by Tara Hyland
With her daughter asleep, Franny went back down to fetch her bag from the kitchen. Annie was still there, in the middle of washing up.
‘She’s all settled?’
It was more of a statement than a question, but Franny nodded anyway. ‘You’ll check in on her, won’t you?’
‘You know I will.’
With that, Franny set off for her second job.
Forty minutes later, Franny arrived at Piccadilly Circus. Just walking out of the tube station, she felt her spirits lift. It might only be a few miles from Whitechapel, but the West End felt like a different world. It was all bright lights and modern motor cars, the wide, clean streets filled with well-dressed couples on their way to restaurants or theatres – or to supper clubs like the Victory Club, where Franny worked.
She’d taken the job at the club a few months earlier. It wasn’t just for the money, although the extra cash did come in handy – it was more because it gave her something to aim for. She was sick and tired of sticking her hands down other people’s lavatories. After nine hours on her knees cleaning up strangers’ filth, her arms and back were sore, and her morale at rock bottom. Sometimes she would look at her poor hands – the skin red and cracked from hours spent in cold water, the cuts stinging from the ammonia and vinegar used to clean the bathroom – and wonder where everything had gone wrong.
So she’d got herself hired as a coat-check girl at a swanky West End supper club, hoping that it might provide an opportunity for her to get into performing. Because Franny still hadn’t forgotten her dream of becoming a famous movie star one day. And if she was going to get discovered anywhere, then it would be at the Victory Club. Renowned throughout London for being a sophisticated, glamorous venue, major stars often headlined at weekends. There was also a house band – playing bluesy jazz – along with a host of young, up-and-coming acts.
The entrance to the club was right opposite the tube station, down a set of red-carpeted stairs. Like the other staff members, Franny wasn’t allowed in that way, so she slipped in the side door and hurried to the dressing room to change into her uniform. The other girls complained about having to wear the costume, but Franny loved it. She could never afford to buy anything new, and while the outfit might not be special, it was at least a change from her usual plain navy dress and cardigan. Each night she would pretend to herself that she was getting dressed up like one of the performers.
The changing room was one long, busy room, with a row of dressing-tables down each side of the walls. Men and women changed in the same place. For the stars who played at the club, there were two plush rooms next door, but the majority of the employees had to content themselves with more basic facilities. Franny pulled on opaque tights and a leotard, which were both in black, and then added all the trimmings of the outfit – the tail-coat, arm cuffs and little hat, in red. She finished fastening the frog closures of the matching choker, then headed outside so she was at the cloakroom when the club opened at seven. Hazel, a sour-faced bottle-blonde who worked the same shifts as her, was already there.
‘We’re in for it tonight,’ the other girl said gloomily as soon as she saw Franny. ‘The place is booked solid.’
‘Course it is! Vera Lynn’s top of the bill.’
Franny couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice, but Hazel just grunted in reply. She probably would have said more, but right then two large groups arrived at once, and the girls had no more time to talk as they rushed to check the guests’ coats.
Hazel was always moaning about the Victory Club – the hours, the work, the pay – and said that she couldn’t wait to leave. But Franny couldn’t see what she was complaining about: she loved everything about the club. Here, there was no evidence of post-war hardship: rationing didn’t apply in restaurants, so the menu featured such luxuries as beef and duck, pheasant and venison. Wine, brandy and port were plentiful, too. There were always leftovers in the kitchen, and most nights Franny and the other staff managed to get a good meal – although it wasn’t the same as being there as a guest. Patrons dined at candle-lit tables while the house band played, and then as the evening drew on, and the plates were whisked away, the guests would take to the dance floor.
Franny longed to be a customer at the club. Sometimes, when no one was around, she would slip on one of the fur coats, imagining what it would be like to own something so expensive. Even now, Franny still had her dreams. She just had to figure out a way to make them a reality.
By ten, most people were seated and the show was in full swing. Franny knew from experience that there would be a lull at the cloakroom now until people started to leave around midnight.
