Ginny shrugged, unnerved by the directness of his gaze and unsure what she should say. ‘I was in tonight,’ she began hesitantly, ‘but I stayed behind because I had a little bit of tidying up to do in here.’
She immediately realised how ridiculous she sounded. Not only was it obvious she was in tonight – she was bloody well standing there, wasn’t she? – but seeing as they were surrounded by what looked like the tragic remains of a direct bomb hit on a make-up, clothing and fag-end factory, the idea that she was doing ‘a little bit of tidying up’ was an even more stupid thing to say.
Saunders laughed, a loud, booming sound that had Gloria straining his ears and moving as near as he dared to the still open dressing-room door – what the hell was going on in there?
‘I think it’s gonna need a bit more than a tidy up,’ he heard Saunders say.
This time, Ginny too saw the funny side of what she’d said. ‘Maybe a flame thrower might be the answer.’
Saunders laughed again and touched Ginny lightly on the shoulder, easing her down on to one of the chairs.
It had been a long time since a man had touched her so gently. She’d forgotten how it could feel . . .
She watched as he shifted his hat carefully to one side, perched himself on the edge of the debris-covered table and held out his hands in a sweeping gesture of what might have been pleasure, or could have been one of control. ‘It’s Christmas,’ he said simply, taking out a packet of Players Navy Cut from his jacket pocket. ‘Cigarette?’
Ginny nodded dumbly and took one. Why had she done that? Why hadn’t she just shaken her head and left?
‘So,’ he said, squinting at her through the smoke he’d exhaled from his first deep lungful, ‘what’re you doing over the holiday?’
‘I’m not sure if I’m doing anything,’ she said automatically, although she knew exactly what she would be doing.
She would be alone in her bedsit; a place that, despite all her efforts to make it something like a proper home, would never be anything more than a disgusting little room, full of rusting, dripping pipes and wet, peeling wallpaper, three flights up from the shared lavatory that made her gag just to think about it.
She wondered if Saunders had any idea how awful the places were that he rented to the girls. Probably not. He seemed to have people to do just about everything else for him, so why would he bother himself visiting slums?
‘You’re having me on,’ he said, interrupting her thoughts.
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you trying to tell me that a beautiful girl like you hasn’t got a load of parties lined up?’
Ginny’s cheeks flushed and she lowered her chin, hoping he hadn’t noticed. It was ridiculous. She spent her working life showing off all she had and yet a single compliment from Saunders had her blushing like a virgin. It was something about him . . .
She peered up at him through her lashes and realised what it was. He was looking at her with the self-assured, direct gaze that was the prerogative of only the genuinely confident. A confidence that could come from a man’s looks, his wealth, his authority, or, as in Saunders’s case, she thought, from a combination of all those things.
‘I’ve embarrassed you, darling. I’m sorry.’ He smiled easily. ‘But there’s no shame in having no one to go to.’
Saunders’s words jolted her. She turned away sharply. It was true, she had no one. They were gone, all of them. But she didn’t want him to feel that she was . . . That she was what? The sad, pathetic figure that she actually was?
‘I’ve had plenty of offers,’ she said hurriedly.
Saunders raised a querying eyebrow.
‘I mean, I’ve been invited to something tomorrow afternoon.’ She paused. ‘I mean this afternoon. So I have got things to do. I just don’t feel like going.’
‘Why not?’
‘I feel a bit tired,’ she said lamely. She could hardly have told him the truth – that she felt so depressed, all she was fit for was hiding under her bedclothes until the whole bloody holiday was over.
They sat there smoking in silence until Saunders eventually said, ‘I’m on me own an’ all, you know. Not always easy at these sort of times is it, when everyone’s off with their families and there’s no work to do ’cos no one’s about? Life’s always so busy; then . . . nothing. Still, you get used to it.’ He laughed mirthlessly to himself, pressing his lips tightly together, as though recalling a painful memory.
‘I nearly got married once,’ he went on, with as little emotion as a man wondering whether he should wear his mac or his overcoat. ‘But she went off with a bloody Yank. When I was away at sea serving me sodding country if you don’t mind. Never had much inclination to settle down after that.’
