Unforgettable

by Jean Saunders

  ‘So come to a dance with me on Saturday night. You can make sure your old man stays home to keep your mum company. My shore leave ends next week, and it would be nice to have a few good memories to take back to sea.’

  Gracie’s face remained fixed all the while he was coaxing her, and all she could hear were those words: come to a dance with me. He couldn’t know it, but she was instantly transported to the Palais where she had danced with Charlie and created memories that seemed to be etched in her brain, no matter how foolish.

  ‘What do you say?’ Davey went on when she remained silent.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Come round to our house sometime before then. I know Mum would like to see you.’

  She wouldn’t say anything more definite than that. She didn’t want to go dancing with anyone but Charlie, but she knew how stupid that was. She was hardly going to spend the rest of her life thinking about a chap she had only met so briefly, for God’s sake. She wasn’t living in the kind of dream-world that only existed in the movies, where miraculous things happened. She didn’t believe in happy-ever-afters … the hell of it was, that deep down, she wanted to, so badly.

  * * *

  ‘Would you mind if I went out on Saturday night, Mum?’ she asked, saying it quickly, before she changed her mind.

  ‘Of course not, love!’ Queenie’s voice held genuine astonishment. ‘You’re not a prisoner here.’

  ‘I’ll make sure Dad stays home to keep you company,’ she went on.

  Her mother’s laugh ended in a bout of coughing, and they had to wait until it stopped before she could go on.

  ‘I’m well used to that, Gracie, and now I’ve got my bed downstairs I’ll be fine. I can watch the world go by of an evening, and tap on the window if I see any of the neighbours to ask them in for a chat. So where are you going?’

  She lay back on her pillow, exhausted after such a long speech.

  ‘Remember Davey Watkins from Leeman Street? He’s in the Navy now, but he’s home on leave and he asked me to go dancing. You don’t mind, do you?’

  It was ridiculous to feel like a little girl again, asking permission to go to the shops, but the light in her mother’s eyes told her she was thinking differently.

  ‘I remember young Davey Watkins very well. Ginger hair and a cheeky smile. You could do a lot worse.’

  ‘It’s only a dance, Mum!’ Gracie said, suddenly cross. ‘Don’t start matchmaking, and besides, I couldn’t ever think of him in that way.’

  ‘I know you said you’ve got a young man, but he’s in London—and a saxophone player, Gracie!’ Her tone implied that it was a very dubious occupation.

  ‘And a composer of songs, Mum!’ she said, compounding the fiction.

  ‘Oh well, I’m sure you know best,’ Queenie said wearily.

  The fight had gone out of her. At one time she would have probed every bit of Gracie’s relationship with a saxophone player—or anybody else—even though there was nothing to find out! But now she made token enquiries, and was a semblance of the sparky woman of old. Illness did that to a person, Gracie thought savagely. It ravaged the body, and the spirit too. It was heartbreaking. She turned away abruptly before her mother could see the prickle of tears in her eyes.

  ‘I’ll make us some tea. Would you like a biscuit to dip in it, Mum?’

  ‘Perhaps just one. I’m not really hungry.’

  They both knew it would either be left in the saucer or the dipping would turn the tea to biscuit soup.

  She had composed herself by the time she took the tea into the front room where her mother was dozing on and off by now. Seeing Gracie, she made a determined effort to perk up, and managed to drink some of the tea once it had cooled down. Predictably, she didn’t touch the biscuit.

  ‘Mum, I’ve been thinking. I don’t want to sponge on Dad, and it may be months before you get better,’ she went on delicately.

  Queenie shook her head. ‘We both know that’s not going to happen.’

  Gracie ignored the remark. ‘I need to work, Mum, but I wouldn’t leave you now. If I can use your old sewing-machine I could take in sewing alterations at home. I’d try not to let it disturb you too much.’

  ‘It wouldn’t disturb me! I like the sound of the sewing-machine. It’s going to be yours, anyway.’

  Gracie swallowed hard. She hated all this implication of death and what happened afterwards, but she could see it was important to her mother. She was so brave, facing what was inevitable.

