by Daisy Styles
The final number finished but nobody wanted it to stop. ‘ENCORE!’ they begged. ‘MORE!’
As high as a kite, Malc laughed out loud. ‘One more time, ladies!’ he cried as his fingers ran up and down over the piano keys, and the band repeated the storming Andrew Sisters’ number, at the end of which the entire room echoed to the sound of the audience’s repeated chanting. ‘THE BOMB GIRLS! THE BOMB GIRLS! THE BOMB GIRLS!’
There was no doubting who the semi-final winners were.
23. August 1942
The Phoenix munitions workers took the Bomb Girls’ Swing Band’s success to heart. They embraced it with pride and basked in the local publicity as if every one of them had been up on the Locarno stage singing alongside Gladys, Violet, Kit, Nora, Maggie and Malc.
‘You’ve put us on’t map,’ Ivy said proudly when they clocked on for their first shift after the competition.
‘You should have seen them!’ Arthur raved. ‘They were like real professional musicians, singing and harmonizing, dancing too!’ he said with a cheeky wink in Violet’s direction.
‘Brazen hussies!’ teased Ivy as she cackled with laughter.
The mood in the factory was further enhanced by a radio announcement.
‘SHHH!’ several women hissed as the BBC newsreader’s voice echoed around the canteen, which was loud with clattering cutlery and chattering voices.
‘It’s about the first all-American air attack in Europe!’ somebody yelled loudly.
When the news had concluded and was replaced by Workers’ Playtime, Maggie grinned excitedly at her friends. ‘Well, that’ll show the bloody Germans! TWELVE B-17s hitting the French coast and railroads too!’ she cried as she thumped the table with her fist.
‘They call them Yankie planes Flying Fortresses,’ wide-eyed Nora added.
After so much recent bad news about the Germans winning the war in the skies, Gladys could hardly take it in.
‘About time too!’ she cried as she forced back tears.
Could her brother have been on the ground where the American bombs were dropped? Maybe he saw them fall and cheered them on their way? ‘Why, oh, why,’ she thought for the endless time, ‘haven’t we heard from him?’
As the waiting turned into weeks, it was getting harder and harder to put on a brave optimistic face. Her mother was so deranged with worry that her father feared for his wife’s mental health.
‘She’ll finish up in’t loony bin if it goes on much longer,’ he wrote.
Worried Gladys planned to spend her next free weekend in Leeds with her mum and dad, who in their time of need were reliant on their only daughter’s love and support.
At the end of their shift, Violet, Gladys and Kit walked up the cobbled lane and along the moorland track that led to the cowshed, which stood steeped in late-afternoon August sunshine. Kit’s heart skipped a beat when she saw Mr McIvor leaning against his smart black Ford saloon, admiring the view of the Pennines sweeping northwards.
Violet and Gladys discreetly left Kit to greet the lawyer, who smiled as he shook her hand.
‘I thought I’d drop by on my way home from the office,’ he said.
Kit imagined him driving home to a neat pretty Mrs McIvor in a smart semi-detached house on the better side of Manchester.
‘Any news?’ she asked nervously.
‘In fact I do have news,’ he replied. He nodded towards a pleasant moorland path that wound its way around heather and bracken towards rocks and higher crags. ‘Shall we take a walk?’
Feeling self-conscious in her ragged clothes and flapping broken shoes, Kit hid her embarrassed blushes behind her long hair and followed him shyly on to the path.
‘I’ve found an expert handwriting specialist,’ he announced. ‘The convent’s legal adviser has sent on the copies of the papers, but they haven’t reached me yet.’ He paused, sighing. ‘This time the post from Ireland is being tediously slow, but I’ll post them straight off to the handwriting specialist as soon as they arrive.’
Kit’s head drooped dispiritedly. ‘This really isn’t working out the way I’d hoped,’ she admitted. ‘Everything’s taking so much longer than I ever imagined, and all the time the clock’s ticking. I’m petrified that Billy will be whisked off to America before I’ve even had a chance to state my case!’
