War's Last Dance

by Julia Underwood

  ‘It’s so big in here, Mummy.’

  Isabel gripped her hand more tightly.

  ‘Isn’t it, darling? Even bigger than Victoria.’

  ‘And there are so many people.’

  The glassed roof seemed so high above them, as if part of the sky itself. They could see birds flying up there, roosting on the heavy iron girders. Little illumination filtered through the grimy glass panels. Even the ponderous lights hanging on massive chains did little to relieve the gloom. The odours of burnt-out coal, soot and dirty steam hung thick and heavy in the air. Isabel could hear strange hissing and shunting noises above the more familiar racket of the multitude, which seemed to be moving in every direction at once.

  ‘What’s wrong with them, Mummy?’

  Penny pointed to a group of British soldiers marching raggedly behind their Sergeant. One leaned on crutches, several carried an arm in a sling, and some had a patch over an eye or a bandage round their head. Shambling slowly to the dock, a cloud of weariness hung over them. Although the Sergeant turned every now and then to check his flock he made no effort to hurry them. His patient concern led him to adjust a kit bag, to straighten a crutch, to pat a faltering man on the back with a word of encouragement.

  ‘Walking wounded,’ explained Isabel, pulling Penny closer, ‘still not home, poor souls.’

  The War had ended over a year ago, but it was taking a long time for all the men to be repatriated. Perhaps these had languished in hospital all this time. What rotten luck to be wounded right at the end of the fighting.

  At last the journey to join Bill in Berlin had begun. Penny’s fifth birthday had passed and she grew daily, almost visibly. Isabel felt a shudder of fear as if a passing ghost had touched her hand. It had been a long time since they had lived together. She could barely remember the happiness they had shared at the delirious start of their marriage. This almost felt like going to meet a stranger. But she rejoiced to get away from the drab shabbiness of England; the tawdry, joyless house she and Penny had occupied alone for so long, but for that brief leave at the end of the war.

  She stood in the middle of the vast station hall; worry lines gathering on her forehead and that threatening headache throbbing in the background.

  ‘Can I help you, ma'am?’

  Isabel and her daughter turned and gazed up at the figure in uniform towering over them. He must be well over six foot, Isabel thought, and he looks very young.

  ‘Carry your bags, ma'am?’ he offered.

  He bent closer to them and smiled with perfect teeth, speaking in an accent that Isabel recognised immediately. Grace dated a man who spoke like that; several, in fact. GIs, they called them. As usual, Mum disapproved, ‘Bloody Yanks,’ she’d muttered, ‘all money and no morals.’

  ‘Give over, Mum,’ Grace countered, ‘they’re great fun. And look, they bring me nylons.’ She pulled up her skirt to demonstrate this most precious commodity sheathing her shapely legs. ‘Better than the old gravy browning and pencilled-in seams aren’t they?’

  The GIs also helped out with the rations, bringing gifts of oranges, eggs and steaks from their PX, the American forces store. Mum, suspicious as ever, delivered dire warnings. ‘You’ll need to give more than a kiss and a cuddle for them things, my girl, mark my words.’

  Back in the present Isabel assumed her haughty face and pulled herself up.

  ‘No, thank you very much. We can manage,’ she discouraged the boy in her poshest voice, warier than usual of talking to a stranger in this foreign place. She struggled to lift the suitcase from where she had dropped it. The American grinned and ignored her. He swung the case up effortlessly even though his kit bag encumbered his other shoulder.

  ‘If you’ll forgive me, lady, you need my help. You look after the kid; she looks half scared to death. Where to?’

  In no time, with their helper at their side, using his athletic body as a battering ram through the crowds, they found the right platform for the train to Berlin and were settled safely in their seats. Isabel felt she should apologise for her earlier rudeness. She held out her hand to him.

  ‘Thank you so much. I’m sorry…’

  ‘You’re welcome, ma'am.’ He tipped his cap in a mock salute. ‘It was the feather that did it.’ Isabel touched the hat, now on her lap. ‘Great hat! Good luck.’ And he was gone, striding away through the crowds to find his own berth.

  In the narrow compartment every inch of seat was occupied, like sardines compressed into a tin. The air, thick with stuffiness, tasted of warm wool and mothballs; too many people breathing in a confined space. Penny sat beside a very fat Dutchman in a musty-smelling suit, who grumbled whenever she stirred. She curled up with her head on Isabel’s lap, but soon she fidgeted with discomfort, cramped in that small space. She accidentally kicked the man with her dusty shoes.

