by Rosie Archer
‘Did you show the neighbour the picture of the girl?’
‘Yes, and she recognized Rainey Bird. Said the picture was an old one – the girl must be seventeen at least by now. Obviously if they ran away from him there must have been a reason.’
Herbert said, ‘Are you sure your reasons for finding her are honourable? You’re, what, nearly ten years older than her? Isn’t she a little young for you?’
‘It’s not like that. I admit she’s lovely but her father said she has the voice of an angel . . .’
‘All fathers think their kids can hold a tune.’
‘If she has a voice as good as her father said, I can make money out of her. You tried to put me on the stage but I’m as useless as a bucket with a hole in it. You also taught me to know talent when I heard it. Age doesn’t come into it when you can hand stardom to a person on a plate.’
‘Have you forgotten there’s a war on? All the restrictions? And the music hall is dying.’
‘Good singers are making it all the time. What about our Gracie Fields? And that skinny Italian, Frank Sinatra?’
‘So you want to manage her? I still think you’re wasting your time.’
Blackie looked at Herbert disparagingly. ‘Think what you like but I’ve got a feeling about this girl. If it hadn’t been for my damned leg playing up I’d have still been out searching. I was told by one neighbour that the wife didn’t dare move far from home. If that’s true, she was scared of him. Reason enough to run?’
‘A friend could have found another place for them.’ Herbert was pouring two glasses of whisky from a decanter.
‘Apparently he didn’t like her to have friends.’
‘The Evening News advertises houses for sale and to rent.’
‘I’d already thought of that. It might be possible to enquire with the regular letting agents. Somehow I don’t think she’d have gone in for buying a house, do you?’
Herbert shook his head. He handed Blackie a glass and took a sip from his own. ‘Then the obvious thing to do is go back to where she lived and walk the streets. Make enquiries where she would have used her ration books.’
Blackie thought for a moment. ‘Herbert, you’re a diamond!’
Herbert put his glass down. ‘How about I come with you? There’s every possibility you’ll let your heart rule your head when you hear this girl sing.’
‘You’re saying you’ll back me if she can hold a tune?’
Herbert smiled. ‘Speculate to accumulate,’ he said, pouring another drink.
*
Two days later the men were walking down Portsmouth’s London Road into the city, passing the street where the family had lived. Ugly gaps along the road told Blackie the Germans were well aware of how important the south coast was with its factories, docks and shipyards. Hitler was doing everything possible to bomb Portsmouth out of existence.
Herbert made sure they took advantage of almost every café open in London Road. ‘I don’t want you coming back exhausted and in pain. Madame won’t like that and she’ll blame me. Anyway, people sit in cafés and talk, gossiping, and we might discover something to our advantage.’
Blackie stared at the man who’d tried to be a father to him. A well of emotion rose as Herbert added, ‘We can also try the local schools.’
Blackie wasn’t sure. ‘She’s old enough to have left full-time education.’
‘She might have stayed on, you never know. It’s possible another address was lodged so the authorities could keep track of the girl. Not all the schools closed because of the bombing and not all the youngsters were evacuated.’
‘No teacher worth their salt would give out information to strangers about their pupil.’
‘This is wartime, son. Things are different now. People are going missing all the time. Besides, we’re not in the acting business for nothing. If you can’t charm out an address . . .’
‘You’re forgetting something. It sounds like they ran to escape a bully of a husband and father. They’ll have covered all their tracks.’
‘We won’t know that until we search, will we? I think anyone with a heart will spill the beans when we tell them we’re looking for Mrs Bird to tell her you were the last person to see her husband alive.’
Blackie had no answer to that.
*
A couple of days later Herbert was proved right.
