Sing As We Go

by Margaret Dickinson

  Kathy shook her head. ‘No – I won’t. I promise.’

  ‘But when your fiancé comes home on leave . . . ?’

  Kathy pressed her lips together, trying to stem the tears that were never very far away. Huskily she said, ‘He’s never coming back. He was a fighter pilot and I’ve heard that he was shot down. Missing, presumed killed.’

  ‘Oh my dear – I’m so very sorry. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Could I just ask you one thing?’

  Mrs Wainwright nodded warily.

  ‘I know I haven’t any right to ask, but may I write to you? Would you write back to me and let me know how he is? Perhaps you could send me a photograph now and again if I give you my address in Lincoln.’

  The woman relaxed and smiled. ‘Of course. It’s the least I can do.’

  And that was all Kathy could ask, but it was more than she’d ever dared to hope for.

  The train journey from Saltershaven on the east coast to Yorkshire, where their next performance was to take place, was long enough for Kathy to meet the other members of the concert party. Ron Spencer made the introductions, reminding her, ‘And from now on call me “Ron”. No more of this Mr Spencer lark. We’re a friendly crowd and we’re going to be spending a lot of time together. Now, this is Martin. He’s an actor, but he also doubles as our stage manager.’

  ‘Yes, we met before.’ Kathy smiled and held out her hand. He was still as fit and healthy-looking as he had been and she couldn’t help wondering immediately why he had not been called up already. Ron’s next words explained. ‘And we’ll have to make the most of him because he’ll likely be called up next year. I shall apply for a deferment for him, of course, but whether I’ll get it is another matter.’

  Martin took her hand in his huge paw and shook it with a strong grasp. His smile crinkled his swarthy face.

  Kathy smiled back. ‘You look as if you’re used to working out of doors. Have you worked on a farm?’

  Martin gave a deep, rumbling laugh. ‘No. I worked for a brewery.’ He flexed his huge arms. ‘Heaving barrels about all day. Now I heave stage props and scenery about, as well as a bit of acting now and again. And writing the odd sketch too.’

  Kathy laughed. ‘Is there anything you don’t do?’ Then she glanced from one to the other, puzzled. ‘But don’t the theatres we visit have their own stage managers? The cinema at Saltershaven did.’

  ‘Yes, some of them,’ Ron agreed. ‘But you see we’re not always in theatres or even cinemas with a stage. We go to factory canteens, shipyards, as well as to airfields and barracks – anywhere we can entertain. Even docks, if we hear of troops about to embark.’

  ‘And we have to improvise with scenery,’ Martin put in, ‘build a stage sometimes. I’m the chap who begs, borrows and steals whatever we need.’

  ‘Folks are very good. Martin asks around the locals and he always comes up with the goods.’

  Kathy smiled up at the good-looking young man. ‘With a smile like that, I bet he has them eating out of his hand.’

  ‘Now, who’s next?’ Ron went on. ‘Ah yes . . .’

  The introductions continued until Kathy’s head was dizzy with all the names. The only one she really remembered was Rosie, with whom she would be sharing a room in whatever digs could be found in the various places. She was a member of ‘The Cinderellas’, a group of three girl dancers. Like Melody, they all took part in the comedy sketches. Most of the men were Ron’s age and too old to be called up, with the exception of Martin and one other. Lionel was pale and thin, with light brown hair and pale, hazel eyes. He was very serious and hardly ever smiled.

  ‘He’s failed his medical,’ Ron whispered. ‘And he’s a bit cut up about it. Evidently he has a heart problem, but he’s determined not to be an invalid.’

  Kathy said nothing, but already she admired the young man, who was still determined to ‘do his bit’. What a contrast to Tony’s mother, she thought. ‘What does Lionel do?’

  ‘He’s the comedian.’

  ‘Really?’ Kathy couldn’t hide her surprise.

  ‘Doesn’t look like one,’ Ron chuckled, ‘but you wait till you see him on stage. He has the audience – and us – in stitches. He writes his own material and some of the sketches too, along with Martin and Melody. We’re always wanting new material because we sometimes visit places more than once and they don’t want to see the same old thing again. He’s really very clever.’