  ‘Can’t you keep the wretched child still?’ the man complained in a thick accent. Penny opened her wide button eyes and suddenly, quite out of the blue, feeling very peculiar, in a spectacular multicoloured fountain, she vomited all over his lap.

  Chapter Four

  Holland, 1946

  ‘Rotkind …!’ The Dutchman’s face flushed; apoplectic with rage. He stormed to his feet and surged out of the compartment in a flurry of newspaper, briefcase and fury. He never came back. A wave of relief swept through the carriage as everyone spread out along the seats. Isabel blushed with embarrassment and Penny, poor scrap, began to cry; her little body shaking with sobs and her face red and hot, buckled with grief.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Isabel apologised. Their fellow passengers murmured with sympathy. Cloths and handkerchiefs were offered to help mop up. A lady took Penny onto her lap and staunched her tears whilst Isabel cleaned up.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, little one. The nasty man frightened you I think,’ she crooned.

  Luckily most of the damage had been done to the Dutchman’s trousers. Someone slid open the window and a rush of clean air soon filled the compartment.

  ‘Thank you so much.’ Isabel settled Penny beside her, wrapping comforting arms around the child; murmuring soothing words. Now that the fat man had gone they could all settle comfortably. Penny looked much better; the tears drying on her cheeks.

  ‘I’m tired, Mummy,’ she whispered.

  ‘Poor old Sweetie, there’s been too much excitement for one day. Try to sleep, darling, and we’ll be there in no time.’

  God, I wish that were true, she thought. It’ll be hours and hours on the train before it reaches Berlin. She stretched her neck, trying to release the tension and gazed out of the window. Dusk was painting the landscape with sooty brushstrokes under vast, empty, pewter skies. The outlines of a few sparse trees losing their summer leaves swayed in the gently moving air. Where were the famous Dutch flowers? The colour? The horizon seemed a million miles away because the landscape, once they escaped the suburbs of the Hook, stretched into the morbidly grey distance, almost featureless and flat, flat, flat.

  Occasionally the skeleton of a ruined building punctuated the scene, its remaining bones pointing accusingly into the dismal sky, probably the result of shelling or bombing early in the War or during the destructive retreat of the Germans from occupation; driven back by the Americans and the British. Motionless windmills, some with sails damaged and hanging like broken limbs, were outlined starkly against the clouds.

  As night crept slowly across the land Isabel could no longer see the countryside through the train's window, but her own face gradually appeared in the dark glass. She saw her dark hair permed into neat waves around a thin, pale face. Not too bad looking even though her makeup had all worn off. Mouth a bit too wide and thin, not exactly a fashionable Cupid’s bow. Still, her lashes were thick and dark around her eyes, her best feature, Bill said. Her breath clouded the window and she turned away from her scrutiny. I should try to sleep, she thought, allowing her eyes to close; I’ll need the energy later, it’s such a long journey.

  The train trundled slowly across
the Dutch countryside. She remembered the familiar sound the wheels made on the tracks back home - rackety clack, rackety clack. The unfamiliar foreign rhythm of these wheels lulled her into a stupor. Clickety clickety rack, clickety clickety rack. Images of London floated into her head…

  Chapter Five

  London, 1938

  ‘Aw, go on, Bella, come with us. Hilda’s dropped out - I promised,’ Aggie wheedled. They were removing their makeup in the tacky converted corridor that served as a dressing room for the chorus behind the scenes at the Apollo Theatre. Aggie begged with agonised persuasion shining from her false-eyelashed eyes. She gave Isabel a tiny caress on the shoulder, now swathed in an exotically patterned silk kimono - all magentas and peacock blues - after removing her costume.

  ‘Gawn! You’ll love it!’ She grinned pertly at Isabel, nudging her arm playfully.

  Everything about Agnes Dawson was pert, as her many admirers often told her. Pert blonde curls, pert nose, pert breasts, especially when lifted by the saucy costume the management compelled them to wear for the finale of the colourful, brash revue in which the girls performed.

  Isabel and Agnes stood at opposite ends of the chorus line - Isabel tall and gracefully elegant; Aggie small and compact. Standing together they could have seemed comic were they not both so very pretty. All this despite the cheap tattiness of their costumes and the straggling ostrich feathers, tired from overuse, attached to their rear ends. ‘Like a lot of frazzled bloody chickens,’ someone had joked.

