Whistling in the Dark

by Shirley Hughes

  Joan shot her a look.

  “Is Audrey going?” she asked.

  “No. Dai will be back at sea by then and she doesn’t want to dance with anyone but him. And you know how Brian feels about dances!”

  “I haven’t got anything to wear!” Joan protested.

  “We’ll find you something. Doreen and her brother will be there, I expect.”

  Joan felt trapped. She could hardly say she was doing something else that evening when Mum knew perfectly well that she wasn’t.

  “You’ll be the belle of the ball!” Ronnie laughed. “That is, if your mother doesn’t steal all the limelight.”

  Joan didn’t bother to reply. She knew when she was defeated. She refused to catch Mum’s eye. If he stays for dinner, I’m not going to be polite to him, she thought.

  But not even the pushiest guests ever invited themselves over for a meal in these days of food rationing. As Ronnie prepared to go, there was a knock at the door. Mum answered it.

  Two men in army uniform, a sergeant and a corporal, were standing on the doorstep. Joan could tell by the red bands around their caps that they were military policemen.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” said the sergeant, pushing his way past Mum without waiting to be invited in. He nodded to Ronnie. “We’re looking for someone. We’ve got reason to believe he might be hanging around this area. Have you seen anyone suspicious at all?”

  “Why? What’s he done?” Mum asked.

  “Deserter. A Polish chap. One of the refugees attached to the pioneer corps doing roadwork – digging ditches and that. Now he’s gone absent without leave and we’ve got orders to arrest him on sight.”

  “I thought the Poles were meant to be on our side,” said Mum.

  “He’s got no proper papers. On the loose illegally.”

  “Will that mean military prison?”

  The sergeant gave her a sharp look. “Yes – probably.”

  “Military prison is the best place for him,” Ronnie said.

  “Have you seen him?” the sergeant asked Mum. “We think he’s been hanging around here the last few nights.”

  “No. I’ve been at home all morning, and there’s been nobody around here as far as I know.”

  “Your husband away in the services?”

  “He was. Merchant Navy. I’m a widow.”

  The sergeant paused. His voice softened, but only slightly. “Sorry to hear it. Your neighbours at home?”

  “Mr Roberts is probably out training with the Home Guard, but I think Mrs Roberts is at home.”

  “Well, lock and bolt all your doors carefully, and if you see anything or anyone suspicious, report it immediately.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The sergeant saluted Mum and Ronnie and then motioned to the corporal to leave. Mum closed the door carefully. Soon they heard them hammering at the Roberts’ front door.

  “It’s a very bad show to have these undesirables on the loose,” said Ronnie. “The trouble is we’ve got too many of these European refugees and displaced persons over here now. Poles, Czechs, Jews – all sorts. A good many of them are safe and secure, interned on the Isle of Man, and a good thing too. I’m sympathetic, of course, but we’ve got to keep track of them.”

  “They’ve had a terrible time, most of them,” said Mum with some spirit. “We’re fighting Hitler for what he’s doing to them. The least we can do is to take some of them in.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, my dear. You’re such a sweet, soft-hearted person, I knew you’d take that view. Just don’t worry about it. Leave it to the Military Police. And you must report it right away if that deserter does show his face around here.”

  “Don’t worry, I will.”

  Just then Judy emerged from the back room, putting on her “cute little girl” act, as usual.

  “Ah! Here’s my little Shirley Temple!” cried Ronnie, adjusting back to his usual jocularity. “Where have you been hiding, Judy? I’m just off, I’m afraid. But I’ve left a parcel for all of you − and there’s a special packet of sweets just for you.”

  “Ooh, thanks, Captain Harper Jones.”

  “Ronnie,” he said. “I want all you children to call me Ronnie.”

  “Thank you, Ronnie.”

  As the front door closed behind him, Brian appeared from the back room with a hunted expression. “Has he gone?”

  Mum looked suddenly weary.

  “Yes, he’s gone. But I wish you could have come out to say goodbye at least, Brian.”

  “Not me. Not likely! Can’t stand the bloke.”