  As Ron brought them together, Lionel held her hand and gazed earnestly into her eyes. ‘Can you act?’

  ‘I – I don’t know.’

  ‘We’ll try you out. You’ve a very pretty face. I could write some good parts for you.’

  With that he turned away. Evidently, Kathy thought, Lionel was not one to engage in small talk.

  But Rosie was, and so were the other two Cinderellas, Maureen and Joan. For the rest of the journey Kathy sat beside Rosie and the other two girls sat facing them. The carriage resounded with their chatter, now and again punctuated with shrieks of laughter.

  In their merry company, Kathy felt her spirits lift. She would never get over the sadness buried deep in her heart, but from now on she would keep a smile on her face and hide her heartache. She would give herself over to entertaining others, trying to lighten the drudgery and hardship of wartime conditions. Many in the audiences, she knew, would have just as much grief as she did. If she could make people forget, even for a few moments, their heartache, then maybe she could forget her own for a little while.

  The first show in which Kathy took part was in a factory canteen in Leeds.

  ‘What do they make here?’ Kathy asked innocently, as she pulled on the strapless evening gown and asked Rosie to fasten the single string of pearls that Tony had given her around her neck.

  ‘Ooh, don’t ask,’ Rosie said. ‘We never ask questions, wherever we go. Ron says it doesn’t do. It might sound as if we’re spies. Besides – ’ she shrugged – ‘I’d rather not know. If it’s munitions or something dangerous I’d rather not be thinking we’re all going to get blown to kingdom come any minute.’

  Kathy laughed. To her surprise it was a genuine laugh that had come spontaneously. It was a long time since she’d laughed so readily. Impulsively, she turned and hugged Rosie.

  ‘Whatever’s that for? I only fastened your necklace.’

  ‘Just – Oh, I can’t explain, Rosie. It’s just – just that I’ve been through a bit of a tough time since the war started and – and – well, you’ve all been so friendly and – and kind.’

  ‘We’re a nice bunch, I’ll grant you that. Specially that Martin.’ There was a sudden sparkle in Rosie’s blue eyes.

  Kathy found herself laughing again. ‘I think you’ll find that he’s just a little friendlier towards you than to the rest of us. Not that he isn’t, I mean,’ she added swiftly.

  Rosie grinned and her cheeks were pink. ‘He’s nice. I do like him, Kath. Do you think he likes me?’

  ‘Ask a silly question, Rosie. ’Course he does. Now, come on, we’d better get down to the side of the stage.’

  ‘The wings, you mean,’ Rosie giggled.

  ‘I’ll never get used to all the names. Upstage, downstage – I still haven’t got the hang of it.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Rosie said, linking her arm through Kathy’s as they left the draughty little room, no bigger than a cupboard, that served as their dressing room. ‘When you go the wrong way, it all adds to the fun.’

  Kathy took a deep breath as they neared the side of the stage and peeped through the curtains. ‘Oh heck! There’s hundreds out there. I was hoping for a small audience for my first time.’

  Rosie looked out too. ‘How many million times have I told you not to exaggerate? There’s fifty at the most.’

  ‘It looks like hundreds to me,’ Kathy said nervously.

  ‘You’ll be fine. Everyone said what a lovely voice you’ve got when they heard you in rehearsal. Melody’s quite envious.’

  K
athy turned. ‘Oh, Rosie, she’s – she’s not upset that I’ve come, is she?’

  ‘Lord, no. It’s given her the chance to do what she’s really good at. Be a comic actress. And she’s quite a good impressionist. I think Ron is thinking of giving her her own spot if she can come up with enough impersonations. Have you heard her do that woman off the wireless, the one that’s in ITMA that says, “Can I do you now, sir?” ’

  ‘Mrs Mopp, you mean?’

  ‘That’s the one. Melody sounds just like her. Brilliant she is.’ Rosie giggled. ‘Funny thing is, when she impersonates Vera Lynn, she sings just like her. In tune and everything. Yet, when she tries to sing as herself, it’s awful. Funny that, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mm,’ Kathy murmured, her mind once again on the audience filing into the canteen. ‘I do hope I remember all the words when I start to sing. At this moment, everything’s just flown out of my head.’

