Dancing at the Victory Cafe

by Leah Fleming

VE DAY

  Menu

  Bortsch

  (our beetroot soup. God bless Russia!)

  Victory Pie (a bean bake all the way from America)

  or Roast Beef of Olde England with Yorkshire Puddings

  Celebration Pudding

  (a chocolate dream)

  May 1945

  Belle wakes early. ‘So this is it, Victory in Europe!’ The Cathedral bells, practising their rusty peals, ring out the long-awaited news. From early morning, Victory has been the word on everyone’s lips. The city bustles with shoppers buying in bread to last out the two days’ official celebrations.

  Belle bakes from dawn to dusk; pies, pastry, trays of buns for street parties, while flags and bunting are draped from windows to lamp posts, to add to the festive mood. Every ounce of red white and blue cloth blazes out from the shop fronts. Union Jacks flutter from every flagpole. The pavements are hot with soldiers and airmen, their girls hanging on every available arm, snapping photos furiously at anything which moves. All trying to capture the moment for their future grandchildren. Wirelesses crackle loudly, as ears strain for the final announcement of peace.

  The balmy May morning promises a lovely evening; perfect to stroll around the city and let off steam! In the public houses in Market Street, regulars hang around, waiting for news of extensions to drinking hours, school closures, for party time to begin. Searchlights are to be turned on the Cathedral face, flooding the building with golden light for the special Service of Thanksgiving to be held as part of the Victory celebrations. Lichfield is ‘en fête’.

  Excitement in the Vic reaches fever pitch when a bunch of drunken airmen snake in and out of the café in a Conga, catching hold of Wyn and Belle, pulling them out into the street in a wild, jumping frenzy of yelling. Round the square they dance and holler to passers by, who join in the revels.

  ‘It’s all over, I can’t believe it . . . Bindy Baverstock. All over,’ yells Belle to her friend, who stands with her daughter, wistfully.

  ‘Not quite,’ she sighs, thinking of husband Simon, entombed in a Japanese POW camp in Singapore. ‘What about the boys out east?’

  ‘It can’t be long . . . he’ll come home and Digger will come home . . . one day soon, they’ll all be home for good.’

  ‘Not all.’ Wyn pauses, out of breath. Her dad will not be coming home from Italy, nor Solomon Goodman from his resting place on the bed of the Atlantic. There will be many lost faces to remember and mourn.

  Belle stops and touches her arm. ‘I’ve not forgotten them, Wyn. But just for now . . . we all deserve a break . . . some time to let our hair down and take a breather.’

  In the distance they can see the Prin pushing a pram, bedecked with bunting. Belle beckons her over and props up the baby, plumping the pillows behind her back. ‘Let’s have a photo of us all . . . the staff of the Victory Café. All us wonderful women who have filled thousands of empty bellies. Think of all those hot dinners we have served; all the belts we have loosened! We deserve a medal for unstinting service to mankind; civility in the face of non-stop moaning, complaints, shortages, rationing. Congratulations to you all!’

  Then a giant soldier pulls her into the Square, into the revels in the street, into a dancing circle of children and shop girls. She finds herself captured by a ribbon of dancers, who whisk her up and then deposit her like flotsam on the pavement, gasping for breath. Belle lifts the baby high, to show her the scene but the infant only blinks sleepily. At six months, her golden limbs are plump, the white smocked romper suit already outgrown. ‘Come on, Victy, it’s bedtime for you, young lady.’

  It was Sid Sperrin who had come up with a solution to her naming. ‘She can’t be, “the baby at the Vic” for ever, can she, Mrs Morton?’ He stared solemnly at the woolly bundle in the borrowed blue pram. ‘Why don’t you call her Victy?’

  ‘Why not?’ She smiled to herself, knowing that no other café had a customer born on their premises, albeit in secret.

  This naming, like Topsy, just grew and grew, from the humble Vic to Victorine, to the queenly Victoria, deemed too grandiose a handle for a baby. So they fell back on a comfortable, ‘Victy’. Her arrival aroused intense curiosity and gossip at first. For once, the Prin was a soul of discretion and the secret held; Mrs Morton was known only as one of the kindly band of informal foster mothers ‘doing her bit for the Community’.

