The Bomb Girls' Secrets

by Daisy Styles

  ‘No chance of that,’ Violet retorted. ‘Whenever you mention them, she clams up like a shell.’

  Maggie, furious that they’d been let down, continued to fume. ‘How the ’ell are we ever going to play in the semi-finals without a reliable drummer? Honest to God, I could scream!’

  Surprisingly, it was poor heartbroken Nora who brought Kit round. When she returned to work after her sister’s and mother’s deaths, she was a shadow of her former robust self. Gaunt with grief, she worked slavishly on the cordite line and seemed to find solace only when with her friends.

  ‘We had a church service,’ she told them as tears rolled unchecked down her hollow cheeks. ‘But there were no coffins …’ She caught her breath as she added, ‘There weren’t enough left of them to bury.’

  ‘God in heaven!’ gasped Kit as she folded wretched Nora in her arms.

  Worried about the girl’s health, Gladys gently asked, ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea to be working, sweetheart? You’re not exactly in a safe environment.’

  Nora was adamant. ‘I’m better off here with you,’ she declared. ‘It’s hell at home with mi dad, who never stops crying.’

  ‘In that case,’ said Myrtle firmly, ‘let’s play some music.’

  Inside the chapel during their lunch break, the girls struck up, and, though Nora tried to be brave, she could only weep into her trombone’s mouthpiece.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she cried. ‘It just makes me think of our Nell. Even though I was rubbish, she always used to love me playing; she’d sing along with me when she could.’ Waving her hands, she said, ‘Ignore me. I’ll get through it. Please, let’s play.’

  Seeing the poor kid heroically struggling through ‘South of the Border’, Kit did everything she could in her drumming to help Nora through the song. When it was over, Nora looked less miserable.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re like my family now and I love you all.’

  That did it for Kit: if this poor girl could perform with the Bomb Girls, then, by God, she could too!

  As they split up at the end of the rehearsal session, Kit gave Nora a big hug.

  ‘Do it for them, sweetheart,’ she whispered. ‘They’ll hear you up in heaven and smile down on you, I know they will.’

  Touched, Nora smiled her gap-toothed smile, the first they’d seen all week.

  So they slipped back into their old routine of meeting up and practising whenever they could. Unfortunately, this time around the girls’ shifts didn’t quite coincide with one another; Nora and Mags on the cordite line were working nights, whilst Gladys, Kit, Violet and Myrtle were on afternoon shifts; they stopped work as Nora and Maggie started. Feeling guilty about pushing the girls so hard, Gladys nevertheless made a bold suggestion.

  ‘If you went straight to bed after your shift and slept for four or five hours, we could all meet up before we start our afternoon shift.’

  ‘What? We can’t exist on four hours sleep a day!’ Maggie cried.

  Gladys quickly added, ‘You could go back to bed at two, when we’re clocking on.’

  ‘We’ll be like walking zombies!’ Nora giggled.

  ‘You’re young, you’ll survive,’ Myrtle said briskly.

  When the two girls finally agreed to Gladys’s proposal, the rest of the band were grateful for their sacrifice. As Myrtle put it, ‘Your dedication shows true commitment.’

  In the precious hours that they did overlap, all six musicians pushed themselves to the limit, and, in Myrtle’s case, she pushed herself far too hard. One afternoon, as they practised in the Phoenix chapel, during a lively jitterbug number Myrtle reached energetically across the piano, then suddenly froze in pain.

  ‘Aghh! My back!’ she gasped as she placed a hand on the base of her spine and struggled to keep her composure.

  Violet, who’d done a St John’s Ambulance course in the Coventry hospital where she’d worked, laid Myrtle carefully on the floor, then tenderly felt along the length of her friend’s back.

  ‘Argh!’ Myrtle moaned as Violet reached the area around her coccyx.

  ‘Oh, God!’ groaned Violet. ‘It looks like you might have slipped a disc.’

  Myrtle groaned in despair. ‘Damn! Damn!’ she swore. ‘It’s happened before. It takes weeks to heal.’

  The girls helped poor Myrtle, cringing with pain, to her feet, then half carried her to the Phoenix’s infirmary, where the doctor on duty pronounced her unfit for work. ‘Bed rest,’ he said.

  With tears in her eyes, Myrtle, now in a wheelchair, was pushed by the doctor on to the admissions ward.

  ‘Let’s face it, ladies, there’s no chance of my being fit enough to play the piano at the semi-finals,’ she announced flatly.

