On Boxing Day, Father’s brother, Uncle Ted, and Auntie Dot came for lunch. Auntie Dot had short, wavy hair, eyes as bright as a bird’s and a chuckling voice. After lunch, they played racing demon and snap. Father didn’t like card games and he left the room while Mother went into the kitchen to make the tea. Uncle Ted was shuffling the pack with loud zipping noises when Auntie Dot took a piece of paper out of her pocket and gave it to her.
‘I saw this in a magazine, Prudence, and thought of you.’
The cutting featured a picture of a young woman in trousers, standing on the deck of some kind of boat, holding a long wooden pole and smiling happily, as though she was having a wonderful time. Underneath it said, CANAL JOBS FOR WOMEN. TRANSPORT MINISTRY’S CALL. Women volunteers are needed for training to operate canal boats . . .
‘It sounds fun, doesn’t it, dear? You earn £2 a week while you’re training and then £3 after that. Wouldn’t you like to do something like that, instead of working in the bank?’
She said, ‘I don’t know anything about boats. I’ve never even been on one.’
‘You don’t need to. They train you. I think it’d be just the thing for you.’
Prudence stared at the picture of the smiling, carefree girl again – it did look as though it was a lovely thing to do. Out in the fresh air and sunlight, sailing up and down on the water – not stuck indoors all day, sitting at her desk, sorting cheques and posting figures. And no creepy Mr Simpkins. No sour Miss Tripp, either. No Mr Holland and his Psychology of Accuracy. The escape she had been hoping for. Praying for.
She handed the cutting back with a sigh. ‘Father would never allow it. Over his dead body, he’d say.’
Auntie Dot smiled. ‘Leave him to me, dear.’
Mother wheeled in the tea trolley and Father came back and sat down in his chair. Auntie Dot waited until the tea was poured and the paste sandwiches passed round before she spoke.
‘I expect Prudence will be called up any day now, won’t she, Arnold?’
Her father frowned and stirred his tea vigorously. ‘No reason why she should be, Dot. She’s got an important job in the bank.’
‘But it’s not reserved, is it? She wouldn’t be exempt. And now they’ve lowered the age, the Government could call her up at any moment. Our neighbours’ daughter has just been sent into a factory. She works a twelve-hour day, testing nuts and bolts, and the man in charge of the women takes all kinds of liberties with them, she says, and they can’t do a thing about it. And, over the road from us, the Taylors’ daughter has had to join the ATS. They’re not very happy about that, I can tell you. Well, you’ve heard the rumours, I dare say, Arnold. Specially now the Americans have come over . . .’ She let the words hang ominously on the air for a moment. ‘You’re a man of the world – you know what goes on. I heard a shocking story, just the other day—’
Her father interrupted hastily. ‘Prudence will be staying at the bank.’
Auntie Dot wagged a forefinger at him. ‘But what if they tell her she can’t? We’re at war. The Government can do anything they like. Order people about, send them wherever they’re needed. They’ve got powers. Now, if I were you, and Prudence was my daughter, I’d make sure she wasn’t sent into a factory or some military camp where she’d be at the mercy of unscrupulous men. I’d find something else for her to do before that happened – something respectable. Something nice and safe.’
Her father frowned again. ‘Such as?’
The magazine cutting was produced and played deftly like a good card. ‘I just happened to see this in a women’s magazine the other day. An appeal for women to do essential war work on the canals. It’s from the Ministry of War Transport. All above board and very respectable.’
Her father took the cutting and looked at it doubtfully. ‘Canals? Canal boats? I’ve never heard of women doing such a thing. It’s a man’s job.’
‘Not necessarily – not these days. Women are turning their hand to all kinds of things, and this sounded a very nice idea to me. Out in the fresh air. Very healthy. Working with other women – no men to bother them or take advantage. Something you could be proud of her doing – essential supplies, it says. And she could always go back to the bank as soon as the war’s over.’