  The landlady refused to condone a child in her rooms, throwing Belle into a flurry of house hunting. It was fortunate that a friend of Bindy, in the Close, offered to rent her a small terraced house in Gaia Lane, at the back of the Cathedral moat. Most days, Victy spent her time in the garden of the café when the weather was fair, or upstairs with her devoted slave and nursemaid, Prin, in her rooms, if it was not. At first, it was only a temporary arrangement but as weeks have passed into months, hope of ever locating Dorrie Goodman has long faded.

  They troop back into the dining room to survey the party wreckage of bunting, streamers and fizzy pop bottles with a sigh. Belle takes a deep breath and begins the clearing up, while Wyn sweeps the floor and collects the rubbish in a flour sack. Suddenly she stops. ‘I know that handwriting. Where did this postcard come from? Must have slipped under the rug or got kicked out of sight in the dancing. Look see . . . if that’s not Dorrie’s handwriting, I’m a chinaman.’ Holding Victy on her hip, Belle hunts for her glasses, while the Prin screams out.

  ‘A camel in ze desert; look Meez Morton she let us know.’ She waves the exotic scene in front of everyone’s nose. ‘Vat it say . . . queek!’ The writing is squeezed into every corner; the postmark indecipherable.

  DEAR ALL. Just a line to say, all’s well that ends well. I am singing for the troops (where sand gets up your nose). Tune into Forces radio, folks, and you might hear you-know-who some day soon. Tell Prin she was right. If you drop me a line, make sure you direct it to E.N.S.A. Moving on soon. Love Dorrie.

  Belle re-reads the words slowly and silently. In the kitchen, Prin is burping the baby over her shoulder, jiggling her with excitement. ‘Mamma come soon, little princess. We write to her now, long letter. Isn’t she going to have a big surprise? Vunderbar! I think I cry, Meez Morton.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ snaps Belle, her cheeks flushed with irritation as she wipes out the last of the chocolate pudding with her finger.

  ‘Peace in Europe, for my poor Poland and card from Dorrie; all in one day. All you need now, is for Diggerman to walk in door . . . Vunderbar.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ was the flat reply.

  ‘You look as if you lost bob and find tanner. Let’s find another bottle in cellar and get ourself lit up!’

  Belle folds the terry nappies carefully from the washing line, tucks the quilt tightly around the sleeping baby. She surveys the podgy cheeks, snub nose and curling eyelashes, soft and smooth, mahogany against the white satin pillow. A nest of rats gnaws within her stomach, biting deep into her gut. The Prin uncorks a dusty bottle.

  ‘We write to Dorrie straight way. She forgive me when she see her Victy?’

  ‘Hang on, Prin, don’t rush, this is a delicate matter. You just can’t spring a baby on a girl if she’s out in the Middle East on tour. They won’t fly her home. She can’t drop her obligations. She needs to be told slowly, gently. Think what you did to her. Don’t rush it.’

  ‘Yes . . . I see, but we let her know, we get her postcard . . . Yes?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’ll see to that next week. After all, only you and I know the whole story, remember? Everyone thinks I’m fostering an orphan child. We mustn’t spill any beans. It’s not fair to Dorrie, not until she comes to claim her. There are no names on her birth certificate. Victy is a foundling. You must be discreet, if ever it came to light that you abandoned her in a kiosk . . . well who knows how the police may react? You could be sent to prison . . . who knows?’ Belle winces at her own words, watching the look of terror in Prin’s eyes; her mouth gaping to reply, suddenly silent.

  ‘How do we know Dorrie will b
elieve our story?’

  She picks the postcard from Prin’s frozen fingers and pops it quickly into her pocket. The Prin, limp and weary, drags herself up the stairs without another word. One by one, Belle watches her layers of justice, fairness and sympathy peel away, like unwanted clothes in a heatwave, revealing the savagery of her true feelings.

  She is my child now, not yours. Victy is mine. I named her, cuddled her colic, nursed her fears. I am the face she smiles at, my lips are the ones she mimics. It is me she watches with those black intense eyes from the pram I drove twenty miles to find. We must not disrupt her life yet. A few more months will make no difference. Dorrie needs time to adjust. We need time to adjust too. Dorrie will have to make a career for herself before they will hand her over. How can she cope with a baby in a trunk? No hurry with this affair . . . Fear stalks Belle. She will vet the post every day. As for this card, smiling, she ignites the gas ring and torches it in the frying pan.