  ‘They’ll take us somewhere smashing to eat, Bella, probably the Troc. You’ll love it. Jamie’s friends are lovely; we’ll have a great time.’

  ‘I can’t, Aggie, Mum’s expecting me home.’ Isabel dragged her fingers through the outsize tub of Ponds Cold Cream they used to remove their stage makeup. She spread the cream thickly across her face and, after some energetic rubbing, removed the resulting mess with a large bundle of cotton wool. She dabbed carefully around her eyes to take off the garish coating of Midnight Blue eye shadow and thick mascara.

  ‘Besides, how on earth could I get home to Wembley after dinner?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, love, they’ll get us a taxi.’

  ‘A taxi?’ Isabel exclaimed, in a Pygmalion moment. The extravagance! These young men might be worth meeting if they’d pay for a taxi to take her all the way home. A bit of luxury for once couldn’t hurt. She’d always avoided going out with the so-called “Stage Door Johnnies”, considering them to be foolish young toadies.

  As Mum warned, ‘They’re only after one thing, my girl. Go out with one of them and you’re in trouble. Why can’t they find girls of their own kind?’ Mum’s predictions always seemed to have a negative theme.

  Isabel would be breaking several of her mother’s many rules if she agreed to go with Agnes. She struggled with her conscience for a few seconds. In the end temptation got the better of her. I’m 20, for goodness sake; I can do what I like. The prospect of a good meal certainly had its appeal. There’d just be warmed up mutton stew and potatoes when she got home. She found herself wavering.

  ‘Look, Hilda can’t come; she’s got to get home for her Dad. I promised I’d bring a girl for Jamie’s friend. Please, Bella,’ Aggie’s wheedling continued.

  Isabel weakened. ‘Oh, well, if you insist. But he’d better be handsome!’

  Agnes hugged her. ‘‘Urry up then, stop dawdling. Get dressed. They’re waiting, you know.’

  ‘Mum’ll be hopping mad. I wish I could let her know I’m going to be late.’ Being able to telephone and warn her strict mother would have been useful, but hardly anyone had a telephone at home – certainly no-one Isabel knew. They used the phone box at the end of the road in an emergency and Mum grudged that too.

  ‘For Gawd’s sake, ducky, you’re not a kid anymore.’ Aggie echoed Isabel’s own thoughts. ‘Explain to her when you get in. She’ll be thrilled you’re mixing with the toffs.’

  Isabel doubted that. Mum was a stickler for good behaviour and didn’t have much time for toffs, except in their place, of course. It was bad enough that she performed in the chorus of this show. Mum hadn’t been too bad about her being in the ballet – for some reason she seemed to think that more respectable, classier. But it hadn’t lasted. Isabel cracked her jaw when dropped by a male dancer during a lift in a pas de deux. The ballet company had dispensed with her services - not least for the stream of invective she managed to utter through her broken mouth.

  ‘We’re surprised at your lack of breeding,’ they'd said.

  'Sod that!' She’d stormed as best she could. ‘Stupid clumsy bastard's broken my jaw!'

  With classical training, beauty and poise, there had been little difficulty in finding work in one of the many reviews in the West End. The theatre was booming in the late 1930s, with musical revues one of the most popular forms of entertainment and people sang the more memorable songs all over town. The depression finally seemed to be over and people had begun to spend money again. Things were still not easy for people working in the theatre. The chorus was very poorly paid; the girls were lucky to see two quid a week and had to supply their own makeup and tights.

  ‘Come on Bella! Get a move on.’

  Soon they emerged; stage makeup off, street makeup on. Fox fur-collared long coats over faux silk dresses; high-heeled shoes on their tired feet. Silly little scraps of tulle and flowers perched on their heads, ‘cocktail hats’.

  ‘Aggie, I’m not sure about this,’ Isabel suffered an attack of nerves on her way along the dingy corridor that led to the stage door. Her mother’s warnings resounded in her ears. Perhaps she was doing the wrong thing; inwardly she cringed with nervous dread.

  Agnes hugged her arm to her side. ‘Come on, kid, we’ll have a wonderful time!’

  ‘’Night, Malc’, they cried in unison as they passed the doorkeeper, ‘see ya tomorrow.’