‘I’m going on my break,’ she told Hazel. The other girl didn’t even look up as Franny left; she was too busy flirting with one of the waiters to notice.
In their free time, most of the girls went out the back for a smoke, but Franny liked to watch the acts. As long as she stood in the shadows at the back of the room, no one seemed to mind. Now, she slipped into the huge dining room. With its aged wood panelling and twinkling mirrored walls, it had an air of sophisticated elegance. Her timing was perfect. The saxophonist finished the last few bars of his solo, and as the crowd clapped, the bandleader made his way to the microphone.
‘Thank you for your kind applause,’ he began, his face flushed and brow damp from the heat of the lights. The musicians always put on an energetic show, clearly loving every minute of what they did. ‘And now I have the distinct pleasure of introducing the nation’s sweetheart . . .’ He paused for a drum-roll, and then declared: ‘. . . Miss Vera Lynn!’
The clapping had begun even before he finished speaking, and there were cheers as Vera Lynn swept onto the stage. Franny was captivated by her: in a floor-length gown of pink satin, her fair hair styled in an elegant chignon, she looked poised and affluent, everything the young Irish girl longed to be.
The singer waited patiently for the noise to die down. Graciously, she said in her soft, sweet voice: ‘Thank you, everyone, for such a warm welcome.’ And then the first piano chords struck up, and she began to sing ‘We’ll Meet Again’.
Sometimes during the acts, the audience chatted among themselves. But Vera Lynn had everyone enchanted. A few couples took to the dance floor, but most seemed happy just to watch. Franny lost all track of time as the great lady moved from one number to the next. It was only when Hazel sent one of the waiters to fetch her that she realised how long she’d been away from her post – she’d ended up watching most of the act. And, as Franny hurried back to help in the cloakroom, she vowed to herself that one day she would be up on that stage, as famous and adored as Vera Lynn herself.
Over the next few months, whenever Franny had a spare moment, she would sneak in to watch the acts perform. Most weeks, there were big names headlining, and she got to see everyone from Ella Fitzgerald to Sammy Davis Junior; Frank Sinatra to Lena Horne. Alongside the stars, there were other high-quality acts: burlesque performers and high-kicking showgirls; magicians and trapeze artists – a wonderland of colour and sound. Franny watched them all, studying their performances, while beginning to dream up an act of her own.
The club held open auditions for new acts twice a year. The next one was scheduled for June, and Franny vowed to be ready for it. She continued to study the performers at the club, trying to pick up the big band and jazz numbers that they all sang, and practised them whenever she could: at home with Cara, or while she was doing her cleaning jobs. Before she knew it, the time had come for the audition.
The first Monday in June 1949, Franny sat nervously, waiting to perform. She had turned up at one, which was as soon after her cleaning job as she could make it. Annie had kindly offered to fill in for her that afternoon, so she could have the time off to be there. Now, she wondered if she’d made a huge mistake. More people were auditioning than she’d thought possible. It was off-putting, hearing all these talented performers. She wasn’t sure how she was going to distinguish herself.
&nbs
p; By the time Franny got on stage, her confidence had deserted her. She was practically shaking as she took her place in front of the microphone: she wanted this so much, was so terrified of failure, that she felt almost paralysed by fear. She’d decided, after much agonising, to sing ‘Copacabana’, like she’d seen Carmen Miranda do in the movie. It was an upbeat song, which would disguise any slight weakness in her untrained voice and let her show off some movement too. But now, standing centre stage with all these strangers watching her expectantly, the lyrics flew out of her head. As the band struck up, she was so busy swaying to the rhumba beat that she missed her cue. She tried to join in on the second line, but the mistake had thrown her, so she held up her hands and the musicians stopped playing.
‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she whispered to the bandleader, Jaime. ‘For the life of me, I don’t know what happened there.’
Jaime told her not to worry, and agreed to start over. This time, Franny came in at the correct moment, but then nerves got the better of her, and during the third line, her voice began to shake. She could see people in the audience wincing as she missed the note. She came to a halt. One after another the instruments petered out.
