by Rosie Archer
‘Have it, if you want,’ said Bea.
Rainey had shaken her head. The dress was cut low. Her mother would have a fit if she saw Rainey in it. Besides, Bea was bigger up top than Rainey was and she knew the dress would hang dejectedly on her. It made Bea look glamorous, like a gangster’s moll she’d seen in a film.
‘You have lovely clothes,’ said Rainey.
‘I’ve been working since I left school at fourteen,’ answered Bea.
Eventually Bea chose a deep red dress that clung to her like a second skin and flared out about her knees.
‘You’ll show your suspenders if you twirl fast in that,’ Ivy warned. She had her black school skirt on and a fluffy pink jumper with a pretty marcasite brooch in the shape of a star her mother had lent her. Knowing Ivy was going to wear her black skirt, Rainey had decided to do the same.
‘So what if I show my stocking-tops? They’re bought and paid for!’ said Bea, with a shake of her blonde hair.
Arm in arm they’d walked to the Crossways, Bea chattering about some of her friends from Woolworths who were going to be at the dance. Rainey remembered that even then Bea had scoffed at the beverages to be on sale. ‘Some of my friends will bring little bottles of refreshments,’ she’d said, with a wink. ‘That gets people in the mood.’
‘I’m excited enough,’ said Ivy, then, ‘I thought Eddie might be coming?’
‘He’ll be there. He’s gone to pick up Dolores, some new girl he fancies.’
Ivy had gone quiet. Eddie was very good-looking, thought Rainey, but much too old for Ivy to think about. That was if she ever thought about him at all. Usually Ivy prattled on about Leslie Howard, who had played Ashley Wilkes in Gone With the Wind . Too much of a milk-sop, thought Rainey. From what she’d seen of men, they said they cared, then ended up knocking ten bales out of the woman they were supposed to love. Even Rhett Butler had left Scarlett in the end.
The door opened. Ivy and Eddie emerged with Bea clamped firmly between them. She had on fresh lipstick but her eyes were swollen, like she’d been crying. She was smiling but Rainey knew she was pretending.
Most of the dancers were totally involved in the music and only one or two people stared at the trio walking towards Rainey.
When they reached the table, Eddie said, sounding impatient, ‘I’ve got the van outside. I’ll give you a lift home. Better not walk back alone in the dark. These two are coming with me.’ He looked tired. There was a red mark down the side of his cheek.
‘And Dolores?’ Rainey asked. It seemed only polite to ask after the girl he’d brought to the dance.
‘She’s going home with her friends. Thanks for looking out for Bea,’ he said, as though his sister wasn’t standing next to him.
It was then Rainey noticed Ivy’s brooch was holding together a tear at the front of Bea’s red dress.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Toto, come in, you silly dog.’ Alice Wilkes pulled her long cardigan about her ample figure. The nights in May could be chilly and standing at the back door, waiting for her pet to complete his business in her large, leafy rear garden, had its disadvantages. Her little darling loved to disappear among the trees and bushes that separated her house from the beach at Stokes Bay. ‘Toto,’ she called again, and was relieved to hear scuffling as he emerged from the undergrowth.
Alice bent down and the small white dog jumped into her arms. Her heart leaped with joy as his wet, warm tongue licked her cheek.
After pulling the blackout curtains closed, she set down the dog. Immediately he made for the kitchen and his water bowl, his paws slithering over the lino. Alice smiled at the small footprints. She turned on the two electric lamps either side of the fireplace in the sitting room and picked up the Evening News , positioning herself on the comfy sofa.
‘Would you believe the German troops are being issued with English phrase books for when they invade our shores?’ Toto jumped up on the sofa and nuzzled her hand, making the newspaper crackle. ‘Pish! They’ll find it difficult with all the barbed wire on the shoreline, won’t they? The submerged mines will soon put a halt to their nonsense.’ She sniffed and pushed her reading glasses further up the bridge of her nose. ‘They’ll never get to us. Our boys will make sure of that, don’t you worry.’ Toto wagged his tail.
