Nameless

by Jessie Keane

  The thought of going anywhere with the fabulous Vi was daunting, but my God! What would Dad and Charlie and Joe think if they ever found out the truth? They’d hit the roof.

  ‘Your dad would like you volunteering,’ said Vi. ‘He’s a churchgoer, isn’t he? He’d think of it as an act of Christian charity.’

  Ruby considered this. It was true, what Vi was saying. And there was less chance of him pounding her if she could keep out of his way during the day.

  ‘Think of that bleeding shell factory,’ said Betsy. ‘Would you rather be doing something like that?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ Ruby didn’t relish the prospect of change the way Betsy did; she never had. But she was bored, and unhappy, and Vi was right: they could all be dead tomorrow. Probably would be, the way things were going.

  ‘Well, make your mind up, girl,’ said Vi. ‘What’s it to be, yes or no?’

  Ruby looked at Vi. Thought of her boring, routine life and had a whiff – just the tiniest whiff – of the life she could be leading. If she dared.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ said Ruby.

  ‘Jesus, you’re wet,’ said Vi with a sharp sigh. ‘Think it over. We’ll meet up outside the Windy. Monday at ten. That’ll give you time to get your story straight. If you’re not there, I’ll know you’re not interested.’

  8

  After Ruby left Betsy’s she had an hour or two to spare before she had to get the tea on, so she wandered down to the church. There were a lot of new graves there, casualties of the war, with soil piled up on them. The misty rain was spoiling the petals on the floral offerings, smudging the ink on the small poignant cards left on the new graves by loved ones.

  Ruby walked around the graves, looking at the headstones. She didn’t know exactly where Mum’s grave was. She had never been privileged with that information. Only Charlie and Dad and occasionally Joe ever came here; she was never invited.

  She ended up at the cluster of older graves, right over in the far corner, shaded by ancient yews. It was cold here, and the grass was spongy with moss. She looked around nervously; she didn’t want anyone spotting her. She didn’t want word getting back to Dad or Charlie that she’d been here looking for the grave. But there wasn’t another soul around.

  And . . . there it was. The wording on the headstone seemed to leap out at her.

  Here lies Alicia Darke

  Beloved wife and mother

  Sadly missed

  There was nothing else, except the date of Alicia’s birth, and the date of her death, which was the twenty-ninth of July 1923 – the day after Ruby’s birth. She stood there staring at the headstone and felt tears spill over. In giving life to her, Alicia had forfeited her own. And for what? So that her daughter could live caged in by fear and guilt?

  Ruby couldn’t believe her mother would have wanted that for her. She thought of Vi, and the Windmill. Of what it must be like: the excitement of theatre life, the bright lights and the gaiety of it. Her own world was dull and troubled by comparison. She had never been inside a theatre, or even a cinema. There had never been culture, or even much laughter, in the Darke household.

  But she couldn’t do it . . . could she?

  No. She couldn’t.

  She couldn’t lie to her father; that wouldn’t be a Christian thing to do, would it? But then . . . was his treatment of her all that Christian? She didn’t think so. It wasn’t her fault her mother had died, it wasn’t something she could have prevented, any more than she could change the not-quite-acceptable colour of her skin.

  Ruby turned away from her mother’s grave; far from being comforted by coming here, she felt sadder and even more bewildered than she had before. She walked home in the gently falling rain. Nearly time to get the tea on.

  Joe was cleaning his shoes in shirtsleeves and braces at the kitchen table when she got back home. Flanagan and Allen were singing ‘Underneath the Arches’ on the radio and Joe was whistling along to the tune.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ asked Ruby, coming in and taking off her coat. This was always her first question. She wanted to know where Dad was, know where any new threat was going to come from.

  Joe stopped whistling and looked at her. ‘Went up to bed early. You’ll have to take him up his tea on a tray. Foot’s playing him up.’

  ‘And Charlie?’

  ‘Out. Tea in the pot, if you want it.’

  Ruby sat down and poured herself a cup. She sat there, looking at Joe.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, glancing at her, buffing the black leather to a high shine.

