A Winter Love Song

by Rita Bradshaw

  It had been the law banning Jews from employing women under thirty-five in Germany in January; Spain’s new left-wing government coming to power in February; Hitler and the Nazis defying the treaties of Versailles and Locarno in March when the stomp of the jackboot announced that they had entered the cities of the Rhineland; and the goverment reintroducing military service in Vienna in April in violation of peace treaties, because they were terrified Germany was going to invade in the coming months. And so the year had continued. Mussolini had proclaimed his Fascist empire from the Palazzo Venezia in Rome in May; and civil war had finally exploded in Spain in July with terrible atrocities being committed by both sides. But it was the Berlin Olympic Games in August that had caused Larry to have an apoplectic fit most days, according to the letters Selina had written to Bonnie, letters that had made Bonnie glad she had been away on tour and out of the house.

  ‘Honestly, Bonnie, Larry’s driving us all mad,’ Selina had written. ‘Going on about how the Germans have only one aim with the Games, to glorify the Nazi regime of Hitler. No one doubts that Larry’s right. It’s so obvious, isn’t it – even the poster depicts an Aryan hero. And the way they’re treating Jesse Owens from the United States, who is the undisputed star of the Games but also very much non-Ayran and very black, is awful, just awful. Hitler refusing to shake his hand or acknowledge him and Goebbels publicly declaring Owens and all the other American blacks ‘black mercenaries’, it’s disgusting. But it’s all Larry can talk about, that and the fact that Hitler and his Nazis are getting away with literal murder and no countries are standing up to them. He keeps saying we’re all going to reap what we’ve sown and war is inevitable. He really is the most depressing person in the world, I don’t know how Verity puts up with him. Mrs Nichols is absolutely sick of Larry. She calls him the master of pessimism now.’

  No, all things considered she hadn’t been sorry to have missed August in London, Bonnie decided as she finished wrapping the last present – a fine kite that Thomas could take to the park with his mother – and got dressed to go downstairs.

  It was odd, she mused as she tidied her hair, considering what a fiercely political animal Larry was, that he hadn’t taken such an avid interest in the constitutional drama that had been played out in Royal circles at the beginning of the month, as the female occupants of the house had done. She and the others had been enthralled by the secret love story between the King and the American, Wallis Simpson, once the news of their affair had become public. And when he had renounced the throne a couple of weeks ago, saying he couldn’t be King without the help and support of the woman he loved, well, they’d all been in tears.

  But not Larry. He had merely remarked that the new King, George VI, would be a better bet than his brother when the country went to war anyway. George had seen action in the Battle of Jutland in the last war, Larry told them, and then had served with the RAF. He knew what war was like first hand. He wouldn’t be afraid of taking Hitler on.

  It had been the last straw for the long-suffering Hilda. ‘When?’ she’d yelled at him over the breakfast table, making them all jump out of their skins. ‘When? Oh, it’s “when” now, is it? Not even “if” any more. Well, that’s it. This is my house and my kitchen and I forbid you, forbid you, do you hear, to mention the word “war” again in my hearing. Do you hear me, Larry McKenzie?’

  It was highly likely the whole street could hear her.

  They’d all slunk out of the kitchen that morning, and since then Larry had kept a low profile, hiding behind his morning newspaper as though it was a shield protecting him from Hilda’s wrath. He still commented on the occasional snippet – he couldn’t seem to help himself – but it was in an aside to Verity now and the ‘w’ word was never uttered. It was a relief to eat breakfast without their resident prophet of doom going on and on, as Selina remarked to Bonnie, but the atmosphere in the kitchen was distinctly frosty now. In spite of how Verity felt about her husband’s obsession with Hitler and his constant harping on about a war, she had come down on Larry’s side and was consequently very cool with Hilda. She’d told Bonnie and Selina that she was waiting for an apology from the lady in question. Bonnie had said nothing at the time, but privately she’d thought that there was as much chance of that as hell freezing over.