Alice was tired. Her choir had been lively tonight. She’d introduced the idea of doing a pantomime: Snow White . If they began practising again now it should be ready before Christmas. Bea, Rainey and Ivy could perform ‘The Bluebird Song’ to break it up a bit.
She yawned. After she’d cycled home with Toto in the wicker basket on the front of her bike, all she’d wanted was a cup of tea and a sit-down. Sometimes she wished she was nearer St John’s, but she’d lived in this house nursing her parents during the influenza outbreak that had scoured the country after the Great War. Her mother had died first. She’d thought she’d never have to face the horror again.
Daddy had been blue in the face, trying to catch his breath, and she’d cried because she couldn’t make him as clean as she wanted because clots of blood kept pouring from his mouth.
He’d died, like so many others. She’d inherited this house and a little money. She’d given up her dream of playing the piano professionally. Deep in her heart she knew she wasn’t good enough to become a concert pianist, even though music was her passion. When Alice sat at the piano she could allow whatever mood she was in to pour through her fingers onto the keys. The music released her anger, her frustration, even her occasional happiness. She could hold a tune, too, not singing brilliantly but enough to accompany herself as she played the popular songs of the moment. Later, her job as a music teacher had given her something to focus on while she waited for news of Graham. She was still waiting now, if the truth be known.
Graham wasn’t hers. She’d wanted him to be but he couldn’t leave a wife and two little boys, could he? And Alice wasn’t a home-breaker.
It was enough that they met for walks along the beach and sometimes a picnic in Stanley Park. They’d first met just after the Great War had begun. Gosport’s Silver Band was in fine fettle and she’d been sitting in a deckchair in the sun, enjoying the music, when she’d dropped her programme. Bending to the grass to retrieve it she’d bumped heads with the man next to her, who was trying to pick it up for her. They’d begun chatting, and afterwards walked along the front.
Then she’d looked forward to seeing him on the occasional Sunday to listen to the band. His wife didn’t share his love of music. He could play the piano, the violin, compose, and he taught music at a private school in Southsea.
Alice lived for those few stolen hours with Graham, the delight of tea and custard creams in the sea-front café where they discussed music. There was never anything improper. The most she’d ever asked him was his first name.
He loved shows and films too, again something she was interested in, though she had little time to spare for them.
He’d been genuinely upset that fateful afternoon when he’d told her he had to go and fight. She wondered, distressed, how the children would fare without their father and how his wife would cope. She wanted to tell him she would miss the Sunday walks that had become the highlight of her week but she didn’t. After all, what right had she to say such things to a married man?
She wasn’t gregarious and, besides, her parents didn’t like her to bring friends home. Or for her to visit others. ‘Don’t impose on people,’ her father said.
The children at St John’s sometimes called her Mrs Wilkes. She never said she wasn’t or hadn’t been married. It suited her to let everyone think she was a war widow.
Alice put down the paper. There was hardly ever anything but bad news in it, except that John Steinbeck, her favourite author, had won the Pulitzer Prize for The Grapes of Wrath , which Alice had thought superb.
She rose, trying not to wake Toto, but he opened his eyes anyway, then jumped down to follow her into the kitchen.
‘A cup of tea and a biscuit?�
�� Alice had had dogs all her life but Toto was special, her shadow, her friend. ‘The choir was in fine voice tonight, wasn’t it?’ She often asked questions but was well aware her dog wouldn’t reply, though sometimes he looked at her and she could have sworn he’d understood every word.
She began making a pot of tea, all the while thinking how hard the women had worked tonight. She hadn’t told them yet, but she intended to enter them in the Fareham Music Festival. Two classes: one as a choir; the other, Ivy, Bea and Rainey singing ‘The Bluebird Song’. She’d never attempted anything like that before. And, of course, it wouldn’t do to tell them just yet. Why worry her singers unnecessarily?
‘It would certainly be a feather in the cap of St John’s if they win, wouldn’t it, Toto? And it’ll give them something else to think about instead of this blasted war with Germany.’