  Joe wasn’t a bad sort, not really. Ruby had always believed him to be a cut above her dad and Charlie. He’d never laid a finger on her, there was that to say in his favour. Even if he never intervened, at least he never participated, unlike Charlie.

  Still, Ruby had to force the words out of her mouth. ‘About Mum . . .’ she said.

  Joe looked taken aback. Then he spat on his shoe and went on rubbing at the leather.

  ‘What about her?’ he asked, not looking at her face.

  ‘Do you remember her at all?’

  Joe’s big stubby hand stopped rubbing. He looked up at her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Only,’ Ruby went on in a rush, before her nerve failed her, ‘you were five when I was born. I just thought . . . if you remembered anything, I’d like to know.’

  ‘I don’t remember a thing,’ said Joe, his jaw set. ‘Drop it, will you?’

  ‘But Joe . . .’

  ‘I said drop it,’ he snapped, his eyes suddenly fierce. ‘Didn’t you hear me? And don’t ever be daft enough to ask Dad or Charlie about it, or you’ll get a right hiding.’

  Ruby was going to bed that night when Joe stopped her on the landing.

  He hesitated, glanced left and right, then spoke. ‘She had a gramophone. A Maxitone Dad bought her. It had an oak case,’ he said. ‘She used to play jazz music on it. Jelly Roll Morton, you heard of him? And Fats Waller. Nigger music, Dad called it. And she was pretty. Blonde. I remember that.’ He paused. ‘Dad smashed the Maxitone. I remember that, too. Now get off to bed.’

  9

  1922

  Alicia Darke was crossing the road to the corner shop when she saw him for the first time. He was young – younger than her, she thought – and very black, with the loosely muscular way of standing his kind so often displayed. He was outside the shop talking to two other black men, and all three turned and looked as she passed by.

  Alicia was a little surprised to see them there. All around these streets,the hotels and guest houses displayed signs in their windows that said No Irish, No Coloureds. They weren’t welcome here, they were viewed with suspicion.

  She kept her head down, but she heard one of them say:‘Hey, sweetness,’ and she glanced up, ready with a sharp retort.

  She looked up, straight into his face. His skin had the grain and polish of finest ebony, his nostrils were flaring, his eyes dark as night, his mouth broad and very sensual. When he smiled at her – he was smiling now – his whole face seemed to light from within.

  Alicia felt herself blushing. She was a married woman, wed seven years to Ted Darke. He was much older than her, but her mum and dad had been impressed by his prospects;Ted had his own shop, inherited from his parents. He was a man of substance. And Ted had been kind to her, attentive – at first. Now she worked day in, day out in the corner shop, lugging stuff up from the cellar to line the shelves – and then at home, scrubbing and polishing, white-leading the doorstep, polishing the brass, while their kids – little Charlie and Joe – went to school, and Ted sat back, counted the takings, and did fuck-all.

  But still, whoever said marriage was going to be perfect? She was a married woman – and this stranger was black. She didn’t answer him. She hurried on into the shop.

  He was there again the next day when she went to open up, on his own this time. She saw him loitering by the shopfront as she crossed the road, fumbling for the keys.

  ‘Hi,
’ he said.

  Alicia looked at him nervously. ‘Hello,’ she said, fiddling with the keys, getting the damned thing into the lock with fingers that suddenly felt stiff.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked, turning towards her.

  ‘Fine.’ The key wasn’t working. She’d put it in upside down. She righted it, feeling hectic colour rising in her cheeks. ‘Where are your friends?’ she asked, for something to say.

  ‘Working.’

  Alicia was still having trouble with the lock. Working? According to Ted, black men were lazy scroungers, they didn’t work. But then Ted had strong opinions on nearly everything, and she’d more or less stopped listening to them now. Ted wasn’t exactly the fastest things on two legs, himself.

  ‘What do they do?’ she asked, not wanting to be rude by ignoring him. At last, the door swung open.

  ‘A little jammin’, you know.’

  Jammin’?

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, curious, looking at him fully for the first time.

  He was very elegant, wearing the new fashion in trousers – Oxford bags, they were called – and a brown jacket. He was holding a black bowler hat in his hand; he’d removed it as she drew near. She noticed that his shoes were snazzy two-tone brogues.