  Rosie squeezed her arm. ‘You will.’

  Ron, as compère, introduced all the acts, and when it came to Kathy’s spot, he said, ‘Now, today we have a young lady making her very first appearance with us. Please give a warm welcome to our very own nightingale, Kathy Burton.’

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped out on to the makeshift stage that Martin had set up at one end of the canteen. She forced a smile as she neared the microphone. Still she couldn’t remember the words, nor even what song she was supposed to be singing.

  This is awful, she thought, as the butterflies in her stomach turned into vultures. I can’t remember a word. I’m going to make a complete fool of myself and let Ron and all the others down . . .

  The clapping died away and the pianist struck the first chord and played the introduction. Kathy opened her mouth and from somewhere the words came: ‘I’m Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter . . . ’

  The applause at the end of the first song gave her a little confidence and as she finished her second song someone from the back of the room shouted in a cockney accent, ‘Sing us “The Lambeth Walk”.’

  ‘Nah sing us, “On Ilkley Moor . . .”’

  ‘But we’re miles from home, mate. Let’s ’ave “Lambeth Walk”?’

  While the argument went on, with others joining in, Kathy turned to the pianist. ‘Do you know either of them?’

  Terry nodded. ‘I think so, but I’ll have to improvise a bit. Do you know the words?’

  She laughed. ‘Not all of them but I think I’m going to get some help, don’t you?’

  Terry grinned at her and struck the opening chord, and Kathy began to sing the opening line of ‘The Lambeth Walk’. At once the group of workers sitting at the back of the room were singing loudly and swaying to the music. One or two of the women got up and began to dance, linking arms and kicking up their legs.

  As the song ended with a resounding ‘Oi’, the pianist went straight into the second of the requests and now the rest of the audience joined in. Kathy only knew one or two verses of the song, so was left conducting the singing from the stage.

  At last even the born and bred Yorkshire folk ran out of verses and tumultuous applause broke out. Some even stood up, whistling and cat-calling, as Kathy curtsied and left the stage to be met by a beaming Ron and an excited Rosie.

  ‘That was terrific. You’re a real trouper, Kathy. Go on,’ Ron added, giving her a little push. ‘Go and take another bow.’

  As she stepped back onto the stage the applause was thunderous, and when she finally returned to the wings, there were tears in her eyes.

  For the ten minutes she had been on stage she had not thought about Tony or even little James.

  At last she had found a way to bury her heartache, even if only for a few moments each day.

  It was a start.

  Thirty-Two

  For the next four months, they toured the north of England playing in army camps, airfields, shipyards and factories.

  At one factory Ron warned, ‘You can’t wear any jewellery, not even hair-clips or watches today.’

  ‘Not hair-clips,’ Rosie wailed. ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘They make high explosives here. Anything that might cause the slightest spark has got to be left behind.’

  ‘Don’t blame me if my hair’s flying all over the place when we dance then,’ Rosie said tartly, tossing back her thick mane of auburn hair.

  ‘Don’t worry, Rosie, the fellers’ll love it.’

  ‘Can’t I – can’t I wear my pearl necklace?’ Kathy asked, her voice trembling a little.

  Ron’s eyes softened. He’d guessed how much the piece of jewellery meant to her. She was never without it.

  ‘Sorry, love, but I’ll keep it safe for you, if you like.’

  The minor irritations of the unusual regulations were all forgotten when the performers heard the clapping and cheering and stamping feet of the enthusiastic audience.

  ‘We don’t often get concert parties coming to us,’ the manager of the factory told them, ‘so we really appreciate you coming here. You’ve really lifted all our spirits.’

  The members of the company felt a warm glow on hearing his words. It made all the travelling on draughty trains and sleeping in hard, lumpy beds worthwhile.

  ‘So, where are we off to now, Ron?’ Rosie asked as they all boarded a train out of Manchester.