  ‘I’ll put a card in the grocer’s window then, and I’ll call myself a London Outworker. Does that sound fancy enough?’ she added.

  But Queenie had drifted off to sleep now, and Gracie tiptoed out, already composing the words on the card to advertise her skills. She hadn’t really meant to call herself any such thing as a ‘London Outworker’, but if it impressed likely customers it didn’t seem such a bad idea.

  The old treadle sewing-machine in the parlour hadn’t been used since Gracie had gone to London. Her fingers suddenly tingled with anticipation. Doing alterations to garments wasn’t the same as making something new, even in the tedium of Lawson’s Shirt Factory, but the skill was the same, and it was the work she enjoyed more than anything else.

  She felt slightly uplifted. Any money she could earn could pay for the little extras her dad seemed incapable of recognizing that her mother needed. She wasn’t going to be useless here, and she had to keep busy for her own sanity and to keep her mind off what lay ahead.

  Her father approved of the suggestion—providing his dinner was on the table when he wanted it, and that the parlour wasn’t filled with stuff everywhere and bits of fluff and cotton-dust in the air to smother the taste of his food. It wouldn’t do Queenie’s chest any good, either, he added as an afterthought.

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Nothing will interfere with your well-being. We wouldn’t want that, would we?’

  He looked at her through narrowed eyes, unsure of this newly independent daughter who no longer flinched when he shouted, and had ideas of her own. His womenfolk were ganging up on him—as far as Queenie could gang up on anybody, he thought with an unexpected pang.

  ‘See to it then,’ he said gruffly. ‘As long as it don’t fret your mother.’

  * * *

  After the dance with Davey Watkins she saw him several times before he returned to his ship, but she made it plain to him that it was a relationship that was going nowhere except friendship. Though she couldn’t deny he had done her mother good with his nonsense when he had called at the house.

  She also admitted that it had been a sensible decision to go dancing with him. It had exorcised any foolish dreams she might have had. She could even make a few jokes with him about the local band who weren’t up to much, and not compare them with other, slicker bands in London dance-halls. She even reluctantly agreed to answer any letters he sent her from foreign parts.

  A month or so later, a letter arrived, but it wasn’t from Davey. As Dolly had always told her, she wasn’t a great letter-writer. She wrote as she talked, flitting from subject to subject as thoughts came into her head.

  Gracie still felt cheered, just to be in contact with her old world again. She had plenty of things to tell Dolly too. She had sent one letter to her friend to tell her the situation when she first arrived home, but there had been no reply, and Gracie had assumed sadly that Dolly had found another friend and that the contact was broken. But now all that was changed.

  You’ll never guess, gel, Dolly wrote, me and Jim are walking out proper now, and he can be a proper gent when he likes. That’s not so often, mind, but I ain’t complaining. We went dancing up West the other night, though I had to be extra nice to him for the privilege, if you know what I mean. Jim ain’t really big on dancing, and him and Billy only went to the Palais that night on the look-out for a bit of skirt.

  They’re pulling down the Palais now, but they still ain’t sure what caused the fire. Old Law
son reckons it was people smoking, but he’d say that anyway. He’s got a new girl in your place now, name of Sheila, but she’s not up to much, and I reckon he’ll get rid of her soon. He’s always shouting that he’s lost the best machinist in the place, meaning you, Gracie. We all miss you. Even Billy was asking about you the other night.

  Old Ma Warburton’s increased my rent until I get somebody else to share the digs with me, but I ain’t keen on finding anybody. I always liked sharing with you, so let me know when you can come back. Oh Gawd, I know what that means, and I hope your mum ain’t too bad, Gracie, honest I do. I still want you to come back soon though.

  Your old friend,

  Dolly Neath

  PS. I ain’t seen nothing of your saxophone player.