  “I like him,” said Judy. She had already taken control of the packet of sweets, but as Joan noticed bitterly, she wasn’t offering them around.

  “Mum, why did you lie to those policemen?” Joan asked. “Why didn’t you tell them about that man who was in the garden a few nights ago?”

  Mum walked off into the kitchen, saying nothing. Joan and Brian trailed after her and watched as she slammed saucepans about in the sink.

  “I didn’t want to put them onto him,” she said finally. “That is, if the man they’re looking for is the same one as you saw, Joanie.”

  “But they’re the police!” said Brian. “Why ever not, Mum?”

  “Well, if you must know, it’s because I’ve heard about those military prisons – ‘glasshouses’, they call them. They’re very, very tough. And if you’re a foreigner of any kind in one of those places these days, heaven help you.”

  “Suppose he does come back?” asked Joan.

  “Then I’ll get the police onto him straight off, don’t worry. I just thought we might give him one chance to get away. The Poles are supposed to be on our side, after all. Look how bravely their airmen fought in the Battle of Britain. Now the whole of Warsaw’s been destroyed and their country’s occupied by the Nazis. For all we know, this chap may be some poor devil who’s gone on the run because he just couldn’t take it any more.”

  “But, Mum—”

  “That’s enough. Now come on, you two. Go and check on Judy for me. She’ll ruin her dinner if she eats all those sweets.”

  CHAPTER 6

  As soon as they had eaten midday dinner, Joan escaped, leaving Audrey to help Mum wash the dishes. She went upstairs to the landing, let down the ladder that led up to the attic and scrambled up. Hardly anyone went up there these days except her. She had managed to clear all the battered suitcases, full of moth-eaten clothes, assorted boxes of broken electrical equipment, old magazines and Christmas decorations across to one side to make room for what she liked to call her studio.

  There was a skylight in the roof that let in quite a good light. She had arranged a chair and a folding table on which she had set out her watercolour paint box, pencil case, and jar that held her precious brushes – good ones, proper sable. These, together with a big art folder and a block of watercolour paper, were a gift from a neighbour who had enthusiastically taken up art lessons but soon given them up.

  Joan did art at school, of course, every Friday afternoon with the highly strung Miss Burrows, who wore hand-embroidered smocks and was very keen on arranging a tasteful vase of spring flowers or autumn leaves (depending on the season) for them to paint. Most girls in the class had long since given up any serious attempt to rise to this challenge, and sat chatting at the back of the room while occasionally dabbing a bit of colour here and there. Joan made what she could of it. Art was one of the few subjects in which she regularly got an A. But she didn’t enjoy it much, not at school.

  For Joan, the real stuff was up here in the attic. This was where she came to draw comic strips, fashion drawings, cartoons, pictures of wild imagining, as well as careful copies of illustrations in story books. She had always done art, ever since she could remember, graduating from making paper dolls with cut-out clothes to entering colouring competitions in the newspaper, which she never won.

  Her hunger to make pictures had been fuelled by visits to the Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool with Mum, before the war
started. There were wonderful paintings in there that told a story, like the one from the Bible in which the treacherous and beautiful Delilah betrays Samson to the Philistines. And the one called “And When Did You Last See Your Father?” in which a brave little boy from a Royalist family is questioned by a stern Puritan inquisitor while his sister, guarded by a soldier, is in tears. You knew this was happening in the middle of the English Civil War and that the boy’s father was on the run, possibly even hiding in that very house. There were other good paintings, too.

  Joan missed the visits terribly, but they were out of the question now, because of the war. She had to make do with old sepia postcard reproductions, some of which she had pinned up on the attic wall to inspire her. The picture of her own that she was trying to get right was one of Beauty and the Beast. She kept at it for most of the afternoon, working on the Beast’s face, which was the most interesting part. She was doing his eyes peering out from a great hairy mane and a huge jaw with jutting teeth, but she wanted to make him look a bit sad too, because he was really a prince.