  ‘Liverpool. We’re to play to the lads awaiting embarkation. There’s a ship leaving on the twenty-eighth.’ He glanced round the carriage to make sure that there were no servicemen overhearing what he was about to say. ‘It’ll not be easy. They’re just going to war. Young lads, most of them. Probably away from their homes and families for the first time. And a lot of them . . .’ he paused before adding softly, ‘might never come back.’

  ‘Liverpool was blitzed earlier in the year. May, I think it was, when London got it so bad.’

  There was silence now in the carriage, each member of the party lost in their own thoughts and quietly vowing to give the boys as good a send-off as they possibly could, despite the dangers. Nothing was going to stop them. Not even Adolf and his bombs.

  Kathy chose her programme of songs very carefully. ‘Should I keep it all bright and cheerful?’ she asked Ron.

  To her surprise, he shook his head. ‘No, love. It might bring a tear or two to their eyes, but they like the odd sentimental ballad, you know. One or two that were popular in the last war might be appropriate. ‘Pack up Your Troubles’ . . . and ‘Tipperary’ . . . but also songs like ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’ – that sort of thing.’

  Ron was quite right. As Kathy stood on the draughty dockside, the soldiers gathered around her, lifting her bodily onto the makeshift stage that Martin had built. Within minutes, they were joining in the rousing songs, but the ballads were just as warmly received, sung softly and with feeling.

  The cheers for Kathy were always the loudest, but no one in the company seemed to begrudge her the affection from the ‘boys’.

  ‘You’re our “sweetheart”,’ one shouted from the front row as she began her final song. For a moment she thought she wasn’t going to be able to sing for the lump in her throat. But she had to; this time ‘Wish Me Luck’ held a very special meaning for each and every one of them.

  Kathy rested her aching head against the cool glass of the carriage window. It had been a late night, and maybe the hospitality of the NAAFI on the army camp where they’d played to an enthusiastic audience who’d whistled and stamped their feet had been just a little bit too much. But she could sleep on the train, she’d promised herself as she’d dragged herself out of bed to finish her packing before it was even light. She’d glanced at the other bed, which had not been slept in. Rosie was missing again. Kathy had sighed. She’d seen the romance blossoming between the young girl and Martin and now it seemed it had taken a more serious turn. She just hoped Rosie wasn’t going to get herself into trouble like she had. It wouldn’t be many weeks now before Martin received his call-up papers, and despite Ron’s belief that he would be able to get deferme
nt for the young man, Kathy very much doubted it. She would have liked to warn the young girl, but Rose was a chatterbox. Even if she confided in her, Kathy didn’t believe she was capable of keeping a secret. And although Ron Spencer knew what had happened on her wedding day, he knew nothing about her baby. All he thought was that she had gone away to get over her broken romance with Tony Kendall.

  She felt someone ease themselves into the empty seat beside her. To her surprise it was not Rosie, but Ron, who said, ‘Do you know where we’re going now, Kathy?’

  ‘Mm,’ she murmured sleepily. ‘Not really. I just get up in a morning, catch the train, sing, act a little, and then go to bed. Next day, I do it all again. I’ve lost track of where we are or even what day it is.’

  She’d been with the concert party for over five months and already the weather had a definite autumnal feel about it. Though her heart was still in Saltershaven, she had not regretted her decision to join Ron’s troupe for a moment. The travelling and the performing and then more travelling were very tiring, but it kept her busy and her mind occupied.

  Ron chuckled. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. We’re going home.’

  Kathy’s head shot up. She was wide awake now. ‘To Lincoln? You mean we’re going to Lincoln?’

  ‘That’s right. We’ll be there by mid-afternoon. We’ve got four days off and we all meet up again on Wednesday. Now, how about that?’

  Kathy wasn’t sure. She fingered the key she always carried in her coat pocket. The key that Jemima had pressed on her when she’d left.

  ‘This is your home, Kathy. You’re welcome back any time you want to come. You hear me. I’ll keep the spare room bed aired and you’re to regard it as your room.’

  A sudden longing to see the brisk, no-nonsense woman again was overwhelming.

  After all this time away, she hoped Jemima Robinson’s promise still held good.

  Ron suggested taking a taxi from the station. ‘We’ll treat ourselves. We’re not dragging these heavy cases another inch. Let’s arrive home in style.’