  Gracie’s smile faded by the time she reached the end of the letter. She really wished Dolly hadn’t mentioned Charlie, however obscurely. It brought it all back so sharply. In the same instant, she knew she was glad that she had mentioned him, if only to say she hadn’t seen anything of him. But what had she thought? That he was going to appear miraculously in whatever dance-hall up West that she and Jim had gone to? Coincidences like that only happened in the movies or in books.

  She wrote back straight away, because by doing so it felt as though she and Dolly were sharing confidences again in their poky little room at Ma Warburton’s.

  Dear Dolly, she wrote, I can’t tell you how glad I was to hear from you. I thought you’d forgotten me. I know it’s not that long since I left London, but it seems like years. I’m back in the old routine all right. My dad is still boozing, and Mum’s getting worse every day. The doctor’s as good as said she won’t last out the summer, and I’m sorry if I sound gloomy, but it’s not much fun to watch somebody dying and know you can’t do anything to help except just be there …

  Gracie was tempted to screw the letter up and start again. But she and Dolly had always been able to say anything to one another, so she carried on …

  I’m sure I’ll come back to London sometime. Mum wants me to do so, when it’s all over. Apart from looking after her, I’m taking in dressmaking alterations, and not doing too badly. Mum likes the sound of the sewing machine. She says it makes her feel she’s still in the land of the living.

  She paused again, her throat thick and then quickly changed the subject.

  I daresay you’ll be glad to hear I met an old friend recently. His name’s Davey and he’s a sailor. We went to a dance before he went back to his ship and he’s going to write to me, so it’s not all misery here.

  I still think you should be careful as far as coalman Jim is concerned, Dolly. I thought he was a bit of a flash card. Remember me to Billy next time you see him—and the girls at Lawson’s—and anybody else I know. Write again soon.

  Your friend,

  Gracie.

  She wouldn’t go so far as to say remember me to Charlie Morrison if you see him, because it seemed unlikely that she ever would. He wasn’t her saxophone player, anyway. Never had been and never would be. She folded up the letter and put it in an envelope ready for posting on her way to return the alterations she had been doing for someone in a posher part of the town.

  It was only by chance that the lady had seen Gracie’s card in the grocer’s window after seeing someone off on one of the foreign cruises. The words London Outworker, persuaded her to leave a message at the shop for Gracie to call on her with a view to doing some work for her and her daughters. Since then she had been recommended to some of Mrs Farthing’s friends on account of her fine and speedy workmanship, and there was no shortage of orders.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you, Mum?’ Gracie had said gleefully. ‘It pays to advertise and not to hide your light—or your skills—under a bushel.’

  * * *

  Queenie was thankful her girl was finding something to occupy herself, and doing something that she enjoyed. The money didn’t matter. What mattered was that Gracie wasn’t always watching and listening for the next cough or the next painful wheezing breath. It mattered to Queenie that Gracie could keep her self-respect, and that she wasn’t going to kowtow to her father after Queenie was gone, and end up being a skivvy for him. She had got the doctor on her side about that, persuading him to assure Gracie that when the time came, her father wouldn’t need looking after, and was perfectly capable of looking after himself.

  Queenie was also sure that Mick Brown wouldn’t be slow in looking around for another wife-cum-housekeeper to take care of him. He was still a reasonable-looking man, for all his drinking, and had always had an eye for the ladies. They would be flitting around, bringing him home-baked pies and offering to clean the house for him …

  There had been a time when she would have been eaten up with jealousy and misery at the thought. Now, she knew that none of it would matter when she was gone, especially if it freed Gracie from a life of drudgery, caring for her father.

  * * *

  The Farthings lived on top of a hill from where they could look down on the rest of the town. Today, as usual, Gracie had to pause for breath by the time she reached the top. The trams didn’t come this far, and most folk who lived here owned a car. The husband was a businessman, and the young daughters, Adele and Edna, were at boarding-school. When they went back to school after a holiday, their mother felt at a loss before taking up her various charity works again, and Gracie suspected it was the reason she spent more time talking to the girl with the sewing skills than she might otherwise have done.