  ‘We’re musicians,’ he smiled. ‘We’re renting a place just over there.’ He pointed across the street. ‘We hang out, we jam, you know.’

  Alicia didn’t know. She was just amazed that someone around here had let rooms to three black men. They must be really strapped for cash, whoever they were. And what he’d just described sounded like . . . like fun, and she had very little experience of fun in her life.

  ‘What do you play then?’ she asked.

  ‘Trumpet,’ he said. ‘You ought to come over and hear us play.’

  ‘I have to go,’ she said, and yanked the key out of the lock and went on into the shop.

  ‘I’m Leroy,’he said,and held out a white-palmed hand. ‘What’s your name?’

  Alicia looked at his hand and, not wishing to be rude, she shook it reluctantly. ‘I’m Mrs Ted Darke,’ she said.

  ‘No – I mean your name.’

  ‘Alicia,’ she said, and went inside and closed the door.

  10

  It was nothing fancy. That was Ruby’s first thought as she stood outside on Monday at ten in the morning and waited for Vi to show up. The Windmill Theatre stood on a corner of a block of buildings where Archer Street joined Great Windmill Street, just off Shaftesbury Avenue, and it was very plain, nothing to write home about.

  ‘You came then,’ said Vi with a slight smile as she joined Ruby by the front steps.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ruby, her mouth dry with apprehension.

  She’d lied to Dad, told the absolute whopper that she was starting work in the salvage centre. And he’d swallowed it, to her surprise. It was for charity, and as a churchgoer he had time for that.

  ‘It ain’t the Moulin Rouge, is it?’ she said.

  Vi led the way around the side of the building to the stage door. ‘You ever seen the Rouge?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, no . . .’

  ‘Well no. Thought not. Let me tell you it’s every bit as good as the Rouge. We have tableaux vivants and everything.’

  Tableaux vivants?

  Vi caught her puzzled look and gave a quick, feline smile. ‘You’ll see.’

  Ruby wasn’t even sure she wanted to. But she’d agreed to this, God help her. She’d lied to be here. She hurried after Vi and they stepped inside into chaos – or that’s how it seemed to Ruby.

  ‘Hello, Gord,’Vi said to a man behind a counter just inside the stage door.

  He nodded.

  Vi hurried on, past surging hordes of people in glitter, in feathers. There were pretty girls, tall boys with painted eyes. Ruby stared around, open-mouthed. Vi’s Mary-Jane shoes beat out a tattoo on the wooden floorboards as she surged ahead. She shot down a set of stairs with Ruby trailing behind.

  ‘We’re open from midday to ten fifty at night. Continuous performances, five or six a day, one right after the other,’ Vi threw back over her shoulder.

  ‘Apart from during raids,’ said Ruby.

  ‘No, we don’t close. Fuck Hitler. We never close. Below street level, see. Safe as houses.’ She came to a halt. Ruby could hear a girl singing ‘We’ll Gather Lilacs’, and an accompanying piano. Vi shushed her, putting one manicured finger to her lips, and they edged forward until they were standing in the wings.

  ‘Look,’ Vi whispered in her ear.

  Ruby looked. The lights out on the stage were dazzling. There was a dark-haired girl in a pink satin evening gown lounging against a grand piano, singing her heart out. In the background there were massive empty gold-filigreed frames, four of them, each one in darkness. And then the lights changed.

  ‘Oh!’ burst out Ruby.

  ‘Shhh!’

  One by one the frames were illuminated, revealing the ‘tableaux’ within – four bare-breasted beauties depicted as Britannia, Liberty, Hope and Glory.

  ‘They mustn’t move,’ hissed Vi to Ruby. ‘That’s the only thing. Not a muscle. Or Lord Cromer goes straight off his head.’

  Ruby was dumbstruck with shock. Surely Vi didn’t expect her to do that?

  Finally she found her voice. ‘But you said dancing.’

  Vi turned her head and looked at her. ‘We do have dancers. But be honest – you that good a dancer?’

  Ruby wasn’t. She shook her head miserably.

  ‘Sing?’

  Again the headshake.