  But things might be better after Christmas. Hilda had baked a Christmas cake for Verity’s mother and it had clearly been offered in the nature of a peace offering. And Verity had hugged Hilda and wished her a merry Christmas before she and Larry had left the day before. Bonnie grinned as a thought hit; they really were like a family at Fairview and what family didn’t have a squabble now and again?

  She was now earning well in excess of the five pounds that Art had originally mentioned, sometimes double that amount, and she knew Art found it odd that she had no wish to rent a little flat somewhere, but she would hate to leave everyone at Fairview. She always did the Saturday-night broadcasts with the band, but after she had been with them for a week or two, Art had begun taking her to his Sunday concerts too, to give her a little more exposure and experience. She hadn’t expected to get paid extra for this – Art had warned her when he had taken her on that she would be expected to work as and when he demanded – but practically from the first week she had found extra in her wage packet. When she had thanked him, he had smiled the smile that crinkled the skin round his eyes and sent women into a swoon. ‘You play fair with me and I play fair with you,’ he said easily. ‘That’s the way it is. Any of my musicians would tell you the same. And I like your work ethos, Bonnie.’

  It had been praise indeed from a man who was renowned in the business for calling a spade a spade. And from that moment on Bonnie had found herself relaxing more around Art. He was friendly but businesslike and he maintained the same amiable attitude with her as he did with his other band members. They might flirt a little with her and tease her on occasion, but Art never did. He also gave her complete freedom of choice over what she sang, which Enoch assured her was rare in the business. She had found as soon as she started broadcasting with Art that she was sent lots of songs by hopeful composers and musicians who wanted to make a name for themselves, as well as the established ones, but as she had a very clear understanding of what suited her voice and what she liked to sing, Art didn’t interfere.

  She was happy. As she opened her bedroom door, she smiled to herself. Really happy. In a way that she hadn’t been since the day she had woken up and found her father gone. She could picture the years ahead now, years of doing what she loved and building up her reputation as a singer. Everything looked rosy. And she was going to make a record with Art in the New Year. She had hardly been able to believe that when he had told her the previous night at the club, just before the taxi had arrived to take her home. Art always insisted on booking a taxi for her no matter where the band was playing, and he always paid for it too. She couldn’t fault him on his generosity.

  ‘Bit of news to mull over, Bonnie,’ Art had drawled in his lazy, nonchalant way as he’d helped her on with her coat. ‘We’re going to be cutting a record on the first Monday in January with the Crown label. Their policy is to have a well-known published song on one side of the record, and an unpublished number on the other. They’ve given us a few songs of the latter from their stock to consider.’ He’d handed her a sheaf of song sheets as he’d spoken. ‘Look through these tonight and come up with a couple of favourites. We’ll discuss them with the lads before the concert tomorrow and then have a few run-throughs before the New Year, so you can familiarize yourself with the melody and so on. But I know with you the words are more important, right? You need to feel the connection with the song.’

  She had gazed at him in shock. A record. They were going to make a record. He’d smiled at her expression before bundling her out of the door and into the waiting taxi, and she’d sat in a daze all the way home.

  But she knew precisely which song she was going to suggest, Bonnie told herself as she walked down Hilda
’s steep stairs to the kitchen. It was called ‘A Song at Sunrise’ and immediately the title had made her think of her father, and how he had told her to sing for pleasure like the birds when they welcomed the sunrise and a new day. The words were tender and poignant, telling the story of young love lost before being found again in the twilight years. The song had touched her deeply and she knew she could sing it with the emotion to touch her listeners too. No other song would do for her debut into records, she’d make that clear to Art and the others, and Enoch when she saw him on Boxing Day. He and Gladys had invited her and Nelly and Thomas to spend the day with them, bless them. She knew Gladys had bought a beautifully painted wooden train set for Thomas. She had been as enchanted with the tiny steam engine and carriages, small stationmaster’s house with a picket fence and little figures, and even a miniature signal box, as Gladys had been. Enoch had set the train up on its track to show her before he had packed it away in its box ready for Gladys to gift-wrap it, and both women had noticed that he had played with it for some minutes, ostensibly to make sure it worked properly, before handing it over.