‘I’m disappointed too, Catherine,’ he said. ‘We can do precious little to speed up communications when the post is in chaos and telephone lines are regularly down.’
Seeing her disappointed face, he added gently, ‘I understand your disappointment. Believe me, I’m doing everything I possibly can for Billy.’ Handing her a brown paper parcel, he said with a cheeky smile, ‘I thought these might cheer you up.’
Unused to being given gifts, Kit was flabbergasted. ‘For me?’ she asked as she fumbled with the string securing the parcel, then gazed in astonishment at a pair of soft brown leather brogues, which were the height of wartime fashion.
‘If anybody deserves a new pair of shoes it’s you, young lady!’
‘They’re a perfect fit!’ she gasped as she threw off the old shoes and tried on the brogues. ‘How did you know my size?’
‘I just asked for the smallest size and hoped for the best,’ he replied as he watched in delight as she skipped up and down the track like an over-excited child.
‘Thank you, sir, thank you from the bottom of my heart,’ she said with utter sincerity. ‘I’ve never had anything quite so beautiful.’
‘My pleasure, Catherine.’ He found he liked saying her name and watching her reaction when he said it. ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as there’s any more news.’ McIvor extended his hand. ‘Goodbye, Catherine.’
‘Goodbye, Mr McIvor.’
Kit watched him drive away, wondering what pretty Mrs McIvor, probably wearing a cool crêpe floral dress and smelling of lavender water, would have waiting for her husband when he arrived home for his tea. Even though they’d eat rationed food, they were bound to have a nice fresh tablecloth and a vase of flowers in the centre of the table. Would they chat happily about his work, then read the evening news together, whilst the help cleared away tea and washed up the dishes? Kit sighed as she thought of their parallel universes, then crossly scolded herself for day-dreaming. As far as Mr McIvor was concerned, her thoughts should be solely centred on Billy’s legal battle, not the colour of Mrs McIvor’s tablecloth!
The Bomb Girls were surprised and delighted when they walked into the canteen the next morning and found Myrtle waiting for them. As they rushed excitedly forwards to give her a hug, the older woman held up her arms imperiously.
‘Careful! Careful!’ she warned as they gathered around her.
‘Is it safe for you to be back at work?’ Violet asked.
‘The doctor said as long as I don’t do any lifting I’m allowed to resume my shifts in the dispatch yard,’ Myrtle replied.
‘And is it safe for you to play the piano again?’ Kit asked eagerly.
‘As long as I don’t get carried away and reach for a high C key, I should be fine,’ Myrtle assured her.
‘Thank goodness for that!’ Malc remarked when he saw Myrtle back at work. ‘I don’t think I’d have the bottle to play the piano at the final!’
‘And it would be wrong to do that again,’ Gladys replied. ‘Though I’ll always be grateful to you, Malc,’ she added hurriedly.
When Myrtle appeared at the Phoenix chapel for their first rehearsal together in weeks, she clearly had the bit between her teeth.
‘I’ve had plenty of time to consider our repertoire for the next competition,’ she said as they assembled.
‘Oh, Jesus!’ Kit giggled. ‘Please don’t let it be one of her high-falutin’ classical pieces.’
‘It’s a joint decision, Myrtle,’ Gladys reminded the pianist.
‘Bear with me, dear.’ Myrtle spoke to Gladys as if she was a naughty child interrupting her Sunday school lesson. ‘I want to stretch us to our full capacity.’
‘Ther
e speaks someone who’s had bed rest for the last three weeks,’ Maggie muttered.
‘Duke Ellington’s “Take the ‘A’ Train” for the opening number,’ Myrtle announced. ‘Lovely foxtrot rhythm, followed by a dreamy waltz, “Begin the Beguine”.’
‘I’ve got a jive song!’ Kit cried before Myrtle had the chance to organize the entire show. ‘Benny Goodman’s “Sing, Sing, Sing”!’
Some heated discussion followed. Both Norah and Maggie wanted repeats of ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ and ‘PEnnsylvania 6-5000’, but Gladys was adamant they were going to play new pieces for the final. ‘If we don’t extend our repertoire now, we never will,’ she insisted.