  ‘There you go. But you’ve got a bloody good body, and Liberty there – that’s Jenny – she’s going off to marry her forces sweetheart soon, so there’ll be a vacancy. Ah!’ Vi was staring across the stage towards the wings on the other side. ‘There’s Mr Van Damm now, he’s the manager – you’ll love him. Mrs Henderson’s the owner, she’s here all the time, you’ll love her too. It’s like one big happy family. We’ll go round the back and I’ll introduce you.’

  Oh Jesus, thought Ruby.

  But she was doing it, wasn’t she? She was breaking free, breaking out. And right now, stupidly, she couldn’t help wondering what her mother would have made of it all.

  11

  1922

  ‘What the fucking hell . . . ?’ asked Ted.

  Ted and Alicia were sitting by the empty hearth. It was a warm summer’s night. Too hot to go to bed yet, although it was late. The kids were asleep upstairs, the day’s exhausting shop-work done. It was nice to just sit, and rest.

  Only . . . there was this noise going on out in the street.

  ‘Where’s that coming from?’ asked Ted, getting to his feet.

  Alicia stood up too, feeling a prickle on the hairs at the back of her neck. Together, they walked through the house and out onto the front step. The street was dark, no one about: out here, the sound was much louder.

  The shimmering notes of the trumpet seemed to twine like golden ribbons around the still evening air.

  ‘Coming from over there,’ said Ted, pointing to the bed and breakfast opposite.

  Alicia shivered. She was entranced by the sound. It was him, she reckoned. Leroy. Playing his songs to the night. She could see an open window on the first floor of the house. The room beyond was in darkness. But she knew it was him.

  She glanced at Ted. He hated music, although he had indulged her by buying the gramophone for her birthday. He didn’t indulge her much. Sometimes she played her records on it, just things like Richard Tauber, serious stuff, nothing like this. Ted always moaned about the noise and she always, in the end, switched it off.

  That was marriage, her old ma had told her: give and take. But Ted seemed to do most of the taking, and she all the giving. Since the kids had come along, he never bothered to paw over her any more, and that was a relief in a way. But it still left her feeling rejected, less than a woman. It was like she was a slave, a nothing, kept to do the housework, raise the kids, run the shop . . .

/>   ‘You want to stop that bloody racket!’ bellowed Ted suddenly, making her jump.

  The music stopped.

  The spell was broken.

  ‘Let’s get off to bed,’ said Ted irritably.

  Alicia followed him indoors. She only glanced back once.

  12

  When Betsy next met up with Charlie she didn’t tell him about what Vi and Ruby were up to. Friends were friends, she wasn’t going to drop Ruby in it. And anyway, she didn’t want to say a single thing that would upset Charlie or make him mad at her. She was already beginning to realize that Charlie could get mad at the drop of a hat.

  She and Ruby had been friends all through school and beyond. They met frequently and sewed and made cakes together when they could get the rations to do it. It was Betsy who had explained to a panicking Ruby that she wasn’t dying when she got her first period at the age of twelve, that it would only last for a week and then she’d be fine again. It had been Betsy who explained the facts of life to Ruby – that the man put his thing inside the lady and then they had a baby. Ruby hadn’t believed her, she said the whole thing sounded crazy.

  Betsy felt sorry for Ruby, in a superior sort of way. Ruby couldn’t help the fact that she had no mother, that she was . . . well, coloured. Although how that could be, given the whiteness of Ted, Charlie and Joe, she couldn’t even guess. But Ruby couldn’t help it that her father was a drunk and a religious nutter. She couldn’t help it if people talked about her brothers because they’d avoided the draft and were into all sorts of dodgy dealings. She couldn’t help coming from a bad family.

  Betsy was magnanimously determined to help Ruby, to continue to be her friend forever, and it galled her – just a little – to see how star-struck Ruby was becoming around the older and more glamorous Vi. She was Ruby’s best friend in all the world. But the way Ruby was starting to hang around with Vi, you wouldn’t think it.

  If Ruby was giving Betsy cause for concern, at least Charlie was not. She loved being out with Charlie. People had begun to defer to him, tipping their hats. He would shake their hand, pat their shoulder, and she was impressed. He was a big man in the neighbourhood, and she was his girl.