by Rosie Archer
She sipped the stewed tea. She could hear Rainey clattering about in the scullery. A smile broke over her face. Rainey was a credit to her, a lovely girl. Look how she’d knuckled down and helped scrub the house from top to bottom, starting that first morning she’d woken up on the floor in a nest of blankets.
Jo gazed around the bright kitchen, remembering.
That first morning the shed had proved a treasure chest. They’d discovered all sorts of materials they could use to renovate the small rooms. Their greatest find had been the tins of apple-green distemper. She and Rainey had set to and covered the downstairs walls and the stairwell. A further hoard of white paint had come to light in the back garden’s coal cellar.
Jo had blackleaded the range after Rainey had cleared out all the grey ash. When it was lit and giving out a satisfying heat the kitchen had begun to feel cosy.
Jo had discovered a second-hand shop in Queens Road and she and Rainey had come to an agreement with Ted, the owner. He would transport their goods free of charge with his horse and cart if they bought two nearly new beds, a sofa and an armchair, a table, two kitchen chairs and a quantity of damp orange boxes that Jo intended to dry out and paint to make cupboards. He had also promised to remove from the house the furniture left by the previous tenants, including the stained mattress.
With the security of the newsagency job, Jo had felt confident in spending the last of her savings. Now 14 Albert Street wasn’t a palace but it was a cosy home.
Jo finished her tea and stood up, glancing in the big oval mirror hanging over the range. She caught the smile on her face and a fleeting resemblance to her daughter. How on earth she’d managed to produce a green-eyed, red-haired beauty like Rainey she had no idea. It was a miracle. Only their eyes were similar, eyes that Jo’s school-friends had raved about. Where Rainey’s singing voice had come from was a mystery.
And Rainey was singing again now. That Bob Hope number, ‘Thanks for the Memory’. The words came easily and clearly. Jo’s heart swelled with pride.
‘I don’t know how you can remember the tunes let alone the right words,’ she said, as her daughter emerged from the scullery to hang the wet tea-towel on the string line they’d made above the range.
‘Our music teacher at school goes on at me because I can’t read music. You’ll meet her tonight.’ She pulled a face. ‘All them dots and lines get jumbled up, but I only have to hear the tune once and I can remember it. She’ll be wanting you to buy a recorder.’
‘A recorder?’ The word exploded from Jo’s mouth.
‘For music class, Mum. I’ve been borrowing one of the school’s. Please don’t give in to her and get one. I don’t want to play the stupid recorder.’
‘It’ll be easy to say no. We haven’t the money for anything that isn’t essential. You wait until I see her.’
‘I warn you, Mrs Wilkes is pretty persuasive . . .’
‘You just leave her to me,’ Jo said. She might feel at bit apprehensive in the company of men but aggressive women didn’t worry her at all. If something needed to be said then Jo had to say it. It would be similar to the chores she’d thought of as men’s work. Like the house painting: all right, she knew it wasn’t perfect, but it suited her and Rainey, and the sense of relief and happiness they’d felt when it was finished was worth every bit of the hard work involved, especially now her shoulder was healing.
Rainey came from the passage where they’d screwed hooks in the wall near the front door for scarves and coats. She passed Jo her green gabardine, and after Jo had put on her boots, mother and daughter left arm in arm to venture into the cold November night.
‘Good thing the school’s not far away. This wind is biting cold,’ said Rainey. ‘You won’t go on at me if some of my teachers find fault, will you?’
‘Considering I uprooted you from one place to another and was lucky to get you into St John’s at short notice I’ll be glad whatever you’re up to. I’m well aware you had it in mind to go out to work full time.’
‘Don’t start, Mum. I’m in school and still banging away at the typewriter like you wanted . . .’
Jo squeezed Rainey’s arm. ‘I know, love, and for that I’m thankful. I only want you to get a decent job.’
‘A decent job is surely one you’re happy to work at.’
Jo sighed. ‘Rainey, if you’d asked me six months ago if I would like working in a paper-shop I’d have thought you were barmy. But it’s one of the best things I could have done to put food on the table and take my mind off what’s happened to us. They’re good people, the Harringtons, but you deserve better than toiling in a shop or factory.’
Jo’s words caused Rainey to fall silent.