Ginny’s head jerked up. ‘I thought you were, you know, with Leila.’
Saunders laughed again. ‘Hark at me going on like a bloody old woman nattering over the fence. I must have had too much of the old giggle juice tonight. Or maybe it’s Christmas getting to me, eh? But as for Leila . . .’
‘Yeah?’
‘Look, blondie, me and Leila go back a long way, but things change. Times change.’ He levered himself away from the table and turned round to face the mirror. He studied his reflection as he carefully straightened his tie – a gesture clearly indicating that the subject was closed.
‘I’ve bought the lease on them premises for the new club,’ he said, turning round and standing over her like a great dark shadow. ‘And seeing as you ain’t got nothing to do while this place is closed, you can come and have a shufty at it. See what you think. We’ll have a bite to eat afterwards.’
Ginny shrank back into her chair. She said nothing, just shook her head.
He looked at her for a long moment, then held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘All right. Bad time.’
Still she said nothing.
He winked, then turned away to pick up his hat. ‘I’ll catch up with you later on,’ he said, his back still to her. ‘When you’re feeling a bit more chipper.’
With that he walked over to the door, paused briefly, looked over his shoulder and said, ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this new year. I mean, 1953, even sounds good, don’t it?’ He winked again. ‘There’s gonna be plenty of opportunities for anyone who’s got the brains to see ’em. Opportunities like running a club for instance. Now that is a good opportunity. Especially for a woman.’
He touched the brim of his hat in salute, pulled the door shut quietly behind him and was gone.
Confused and exhausted, Ginny rose from her seat, her body as heavy as if it had been weighed down with bags of coal.
She flicked off the lamp by the door and returned the room to semi-darkness. But instead of going through to the club, she just stood there, staring at the flickering lights on the scrappy little tree, feeling as though her heart could break as easily as one of the gaudy lanterns that adorned its almost bare branches.
The sound of someone singing drifted up from the street below. It was a deep male voice that could – just could – have been Billy Saunders’s, crooning the sweet opening bars of ‘White Christmas’.
The sentimental lyrics were too much for Ginny. She buried her face in her hands and began to sob uncontrollably.
The door flew back on its hinges and Ginny felt arms wrap around her. She squirmed away in alarm, stumbling backwards across the litter-strewn room.
When Ginny regained her balance, she looked up and saw Gloria standing before her, his arms outstretched in a bizarre parody of a caring maiden aunt. ‘Look,’ he snapped petulantly, ‘there’s no need to look at me like that. I’ve come to sodding comfort you. Now, come here and tell me all about it.’
Ginny wouldn’t have been more astonished if the skinny little man had just announced that he was leaving the club to go round the world with a troupe of travelling acrobats. She eyed him warily through her tears, wondering what new madness was happening to her now.
She swiped roughly at her wet cheeks with t
he back of her hand. ‘What’s going on? Why are you being nice to me?’
Gloria shook his head, pursed his lips and handed her a neatly washed and ironed handkerchief. He then held up one finger to silence her, told her to ‘Hang on one minute!’ in a soprano-pitched squeal and ducked back out into the club.
‘I’ll tell you why,’ he carolled to her from the bar. ‘Because, for one thing, I’m a fool to myself – and, if you ever tell anyone I’ve been nice to you, just remember, dearie, I’ll scratch your eyes out.’
He reappeared in the doorway, brandishing a bottle of champagne and two glasses. ‘And for another, I know that if I looked like a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Betty Grable I wouldn’t be bloody well sitting by myself crying.’ He pointed the bottle towards the sink and shot the cork across the room. ‘I’d be wiggling me little botty all over flaming London, driving all the boys to distraction, and so would any of the other girls in this place. So, I know there must be something wrong. That’s why we’re gonna drink this champagne, wish ourselves a merry Christmas and forget all about the rotten bleeders who make us cry.’
Ginny sniffed inelegantly as she accepted the foaming glass he was handing her. ‘Who’s Marilyn Monroe?’ she spluttered, choking on the heady mixture of tears and bubbles.