  ‘Have you heard anything?’ begs the Prin.

  ‘Not a word . . . give it time.’

  ‘But it’s three months since she wrote to us. I will write to E.N.S.A. myself. Give me ze address.’

  ‘You give me your letter and I’ll pop it in with my own.’ One by one the letters go up in smoke.

  ‘She has her career to think about now. The past is best forgotten.’

  ‘Perhaps she no get our letter?’

  ‘Perhaps not. Be patient,’ says Belle, her skin growing tough, taut, tightening like a drumskin, with each lie.

  Victy cannot cope with change now, she is just learning to stand and stagger around the furniture, biting her teeth on any surface, dribbling with excitement. My child is so beautiful; all I ever wanted from life. All I shall ever have now. I will not share my Victy. It is too late. I have to think of her future now.

  September 1945

  The garrisons empty their conscripts in ill-fitting demob suits onto the Lichfield streets. The markets bulge with army surplus bargains. Wyn Preece and the Prin forget to check the post and listen avidly now to the Forces network on the wireless, waiting for Dorrie’s promised debut.

  Belle can begin to relax her working schedule to fit Victy’s naps and playtime, preferring to wheel her around Beacon Park, to feed the ducks by Minster pool and join other younger mothers at the Welfare clinic. At first they glance slyly sideways at the obvious discrepancy between this mother and baby. Belle ignores their curiosity, fussing over their offspring, discussing baby matters like a veteran, until they begin to accept her as one of the regulars.

  ‘Husband in the Forces still?’ a woman asks, eyeing her left hand. Belle nods, grateful for the thin gold band and her married title without which this fostering would never have been considered.

  Where on earth was poor old Dennis now? The thought of once being one of the Morton clan seems like a long forgotten dream. Neither had served divorce papers on the other and this suited her plans well.

  As she saunters back to the café, the September leaves are curling, ready to drop with the first frost, the air tinged with woodsmoke. The streets are more peaceful; the city swopping military uniform for the comfortable old tweeds of a country market town. The same old faces in the café, smiling at the baby, the same tired menus and faithful staff. Suddenly Belle’s spirit is sunk by the sameness of it all. She pops Victy in the playpen and turns to the same old tasks: making lists, checking supplies, replacing the Izal tissues in the toilet. Feeling every one of her thirty-eight years, she inspects the dusting of silver hairs at her temples. ‘Fair, fat and nearly forty, my girl! Not a pretty sight!’

  Suddenly a cap whistles past her ears and a coil of blue cigar smoke wafts into view. ‘Look what the wind’s blown in, my bewt!’ She spins around towards the voice. There stands Digger, a scrawny sight, lines on his face like furrows in a ploughed field. Belle flings her arms around him with a scream. Now the picture is complete. The final piece of her jigsaw is at hand.

  ‘Heavens! You’ve come back. How wonderful. What was it like being a guest of Jerry’s? And I must look such a mess. I haven’t put my face on.’

  ‘You look just the same . . . lovely. How I’ve remembered you all. Used to sit on my bunk and eat five helpings of your apple pie in my head . . . Didn’t think much of Jerry’s hospitality but we got our own back, I can tell you!’

  ‘I can’t believe this. We thought you were back in Australia by now.’ Digger follows her into the kitchen slowly, closing the door behind him, gathering her into his arms, to kiss her mouth and send her senses reeling at his touch. ‘Oh Digger . . . it’s been so long and I’ve missed you. So much to tell you. Wait till I tell the girls. Prin is out,’ Belle adds.

  ‘Still stuck with the old fraud? You’re too soft hearted.’ He nuzzles her nose.

  ‘Fancy you rolling up like a bad penny! Thin as a beanpole. We’ll soon get some flesh on those cheeks! What made you come back?’

  ‘As if you need ask! For a slice of Victory pie and a proposition, Belle Morton.’ Belle stirs her precious sugar ration into his tea cup in a daze.

  ‘Steady on, love, with that sugar. How do you fancy opening up down under? Home cooking for the Pommy hordes, who will surely be on their way now this show is over?’ Digger laughs into her eyes, hugging her again.

  Belle sits down opposite him. ‘Room for a little one too?’

  ‘Anyone you like, love,’ he twinkles.