  She was so lucky. Bonnie paused before she opened the kitchen door, her heart flooding with gladness. Her career was on the up and up, she had good friends here in London and now she had Nelly back in her life and dear little Thomas too. It was the icing on the cake. There had been times when she had almost felt her father was an ethereal figure and she was in danger of losing the clarity of her memories of him, but when she had met Nelly again he had suddenly become real once more. And that was so precious.

  The future was rosy, and like Hilda, she didn’t think for a moment that what was happening in Germany and other countries like Spain and Italy would impinge on Britain. It was horrible and she felt sorry for the innocent victims of the Nazis, but it was so far away, after all. The government were adamant that Hitler didn’t want war and she believed them. The Great War had been terrible enough but lessons had been learned, and who in their right mind would want a repeat of that? No, Larry was a gloom merchant just as Hilda said. He always looked on the dark side and because he fancied himself as something of an astute political analyst, it didn’t help matters.

  Everything would settle down in time and all would be well. She wouldn’t believe anything else, because the alternative was too frightening. She brushed off the brief sense of foreboding that had come with that thought, recaptured the happiness of minutes before, and entered the kitchen humming the latest hit song, ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ to herself.

  PART FOUR

  Art

  1938

  Chapter Fourteen

  Art Franklin sat staring in disgust at the newspaper he had just flung down. The headline on the front page read: ‘Peace for our time’, a direct quote from Neville Chamberlain, the Prime Minister, on his return from Munich the day before.

  ‘“Peace for our time,”’ Art muttered, standing up and walking over to the French doors that were open to the pocket-sized London garden of his Kingston-upon-Thames cottage. Did Chamberlain really believe that handing the Nazis Czechoslovakia on a plate was going to appease Hitler’s deranged quest for power? It was a sell-out to Hitler’s subversion and threats of war, and every man and woman with a grain of intelligence knew it.

  Art looked up into the cherry tree in the centre of his courtyard garden where a blackbird was singing its heart out to the morning sky. Today, the first of October, German troops were already marching into Czechoslovakia under the terms of the agreement Chamberlain had signed, and the Czechs, poor beggars, could do nothing about it. They’d been hung out to dry, that was the truth of it, and he, for one, was ashamed to be British. This day would go down in history as one to mark Britain’s shame, he was sure of that, and one which the Prime Minister and the rest of the government would live to regret. It was the beginning of the end. Chamberlain had rolled over and shown his soft underbelly, and Hitler and his sabre-rattling chums would pierce it through sooner or later. Hell, what a mess.

  Art finished the last drops of the mug of coffee he had in his hand, wondering how on earth Chamberlain and others could ignore the threat of Hitler’s fast-expanding empire, an empire built on death and destruction and unspeakable atrocities. But then as the Prime Minister himself had broadcast, he was a man of peace to the depths of his soul, and armed conflict between nations was a nightmare to him.

  Art grunted in frustration at the man’s stupidity. To have such views was one thing if you were an ordinary Joe Bloggs in the street, quite another if you were the Prime Minister and aired them openly to all and sundry. Hitler must think all his Christmases had come at once. And look at the way the Duke and Duchess of Windsor had cosied up to the Führer when they were in Berlin last year – it had made sickening reading. Apparently the pair had declared themselves charmed by Hitler and delighted by Nazi Germany. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so damn dangerous.

  The blackbird took off into the high blue sky and as Art watched it go, he wondered how much longer the skies around Britain would merely have birds and friendly aircraft to contend with. War was coming. It could be weeks, months, even a year or two, but it was coming. And this war wouldn’t be like the last one, hell, no. The Nazis would make sure of that. What could you expect from an enemy that already interned their own people in death camps for daring to speak out against Hitler, and took children away from parents if they weren’t sufficiently rigorous in drilling Nazism into their little ones? His guts twisted. International tension was escalating and it would only get worse.