‘Brenda, get me the Gosport files.’ The thin, bespectacled manager of Blandings estate agents used his long fingers to leaf through pages of handwriting in the ledger. ‘I remember the woman in question,’ he said, ‘mainly because she was willing to take on a small house that was badly in need of updating. It’d been on our books for a while. We had a few other properties in Portsmouth but she asked for Gosport. The deposit was a cash transaction.’ He peered at the pages. ‘She told me she wanted to move to Gosport because she needed to be nearer her relations across the ferry. Nice little thing. Normally we don’t like to let to women without a husband or father’s signature as guarantor but the war has taken the men and she had the ready cash. In fact, she paid the deposit and a week in advance.’ He peered at Blackie. ‘You say her husband has been killed?’
‘We need to reassure her that there’ll be a pension.’ He pulled the photograph of Rainey from his wallet. ‘This is their daughter.’
The photograph seemed to be the turning point.
‘Pretty girl. I never saw her, just the wife. I’ll write down the Gosport address for you.’
Chapter Twenty-five
‘Thank your lucky stars you’re sharing this scrawny bird with me, but you can only eat it when it’s cooled.’ The small chicken was a present from a neighbour, a thank-you for helping his sausage-fingered daughter scrape through her grade-one piano exam. After it was plucked and cooked it looked more pathetic than ever.
Alice Wilkes glanced down at Toto. He was jumping up and down as though he was suspended on a piece of elastic. She picked up a piece of chicken and held it between her fingers to test the heat, then put the dog’s bowl on the kitchen floor next to his water. ‘Whatever would I do without you?’ she said, scratching him behind one ear.
She covered the rest of the chicken with a piece of muslin and took it to the pantry. She wondered how different her life might have been if she’d had a family of her own, like so many other women of her age. ‘I’m not really dissatisfied, Toto. How could I be? I love my job and my choir, and it’s not as though my days aren’t filled, but sometimes . . .’
She allowed herself to wallow in memories of the young musician and the walks they’d shared during the Great War, the war to end all wars, until a sharp bark from Toto told her he’d finished and wanted more chicken. She smiled down at him but shook her head. ‘Tonight when we get back from Fareham we’ll have the rest. Chicken for you twice in one day? You’re eating better than most of the people in Gosport!’
The little dog followed her upstairs to her bedroom. From her wardrobe she picked out her heather-mixture costume. ‘Not new, Toto, but good quality. I don’t want to let my girls down.’
Yesterday had been the start of the music festival. Today Alice Wilkes’s choir would be performing before the judges and a large audience. ‘I’m going to wear the strawberry pink blouse with the frilly collar, a pair of black court shoes to match my leather music bag, and I’ve made sure the piano’s been tuned,’ she told the dog. ‘Several of the judges are well-known musicians, Toto. I read that in the Evening News . It’ll cover the event because the Mayor of Fareham will be there.’ Toto jumped up on the bed and wagged his tail.
Those who attended were expected to sit through all performances so, although her choir would not be performing until eleven o’clock, she was glad she’d ordered the charabanc to take them to Fareham with plenty of time to spare. At five in the evening they would return to Gosport, with or without certificates of excellence. Last night at a special practice she’d warned the choir, ‘If you’re not there when the charabanc is ready to leave, we
’ll go without you.’ All the hard work they’d put into their medley of songs told her they’d be on time.
Her trio wouldn’t be singing until after lunch.
Of the eight choir acts competing, she had heard three before and the competition would be fierce. ‘If we don’t win a place I’ll never put my choir through this again,’ she said to Toto, running a brush through her wiry hair. ‘We’ll stick to raising money for good causes.’
*
‘Had a letter from the council yesterday.’ Maud linked her arm through Jo’s as they walked along Forton Road. The three girls were in front, chattering, and each was carrying her freshly ironed costume in a string-handled brown-paper carrier bag.
‘There should be a place for Granddad at Bridgemary after Christmas,’ Maud continued. ‘He’s at the top of the list for a lovely room in a lodging house where the owner has nursing experience. Part of me is relieved but another part of me doesn’t want the family to be separated. I hoped the council would give us a bigger house so we could all have a bedroom to ourselves. I could still care for him then.’