  Her crestfallen friends returned to the factory chapel, where they slumped on to the pews. Though dreadfully sorry for Myrtle, the Bomb Girls stared at each other, wondering how on earth they could possibly proceed. With her head in her hands, Gladys murmured, ‘We’ll have to let the organizers know we can’t attend the semi-finals.’

  Surprisingly, it was Nora who showed the most determination. ‘We can’t give up!’ she declared. ‘We could ask around the factory, see if anybody could replace Myrtle.’

  Smiling at Nora’s dogged expression, Kit said, ‘It’s worth a go; we’ll put the word out as soon as we clock on tomorrow.’

  Leaving exhausted Nora and Maggie to return to their digs to catch up on their sleep, Violet, Kit and Gladys hurried over to the canteen, where they split up in order to ask every single girl and woman in the building if they could play the piano. Most came back with the same answer.

  ‘I can knock out a few tunes but I’m not up to Myrtle’s professional standard.’

  With all hope gone, Gladys laid her head on the canteen table they were sitting around and swore. ‘BUGGER! BUGGER! BUGGER!!’

  At which point Malc walked up. Coming straight to the point, he said, ‘I hear you’ve lost your pianist.’

  Gladys nodded. ‘Myrtle’s slipped a disc,’ she told him.

  Malc dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Perhaps I can help?’

  ‘HOW?’ asked Kit.

  Whispering even lower, Malc said, ‘Well, I can play the piano.’

  As the women stared at him, Malc added somewhat self-consciously, ‘I play to a high standard – I was put through all the grades in the orphanage where I grew up.’

  Looking nervously around the canteen, Gladys said quietly, ‘Could we have the rest of this conversation in private?’

  In the empty chapel, Gladys continued uncomfortably. ‘It’s good of you to offer, and I don’t doubt your skills, but no matter how well you play …’ Her voice trailed away, in her embarrassment at having to state the obvious.

  ‘I’m a fella,’ Malc said, bluntly filling in the blank for her. ‘But I’m not averse to wearing a wig and a frock if it helps you out of a tight spot!’

  ‘Are you having us on?’ cried Violet.

  ‘Never been more serious,’ he retorted. ‘Tell you what, whilst you get your breath back I’ll play for you …’ Malc sat down at the piano. ‘If I’m not up to scratch, then that’s it, end of story.’

  Without any music, Malc launched into ‘South of the Border’.

  ‘He’s not up to Myrtle’s level,’ Kit whispered from behind her hand.

  ‘But he’s all right,’ Violet whispered back.

  ‘He’ll do,’ said Gladys decisively.

  Once it was agreed that Malc could join the band, he practised with them as often as he could. The first time he showed up Nora and Maggie were hysterical with laughter.

  ‘How’s he going to get away with being a lass?’ Nora giggled.

  ‘I’ll shave off my five-o’clock shadow – that’s a real give-away,’ Malc chuckled. ‘Though I draw the line at shaving my legs!’ he guffawed.

  Kit, who was also vastly amused by the prospect of Malc posing as a Bomb Girl, started to giggle as well.

  ‘Don’t worry, our overalls cover alm
ost everything up – though you might have to wear a wig underneath your turban!’ she finished with a peal of laughter.

  ‘We can stuff a bra with socks to give you a bit of shape!’ Violet giggled too.

  Getting down to the nitty-gritty, Gladys said rather tensely, ‘In order to see if this arrangement’s going to work, we really need to practise with you, Malc.’

  Unruffled, Malc played a rippling chord on the piano. ‘Let’s get on with it,’ he replied.

  Gladys was right: a new pianist accompanying them made a big difference to the band. Only now did they realize how much they’d come to rely on Myrtle’s skills: apart from her superb musical accompaniment, she was a genius at improvisation and always provided lively backing, particularly for Gladys’s alto sax solos. With only two days to go, Malc and the girls practised every available moment, to the delight of their co-workers. Gladys, Violet, Nora and Maggie even used their dinner breaks to play their instruments, whilst laughing Kit beat out a drum rhythm on a steel-topped canteen table. Malc’s involvement, however, was kept strictly under wraps.

  ‘If word gets around that our all-female swing band has a male pianist, we’ll be the laughing stock of the Leeds Locarno,’ Gladys said as she swore her friends to secrecy. ‘The less that’s known about him playing with us the better,’

  The band visited Myrtle in hospital as often as they could, but they didn’t dare tell her the truth about the new arrangement.