A car passed them, its headlights dimmed because of the blackout. White lines had been painted at strategic points on the kerbs to stop people tripping. The moon was not completely hidden behind clouds so it helped light their path, but Jo was glad when they met up with other parents and children going to St John’s School. She held tight to Rainey – it was already icy underfoot.
The teachers Jo needed to see were located in various rooms around the school. Luckily Rainey knew exactly where to go. Jo noticed many of them looked harassed. Most were kind and said they were pleased with how Rainey had adapted to the change of schools.
Mrs Belcher, the typing mistress, wasn’t so enthusiastic. ‘The girls in my class are quite advanced. Rainey has trouble keeping up.’ Jo noticed her bun had become unpinned and her red lipstick looked like a slash across her thin mouth.
‘She probably needs time to settle in. She was doing well at her previous school.’
‘Perhaps she shouldn’t have been moved then, Mrs Bird.’
Jo took a dislike to the woman and her condescending tone. No wonder Rainey had slipped behind in her work with this Gorgon. Nevertheless, Jo was worried. An office job was a good way for Rainey to make something of herself.
‘You never told me that Mrs Belcher was a cow,’ she said, as they left her classroom to mingle with other parents looking for their children’s class tutors. ‘Do you really find it so hard to keep up with the others?’
Rainey sighed. ‘Mrs Belcher has favourites and I’m not one of them. I do try, Mum, but it’s hard when she keeps on at me all the time.’
Jo stared at her pretty daughter. It had started then, the petty jealousies. Rainey was a sweet girl and eager to please. She was also unaware of her good looks. Women and girls could be hateful, poisonous even, when they felt threatened by beauty.
Suddenly Rainey stopped walking and pulled Jo round to face her. ‘Look, Mum, I know you want what’s best for me so I’ll try harder, all right?’
Jo smiled at her. Why did her daughter always manage to make her feel better?
At the end of the corridor they came to the music room. Jo knocked on the open door. A small square woman overflowing from a chair behind a littered desk smiled broadly. A little white dog appeared from nowhere to greet Rainey and she started to make a fuss of it.
‘Welcome, welcome.’ The woman struggled to her feet and came towards Jo with her hand outstretched. ‘I’m Alice Wilkes and this is Toto, after Dorothy’s little dog in The Wizard of Oz .’ She motioned to a single chair in front of the desk and Jo sat down. Rainey stood at her side, Toto at her feet, gazing up at her adoringly.
‘Isn’t he lovely?’ Rainey said.
If Rainey thinks we can support a pet as well as ourselves she’s got another think coming, Jo thought, but she said nothing, just nodded and looked around the room. Bright posters of musicals adorned the walls.
‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ Alice Wilkes said. She shoved her fingers through her crisp grey hair that stood to attention around her face, like a bottle brush. ‘How do you feel about providing a recorder for your very talented daughter?’
Jo mumbled, ‘I have to be honest, we need every penny we can get hold of at the moment.’
She got no further for Mrs Wilkes said, ‘Good, good, never min
d about that. I may have a more suitable proposition for you anyway. I run a choir that meets on Wednesday evenings. Though I say so myself, we’re a talented bunch. A few girls of all ages with good voices – some have exceptional voices.’ She nodded towards Rainey. ‘And there’s a few parents too, with aspirations.’ She chuckled and the scent of lavender wafted towards Jo from the woman’s tweed suit. ‘What I intend to do is visit hospitals, school halls, and show them what we’re capable of. A few songs, perhaps, some carols, as Christmas is fast approaching. I’ve had a long chat with Rainey here.’ At Jo’s side Rainey fidgeted. ‘All in the strictest confidence, of course, but she tells me that, apart from work and maybe the cinema, you rarely leave the house.’
Jo opened her mouth to protest but Mrs Wilkes was on a mission and quickly spoke again. ‘I’d like it if you’d allow Rainey to join our happy band of warblers, and I think you should come along yourself.’
Jo gasped, then protested, ‘I can’t sing!’
‘Pish! That’s what everyone says. I’m not looking for perfection, just commitment and enthusiasm. It’s for charity. With this damned war looming, we need to entertain people. We’ll sing everything from Gilbert and Sullivan to “Knees Up Mother Brown”. We’ll make all our own costumes, arrive at local venues under our own steam . . .’ Mrs Wilkes paused. ‘One or two arrive here by bus or bicycle and the others walk. No excuse for you, though, you live practically next door to St John’s. Now, how about it?’