Chapter Fourteen
Summer 1940
‘Guess what I’ve been doing!’ Jo rushed into the kitchen, setting down two brown carrier bags with string handles on the table, then throwing her cardigan onto a chair, not that she’d needed it today as the weather had been sweltering. She could smell something cooking and hear Rainey singing in the scullery.
‘Well, I hope you’ve been to work.’ Rainey poked her head around the door. ‘The kettle’s on. I’ve got sausages in the oven and I was given some veg that have gone a bit floppy but they’ll cook up all right.’ Her eyes fell on the bags. ‘What have you got?’
‘Let me start at the beginning.’ Jo felt like a young girl. She had a grin a mile wide. ‘When I got to Alverstoke today there was bunting hanging everywhere and people were putting up stalls beneath the trees and through the streets. Mrs Harrington told me it was the August Fayre.’ Jo eased off one shoe, flexing her toes. ‘Ah, that’s better. Well, I must have looked daft because Mrs Harrington said they hold the fayre every year. All the shops stay open late because the village gets filled with people coming to buy stuff, and she said the Silver Band marches through playing . . .’
‘Slow down, Mum.’ Rainey was laughing at her.
Jo took a deep breath. ‘I served in the shop until twelve, then Mr Kennedy – you know, Syd from the garage – came in to get his paper. I’ve never seen him without his overalls. He had a suit on, very smart he looked, but it was boiling hot outside. I was warm in the shop, even in this.’ She smoothed down her blue summer dress with the sweetheart neckline.
‘“Surely you’re not keeping Jo in here all day when there’s all sorts going on outside,” he said, and guess what?’ She looked at Rainey.
‘I couldn’t possibly,’ said Rainey.
‘Mr Harrington told me to get out among the stalls and take my purse with me to pick up a few bargains. He said to Syd, “Go with her to keep an eye on her!”’ Jo kicked off her other shoe. ‘Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather. So there I am, wandering along the village streets in the sunshine, and look!’ From one of the bags a green lampshade with a fringe appeared. ‘Threepence!’ She thrust it into Rainey’s hands. ‘Go lovely in your bedroom that will, and it’s hardly got a mark on it.’ Then she dived into the brown bag again and this time brought out a cream silk blouse. ‘If you don’t want this I’ll have it.’ She shook it, releasing the smell of lavender. ‘Go nice with my grey slacks.’ Then she tipped books onto the table. ‘We’ve got enough to read here until next summer.’
She picked up the second bag, which was heavier, and took out a large sponge cake wrapped in greaseproof paper. ‘It’s an eggless sponge. Got it off the WI stall with some home-made jam and chutney. They sell stuff ever so cheap, and because it’s from the Women’s Institute you know it’s good.’
Jo stood back and admired her purchases. ‘I think I did very well,’ she said. Then, ‘Oh, I got you this.’ She foraged in the bag again and came out with a little velvet pouch bag.
‘What’s that?’
‘Open it and see.’
Jo watched as her daughter released the strings of the pouch and onto the table fell a silver cross and chain. ‘Mum, it’s beautiful.’ Rainey turned it over in her fingers.
Jo could see she really liked it. ‘All the stuff on the stalls comes from the people of the village. The woman who sold it to me said it had belonged to her daughter. She looked very sad. I didn’t ask any questions but I knew you’d love it.’
Rainey was turning the necklace over in her hands. ‘Perhaps she lost her daughter.’ She lifted her head. ‘It’s beautiful, thank you.’
In the silence that followed Jo saw tears in Rainey’s eyes. ‘Thought you were making me a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘I’m parched.’
A while later, sitting at the table, Jo was listening to the singing coming from the scullery and drinking her tea. Then Rainey stopped in the middle of a song and called to her. ‘So who’s this Syd, then?’
‘I’ve told you about him before,’ said Jo, though in truth she wasn’t sure whether she had or not. ‘He comes in for his paper every day. He owns a small garage.’ She laughed, remembering that after they’d been to the fayre he’d taken her on a tour of his empire, as he called it. The garage was in Coward Road. He didn’t sell petrol, it was more a workshop with living accommodation above. With the shutters raised, he showed her the large bay where he mended cars. It was very oily in there and she’d had to walk carefully to keep her dress from brushing against greasy fixtures. He didn’t show her his living quarters, which was fine because she wasn’t sure about being alone with him, or any man for that matter.