There was silence throughout the auditorium. Franny wanted to run off the stage. It was too awful. This was her worst nightmare come to life. But if she left now, she would never get another opportunity like this. So she forced herself to ask Jaime if she could have another go.
If it had been anyone else, the bandleader would have refused: when someone messed up this much at an audition, it didn’t bode well for performing live every night. But he liked Franny and knew how much she wanted this, so he felt the least he could do was give her one more chance.
‘All right,’ he reluctantly agreed. ‘But just this one last time.’
He turned to the band, but before he could instruct them, Franny said, ‘I think I’d rather sing unaccompanied this time.’ She smiled weakly. ‘Maybe it’ll help.’
Jaime shrugged. ‘Fine. Whatever you think is best.’
Knowing this was her last chance, Franny had decided to abandon ‘Copacabana’: it would be too demoralising to begin with that again, and she wasn’t in the mood to sing a feel-good number. Instead, she wanted to go with a song from the heart, which meant something to her. Closing her eyes, she thought about how much she wanted this. There was an impatient cough from the audience, but it didn’t even register with Franny. In that moment, a strange calm came over her, and – unaccompanied – she began to sing the tragic tale of Molly Bán:
‘Come all ye young fellas
That handle a gun
Beware of night rambling
By the setting of the sun
And beware of an accident
That happened of late
To young Molly Bán
And sad was her fate.’
It was an old Irish ballad that she used to sing at the weekly ceilis back home, as familiar to her as breathing. Telling the story of a young man out hunting, who accidentally shoots his sweetheart as she shelters from the rain, it was a haunting ballad, a lament, and it suited Franny’s mood perfectly. She poured all her feelings of regret and disappointment into the lyrics, drawing on the grief she felt about the mistakes she’d made in her life and her nostalgia for the family home she’d been cast out of, and the foolish girl she’d been.
‘She was going to her uncle’s
When a shower came on
She went under a green bush
The shower to shun
Her white apron wrapped around her
He took her for a swan
But a hush and a sigh
’Twas his own Molly Bán.’
Jaime and the stage manager, Callum, exchanged looks. This was what they’d been looking for. Franny’s voice soared like an angel through the auditorium, and if she wasn’t pitch perfect, it didn’t matter: there was something so pure and genuine about what she was doing, that no one watching her could fail to be captivated. Franny was more than just another singer – she was an act in her own right, something that could be a draw to the show.
‘Well, you’re a dark horse,’ Jaime remarked afterwards.
Franny laughed. She was too thrilled to answer. On the strength of her audition, the club’s manager had agreed for her to do a twenty-minute slot on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, at seven thirty. It wasn’t much: the equivalent of the graveyard shift, the warm-up slot when customers were drifting in. But at least it was a start.
Chapter Six
Whitechapel, London, January 1954
‘Chicken!’ Olly Gold made a loud squawking sound to emphasise his point. The other boys laughed and joined in, bending their arms at the elbow to make wings. ‘Cluck-cluck-cluck! Chicken!’
Colour flooded Cara’s cheeks. ‘Am not!’ she insisted, trying not to show just how intimidated she was. The boys had formed a tight circle around her, meaning she had nowhere to run even if she wanted to – which she didn’t, because if she left now they’d tease her forever after. With four months still to go until her seventh birthday, she was the youngest member of the gang and the only girl. She was also the smallest, apart from poor Timmy Glover, who still sucked his thumb and wet the bed, the stained sheets hung outside the upstairs window each morning for everyone to see. Timmy was usually the one picked on, but because he wasn’t around today, it was Cara’s turn.
‘So you gonna do it then?’ Olly demanded.