Gloria patted her back with slightly more force than was necessary. ‘Some new, innocent-looking blonde I saw in one of the film mags the other day. Someone who can make a very good life for herself, I’m telling you. If she plays her cards right and takes the opportunities what come along for the likes of her.’ He sipped daintily at his glass and smiled knowingly at her across the rim.
When Ginny said nothing, Gloria decided plain talking was the only way. ‘Listen to me, little Ginny Martin. Saunders is a man with power. He’s got that power because he’s got a brain, and because he’s scared of nothing and no one. And he’s a right handsome bugger an’ all, but that’s another matter. Anyway, he can be a very good friend, but he can also be the very worst enemy you could ever imagine. And let’s just say that he wants to be your friend, Ginny my love, and you should be very grateful. Very grateful indeed. ’Cos Mr Saunders looks after his friends.’ He touched first one, then the other corner of his mouth with the tip of his little finger, as though wiping away unwanted crumbs. ‘And he also looks after the friends of his friends.’
He tossed his head haughtily. ‘So you see, I’m not all heart, my girl. I know which side me bread’s buttered. I look after you, and you . . . Well, you know the rest.’
Ginny lowered her eyelids, blocking out the world. She felt as though she were an insignificant ball of fluff being swept into a corner by a very large broom.
‘Don’t you dare go falling asleep on me, girl!’ Gloria shrieked, misunderstanding her closed eyes. ‘There’s me giving you the benefit and you go and start nodding off! Get some more of this champagne down you and we’ll have a toast.’
Gloria topped up their drinks and raised his glass high in the air, the flickering light making the wine dance and sparkle like cut crystal. ‘To all of Mr Saunders’s friends. May they never be his enemies and may all our dreams come true.’
While Gloria sat in the dressing-room comforting Ginny with his unique blend of French wine, acid-tongued advice and self-seeking opportunism, Leila and the girls were downstairs on the pavement still waiting for a cab, shivering in the sleety drizzle and the bitter wind that was whipping round the corner of Frith Street, smacking their silky clothes around their legs like sails in a north-easterly.
‘We’ll never get enough cabs to take us lot,’ Carmen wailed, shrugging down into her jacket. ‘The drivers’ll all be home in their beds, getting in what kip they can before their kids wake up and climb all over ’em, waving their Christmas stockings and chucking orange peel in the hearth, and—’
‘What? Acting just like real people, you mean?’ Yvette interrupted her, snarling through teeth clenched as much in anger as against the cold. ‘I knew we should have ordered one earlier.’
‘A cab’ll come along, sweeties, you just see. And we’ll all share if necessary.’
‘One’ll never take all of us,’ complained Carmen.
‘Want to bet?’ Leila lifted her dress above her knee and winked. ‘We have our ways, remember!’
As if on cue, a cab pulled up beside them, sending a muddy spray of icy water across the kerbside.
‘Hello, darlings, home time, is it?’ the cabbie asked. Unlike some drivers, he didn’t mind the toms, they always seemed fair to him and usually gave him a reasonable sort of a tip. The only thing he drew the line at was if they wanted to go with a punter in the back of the cab. It wasn’t that he would have objected, it was more to do with being scared of losing his badge if the Old Bill caught them at it. Never mind what his wife would do to him if she ever found out he’d let one get anywhere near his motor.
Yvette sidled up to the car. She was immediately in business mode, laying a black-gloved hand on the roof and flashing a dazzlingly sensual smile at the now slack-jawed driver.
While Yvette set about bamboozling the man into believing that what he most wanted in the world was to fit seven long-legged women into the back of his cab, Shirley was tapping Leila on the shoulder and dripping a cupful of her usual venom into her ear.
‘Leila?’ she whispered. ‘Isn’t that the governor over there? Just getting into his car over by the club?’
Leila didn’t respond.