‘We might be better off with numbers we’re familiar with,’ Violet cautioned.
‘And what if somebody who saw us in the audience in Leeds turns up at Stockport and we’re playing the same old numbers?’ Gladys asked. ‘They’ll go away thinking we’re very limited.’
Eventually it was agreed that they’d go with Myrtle’s suggestions, ‘Begin the Beguine’ and ‘Take the “A” Train’, which they all loved, and Benny Goodman’s ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’.
‘It’s a lot to learn,’ Nora fretted.
‘We’ve got time,’ Myrtle replied confidently as she played the opening notes of the first song.
In the August heat, the cold wet stone floors of the factory were a godsend, but the Phoenix chapel where they practised daily was baking hot. One afternoon it was so warm the girls stripped off their overalls and played in their underwear! Kit, in her old baggy knickers and vest, looked like an abandoned orphan, whilst Violet, in her elegant lilac silk petticoat trimmed with cream lace, looked like a film star.
‘St Anthony in heaven!’ Kit cried as she admired the beautiful silk under-slip. ‘Where did you get that from?’
Violet blushed in shame as she recalled the underwear they were admiring was part of Ronnie’s black market clothing haul. Shrugging, she said lightly, ‘I treated myself before I came here.’
She shuddered at the memory of Ronnie touching her. How different it was with gentle Arthur, who treated her like she was a precious work of art. Violet felt constantly guilty about deceiving Arthur. How long before the harsh truth came out – she’d been married and run away from her husband, who (thank God!) had been blown up in a night raid. Would honest Arthur leave her once he knew she’d been stringing him along? The thought of losing him nearly killed her.
‘NO!’ she’d decided.
It was best to keep the secret to herself, at least for the time being.
McIvor kept his word. As soon as he had news for Kit, he drove up to the cowshed on a warm afternoon, but, finding nobody at home, he walked down to the Phoenix, removing his coat and tie as he did so. In the entranceway, he asked some passing girls if they knew where he might find Kit Murphy.
‘She’ll be having her band practice in the chapel, yonder,’ they said as they pointed down a long corridor.
As McIvor got closer, he could hear swing band music, very good swing band music, he thought to himself and when he opened the chapel door he got the shock of his life! The girls, who luckily weren’t in their underwear that afternoon, were so engrossed in their music that they didn’t even notice him walk in. With his back against the closed door, McIvor smiled as he watched Kit banging out a rhythm to the ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’ jive number she loved so much. The lawyer could scarcely believe his eyes. How could the mouse of a girl he’d first met in his office play music like this? With her long dark hair tumbling free, she moved from the snare drum to the tom-toms, then back to scratching a rhythm on the snare before crashing the cymbals with wild abandon and very obvious pleasure. This was a Kit he had never seen before. Behind the poor little Irish girl lurked a veritable diva!
After playing and dancing along to the jive number, the girls were sweating with exertion as they came to a climatic conclusion.
‘Wonderful! Wonderful!’ cried Gladys as she flopped like a limp doll into one of the wooden pews. It was only then that she saw McIvor. Not recognizing him at first without his hat and wearing an open shirt, she was taken by surprise. Jumping to her feet, she cried, ‘Can I help?’
Smiling, Kit came hurrying forwards. ‘It’s my lawyer, Mr McIvor,’ she said as she shook his hand.
Rather embarrassed by the female musicians all curiously staring at him, he quickly said, ‘May we have a word in private, Catherine?’
As they walked along the now familiar moorland track, McIvor noticed how highly polished the shoes he’d bought her were and how they flattered her shapely ankles and strong calves.
As they settled on a wide wedge of a rock that gave a sweeping view of the sun-dappled landscape, across which a cool breeze blew from the high Pennine tops, Kit pushed her mass of long dark hair away from her eyes so she could peer into her lawyer’s face.
‘So tell me your news, sir,’ she said eagerly.
‘Ian,’ he said firmly.