  ‘’Night, girls,’ Malcolm acknowledged, pushing open the doors and holding them aside. They stepped out into the open air.

  Isabel paused on the step. Although she saw it every evening after the show this scene never failed to astonish her. It seemed that a small crowd of penguins had gathered on the pavement. The young men all wore dinner jackets, or white ties and tailcoats; some even had cloaks over their shoulders. Top hats adorned many heads and most were removed as the girls emerged. Cheerful smiles lit the open faces. Two of these visions detached themselves from the throng. Isabel recognised Jamie’s boyish features; he often took Agnes out. Behind him stood a taller man, a look of disinterest, even arrogance, in his eyes. The faint smile on his handsome face could almost have been interpreted as a sneer. He hovered in the background like a reluctant suitor waiting for the slimmest excuse to make his escape.

  ‘Agnes, my dear!’ cried Jamie, beaming. He swept off his hat and kissed Agnes’s hand fleetingly. ‘And this is your friend - Hilda isn’t it?’ Isabel thought he seemed very friendly as he stretched out his hand with a broad grin creasing his homely face.

  ‘No, Hilda couldn’t make it - this is Bel … Isabel.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Isabel, James Carter at your service. May I introduce my friend William Barton? We call him Bill.’ James pulled his friend forward by the elbow. ‘You’ll have to excuse him, he’s a bit shy.’ Bill bowed awkwardly over their hands and muttered a greeting. Isabel thought he looked as if someone had starched his underwear. But he shook hands properly and didn’t bolt.

  Perhaps he’s not so arrogant, thought Isabel, just shy as Jamie says. He’s jolly good-looking. Maybe it won’t be such a bad evening after all. I like the sound of his voice and look - he’s managed a proper smile!

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Agnes grandly, extending her manicured hand. But she then spoiled it by giving a little bob like a lady’s maid.

  ‘How do you do?’ Isabel used her best voice, cool and cultured. She hoped those expensive elocution lessons proved worthwhile.

  ‘Delighted,’ said Bill, regarding her with eyes as bright a
nd intelligent as any she had seen and that elusive smile hovering on his full lips.

  James took charge. ‘Come on, girls. Where’d you like to go? Dancing? Dinner first, I think. The Trocadero’s not far. We could walk.’

  ‘Told you so,’ Agnes whispered in Isabel’s ear and gave her a nudge in the ribs.

  The little group swept along. Bill had tucked Isabel’s hand into his arm and stood on her right so that she walked away from the kerb. Quite the gent, she thought. Soon they reached Piccadilly Circus. The elegant Art Nouveau frontage of the Trocadero hid an even more fashionable, brightly-lit interior. Lavish flower arrangements filled the foyer, scenting the air, and glass chandeliers supplied glittering illumination. They left their coats with a smiling woman in the cloakroom just inside the door, crossed the hallway with its imposing stairway leading to the upper floors and stepped down three steps into the dining area.

  Carpets sank beneath their feet; thick and lush. Seats softly upholstered and buttoned in thick red plush formed booths around the tables at the periphery of the room under over-sized mirrors. In the centre, tables were circular and set for two, four or six people. Since the tables around the edges of the room were already occupied, they were led to one of those tables set for four.

  The silverware gleamed; the glasses sparkled. Each table bore a fragrant posy of flowers at the centre and the table napkins, by some mysterious craft, were fashioned into swans. Isabel was reluctant to demolish hers when she sat down, but their waiter, with a flourish that loosened the folds, deposited it on her lap. Isabel could find no words at the opulence of it all and gazed around her, dazzled. Blimey, this was classy!

  ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ breathed Agnes into her ear.

  ‘A top-hole restaurant,’ agreed Jamie. ‘Have anything you want.’ He waved at the menus magnanimously. ‘We’ll start with a bottle of champagne,’ he instructed the waiter.

  Lavish dinners in 1938 London were commonplace and the presence of two generous hosts made it even better. They ate soup and a fish course followed by even more expertly crafted dishes. Isabel's paté de foie gras tasted ambrosial, the delicate rosemary perfume of her tiny chicken, divine. What luxury, a whole little chicken to herself! They ate and drank royally, taking their time. A four-piece band discreetly played popular tunes beside a tiny polished dance floor. The diners danced between courses to “Night and Day”, “You’re the Top”, “Cheek to Cheek”...