Cara instinctively looked towards Danny Connolly, Annie’s son, who was now the de facto leader of the group. It had been Olly’s role up until a few months ago, but then Danny had fought him for it. Although at twelve Olly was the older and bigger of the two, ten-year-old Danny had come out like a pit bull terrier, refusing to back off. Cara knew that it was only because of Danny that she had been allowed in the gang. Having grown up in the same house, he was like a big brother to her. As such, he usually looked out for Cara, but sometimes the other lads took the mick out of him for it, and she knew he worried that showing her favouritism weakened his position. Now, to her disappointment, instead of stepping in, he gave her an encouraging smile.
‘You’ll be all right.’
With her last chance of escape gone, Cara had no choice. ‘Well, come on then and move out of my way,’ she said bravely. ‘Let me get on with it, will you?’
Impressed now, the boys parted to let her through.
Cara began to walk forward, surveying the task ahead of her. The children were on Adley Road. The street had taken a direct hit during the Blitz, and it was little more than a pile of rubble now. But if you climbed on top of the bricks and peered down, you could see into the demolished rooms below. The gang played war games there a lot. The last time, Olly had spotted an old gun trapped under some iron supports in one of the houses. Today he had dared Cara to go and retrieve it.
The children were the only ones around. The area was roughly boarded off, hiding a wasteland of rubble and half-demolished terraces. Big red signs had been nailed up, warning in black writing: Danger – Keep Out. Building was due to start soon, and the government was putting up something called ‘flats’, paid for by the council. A lot of people in their street were hoping to get one. Work was supposed to start any day now; this could be one of the last times the gang would play here, and so Cara knew she had to get the gun today.
As with every other bombsite, there was a secret entry, where the boarding had been carefully removed, allowing a small body to squeeze through. As Cara eased into the gap, Olly called out, ‘Watch where you tread in there. I’ve seen a few dead bodies hanging around.’
There was another round of laughter.
‘Shut it,’ Danny ordered, silencing them.
But, for Cara, the damage was already done. She wanted more than anything to turn back, but there was no way she could lose face with the others. She just needed to get this over with as quickly as possible.
She scurried across the wasteland, towards the crumbled walls that had once been p
eople’s homes. Scrambling to the top of the bricks was easy enough, since she was good at climbing and light enough not to disturb the precarious balance of the rubble. At the top, she saw straight away that the hardest part was going to be getting down inside the house, to the floor of the destroyed rooms. She took a moment to decide on the best course of action.
‘Get on with it!’ a couple of the boys called. ‘What’s the hold-up?’
Ignoring the taunts, Cara sat down gingerly on the ruins, dangling her legs into the opening. Then, once she was sure the bricks would hold her weight, she began to edge herself inside. Using her arms for support, she gradually eased her body into the gap, sucking in her breath to squeeze her stomach through. Soon she was hanging onto the side by her fingertips, but there was still about a yard between her and the ground. That meant she would have to let go and hope that she didn’t land on anything sharp. Closing her eyes, she counted to three and then dropped.
To her surprise, she landed almost squarely on her feet. Stumbling a little, she grabbed at the leg of an upturned chair, and managed to right herself without incurring any damage. Finally inside, she felt relief wash over her. She was halfway through her ordeal. Quickly scanning her surroundings, Cara saw that she was in what must have once been the living room: along with a couple of broken chairs, there was a sofa, with the stuffing blown out, and a damaged radio. There were no photos or personal items – so maybe the family had been in a shelter on the night of the raid, and had been able to come back later to retrieve them. She hoped so.
Keen to get this over with, Cara began to search for the gun that Olly had seen. Squatting down, she picked her way through the damaged furniture and debris, moving carefully across the room. At first, she couldn’t see the gun. But then the sun came out from behind a cloud, chinking through the gap above, the light catching on something. Among the wreckage, something that looked like the barrel of a revolver caught her eye. Removing a charred book and an empty photo frame, Cara dug down and grabbed at the grey object. Pulling it out, she emitted a squeal of delight. She’d found it! The gun – and it was a toy gun at that! A plastic water pistol. Oh, she would have fun ribbing Olly about not being able to tell a real gun from a fake!