Jo sat looking at the woman whose enthusiasm practically flowed in her veins. Then she glanced at Rainey’s face. The glow that emanated from her daughter’s smile was brighter than the lights in the classroom.
‘Please?’ Rainey mouthed. ‘It’s something we can do together.’ The hope in her eyes was unmistakable.
Swept along by the pair, Jo opened her mouth and asked, ‘If I agree will I still have to buy a recorder?’ Jo wanted to make sure Mrs Wilkes hadn’t forgotten she’d said there was no need for her to pay out money she didn’t have.
‘Bugger the recorder,’ declared Mrs Wilkes. ‘That was simply a ruse to get you here. I guessed that if I asked you to provide one you’d be more likely to come and see me. Then I could hustle the pair of you to join my choir.’
Jo stood up from the chair and held out her hand to seal the deal. She ignored the twinge as Mrs Wilkes grasped her fingers. She was smiling as she walked towards the door. What an extraordinary woman, she thought. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, to a slim woman with a fox fur slung over one shoulder and wearing incredibly high heels. The woman, whose face was caked with Pan Stik, moved to one side, allowing Jo and Rainey to pass. A wave of Californian Poppy enveloped Jo. Without looking at either of them, the woman said, ‘I hope she gets this over with quick. I’m meeting Jim down the Fox in half an hour.’
It was then Jo noticed a small dark-haired girl practically hidden behind her.
‘’Lo, Ivy,’ muttered Rainey. Jo saw her raise her head and stare at Rainey, a smile lighting her face. She had the most incredible dark eyes peering out from an untidy fringe. Her thick dark hair dropped to her shoulders, reminding Jo of an Egyptian princess. The girl raised her eyes to Heaven, as if showing Rainey she’d rather be anywhere else than there with her mother.
When they were outside in the cold once more and heading homewards, Rainey said, ‘It’s going to be good for both of us to mix with people. We’ll enjoy the choir, Mum.’
Jo said, ‘I hope so, love.’ Then she added, ‘She’s a pretty girl, that Ivy.’
‘Aw, come on, Mum. What you mean is why does Ivy’s mum look like a tart?’
‘Rainey Bird! I never brought you up to know words like that, or use them about other people!’ Jo was quiet for a while, concentrating on stepping on bits of pavement that seemed mostly frost-free. She was also thinking over Rainey’s words. When she herself was fifteen, what had she known about tarts? Not a lot, she thought. But she’d already sampled the delights of the flesh with Alfie Bird. Did that make her a tart?
Rainey squeezed her mother’s arm. ‘It’s all right, Mum. Everyone knows what Ivy’s mum does to earn a living. Ivy Sparrow is a good friend of mine but don’t ever let her hear you say a word against her mother because, small as she is, she’ll knock your block off.’
Chapter Six
Twenty-four-year-old Blackie Wilson had grown up in the theatre. He might even have been born in a trunk, but he’d never thought to ask either of his parents before the car in which they were travelling to Paris had hit a wall. Dandi and William Wilson were no more the darlings of the Portsmouth stage, and Blackie was an orphan. His hair was the colour of a blackbird’s wing and his curls bounced across his forehead, no matter how many times he pushed them back. His father had called him his little Blackie Bird Boy and the name Blackie had stuck.
His paternal grandfather, who had lived in a damp basement flat in Southsea, had taken him in so he might run errands to the Rocking Horse public house to purchase the old man’s daily ale. Ol’ Sam fed and clothed him and, in his own way, loved him. It could have been worse. At least Ol’ Sam had chased off the young kids who ridiculed Blackie, because he had one blue eye and one brown, until he’d thought his grandson old enough to fight his own battles. A gypsy friend of Sam’s said Blackie had ghost eyes, but he’d been drunk at the time and didn’t comment further. One of the few bright sparks in his life was Madame Nelly Walker, his late parents’ manager. Wonderfully kind, she allowed him to pester her at the Academy Buildings in Portland Road, Southsea, where her many stage acts rehearsed. She’d married Herbert Peters in 1911, and later Herbert had taught Blackie all he knew about business management. Blackie had practically lived at the South Parade Pier Theatre in the early thirties, daily watching three hours of the non-stop variety entertainment Madame Walker provided.