  ‘Have you got a replacement?’ she fretted.

  All five girls stared at each other. It seemed mean and underhand to lie to Myrtle, but they knew the truth would incense her.

  ‘Yes,’ said quick-witted Gladys as she hid a smile. ‘But she’s nothing like as good as you!’

  22. Semi-final

  Malc again persuaded Mr Featherstone to allow the girls to rearrange their shifts so that they could leave work at the same time and travel to Leeds, though this time they left the Phoenix already dressed in clean overalls and turbans.

  ‘We can’t risk Malc changing in the ladies’ toilets,’ Gladys said.

  ‘God forbid!’ chuckled Malc as he adjusted an auburn wig over his short-back-and-sides greying hair. ‘Will I do?’ he joked as he struck a comical feminine pose.

  The girls looked him up and down then burst into peals of laughter.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ roared Nora. ‘You’re taller than the lot of us.’

  ‘And twice as fat,’ Malc said candidly. ‘Should have stuck to that diet, eh?’ he joked.

  There was no keeping Malc’s identity a secret from Arthur, who was driving Violet to the event in his car.

  ‘Bloody hell fire!’ he roared with laughter as Malc settled himself coyly in the back seat of his car.

  ‘For one night only,’ Malc joked as he lit up a cigarette.

  ‘What’re we going to call you?’ Violet asked.

  ‘Molly!’ Malc answered as he stuffed his turban over the wig that curled around his ears. Adjusting his hair in the rear-view mirror, he said in all seriousness, ‘I’m going to need some lipstick and rouge if I’m to pass for a lass.’

  ‘You’ll need a lot more than make-up,’ Arthur teased as they drove along the winding moorland tracks into Yorkshire.

  Before he went into the Locarno, Malc was skilfully made up by Gladys, who cheekily planted a big kiss on his painted crimson lips.

  ‘WHUMPH! You’re gorgeous,’ she teased.

  Gladys’s dad was waiting for them when they pulled up at the back of the dance-hall. Thrilled to see his daughter, he hugged her tightly, then she introduced him to the ‘girls’, and they all shook hands. He stopped short when Molly gripped his hand.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ she said in a squeaky high voice.

  ‘She’s a big lass,’ Mr Johnson whispered to his daughter as they started to unpack their instruments.

  ‘She’s a he,’ Gladys whispered back.

  Mr Johnson’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Keep it to yourself,’ Gladys added with a cheeky wink.

  Kit was delighted by the Locarno’s stylish drum kit, which included her favourite hi-hat cymbals. Malc was immediately at ease on the grand piano, rippling his very big hands over the keys and pressing the pedals with his broad size-eleven feet!

  ‘As long as I keep ’em under’t piano, hopefully nobody will suspect owt,’ he told Violet.

  ‘You’ll be lucky,’ she giggled as she rearranged his wig, which had slipped sideways under his turban, revealing his large red ears.

  ‘Now I get the expression “Keep your wig on”!’ he joked.

  ‘Just don’t get carried away when you’re playing,’ she advised. ‘You might send it flying into the crowd.’

  They were the first of the groups to arrive, which gave them enough time to tune up before Mr Johnson appeared with fish and chips from the shop across the road.

  ‘Never play on an empty stomach,’ he advised the hungry musicians.

  ‘Thanks, cock,’ Malc said in his normal husky voice as he eagerly took his portion of fish and chips from Mr Johnson, who muttered conspiratorially under his breath, ‘I know your secret!’

  Malc gave him a cheeky wink. ‘Then for God’s sake keep it to yourself!’

  As the Locarno filled up with a large eager crowd, the manager of the dance-hall clapped his hands to introduce the first act.

  In the wings, the tense, nervous Bomb Girls waited their turn.

  ‘We’re the fourth to go on,’ Gladys whispered down the line to her tense musicians.

  ‘Oh, no! The last,’ Maggie groaned.

  ‘Well, we might as well relax and enjoy it,’ chuckled Malc as he passed around a packet of Capstan cigarettes.

  ‘The suspense is killing me!’ fretted Violet.

  ‘Shhh!’ hissed Gladys. ‘The first band have started.’

  As they listened, Maggie pulled down the corners of her pretty pouty mouth. ‘They’re rubbish!’

  Gladys rolled her eyes in despair as she pressed a warning finger to her mouth. ‘SHUT UP!’ she hissed.