‘Would you like a quick drink in the Village Home?’ he’d asked. ‘They stay open longer today.’ The pub had been heaving with customers.
She’d felt quite guilty sitting there when she knew she should have been at work in the paper-shop. But Mr Harrington had insisted she go and enjoy herself.
In the pub the talk had been all about the air raid on Gosport.
‘Imagine the vicarage at Spring Garden Lane being the first place to cop old Hitler’s bombs,’ said a woman.
‘Our Anderson shelter’s been delivered but it’s not up yet,’ confessed Jo. ‘We hid under the stairs during the raid. My daughter and I were terrified by the noise. The searchlights showed through the blackout curtains.’
Syd came back from the bar with a port-and-lemon and a pint. Obviously he’d caught the end of the conversation: ‘I’ll pop round and dig the shelter in for you,’ he said.
Jo was too embarrassed to answer him so she smiled instead. While she sat there sipping her drink she saw through the pub’s windows that the stallholders were packing up. She thought how Syd had waited patiently by her side as she sifted through clothes and bric-à-brac. She’d glanced at him, fearful he was bored. Alfie had refused to go shopping with her, said it was woman’s work. On the odd occasion it was necessary he had moaned constantly. But Syd carried her bags and chatted, seeming happy to be in her company. Sitting in a pub with him had felt very strange, but nice.
Rainey brought her back to the present. ‘I think you like Syd, and I bet Mr Harrington engineered your afternoon so you could be together.’
‘Don’t be so daft!’ Jo felt herself colour. ‘And where’s them sausages, I’m starving!’
But she wondered if there was any truth in what Rainey had said.
Chapter Fifteen
Bert gave a final polish to the maple tippling stick. In its handle, hidden from view, was a small flask that had once contained whisky. It amazed him, the many dual personalities sticks and canes had. He set it down beside another favourite, the one with a compass in the handle.
He’d started collecting walking sticks when he’d come across one beside the body of a German soldier in a trench during the Great War. The dead man had been pretty high-ranking and the stick, despite the mud, had glittered in the pale sun. Bert saw why: it was a swordstick and the blade had been half drawn from its sheath. And so began his obsession with sticks.
To most people they were simply an aid to walking, but to Bert every stic
k told a story, and he was proud of the collection he’d built up over the years from rummage sales and second-hand shops. He put them into three categories: professional, which contained the tools of an owner’s trade; novelty, which held opera glasses, spectacles, cameras, snuffboxes, pillboxes, or had carved animal heads and more; and weapons, the older, the better. He’d read of a concealed blade found in a stick in Tutankhamun’s tomb. He didn’t have one as old as that but he was the proud owner of a stiletto-hatchet cane, found at a school bring-and-buy sale. He also had a life-preserver, a cane with spikes folded into the handle, a past favourite of ladies of the night as they walked the streets touting for business. The swordstick was his particular favourite. It hung beneath the counter in case any of his customers turned nasty. It was intended to frighten, certainly not to maim. Bert was too soft-hearted for that.
He rose from the armchair and gathered the sticks together, putting them safely in the cupboard with his cleaning materials.
He walked to the window high above North Street and peered across at the harbour. It was in darkness now but who could fail to be moved by the sight of it in daylight? Ships and tankers, ferry boats – even Nelson’s Victory was there for everyone to feast their eyes upon, and he had a bird’s eye view.
He was tired but knew he wouldn’t sleep yet on such a warm night. Maybe a drop of whisky might help. He looked around his room, which contained a double bed, a table and chair, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe and a shelf of books, mostly classics, that he dipped into occasionally.
All the rooms in the three-storey lodging-house-cum-café were simple but clean. Some had their own sinks and gas stoves. He had a few regular tenants, but everyone had to share the lavatory at the bottom of the garden with his café customers. He kept that clean by swilling it out every day and frequently lime-washing the walls and floor.
