fleeing London daily to escape what was perceived as ‘Hitler’s revenge’. But for Ellie there was no such escape, she had her jobs and Marleen to think of.
‘Come on,’ she called out impatiently now. ‘The bath’s ready.’
Marleen staggered out of the bedroom. Without the help of dye her hair had reverted to its natural light brown. She hadn’t washed it for at least two weeks and it hung in rat’s tails on her scrawny shoulders. Her pyjamas were the ones Ellie had once thought fit for a film star: green, artificial silk with pink embroidered roses across the yoke. Now they were faded and torn, just another reminder of good times gone for ever. But it was Marleen’s face that was the biggest tragedy of all. Broken veins spread across her nose and cheeks, giving her an almost clown-like appearance that no make-up could hide. He eyes were bloodshot and dull and she had lost two of her front teeth. Anyone seeing the old photographs of her dancing years would never believe it was the same woman.
‘I’ll put some clean clothes out for you,’ Ellie said, turning her head away as Marleen lurched closer to her. Ellie knew she’d been with a man the night before – she’d come to recognise the putrid, fishy smell – and that disgusted her more than anything. ‘And wash your hair. I’ll come in and rinse it for you.’
An hour later, Ellie faced Marleen across the kitchen table. He hair was washed and in carlers and she wore the dark blue skirt and jumper Ellie had washed and pressed for her, but although she looked and smelt clean there was no drastic improvement. Nothing on earth could give her back her old glamour.
‘That’s better,’ Ellie said in the approving tone a mother might use. ‘Now have the soup while it’s still hot.’
The kitchen was as dilapidated as the rest of the flat: the refrigerator no longer worked, cupboard doors hung off their hinges, and the once shiny lino was dull, cracked and burned in places. The air raids were accountable for some of it, but wild parties with American airmen had accomplished the rest. This window and the one in Ellie’s room were the only ones still intact, criss-crossed with black tape, but it was raining outside and even daylight did little to cheer the room.
‘Eat it,’ Ellie insisted, as Marleen merely stirred the vegetable soup. ‘It’s really nice. I managed to get a ham bone to make the stock.’
She was surprised when Marleen obeyed her. Usually she just walked away, but this time she actually ate it all.
One of the saddest effects of Marleen’s drinking was her silence. Sober, she had noting to say. Perhaps this was merely a symptom of a hangover, but Ellie was sure it was shame. Once she’d sung like a lark from the moment she got up, tap-danced down the hall, keeping Ellie in stitches with her jokes. Now she had no interest in anything, or anyone.
‘Mr Zacharia called. He’s coming to evict us tomorrow unless you pay the back rent,’ Ellie said tersely. ‘Have you got it?’
Marleen just shook her head.
Ellie had expected this. ‘Then we’ll do a moonlight, early tomorrow,’ she said firmly. ‘I know a place that’s much cheaper than this one. It’s only two rooms, but it will do, and you’ve got to sober up, because if you don’t I’ll just leave you.’
Marleen began to cry then. She made no sound, just big tears rolling down her cheeks.
It cut Ellie to the quick to see Marleen’s tears. Once this woman had been indomitable, had laughed at disaster, ridiculed people who complained of their lot, was resourceful enough to find a way round any problem.
‘I have to be brutal, because I love you,’ Ellie went on. ‘You’re a drunk, a prostitute and if you aren’t careful you’ll end up in some asylum like crazy Grace Gilbert, and I’m not going to stand by and watch that happen.’
‘I’m not.’ Marleen whined, rocking herself to and fro. ‘I’m not.’
Ellie’s stomach turned over. Until quite recently she had refused to believe that Marleen sold herself, even though dozens of people had hinted at it. ‘You are, Marleen. I know that’s where you get money. You haven’t got a job – who’d employ a barmaid who looks as bad as you?’
‘Do you have to be so blunt?’ Marleen asked pitifully, but she didn’t deny it.
‘Yes, I do. I’ve pussyfooted around this for too long already. You’re killing yourself, Marleen. Without me around you wouldn’t eat, or wash. Someone’s got to make you see sense and I’m the only person who cares enough to.’
‘I can get round Mr Zacharia, we don’t have to leave here.’
There was just a tiny spark of the old Marleen left, but that saddened Ellie still more. ‘You can’t. He won’t listen to anything but the rustle of banknotes in his hand. Besides, we have to make long-term plans and get you back on your feet again. The new place is cheap enough for me to pay all the rent, and when you’ve pulled yourself together again maybe you can get a real waitressing job, or something in a factory. Now let’s try, shall we?’
Marleen hung her head. She had an awful hangover and she’d give anything for a drink. But sober, she knew everything Ellie said was true. The high rent had been a problem ever since Polly was killed and she hated seeing Ellie working so hard and worrying so much. She loathed herself too for resorting to prostitution, and knew she was on the slippery slope to the gutter.
‘I should’ve made you stay in the country,’ she sobbed. ‘I’ve let Polly down, and you.’
