The Bomb Girls' Secrets

by Daisy Styles

  ‘You mean I’m going to see my Billy!’

  ‘More than that, darling, you’ll be bringing your baby home!’ Ian told her, his eyes shining with love and excitement.

  Delirious with joy, she buried her face against his warm chest. She hadn’t dared to hope this day would come. But in her hands she held the tickets that would take her back to Ireland, where she would finally claim her son, whom she would NEVER be parted from again. Feeling like she would weep if she moved, Kit stayed pressed against Ian’s chest.

  ‘It’s just too much to take in,’ she whispered.

  ‘Will you look at those two love birds!’ Maggie said to Nora as she spotted Ian and Kit clutched in each other’s arms.

  ‘Shhh! Leave them be,’ Myrtle chided the tittering girls. ‘There’s little enough joy in an Anderson shelter but those two young things seem to have found it.’

  The sound of planes approaching stopped all chatter and laughter. The occupants of the shelter collectively held their breath as the German bombers came closer and closer. Tense, expectant and fearful, they waited in the enclosed space.

  ‘Are they ’eading for Manchester, Liverpool or ’ere?’ an old man puffing on his pipe asked, voicing everybody’s terrified thoughts.

  Gripping Arthur’s hand hard, Violet began to panic: if a bomb went off, they might be incarcerated in the shelter, squashed together, unable to breathe, crawling over each other to escape. She’d always suffered from acute claustrophobia, but this was a cloying fear that made her want to hit out and scream. Feeling the sweat pouring out of her, Arthur whispered in her ear, ‘Deep breaths, Vi, come on now, my sweetheart, it’ll be over soon.’

  Hearing his steady voice and doing as she was told, taking deep long breaths, Violet began to calm down. As the planes passed directly overhead and the noise of their mighty engines receded, she let out a deep shuddering sigh. ‘Thank Christ for that!’ she murmured and then immediately felt guilty.

  She was relieved to be alive whilst others hiding in an Anderson shelter less than ten miles away might be the Luftwaffe’s target that night.

  ‘God help them,’ she prayed.

  When the all-clear siren sounded, people rose, and like sleep-walkers, they shuffled out of the shelter bearing babies and yawning children in their arms – one old lady even carried a tweeting canary home!

  ‘Are we really going back to the ballroom?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘Course we are!’ Edna replied. ‘The show’s not over till the fat lady sings!’ she chuckled.

  ‘Move along now,’ the warden barked, prodding Ian and Kit, who were the last people to leave the shelter. ‘Let’s be having you.’

  Holding hands, they walked out into the dark starry night, then ran down the deserted street to the ballroom, where fate would decide the Bomb Girls’ destiny.

  Back in the dance-hall, the manager addressed the reassembled audience as if nothing had happened at all. ‘It’s the Stockport Stompers’ Jive Band!’

  In the wings the Bomb Girls, bleary-eyed with the long wait and the tense hour spent in the Anderson shelter, waited whilst the third, fourth and fifth bands played. Then finally the last band, from Carlisle, took to the stage.

  ‘Well, so far none of the bands got the reaction that you got,’ Edna said excitedly.

  Gladys held up her hands to show her crossed fingers. ‘Let’s hope it stays that way!’

  The Carlisle band came off-stage to a rousing applause.

  ‘They were the best so far,’ Kit said fearfully.

  ‘Due to unforeseen circumstances and the lateness of the hour,’ the manager called out, ‘we’ll skip the break.’ He turned to the judges, who were seated at a table close to the stage. ‘Have you made your decision?’

  One of the judges handed him a slip of paper.

  ‘Gather round boys and girls,’ the manager called excitedly. ‘As you know, only one band will go forward to the event to be held in the autumn. The winning band will play at the Savoy Hotel in London alongside no less than Joe Loss and his band.’

  Impressed, the audience clapped and cheered.

  ‘If he doesn’t put me out of my misery soon I swear I’ll be sick,’ Maggie threatened.

  ‘Shhh!’ Edna hissed.

  ‘The winning band are …’ He smiled as he dragged out the painful seconds. ‘The all-girls’ band from the Phoenix factory in Pendleton –’

  But he got no further – the ecstatic audience took over from him. ‘THE BOMB GIRLS! THE BOMB GIRLS! THE BOMB GIRLS!’ they cried as they stamped their feet and wolf-whistled.

  Ushering the delighted girls on to the stage, the manager muttered, ‘Get out there quickly – before they bring the bloody roof down.’

  One by one Gladys, Kit, Violet, Myrtle, Nora and Maggie ran on to the stage, where they smiled and waved as they drank in the applause.

  ‘SING! SING!’ the audience demanded. ‘AGAIN!’ they roared.

  As they turned to pick up their instruments, Violet stopped dead in her tracks. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a man whose thick black hair was slicked back with Brylcreem, the way Ronnie used to wear it. Blowing into her clarinet, Violet briskly dismissed her ghoulish fears.

  ‘The man’s dead! Stop being ridiculous.’

  Settling the mouthpiece on her lips, Violet nervously waited for Gladys to give them their cue. As she did so, she caught sight of Arthur, who, feeling her tension, grinned broadly as he gave her a thumbs-up sign.

  ‘I love you,’ he mouthed.

  Violet smiled back as Gladys called, ‘OKAY!’ and counted in the beats to the song.

  As Myrtle played the introductory chords and Gladys came in on the alto sax, the dark-haired man stepped forward, and even in the half-light he had the stocky familiar look of Ronnie. Feeling distinctly spooked but dismissing the idea, Violet ran her long slim fingers along the valves, then stopped with a sharp squeak as the man walked purposefully towards the stage. He came nearer and nearer, and finally there was absolutely no doubting who he was. As her blood ran cold with terror, Violet gasped. How on earth had he survived that bombing raid? And how had he found her, how had he tracked her down?