  ‘I’m ready to dish up your breakfast, Mr Franklin.’

  His elderly housekeeper had come up behind him and now Art turned, smiling at the little woman who had faithfully looked after his house and himself ever since he had moved to Kingston upon Thames eight years ago. Annie was a superb cook and meticulous about keeping the house as neat as a new pin, and – more importantly – at seventy years of age had no romantic inclinations in his direction. He had interviewed several women before finding Annie, and more than one of them had fluttered their eyelashes at him. Annie was a widow with three grown-up children who had families of their own and whom she visited regularly on her days off as they all lived in London. From the day she had moved into his home he knew he had found himself a gem and paid her accordingly. For Annie’s part, she was devoted to him and utterly loyal. He had never brought any of his women friends to the house; he preferred to keep his love life and his home totally separate, which he supposed said a lot about his capacity to let even the women he slept with into his life. And then Bonnie had come on the scene.

  He followed Annie into the small blue-and-white dining room at the front of the house and sat down at a table set for one. He had often wondered if Bonnie had an inkling of how he felt about her, but every time the thought came he told himself the same answer. Of course she didn’t. They had built up a good working relationship over the last couple of years and there were times she was as relaxed and chatty with him as she was with his band members, but he knew her ease with him and the others came from the knowledge that he’d always made it plain that work and play were separate. And he did believe in that rule; he’d seen more splits in bands because one of the musicians had started a love affair with the female vocalist which had then turned sour than he’d had hot dinners. But that didn’t stop him loving her, aching for her, going crazy sometimes as he tossed and turned the night away.

  ‘Here we are.’ Annie bustled into the room with his usual plate of eggs, bacon and sausages and a fresh pot of coffee. Ever since he had gone over to America ten years ago for a few weeks to see how things were done there, he’d developed a taste for coffee over tea. He’d enjoyed his time in the States, the highlight being when he’d been taken to the Cotton Club in Harlem by a black musician friend to hear Duke Ellington and his band play. Ellington’s trademark ‘jungle sound’ created by growling brass, tom-toms and ‘wa-wa’ mutes had inspired him, and he had never approached the music his own ban
d played in quite the same way again. It had changed him, that trip, and caused him to challenge the commonly held belief that jazz came in two versions, black and white. And what was wrong in incorporating some blues into the equation? He’d met Ma Rainey, a rumbustious character known in America as ‘the mother of the blues’, and other leading blues singers, and their searingly emotional impact when they sang had touched the core of him.

  Bonnie sang like that.

  He took a mouthful of bacon, reflecting ruefully that it was rare a minute or so went by without her intruding into his thoughts. And the galling thing was, he was sure once she finished work she never gave him a thought. In the early days he had attempted to scratch the itch of her by dating other women, but that hadn’t helped. One day he had woken up in a hotel room with a woman he had met the night before at one of his concerts, and told himself enough was enough. He’d had plenty of women in his time but not under false pretences, not pretending they were someone else. They deserved more than that. And so he’d gone on the wagon, so to speak.

  He smiled to himself at the analogy. Certainly it would have been a damn sight easier if his problem had been alcohol, rather than a girl/woman who could be shy and bold, vulnerable and fearless, diffident and confident all at the same time. She’d turned his life upside down and inside out and she didn’t even know it. Damn it, she didn’t know it. Which was just as well. He didn’t like to think about what might have happened in her past to cause Bonnie to keep the male sex at a distance the way she did, but it was more than a natural girlish modesty, that was for sure. He wouldn’t have said she was particularly self-effacing in the normal run of things, but should a man, any man, try to get a little too friendly then there was a definite shrinking back on her part. At first he had been relieved it wasn’t just him she found . . . He had been going to say repellent but perhaps that was too strong. Anyway, certainly off-putting, he thought irritably. But relief had been replaced with frustration and then pain and dejection before he had come to terms with the situation.