‘You mustn’t turn down what they offer, Maud. Because of the bombing, there’s so many people crying out for homes. And you do need a break from the old man, Maud.’
‘A break? I’ve forgotten what that is. To be able to sleep through the night with only Hitler’s bombs to worry about would be marvellous. But Solomon is family and I owe him a debt.’
‘He might feel better amongst people of his own age.’
‘We never stop worrying, do we? I think it’s built into a woman to worry.’ Maud gestured towards the three girls. ‘Bea’s still not herself, you know.’
Maud didn’t know how she’d managed to carry on with her everyday tasks when all she’d wanted to do after Bea’s unlucky experience was hold her daughter close and take away her pain. Eddie was like a rock to them all.
‘Do you expect her to be?’
Maud shook her head. ‘Ivy and your Rainey have been towers of strength. But it’s like she’s withdrawn into herself. I’d give anything to have her being cheeky to Eddie again.’
‘It’s early days yet. Besides, them three have been practising so much for this day and the panto, none of them have had much time to think about anything else.’
‘I wish I could have got Bea to stay on at school and take typing and shorthand like your Rainey and young Ivy.’
‘You can’t make kids do anything they don’t really want to do, Maud. Just be thankful she managed to stop with the drink before it really got hold of her.’
‘We had a neighbour who couldn’t help himself. Sometimes he wasn’t able to get his key in the door when he got back from the pub and we’d often find him asleep in the garden in the mornings.’
‘What happened?’
‘What d’you think happened? One morning he was found stiffer than a board.’
‘The charabanc’s there!’ Ivy shouted back at Maud and Jo. Maud saw choir members being shepherded on by Mrs Wilkes, Toto barking about her feet excitedly.
‘Some have brought their husbands,’ Jo said. ‘Didn’t Eddie want to come?’
‘Someone had to look after Granddad,’ Maud said. ‘Good morning, Mrs Wilkes.’ She began hauling herself onto the charabanc. ‘Oh, we’ve been saved places,’ she added – a blonde woman, one of the choir, was frantically waving at them and pointing to seats. Maud stared along the aisle, taking note of which relatives had come along in support. Ivy’s mother wasn’t there.
‘I wish we could leave,’ Jo said, and dug her elbow into Maud, who was taking up most of the seat.
‘Don’t wish your life away,’ Maud said. ‘We’ll be off as soon as Mrs Wilkes has finished checking we’re all here. Then we must concentrate on the festival and on winning.’
*
‘I feel like a schoolkid in this hall,’ said Maud. ‘Where are the girls?’ She looked at the three empty chairs. ‘This place even smells of school milk.’
The cold hall was only just beginning to warm up. In front of her was the stage where shortly she would stand and sing. It wouldn’t be like a concert where she could sing for the joy of it. No, this time she had to remember to enunciate her words properly, to smile, to be professional . . .
‘Getting changed into their uniforms in the lavatory, I expect, like we’ve just done,’ Jo said.
Maud thought of the smell that had nearly choked her as she’d exchanged her skirt and jumper for the St John’s uniform back in the Ladies. She glanced down at the carrier bag at her feet. ‘I wish this was all over,’ she said, making herself as comfortable as she could on the hard chair. ‘The judges are coming in.’
Maud glanced to where Alice Wilkes was sitting, Toto held fast on her lap. She was staring at the small procession walking sedately along the side of the stage to a long table set with glasses and a jug of water, with a row of chairs behind it.
A yellow Labrador guided the man holding its lead to a chair and waited patiently beside it.
‘He’s blind,’ said Maud, stating the obvious. ‘He’s been through some nasty times – look at his scars.’
‘He’s also a composer,’ Jo read from her programme. ‘This says he lost his sight in the Great War. Being blind doesn’t stop him listening carefully to music and words, does it? They must all be worthy judges or they wouldn’t be here.’
‘Even the Mayor?’ Maud winked at her.
‘Well, he’s a decoration in that gold chain, isn’t he?’ Jo dug Maud in the ribs again.