He examined the article more closely. ‘The woman in this picture’s wearing trousers. I don’t call that very respectable. A woman in trousers!’
‘Well, you wouldn’t want them to be climbing around the boat in skirts, Arnold, would you? Going up and down ladders, and things. It wouldn’t do at all. Would it, Kathleen?’
Prudence held her breath. If Mother thought it was a good idea, then there was a faint chance that Father might come round to it.
‘No, I suppose it wouldn’t, Dot. And I certainly wouldn’t want Prudence to go into any of the services.’ Her mother lowered her voice, leaning towards her father. ‘Look what happened to Mrs Watson’s girl, Arnold. The air force sent her home in disgrace and everybody’s been gossiping about it.’
‘You don’t want any trouble like that with Prudence, do you?’ Auntie Dot said. ‘Think of all the talk there’d be at the bank.’
Her father laid the cutting carefully on the table beside him and took a sip of his tea. ‘I’ll give it my consideration, that’s all. I’ll think about it.’
Auntie Dot winked at her.
Three
ROSALIND FLYNN HAD begun her professional acting career at six years old when she had played the part of an extra fairy in an open-air production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Her father had taken the role of Theseus, Duke of Athens, and her mother that of his betrothed, Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. The company toured the country during that summer of 1931, performing in gardens and among old ruins and on village greens, rain or shine. When autumn arrived it disbanded. Her parents joined a repertory company in the west of England and appeared in supporting roles in a long string of popular plays, while Rosalind was given other walk-on, non-speaking parts and was sent to the local school. Later, they moved on to join other companies, taking work wherever they could get it, ‘resting’ when they could not and always waiting and hoping for the day when they would finally take the leads and see their names up in lights.
There had never been any doubt that Rosalind would follow in their footsteps and, as their own hopes gradually faded, those dreams were transferred to her. She had the looks and the voice and she had already learned that the smell of greasepaint was the headiest scent in the world, and that the most thrilling sounds were the swish of the curtain and the applause of an audience. By the time she was thirteen she was playing small speaking parts, and every so often the drama critic of a local newspaper would single her out as promising. At fourteen years old she was growing rather tall, which was a disadvantage, but, as her mother often said, there were always plenty of tall male actors, and height lent presence on stage.
And then the Second World War broke out and everything changed. Actors were called up, theatres and cinemas were closed down, finding work became even more difficult and her parents ‘rested’ for longer and longer periods. Her father’s health – never good – deteriorated. The bronchitis that had plagued him for years became much worse and, even if there had been good parts offered, he would have been unable to play them. When a doctor advised sea air, her parents took out their savings and cashed in an insurance policy to buy a run-down terrace house in a side street of a south coast town where they let rooms to commercial travellers. As the war progressed and the need for entertainment was recognized, theatres began to open up again and Rosalind was occasionally given small parts at the Winter Gardens – maids, country girls, younger sisters, attendants, Dick Whittington’s cat in the Christmas pantomime. The Germans had occupied Europe and the sound of their guns could be heard firing on the other side of the Channel. Before long their fighters came swooping over, rattling away with their machine guns, and their bombers droned overhead en route to attack airfields and London. The expected invasion, though, w
as thwarted by the RAF and the war took another turn, to be fought out in Greece, and Crete and Italy and north Africa, and in the Far East against Japan.
When she was sixteen, Rosalind left school and worked as a waitress while she auditioned for acting parts. Unfortunately, her height and her looks worked against her. The patriotic demand was for delicate English roses rather than for long-legged redheads of Irish descent.
Now that the Germans seemed unlikely to land on the beach at any moment, the run-down terrace house was sold and a better one bought on the sea front, not far from the Winter Gardens. Actors and actresses, coming and going in productions there, replaced the travelling salesmen and theatrical gossip was part of life again. There was talk of a completely new company being started up in a provincial theatre by a legendary Shakespearian actor. It was, Rosalind’s mother told her, her big chance. She must take the train there and walk straight in. Beg the great man for a part – any part, however small. Once she was in and he saw how good she was, the rest would follow.