Madame had tried to make a juvenile star of him. After all, his curly dark hair and infectious smile added up to the film-star looks Madame convinced herself would raise her bank balance After all, Dandi and William Wilson had been song-and-dance headliners.
Blackie smiled to himself. His mother and father might have been stage naturals but he certainly wasn’t! He made a mess of tap-dancing. His voice was like a tomcat’s yowl, and he couldn’t act. Good-looking, yes. Gift of the gab, without a doubt, and he could persuade a monkey to hand him the last banana from a bunch, but people would never part with a penny to watch him onstage, not even to see his odd-coloured eyes. Madame, worried about the onset of early blindness in Blackie, had paid a doctor to tell them that heterochromia was caused by the pigment melanin acting differently in his irises, and would pose no future problems.
Of course, his eyes were the first thing anyone noticed about him. He was used to strangers staring – in fact, he waited for people to do a double-take. It gave him immense confidence, knowing exactly how people would behave when they first met him.
When his granddad died, kind-hearted Madame and Herbert took him in. He followed Herbert around like a little dog. He was better dressed now, for Nelly Walker made sure all her many acts had the best of stage clothes, including Blackie, whom she and Herbert treated like their son. He soon became the darling of the tap-dancing girls and female singers. He had an early initiation into sex and became quite adept at wriggling out of embarrassing situations well before he was twenty-one.
It was his quick thinking and sharp attitude that Herbert liked. Instinctively Blackie knew which fledgling singer, dance duo or comedy act would make it to the top. Herbert began to rely on him in the day-to-day running of the theatre. Blackie felt that at last he was beginning to repay the kindly pair for all they’d done for him.
Then Herbert suggested Blackie should join the Territorial Army. ‘Make a man of you, son. Get you away from stage make-up, feather boas, silk stockings . . .’
Even now Blackie could hear Herbert saying those very words to Madame and she had protested and cried – real tears, too – to no avail.
He cursed Herbert for his advice.
He cursed him for the snow and the cold and his hunger. If he hadn’t listened to the man he admired more than anyone else in the world he wouldn’t now be sitting, waiting to get killed, in this bleeding listening post in France, which was no more than an icy foxhole, with freezing snow falling thick and fast.
Even worse was the pig of a corporal he was sharing it with, who wouldn’t shut up about his wife. Apparently she’d scarpered, taking his daughter who, he was convinced, had a better voice than Vera Lynn.
‘My Rainey sings “We’ll Meet Again” so sweetly you’ll want to cry. Makes Vera sound as if she’s got a cold.’
‘Keep your voice down, Corporal. We don’t want to broadcast to the enemy that we’re here.’ Blackie thought for a moment. ‘I suppose she’s prettier than our Vera, is she?’
‘Prettier? My Rainey’s sixteen. You’re looking at a dainty filly against a carthorse!’ The corporal foraged in his top pocket and took out a photograph that had obviously been shown around a great deal. He stuck it in front of Blackie’s eyes.
Blackie had seen a few beauties in his time but he was struck dumb by just how lovely the girl was. He could only whistle softly in response. Eventually he managed, ‘Your daughter?’
‘My Rainey,’ said the corporal, replacing the photo in his top pocket. ‘She should be on the halls in Portsmouth.’ He sniffed and wiped his hand across his orange moustache.
‘She’s certainly got the looks,’ muttered Blackie. He didn’t add that he, too, came from Portsmouth and was involved with Madame Walker, whose most talented men and women not only played the local halls but appeared all over Britain and on the Continent. He hadn’t rowed up the Solent in a bucket: one whiff of what he might be able to do for wannabe singers, and half the men in his regiment would be showing him pictures of their kids. He had to admit the girl was a looker, though.
‘How long you been in France?’ Blackie asked.
‘How the hell should I know?’ The corporal snorted. ‘You might as well ask me where the rest of my blokes are. We all got scattered – well, the ones that didn’t cop it after we’d bedded down in a barn for the night. Bloody Jerries caught us napping, that they did!’ He gave a sudden laugh as if it was a funny story he was telling.