Ellie got up from her seat and went round to Marleen, putting her arms round her and hugging her tightly.
She still hadn’t come to terms entirely with her mother’s death. The pain of it was like a nagging toothache. Marleen, for all her faults, was so important to her: she was her last link with the past.
Marleen had been so comforting in those first few terrible months. She’d fed and clothed her, talked and listened, made her laugh. All those nights in the shelter when she’d persuaded Ellie to do comic duets with her, making her keep her dreams alive, giving her back her self-esteem and confidence.
‘You never, ever let Mum down,’ Ellie said firmly. ‘She always said that. Remember all the times you bought us things – clothes, food, money for outings? I haven’t forgotten that and I never will. You didn’t let me down either: you gave me a home and taught me how to cope with life. That’s why I’m so tough now. But I’m grown up now and it’s my turn to look after you. Just help me by not drinking so mu
ch. Can you do that?’
‘I’ll try,’ Marleen sniffed, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. Sometimes these days she confused Ellie with Polly. Polly had been bossy too, telling her off when she went too far, worrying about things like rent and what they ate. But Ellie was even tougher than her mother and Marleen had no doubt that she meant everything she said. ‘Okay. I’ll try.’
Ellie pricked up her ears. She could hear the droning noise of aircraft in the distance. As it came closer she froze, recognising it as a doodle-bug. Her ears, like all Londoners’, had quickly become very sensitive to this sound. This one must be south of the river. The engine cut out, a few moments’ silence, then the distant explosion.
‘Miles away.’ She patted Marleen’s shoulder reassuringly. ‘I’ve got to get to work now. Try and pack up some of your things while I’m gone. But please, please don’t get drunk again tonight because we’re going to have to get out of here as soon as it’s light tomorrow.’
‘You’re a good kid,’ Marleen said, her narrow, gaunt face breaking into a weak smile. ‘I won’t let you down this time.’
Ellie arrived at the chambers of Sinclair, Forbes and Alton in the Temple, on the dot of six. She was pleased to find the outer door locked as this meant everyone had gone home. Usually at least one of the lawyers was working late and that always slowed down her cleaning. She let herself in with her key, hung her coat in the broom cupboard, and climbed the narrow, winding stairs to start on the rooms on the top floor.
Patsy, Marleen’s friend, cleaned at Mr Alton’s home in Regent’s Park and she’d recommended Ellie for this job soon after her arrival in London. Patsy claimed it was easy work cleaning offices, but Ellie didn’t agree. The place was like a rabbit warren: on each of the three floors was a central hall with half a dozen rooms going off from it. In the winter she had to rake out the fires and lay fresh ones in readiness for the morning: the rubbish had to be collected, floors swept, furniture dusted and polished and glasses or cups washed and dried. This might have been easy if the lawyers and their clerks left things tidy, but there were always mountains of papers lying around on desks, huge files dumped on floors, to say nothing of heavy leather-bound law books strewn everywhere. When she’d finished each of the floors, the stone steps had to be scrubbed from top to bottom. But on the plus side it was warm, she could work at her own pace, and she got a pound a week.
Until quite recently Ellie had worked by day too, waitressing in a café at Holborn. She’d given up that job in favour of one as a cocktail waitress in the Blue Moon night-club. With the tips she got more money, she had her days free and it felt like a step nearer to her goal of somehow getting on to the stage.
Ellie worked fast, cleaning the top floor in record time and moving down to the next. She had to finish here by nine-thirty to get to the Blue Moon, otherwise she’d have to come back again in the early morning.
‘Hi, Ellie.’ Brenda, one of the three other waitresses, looked round as Ellie came into the changing-room at the club. ‘I’d steer clear of Jimbo tonight if I were you – he’s in a steaming mood.’
Brenda was an attractive, tall blonde with a husband in the army and a small son evacuated to her mother’s in Middlesex. She stood no nonsense from anyone; she was capable of slapping any man who made a pass at her and Ellie had once seen her pour a pint over an airman who insulted her.
‘About me?’ Ellie’s eyes widened with fright, afraid her boss had discovered she’d lied when she said she was eighteen.
‘Why should he be mad at you?’ Brenda flicked a brush through her hair. ‘He’s just sore because the singer’s cancelled. She’s joined up with ENSA.’
The Blue Moon was situated in a cellar in a narrow alley just off Charing Cross Road. As it was the first and only night-club Ellie had seen she had no idea how it compared with others, but Brenda called it ‘a dive’. There were three vaulted chambers linked by arches, the whitewashed rough brick walls stained yellow with cigarette smoke. The largest held a small raised platform, barely large enough for the four-piece band. In front of this was a dance floor which doubled as the stage for any cabaret acts, and tables and chairs filled the remaining area. The bar was in the back chamber opposite the club door, a plush affair with tiffany stained-glass lamps and brass rails.
On a good night the club was packed shoulder to shoulder with servicemen who didn’t seem to mind the extortionately priced drinks, spivs from Soho and theatre people. It was the last of these that had made Ellie lie her way into the job. Whether they were backstage people, dancers, actors or actresses, she felt certain that by mingling with them and keeping her ears open, one day she might get a chance to show what she could do.