She had some trouble finding the theatre, wandering around dingy streets past bomb-damaged houses and heaps of rubble inhabited by cats and rats. The theatre had been damaged, too. A tarpaulin had been stretched over a part of the roof and the house doors had been blown out so that she was able, literally, to walk straight in. She opened an inner swing door leading to the back of the stalls, which was in darkness. The stage, though, was lit and two actors were rehearsing. She stood, motionless and unobserved, listening to Orlando and Jaques speaking familiar lines from As You Like It.
Rosalind is your love’s name?
Yes, just.
I do not like her name.
There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.
What stature is she of?
Just as high as my heart.
Jaques made his exit and Rosalind her entrance – a slight, blonde-haired girl, just the right heart-high size for her rather short Orlando. An English rose.
I pray you, what is ’t o’clock?
You should ask me, what time o’ day; there’s no clock in the forest.
Then there is no true lover in the forest; else
sighing every minute and groaning every
hour would detect the lazy foot of Time—
‘Nadine, darling, do try to pitch your voice lower and strut about like I showed you – you’re pretending to be a boy, remember? A saucy lackey. Orlando would rumble you in a second.’
The rich, theatrical voice had come from the centre of the darkened stalls.
The actress said sulkily, ‘I am trying. It’s the best I can do. Anyway, Paul wouldn’t notice if I came on stark naked.’
‘Don’t be bitchy, sweetie. It doesn’t suit you. Take it again from I pray you . . .’
They got as far as Where dwell you, pretty youth? when the voice interrupted again – wearily.
‘All right, let’s stop there for the moment, shall we? I think we all need a rest. Is anyone capable of making a decent cup of tea?’
She moved then, walking boldly down the central gangway towards the stage.
‘I am.’
Heads turned to stare from the front row and the two people on stage shaded their eyes, peering in her direction. The actress, Nadine, said, ‘Who the hell’s that?’
‘I’m Rosalind Flynn,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for work. Any work.’
‘You’ve got a nerve, barging in here. Hasn’t she, Lionel?’
The voice spoke languidly from her left. ‘She certainly has, darling. But I’m quite prepared to forgive her if she really can make a good cup of tea. Are you sure that you can, Miss Flynn?’
‘Yes, quite sure.’
‘Show her where it’s kept, somebody.’
A plump, middle-aged woman who had been sitting at the front took her backstage where there was a cupboard-sized kitchen with a sink, a cold-water tap, a gas ring, a kettle, some dirty mugs, a teapot, a half-full bottle of milk, a soggy bag of granulated sugar, a metal spoon and a packet of Mazawattee tea.
‘There’s a tray around somewhere,’ the woman told her. ‘And there should be some matches.’ She smiled at her. ‘I’m Beryl. I do the character parts. Sir Lionel likes his tea nice and strong, just a dash of milk and one sugar. Good luck, dear.’
The matches were in a drawer and she was well used to lighting temperamental gas rings in theatrical lodgings. While the kettle was boiling she emptied the teapot of a wad of old, cold leaves and rinsed out the mugs. She found a tin tray under the sink, and used a rag draped over the waste pipe to wipe off the old ring marks before putting out the clean mugs. When the kettle began to sing, she warmed the pot, made the tea – strong – and poured it out, adding milk. Since there was no sugar basin, there was no alternative but to put the soggy bag on the tray, together with the spoon. One of the mugs was larger and better than the rest and she put one spoonful of sugar in it and stirred it carefully.
The great man, Sir Lionel, was still sitting in the middle of the row, smoking a cigarette. He was wearing, she saw, a black cloak draped around his shoulders, and his thick silvery mane was long enough to reach its velvet collar. She handed him the best mug and he drank from it, paused dramatically, mug aloft, and drank again.
‘Excellent. You’re hired, Miss Flynn. Tea-maker and general dogsbody. Seven shillings a week.’