  As always when she was painting, Joan lost all track of time and only when the light began to fade did she realize that it must be about half past four. Hastily, she picked up her things, carefully washed her brushes, and nipped back down the ladder.

  The Russell family – Doreen, her older brother, David, and their mother and father – lived quite near by but in a much more desirable house in the very best part of town. It had big wrought-iron gates, a sweeping half-circle of gravel drive, and a lot of mock-Tudor gables.

  There was a separate double garage with a shiny car in it, which, unlike almost everyone else’s, was not laid up for the duration of the war but very much in use. This was because Mr Russell was doing a very important job with the Mersey Docks and Harbour Board, organizing vital supplies of food and armaments that merchant ships brought into the Liverpool docks.

  The back of the house offered a wide view of the estuary, with huge skies and silvery rippling mud.

  By now the coast of North Wales was fading to a dark shape and hardly visible. No lights showed from the house, of course, because of the strict blackout rules, but when Doreen answered the door and led Joan into their big front room – the lounge, they called it – it was warm and welcoming.

  Mr and Mrs Russell were sitting by the fire on a big leather settee. There was a grand piano with music on it, already lit by a standard lamp, and lots of bookcases. David was balanced against the back of an armchair, reading the paper. He put it down when he saw Joan and gave her a big friendly grin. Mrs Russell sprang welcomingly to her feet.

  Unlike Ross and Derek, David did not seem to suffer from spots. His skin was the smooth olive kind, and his hair had a bit of an auburn glint to it. He was fifteen, the same age as Brian, but he was in the scholarship class at the grammar school because he was hoping to get into Cambridge. Joan often saw him on his bicycle, pedalling purposefully to and from school, and he always waved. But meeting him like this in his own home was, just for a moment, a little overwhelming. She quickly turned towards Mrs Russell’s inviting smile and outstretched hand.

  “Joan! How lovely to see you! How are your mother and the rest of the family?”

  “We’re OK, thanks.”

  “I’m dying to hear all the news. I hardly seem to get time for anything now that I’m driving this lorry for the WVS. They keep one at it till all hours! But won’t you have something to eat before the cinema?”

  “No, thank you,” said Joan. She would have loved to have said, “Yes, please,” because she was very hungry, but in this era of food rationing, it wasn’t polite to accept food. Mrs Russell picked up a plate of biscuits from the coffee table.

  “Do have one of these at least. We’ve just had a food parcel from America – a lucky windfall!”

  “They’re delicious!” added Doreen, munching greedily.

  Joan relaxed and took one.

  Mrs Russell was not at all like the mothers of her other school friends. Most of them were kind enough, but tended to be wearily overburdened by war work and food rationing. They huddled in shapeless cardigans and tied their hair up in headscarves. Mrs Russell’s hair was short, ruffled and untidy, but it was the same lovely honey colour as Doreen’s. She was wearing slacks and an old open-neck shirt which she managed to make look like something out of a sportswear ad in Vogue magazine. One of the nicest things about her, though, was that she always seemed to have time to chat.

  “I expect you and your mother will be going to this charity dinner dance at the golf club?” she said. “I’m on the organizing committee, worse luck. Captain Harper Jones roped me into it. I can’t think why. I only hope the air-raid siren doesn’t start up as soon as we’ve got things going.”

  Doreen pulled a face. “Do we have to go? It is likely to be pretty awful. He’ll have no idea how to get hold of a proper band. It’ll be all old married people doing waltzes and foxtrots.”

  “Oh, he’s not such a bad fellow,” said her father. “I work with him quite a lot at the docks and he’s very efficient. Anything he organizes is bound to go like clockwork, I should think.”

  “Well, I’ll only come if you’ll promise not to dance with him, Mummy. He looks so silly when he’s trying to smooch around on the dance floor, sticking out his fat behind.”

  Joan said nothing. She quickly glanced at David, but he had carefully detached himself from the conversation by returning to his newspaper. She was hot with embarrassment at the thought of her own mum dancing in public with Captain Harper Jones. Even worse was the thought of David being there to witness it. Happily, Mr Russell changed the subject.