The owner, James Jameson, known universally as ‘Jimbo’, was a well-known comedian from the music halls and he endeavoured to put on some sort of act every night to encourage the customers to sit and drink rather than just dance to the band. Since Ellie had been there she’d seen all kinds of acts come and go – exotic dancers, stand-up comics, jugglers, singers, fire eaters and magicians.
Ellie flung down her coat, unbuttoned her dress and pulled it off over her head. The changing-room was a tiny, dirty place with only one bare bulb over the cracked mirror, a few hooks on the walls for clothes and wall-to-wall black mould.
‘What on earth do you do before you come here?’ Brenda looked at Ellie’s dirty knees in astonishment.
‘Cleaning.’ Ellie grinned. She liked Brenda, who was as friendly as a girl of Ellie’s own age, yet motherly with it.
‘Chimneys?’ Brenda’s right eyebrow rose questioningly as Ellie ran some water in the sink to wash them. She had a bony, rather haughty face, which belied her warm nature. ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, my girl!’
Ellie said nothing about her private life to anyone. She worked, looked after Marleen and their flat, and if at times she felt desperately lonely, she hid it. Sometimes she wished she could go out dancing with other girls of her own age, or find a boyfriend, but she had neither the clothes nor the money for these things. Just occasionally, she felt a little bitter that she seemed to have drawn a short straw in life, but she would counteract such thoughts by reminding herself she had talent, she was young, people said she was pretty and the war would be over one day soon.
‘I suppose Jimbo will just spin out his routine,’ Brenda said, getting up to zip Ellie into her uniform dress. ‘Though everyone’s sick to death of his jokes.’
It had turned quiet when the doodle-bugs first arrived, so quiet that Ellie was afraid Jimbo would sack her. But this lull only lasted a few days. People seemed to need entertainment, music and laughter more than the comfort of home and as the club was beneath the ground, to many people it was a safer alternative.
Ellie looked at herself critically in the cracked mirror. The slinky midnight-blue dress suited her dark colouring. When she came for the interview she was wearing Marleen’s only decent dress and so she’d been relieved to find she would be given this to wear. It had a diamanté half-moon brooch pinned just above her right breast, and the sweetheart neckline was very attractive. Dressed like all the other girls, she felt she was their equal.
‘Shall I do some seams for you?’ Brenda asked, picking up an eyebrow pencil. ‘I see you still haven’t got any stockings.’
Ellie blushed. Brenda had lovely underwear and silk stockings. ‘I can’t afford any,’ she said in a small voice.
‘You want to cast those lovely eyes at someone,’ Brenda laughed. ‘Now hop up on a chair. I’ll soon give you a pretend pair.’
The seams were painted on quickly; then Ellie turned her attention to her hair. She had always wished for curls and even been tempted to try a home permanent wave, but Brenda had managed to convince her that sleek, shiny hair like hers was far more attractive than frizz.
‘Pin it up at the sides,’ Brenda suggested, offering a pair of diamanté hair-slides. ‘You’ve got such a lovely face, it’s a shame to hide it. Besides, it makes you look eighteen!’
‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ Brenda laughed, doing Ellie’s hair for her. ‘One of these nights we must find time to have a chat. I’m very curious about you.’
Five minutes later, both girls went into the club. No one ever arrived to drink until around half past ten and empty, the club felt chilly and smelt musty. The other two waitresses, Hilda and Alice, were helping Cyril the barman polish glasses at the bar. Jimbo was talking heatedly to the musicians up on their platform.
As he saw Ellie and Brenda he broke off for a moment and his sharp look made Ellie nervous.
Jimbo was said to be over fifty, but he didn’t look it. Ellie thought he looked like a tailor’s dummy: he wore sharply tailored suits and his dark hair was slicked back with oil. He was a small, slim man with tiny bright eyes, but he had a curiously mobile face which he could contort at will to impersonate almost anyone.
‘Put the candles out, girls,’ he called across the empty room, his voice echoing around the cave-like interior. ‘We’ve got no singer tonight, so if the punters start leaving you two will have to go home.’
Brenda raised one blonde eyebrow to Ellie. When Jimbo talked of sending girls home early it was always a bad sign, meaning he was worried. That affected his act, drying him up, and he usually blamed someone else for it.
Ellie collected the small glass lamps, put a fresh nightlight in each and placed them on the tables. Jimbo had resumed his conversation with the four musicians; he was trying to persuade Roy the pianist to phone a singer friend of his.
‘She won’t come,’ Roy said, shaking his head. He was in his sixties, and like all the musicians, looked permanently weary. ‘She’s fed up with being used as a stopgap. You told her she sang flat last time, remember?’
Ellie pricked up her ears. Few of the singers Jimbo used were really good. By all accounts, Jimbo’s reputation for paying poorly and being rude meant he was always scraping the barrel.
Ellie Page 19