Beryl, the kindly character actress whose husband was away in the army, offered her the spare room in her rented cottage outside town for four shillings a week and included a hot meal once a day; otherwise she lived on pork pies and Smiths crisps from the local pub. The seven shillings was often late appearing, but somehow she managed. At the theatre, she did everything: making the tea, sweeping the stage and the auditorium, cleaning the Ladies and the Gents, painting scenery, moving props, mending costumes, running errands and prompting from the wings. Nadine, who had resented her arrival from the first, resented even more any prompts she had to be given by Rosalind.
‘Does that girl have to shout, Lionel? She’s supposed to whisper. I’m not deaf.’
‘Don’t keep blowing your lines, darling, then she won’t have to say a word.’
The plays – by no means always Shakespeare – changed regularly, attracting respectably large audiences and sometimes leading drama critics: The Tempest, Major Barbara, Much Ado About Nothing, The Constant Nymph, Hay Fever, Uncle Vanya, She Stoops to Conquer . . . Sir Lionel always directed and very occasionally took interesting supporting parts himself, effortlessly eclipsing the rest of the cast whenever he did so. His company, Rosalind soon realized, was made up of actors and actresses who were either too young or too old to be called up, or were unfit for military service. Paul, the actor who had played Orlando, for instance, had flat feet, while the one who had been Jaques was so short-sighted he kept bumping into scenery, and Nadine was quite a bit older than she had looked from the back of the stalls.
Whenever the air raid warning sounded during performances it was ignored. The audience stayed firmly put, the play continuing without pause to the accompaniment of ack-ack guns booming. A near miss did some more damage to the roof and to the auditorium ceiling, which showered down plaster particles like a fall of snow. One day, as she was sweeping the gangway during a rehearsal, the great man beckoned her from his seat in the stalls. When she stood before him, broom in hand, he looked up at her and smiled.
‘More than common tall . . . like your namesake. You’d make a lovely Rosalind, darling, if we could only find you a matching Orlando. Perhaps one day . . . Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can find a little part for you soon . . .’
She played one of the spirits attending on Prospero in The Tempest, and then Dorcas, a shepherdess in The Winter’s Tale. The seven shillings went up to nine, though their payment was just as erratic. After that she was given small speaking parts and then longer ones, praise from Sir Lionel and catty comments from Nadine. Over one of the hot meals in her cottage, Beryl warned her.
‘You want to be careful,
dear.’
‘What of? Nadine doesn’t worry me.’
‘I’m not talking about her. It’s him.’
He took her to dinner at a restaurant one evening. Heads swivelled as they made an entrance and were ushered to the table and there was a flutter of applause, gracefully acknowledged by Sir Lionel. He was a charming dinner companion and an attractive man, in spite of being old enough to be her father – actually, almost her grandfather. He was seriously considering her, he told her, laying a hand softly on hers, for the part of Gwendolen in The Importance of Being Earnest, but, first, he’d like to hear her read a passage or two.
The reading took place in his nearby flat where the walls were hung with framed photographs of famous actors and actresses, and a great many of Sir Lionel himself in his younger days as Romeo, Hamlet, Laertes, Henry V, Oberon, Petruchio . . . She dutifully admired the broodingly handsome looks, the chiselled lips, the perfect left profile, the thick, dark hair, well aware of what was coming. As her mother had explained long ago, sleeping with people who had influence in the theatre was the necessary price of getting good parts. She’d already had several unpleasant experiences – one, especially, that she preferred to forget – but luckily Sir Lionel was as charming in bed as he was out of it. He gave her a pair of very nice silver earrings and the part of Gwendolen, opposite the flat-footed Paul as Jack. The local newspaper critic praised her performance. A fresh and exciting new talent . . . I hope we see more of Rosalind Flynn – next time in the West End? Nadine, who had played Cecily beneath several layers of make-up, wasn’t mentioned at all.
The Boat Girls Page 3