Blushing, she said his name for the first time. ‘Er, all right, Ian it is, then.’
Liking the lilting way she pronounced his name, he smiled as he continued. ‘The papers have arrived from Mother Gabriel’s legal adviser, O’Rourke. I’ve sent them straight on to the handwriting specialist, but, whilst we’re waiting for the signature analysis, I was thinking we should use this time well. I’d like you to write down exactly what happened to you and Billy, Catherine.’
Kit’s eyes flew wide open. ‘WRITE!’ she cried.
‘You can write, can’t you?’ he asked politely.
Kit felt nettled; his direct question suggested she’d just come off the bog!
‘Of course, but I’m no writer!’ she exclaimed.
‘That’s not the point,’ he assured her. ‘I want to be able to present to Mother Gabriel and her legal adviser factual evidence. When we have proof and we know for sure that we’ve got a full-blown forgery case on our hands, the matter might be referred to the courts, which would require documented evidence.’
Kit nodded. ‘So what do you want to know? How I got caught with Billy?’ she asked with a blush.
‘We can leave that out,’ Ian quickly replied. ‘Include details such as when your father forced you to go to find work in England.’
Looking less panicked, Kit again nodded her head. ‘Like a diary?’
‘Exactly but keeps to the facts – when you arrived in England, when you left Manchester, when you moved to Pendleton and started at the Phoenix; also quote the letter your sister, Rosie, sent to you.’
‘The one when she warned me there was trouble brewing?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘And when you’ve finished it, post it to me and I’ll get my secretary to type it out; then I can refer to the document and quote times and dates, even if you’re not with me.’
Feeling stung that she might not accompany Ian on his next trip to Ireland, Kit turned her face away from his so he wouldn’t see the flush of disappointment on her cheeks. She didn’t turn quickly enough for Ian not to see it. To her astonishment he gently took hold of her chin in order to look at her face, which was once more partially hidden by strands of her long dark hair. Smiling, he stroked the strands off her solemn face, which he had an overwhelming urge to kiss. Thrilling to his touch, Kit felt her cheek burn where he’d touched it.
‘I was impressed by your playing back there by the way,’ he murmured. ‘You sounded very professional.’
Trying to hide her tumultuous feelings, she answered lightly, ‘We have to be, sir – Ian,’ she quickly corrected herself. ‘We’re playing in the Northern Swing Band Final next week, at the Stockport Palais. We’ll be up against some of the best bands in the area.’
‘I wish you luck, little drummer girl,’ he said as he held out his hand and helped her to her feet, then briefly held her in his arms before reluctantly letting her go.
As Kit returned home in an emotional daze, Ian drove away from the cowshed, thinking he would certainly check the details of the Swing Band Fina
l in the local paper – it was something he very much wanted to see!
24. Hopes and Fears
With the Bomb Girls’ Swing Band on their way to the final competition, the Phoenix munitions workers were keen to support ‘their lasses’.
‘We can’t close down the bloody factory just because they’re performing,’ Malc blustered to the girls gathered around Edna’s blue van one balmy summer’s evening, which was so soft and still nobody could face going to bed.
Edna took up her ‘managerial’ stance: standing arms akimbo, with her bright turban hardly covering her greying auburn curls, she eye-balled Malc. ‘Is it our fault that they want tickets for the event?’ she asked. ‘They’re our loyal supporters.’
‘That’s as may be, Edna,’ Malc insisted. ‘But they can’t all go gadding off; in fact very few of them can actually go, as, believe it or not, we have to keep knocking out bombs ’cos nobody’s mentioned to bleedin’ Hitler that there’s a swing band contest in Stockport!’
Irrepressible Edna burst into peals of laughter. ‘I bet if the bastard heard about it he’d want tickets too!’
Malc gave up arguing after Mr Featherstone requested two complimentary seats for himself and his wife, as near to the stage as possible.
‘Who does he think I am? Your agent?’ Malc seethed.
‘Stop fretting, cock,’ Edna soothed as she handed him a free bag of chips. ‘Get them down you and shut up moaning.’