  ‘No, seriously, I mean a little one . . .’ She smiles, pointing to the playpen in the outhouse, where Victy stands, curious, throwing her rag dolly across the flagstone floor.

  ‘Who the hell is that?’

  ‘Victoria, Victy, my little girl.’ Belle smiles proudly.

  ‘Like hell she is . . . she’s a bleedin’ Abo . . .’

  ‘Don’t say that . . . she is my foster child . . . she was abandoned.’

  ‘Not surprised . . . that colour.’ The furrows on his brow deepen into ditches, his mouth sneers into a hard line.

  ‘Oh, Digger, look at her, she’s beautiful and sharp as lemon drops. She wants you to play with her. Pick her up, she won’t bite you.’

  ‘No, love, she may be lovely to you but where I come from, she ain’t goin’ ter fit in, not that shade. Hell! Woman, you know how to spring it on a bloke! Never wrote a word about this little sprog. You can’t just dob this one on me. She must be a year old.’ Digger rises from the chair and backs towards the door.

  ‘Not quite. Surely you don’t expect me to leave her behind, dump her in some orphanage?’

  ‘Why not, if that’s where you really found her?’

  ‘What do you mean? Are you suggesting that I am lying to you?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time a guy’s been saddled with someone else’s kid. Let’s be honest . . . when men are away, women still play!’

  ‘Get out! Bugger off to your land of milk and honey, sunshine and canned fruit . . . if you think for one minute . . .’ Belle plonks the baby onto her hip. ‘Don’t say another word, Digby Carstairs. Where I go, she goes from now on. She’s the only good thing to come out of this war!’

  ‘Suit yerself. I’m sorry, Belle. You should have given me some warning.’ Digger lifts his cap from the floor. ‘I’ll leave you to it then! If you change your mind . . .’

  Belle shakes her head weakly, her legs trembling, as he retreats through the open door. ‘I want to go with you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mutters as he closes the door.

  ‘So am I.’ Belle weeps, for it is too late now, to tell the truth.

  Later, as she clears away the debris of toys from the kitchen floor, she hears the Prin singing a Polish lullaby to the fractious child on her lap. The tune floats from room to room, a sad haunting air in the minor key, echoing her own mood, soothing its heaviness. She wipes a tear from the end of her nose and sniffs, listening to the Prin prattle into the wide eyes of the baby, who is fighting sleep. ‘Your mamma is a beautiful Princess who meets a handsome soldier at a ball but they cann
ot be together. She sing to you one day on the wireless and come to fetch you home.’

  ‘Stop that! At once!’

  ‘But it true. I tell her about her mamma.’

  ‘The past is past, I forbid you to fill her head with such nonsense. It will only unsettle her.’

  ‘But it not right that you keep her to you. You do not try to find her mamma. I no think you ever look for Dorrie anymore. So I will go to policemen and tell them myself vat I do!’

  Belle snatches the baby and smoothes down her nightdress. ‘Do you think they will believe a crazy old woman . . . I shall deny it all,’ she bluffs. ‘And if they do, we will both be charged with perjury. What will happen to Victy then? Do you think Constable Goodman would take her in?’

  ‘I no understand you. You send off poor Diggerman, with the fleas in his ears, as you say. I think you wicked woman. You do wrong for Dorrie.’ The nursemaid throws down the bib on the table.

  ‘Well if that is how you feel, you know what to do then. The war is over. It’s about time, Renee White, you found yourself another billet. I have my own plans for the upstairs.’

  Sunday Afternoon

  Isobel swept through her cottage like a dervish, dusting, watching the clock with thudding heart. Then the thought of the coming encounter overwhelmed her and she sank in a chair to calm the palpitations.

  ‘Steady the Buffs, old girl, stop all this nonsense! You did your best for all concerned. You saw them all off, one by one. Digger let me down. He had to go. Prin interfered once too often and got her marching orders. Bindy Baverstock disapproved so I distanced myself. None of them understood my position. Dorrie stayed away too long.

  The fibres of love bound Victy and me tightly together. How could I cut her free? Not even King Solomon with all his wisdom would judge against me, after she was three, four, five. You can’t take a child from its mother.

  Each precious year sealed her as my own, I strewed her path with every opportunity, ballet lessons and music tuition, tennis coaching and elocution. Victy was a model child, secure in my devotion. Children are our future. She deserved the best and she never let me down.