  ‘Come into the conservatory and get your breath back before you show me your handiwork, Gracie,’ she said on that warm afternoon. ‘You look very flushed, dear, although you have a very good complexion, like my daughters.’

  There was a wistful note in her voice but, pleasant though Mrs Farthing was, Gracie had no wish to be thought of as a kind of substitute daughter while her spoiled little girls were away at school. She’d only met them once, and she was glad to conduct her business with the mother when they weren’t around. But then Mrs Farthing spoke more briskly.

  ‘So let’s see what you managed to do with the girls’ dresses, shall we?’

  Marriage to a successful businessman might have given her many advantages, but she had a thrifty streak, and she liked clothes to last as long as possible before they were given away to charity. Gracie had spent a deal of time lengthening Adele and Edna’s summer dresses by letting down the hems and adding rows of colourful braiding to disguise the machine lines.

  Mrs Farthing was pleased with the result, and gave her more work to take away. Although she was always gracious in passing the time of day, Gracie guessed that she wasn’t finding clothes to be renovated or altered just for the company. It was far more likely, she thought cynically, that she saw Gracie as one of her charity cases who needed the extra money.

  Whatever the reason, the result was the same, and she walked home with money jingling in her pockets. She planned to buy her mother one of her favourite cream cakes as a special treat, in an effort to tempt her failing appetite.

  Her way was blocked at the end of their street by their landlord. Gracie thought him the creepiest of men, a proper Shylock wanting his pound of flesh from his tenants, his face florid and his belly overstuffed, despite the fact that he wasn’t even middle-aged. She paid him the weekly rent now, rather than let his calculating gaze assess how much longer her mother was going to be around.

  As he barred her way, those eyes were looking her over in a way she didn’t like, Gracie thought furiously.

  ‘How’s your mother, Gracie? I see the doctor calls fairly often now. Getting near the end, is she?’ he said coarsely.

  ‘She’s well enough, thank you, Mr Hill,’ Gracie forced herself to say.

  ‘Give her my regards, girlie,’ he said with a leer. He stepped aside for her to pass, though she felt him watching her all the way down the street.

  Her pleasure in buying the cream cake for her mother’s treat momentarily fizzled out, then she told herself not to be stupid. Now t
hat she was inside her own home, she could ignore Hill’s lecherous manner.

  But she couldn’t ignore the fact that her mother was looking very sickly today, and the suggestion of eating a cream cake was more than she could bear. In the end her father said it was too good to go to waste, and relished it as a treat after his dinner, while Gracie agonized over how much longer her mother could go on starving herself in this way.

  6

  Ever since he had learned to play the saxophone and discovered himself to be a natural, Charlie Morrison’s ambition had been to play in a dance-band. He had a comfortably middle-class back-ground, and it was thanks to his father’s generous disregard for conventions that he let Charlie have his way.

  Nothing gave him greater pleasure than to hear the applause when the band finished one of their numbers, or seeing the dreamy looks on the faces of the young girls in the arms of their partners when they played one of their slower tunes. He also relished the excitement of playing the latest jazz tunes.

  The older band members teased him that he caressed the buttons on his saxophone in the way some men caressed a woman, but he wasn’t concerned with their teasing. He knew he got the best out of the instrument, and the rich warm sound of it never failed to give him a thrill. In his spare time, when they weren’t rehearsing, he had written the music for a couple of songs, and all he wanted was someone to write the lyrics …

  Their singer often remarked when she listened to him playing some of his own tunes that he could make a success of writing music.

  ‘And if only you had the gumption to write the words, Joyce,’ he always joked, ‘we could make a great song-writing team.’

  ‘Don’t I wish we could, darling,’ she murmured softly, turning away so that he couldn’t hear what she really meant.

  In any case, it wasn’t as part of a song-writing team that she hankered after him. She might be idolized by more than a few when she sang her soulful songs on stage, but she knew she was never going to be a heartbreaker as far as Charlie Morrison was concerned. Not that she would break his heart—far from it—but she had always known he wasn’t for her, and the feeling had been stronger ever since the fire at the opening night of the Palais several months ago.