Maud watched as a representative introduced the judges individually. Each stood up and said a few words. The blind man was introduced as Graham Letterman and began to speak. A thud from further along the row of seats told Maud that Alice Wilkes had dropped her music bag, along with Toto, who gave a surprised yelp. Rainey was helping to pick up the sheet music, clearly trying to make as little noise as possible.
Mrs Wilkes’s face was chalk-white. Maud leaned across Bea and said, ‘What’s the matter with her?’
Suddenly Mrs Wilkes took a deep breath, then clutched the music Rainey handed her. She looked at Maud and smiled an apology. Maud thought she saw a light in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. She dismissed it as nerves.
*
Having sat through several choirs and their offerings, Maud wished the festival was over. ‘I hate it when the judges scribble things down while people are performing,’ she said. ‘It makes me think they’ve done something wrong.’
‘Sssh!’ Mrs Wilkes said. Then she gave the signal for her choir to rise and walk to the steps that led to the back of the stage. ‘Performing on a proper stage here will get you all in the mood for the panto at the David Bogue Hall,’ she said, when they were all standing behind the plush curtains. They’d all been threatened with dire consequences if they talked to each other.
The St John’s choir silently lined up.
‘We don’t say “good luck” because it’s unlucky. Instead we say “break a leg”. So, break a leg girls.’ Mrs Wilkes left the stage to take her place at the piano. Maud saw the daft smile on her face and wanted so much to mention it to Jo but didn’t dare.
There was polite applause after their introduction. Four piano bars to count and their medley of First World War songs began.
‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ was followed by ‘Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag’, and then the choir harmonized and divided voices to sing both songs at the same time, finishing together. Someone in the audience began clapping too soon but the accolade was drowned out as ‘Over There’ came next. The familiar joy was rising within Maud as she sang. A quick glance at Jo, who looked as if she was smiling for England and singing as though her heart would break, gave her a further boost of happiness. All eyes in the hall were upon them and suddenly Maud found she could forget about Granddad, about food shortages, about the war as she sang her heart out. Maud’s favourite ‘Roses Of Picardy’ followed, the sadness of the words catching in her throat, and then t
hey were into ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’, lusty voices imploring Britain to remain strong until our brave boys returned from war.
All too soon it was over. The clapping stopped and Maud saw the judges still scribbling away. Mrs Wilkes nodded at the women to come down from the stage and go back to their seats. She had a smile on her face a mile wide, thought Maud.
While the next choir readied themselves, Mrs Wilkes passed her thanks along the row of her girls. ‘I couldn’t have wished for more,’ she added. Then, ‘In ten minutes there’ll be a break for tea and rock cakes, after which it’ll be the solo singers and small groups, then prize-giving, and it’s over for another year. Maybe it will be cancelled until the war’s over. Who knows?’
‘I wish I knew why she keeps staring at the judges’ table,’ Maud said.
Chapter Twenty-six
‘Are you sure this is the right address?’
Blackie knocked again on the front door. ‘Course I’m sure, Herbert.’ But he glanced again at the piece of paper in his hand, then stared at the number on the door to make sure.
‘Excuse me.’ The voice was paper-thin and belonged to a skinny white-haired woman peeping out from next door.
Herbert walked up to her. She had a headscarf and three iron curlers clamped at the front of her thin hair.
‘Are you looking for Mrs Bird?’
‘We are,’ called Blackie, following him. If he was to take a deep breath and blow, the woman might disappear, he thought.
‘She’s got the day off work today. Gone to Fareham to sing in the music festival. It’ll be in the papers, you mark my words.’ Blackie instantly recognized a lonely lady who loved to talk. He and Herbert were sitting ducks. ‘I often hear her practising her singing. These walls are like paper, and she loves singing, she does. On Wednesday night she’s singing at the David Bogue Hall in Stoke Road. It’s Snow White , starts at seven.’ She smiled, showing ill-fitting false teeth.