  “Doreen tells me how good you are at art, Joan,” he said. “How I envy you. If there’s one thing I wish I could do more than any other, it’s being able to draw.”

  “Her homework exercise books are full of amazing drawings all over the margins,” said Doreen. “They are absolutely wizard!”

  “Is there any particular painter you admire?” Mr Russell asked.

  “Well, Mum and I used to go to the Walker Art Gallery in Liverpool before the war started…” Joan trailed off, shy but pleased by the compliments.

  “What a shame that it’s no longer possible to go and see the paintings. But I’ve got a whole collection of art books here that you’re welcome to borrow any time. Lots of stuff on the Impressionists and more modern painters too, if you’re interested. Have a look next time you come to see us.”

  “Thanks. I’d really like to!”

  “Hey – we’ve got to go!” said Doreen, jumping up. “We’ll miss the Pathé news and the trailer before the main feature if we don’t hurry.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The Queensway Cinema was near the promenade – a draughty one-storey building lurking behind a shabby Art Deco façade. There was no smartly uniformed commissionaire standing outside to marshal the queue as there was at the big Odeon cinema in Liverpool; just a placard outside telling you what was showing and the prices of seats, which was difficult to read in the blackout. The lady who sold the tickets sat inside in her glass-fronted box office wearing a scarf and overcoat. A few servicemen from the nearby Royal Air Force station and their girlfriends were drifting in, and a gaggle of sixth formers from the secondary school. Most of the older crowd, like Audrey and Dai, were at the local hop down at the church hall.

  A bored girl in an usherette uniform shone her torch to guide Joan and Doreen into their seats somewhere in the middle of the auditorium. The back rows were unofficially reserved for couples. They had double seats – “cosies” – with the arms between them removed to facilitate the complicated manoeuvre of cuddling up to somebody when the lights were low. Before the lights were lowered, it was possible for the rest of the audience to have an up-to-the-minute take on who was dating who. As soon as they were seated, Doreen miraculously produced a packet of crisps (another windfall from the American food parcel) and the two friends munched happily as they settled down to the show.
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  First there were the ads, which Joan found a bit dull. Shakily projected onto an elaborately draped curtain that masked the screen, they were mostly for local shops and cafes:

  “Beat the Blitz at Handley’s Hardware Store! High-quality ironmongery at pre-war prices. Blackout shades always in stock.”

  “Knit for victory! Wool, fancy goods and haberdashery. Unbeatable quality at Madame Beazley’s!”

  “Jack’s Bicycle Shop! Repairs, and bikes for sale and hire.”

  “The OK Cafe, two doors down from this cinema. Open till seven p.m.”

  After the ads, the curtains parted and the Pathé newsreel began. Accompanied by a relentlessly optimistic commentary, it showed pictures of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth inspecting bomb damage in the East End of London, followed by cheerful British troops on the march, then women hard at work in munitions factories and something about the Italian invasion of Greece. Finally, there was a clip from a stirring speech given in Washington by the President of the United States, the recently re-elected and hugely popular Franklin D. Roosevelt.

  The trailer for next week’s film followed. It was The Philadelphia Story, starring Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant.

  “I’m definitely coming to see this,” whispered Doreen. “Cary’s just so glamorous.”

  “Jimmy Stewart’s in it too,” said Joan. “I think I like him better!”

  At last the main film started. But they were not long into it, with Betty Grable dancing and singing her way through the first big number, when they heard the heart-sinking wail of the air-raid siren outside.

  “Oh, Lord!” said Joan. “I’ve never known a raid start as early as this. It’s only been dark for about an hour. My mum’ll be going off the deep end.”

  The film stopped abruptly, the house lights went up, and the cinema manager stood in front of the screen and told everyone to keep calm, advising them to stay under cover until the all clear sounded. The show would be resumed shortly.

  “My parents will have gone out by now,” said Doreen. “They were going over to see some friends – walking, of course. Daddy never uses the car except for his war work. He says it’s unpatriotic, so I expect they’ll have to stay under cover like us.”