‘I wonder if anyone else was up there?’ Shirley went on, looking about her with exaggerated curiosity. ‘Let’s see. Milly went home with Gracie. And Lou went off with Mags, Maureen, and Iris . . .’ She paused, placing a finger tip to her lips. ‘Didn’t Ginny stay behind? Wasn’t she—’
Before Shirley could hiss another word, Leila sprang towards the taxi. She shoved Yvette to one side, wrenched open the cab door, leapt into the back seat and slammed the door firmly behind her.
She then wound the window, opened her mouth to say something, but changed her mind. After a moment’s indecision, and deliberately avoiding meeting Shirley’s gaze, she stuck her head out of the window and said with determined jollity, ‘I’ll see you all later then, sweeties. Now drive on please, cabbie, the ladies will be making their own arrangements.’
Yvette threw up her hands in despair. ‘Now we’ll never bloody well get home.’ She spun round to confront Shirley. ‘What the hell did you say to her?’
‘Only the truth, darling. Only the truth.’
As the first flakes of snow began to fall in the biting early-morning air, the rest of the girls stood in puzzled silence, trying to figure out what was going on and looking wistfully after the taxi as it disappeared around the corner into Shaftesbuury Avenue.
Just a few hours later the snow had settled in a thick blanket over most of London, but its twinkling beauty held no attraction for Dilys.
On first waking, she had momentarily been captivated by the sight of the white mantle transforming even her miserable corner of Stepney into a place of almost ethereal muffled beauty, but then she remembered that Nellie Martin had stayed the night and was having dinner with them.
Ted’s mum. The bloody bad penny that always turned up.
It was now barely half past eight on Christmas morning, but instead of being able to turn over for another few hours’ sleep, Dilys was on duty in the prefab kitchen, with her back to the cooker, resentfully scoring the skin of a puny leg of pork, while Nellie sat alongside her, chain-smoking, drinking tea, finding fault and moaning.
It was only the fact that Dilys knew what would be in store for her if Ted turned up and she hadn’t made at least a half-way decent dinner for the old trout that was preventing her from bending the leg of pork right over Nellie’s curler-bristling head. Dilys had seen Nellie in action too often, twisting the truth until Ted was ready to throttle someone with his bare hands, to take the chance of upsetting her.
‘This place’s freezing. Can’t you turn that gas fire in there up a bit?’ Nel
lie sniped, interrupting Dilys’s day-dream that had advanced to wringing the old cow’s neck with the tea-towel.
‘Actually,’ Dilys said, wiping her perspiring forehead on the back of her hand, ‘I’m a bit warm if you don’t mind, Nellie. In fact, the heat from this oven’s scorching me legs so bad that I don’t know how much longer I can carry on. And if I pass out, we won’t have no dinner.’
Nellie puffed out her cheeks and made irritating little puttering sounds through her pursed lips. ‘I wouldn’t say no to a little drop of something in me tea then,’ she whined. ‘Something to warm me through a bit like.’
‘I’m sure Ted wouldn’t mind if you had a drop of his scotch,’ said Dilys pointedly, as she tipped a pile of salt on to the meat and rubbed it furiously into the latticework of cuts she had made.
She would have loved to have said no to the old dragon, but the chance that she might drink herself back to sleep was an opportunity she really couldn’t afford to miss. ‘Why don’t you help yourself?’
Reluctantly, Nellie shifted herself just enough to reach the whisky bottle that stood on the side by the stove.
‘Shame you don’t talk much to them brothers o’ your’n no more,’ she said, topping up her cup until the liquor-laced tea sploshed over the side and into the saucer. ‘Them wives of their’n have been filling that house with grub for weeks now. I’ve been watching ’em, going back and forward with bags bulging with gear. They’ll be having a lovely do back in Bailey Street. Plenty of money them boys must be bringing in. Plenty.’
Dilys sank her teeth deeper into her lower lip and slapped the joint unceremoniously into a roasting tin. She wouldn’t rise to her. She wouldn’t.
But even if Dilys had been fool enough to say something, there’d have been little point because Nellie wasn’t in the mood to listen to anyone. She was off and in full flight. And on her favourite subject – other people’s mistreatment of her, a poor old girl that no one gave a bugger about.
Dream On Page 27