  The second band, from Scunthorpe, were very good, with a lively and exciting repertoire, but the third band, from Doncaster, were even better.

  ‘We’ve got real competition this time,’ Kit whispered into Gladys’s ear.

  ‘It had to happen sometime,’ Gladys whispered back.

  Nora’s heart sank as she realized they could lose this competition. Over the last tragic weeks the Bomb Girl musicians had supported her with their love and their music; they’d become like what she’d called them, her second family. A life without music now would be unbearable. So, not surprisingly, it was Nora who rallied her rather deflated friends as the third swing band left the stage to loud applause.

  ‘Come on, we can do this,’ she said forcefully. ‘We’re good.’

  ‘They were better,’ Maggie groaned as she nodded towards the departing Doncaster band.

  ‘Don’t say that!’ Nora railed. ‘We were the best last time; we’ll be even better this time. Come on, we’re doing this for Myrtle, and my sister Nellie – and my mam too!’ she said with tears in her eyes.

  ‘And for my little Billy,’ Kit thought sadly to herself.

  Then, like a general leading his troops into battle, Nora strode out of the wings and ascended the stage with her head held high.

  ‘What’s got into yon lass?’ Malc asked.

  ‘She’s got fire in her belly,’ Edna said as she herded the rest of the band on to the stage. ‘Now, come on – get out there and bloody win!’

  Kit, with her long black hair already falling loose around her prettily made-up face, played a lively drum number as Violet, Gladys, Nora, Maggie and Malc, with his shoulders drooped in order to reduce his height, took up their positions on stage.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ bellowed the manager. ‘It’s the Bomb Girls’ Swing Band, all the way from the Phoenix Munitions Factory in sunny Pendleton. Let’s hear it for the BOMB GIRLS!’

  As the crowd politely appl
auded, Gladys played her alto sax; trilling up and down the scales, she settled on a low vamping note full of rich seductive promise. Caught in her spell, the audience fell silent as her caressing notes merged with the rest of the instruments and the tempo changed to a slinky foxtrot. The audience started to clap as they recognized the rhythm of a favourite war-time number, Frank Sinatra’s ‘Blue Moon’. Clutching their partners in their arms, the couples swooped and dipped around the ballroom to the slow-slow-quick-quick beat of the music.

  As he accompanied Nora and Maggie, who were usually naughty little sprites on the cordite line, Malc’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. Here, in the dimly lit Locarno, they played like angels! ‘And there is sweet Kit,’ thought Malc. So small she was almost hidden from view behind the elaborate drum kit, but hell could she knock out the rhythm. How could somebody so quiet and nervy play like a demon and have the room rocking? As Malc played along with the girls he supervised daily, he felt immensely proud of them and all that they’d achieved in a few short months.

  Malc’s delight was nothing when compared with the audience’s reaction at the end of the number. They cheered and called out, ‘MORE! MORE! MORE!’

  Turning to her fellow musicians, Gladys grinned. ‘Come on, girls,’ she said, winking at Malc, who winked back as he adjusted his wig. ‘Let’s give them a bit of romance.’

  Violet’s hauntingly sad clarinet notes got the waltz number under way. As Gladys, Maggie and Nora picked up the slow rhythm of Tommy Dorsey’s ‘I’ll Never Smile Again’, the lights dipped and the slowly turning silver-mirrored balls hanging from corners of the dance-hall created a shimmering shadow under which couples clung to each other. For ten minutes they lost themselves in the dream-like mood, which allowed them briefly to forget the horrors of war and the gnawing hunger they endured because of ever harsher rationing. Swaying to the gentle 1-2-3 rhythm of the waltz, they held on to each other, prolonging the moment of escapism for as long as they could.

  When the band reached a finishing crescendo and the lights came up, the audience blinked as if they’d been woken from their sleep. Keeping the tempo going, Gladys started to tap her finger to the fabulous jive rhythm of the Andrews Sisters’ ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B’. Malc grinned as he banged out a quick-paced piano rhythm, whilst Kit crashed the cymbals and scratched the snare drum, and Gladys’s gorgeously rich voice soared out. ‘The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ sent the crowd into a frenzy of excitement; if they couldn’t find a boy to dance with, girls happily grabbed hold of each other’s hands and spun around the floor. Twirling and circling each other, they sang along at the top of their voices to the ‘Boogie Woogie’ chorus. Some wildly adventurous couples even swung their partners through their legs, then threw them up in the air!