  With the clarinet dangling limply from her hand, Violet felt like all the air in her body had been sucked away; her bones turned to jelly and she began to tremble uncontrollably as she stared into Ronnie’s face, which was suffused with fury. As her band mates, still playing the encore, turned to her in bewilderment, Violet’s legs gave way and she grabbed hold of Gladys, crying out, ‘It’s HIM!’

  Following her gaze, Gladys’s eyes landed on a man directly in front of the stage. He was glowering with a mixture of malice and hatred at Violet, who was crouching in terror. Scared by the anger in his eyes, Gladys stood protectively in front of her friend.

  ‘Who is he?’ she asked.

  Almost collapsing, Violet whispered, ‘Ronnie … my husband!’

  26. Stage Fright

  Ronnie had had a satisfactory day in Stockport. He’d bought and sold contraband goods from Larry, his black market agent in the North-west, and was planning on returning to Coventry to treat his new girlfriend to a pair of nylons and a bottle of gin. Olive would do anything he asked after such a wealth of gifts, and he had plans in mind for the little brunette he’d picked up months ago in Wolverhampton. He couldn’t imagine how he’d put up with snivelling Violet for so long; she certainly had never been fun, in or out of bed. It offended his pride that she’d been the one who’d chosen to leave; he was the man of the house, and he made the decisions for both of them. After she buggered off, he told anybody who asked she’d been conscripted, possibly the first true thing he’d said in years!

  Ronnie considered himself a lucky man in more ways than one. By a miracle he’d survived the air attack which had wiped out the whole of Sawley Avenue. The newspapers reported that all the residents had been killed in their beds, something he was thrilled to read. Having run into trouble with a black market operator who was on the rampage
for Ronnie, who’d been working his territory, Ronnie was in big trouble. He had no intention of enlightening anybody that in fact he wasn’t dead; being dead was a great convenience and prevented him from having his throat slit by his enemy. He’d gone underground for a while and resurfaced in the Manchester area, where he didn’t risk being murdered every time he stepped out in public.

  He’d been delayed in Stockport by the air-raid warning, and when they’d heard the all-clear Larry had suggested they should pop into the Palais for a pint before Ronnie drove back to Coventry. At first they stuck to the bar, but as the cheering crowd drowned out all conversation they were drawn to the ballroom, where Ronnie had got the biggest shock of his life. Standing on the stage was his wife! But not as he’d ever seen her before: Violet’s long silky silver-blonde hair tumbled around her vibrantly happy face as she played the clarinet beside a line of women all dressed in white overalls. Swaying their hips and moving in unison, they vamped to ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’. Up until that moment Ronnie hadn’t cared whether Violet lived or died, but when he saw her looking so desirable and staring dewy eyed at a man sitting at a table opposite the stage his blood had boiled.

  Rendered almost hysterical by the sight of her vengeful husband, Violet tried to scuttle off the stage, but was intercepted by Kit and Gladys.

  ‘What is it, Vi?’ Kit said as she crouched low on the ground, where she held on to her friend.

  ‘God help me! Oh, please God help me!’ Violet sobbed.

  Then everything happened at once. Arthur came forward just as Ronnie leapt on to the stage, where he violently yanked Violet to her feet.

  ‘Never thought I’d find you here, sweetheart,’ he snarled. ‘Not with all these tarts.’

  He turned to sneer at Gladys, Kit, Nora and Maggie, who were wide-eyed with shock. Not so Myrtle.

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ she cried indignantly.

  ‘Come along, darlin’, I’m taking you home,’ Ronnie said in a voice thick with fury.

  Almost fainting in terror, Violet begged and pleaded. ‘No, no, please, no!’

  At which point Arthur came forward. ‘Let her go!’

  Still grasping Violet in a grip of iron, Ronnie turned to Arthur. ‘Who the hell are YOU?’

  Arthur simply repeated himself but this time with more menace. ‘LET HER GO.’

  ‘The bitch is my wife,’ Ronnie leered. ‘She ran away last winter, thought she’d got rid of me.’ He broke into a mocking laugh.

  Arthur gazed down at Violet, who had tears pouring down her face.

  ‘It’s true, Arthur, I ran away,’ she muttered so quietly only he could hear.

  Arthur knelt to wipe away her tears. ‘Let’s talk about that later,’ he murmured. ‘Right now I just want to get you out of here.’

  ‘She’s going nowhere with you, mate, she’s coming home with me,’ Ronnie snarled.

  Knowing that Ronnie always carried a flick knife, sometimes even a gun, Violet, desperate to warn Arthur off, said, ‘He’ll hurt you too, pleeeease go,’ she implored.

  ‘The lady’s right, pal. I’ll break every bone in your body if you’ve been knocking up my wife.’

  ‘You just try!’ Arthur said as he confronted Ronnie with his fists clenched.

  Seeing a fight brewing, the manager appeared on the stage.

  ‘Break it up, break it up, gentlemen,’ he cried as he got between the two men, who looked ready to kill each other. ‘I suggest you take your wife home, sir,’ he said to Ronnie.

  ‘That’s where she belongs!’ Ronnie sneered as he jumped off the stage, dragging Violet behind him. With a look of utter helplessness in her eyes, Violet was hauled across the ballroom floor, then pushed out of the nearest exit. The second the door swung shut on them Ian McIvor rushed forward.

  ‘Follow them!’ he cried.

  Arthur bolted towards the door, but Edna stopped him. ‘No, Arthur – he’ll recognize you.’ She turned to Ian. ‘You follow them: he never saw you.’

  Without wasting a second Ian ran out of the door, followed by Kit.

  ‘Where are they … which way did they go?’ Ian gasped once they were out in the sharp night air.

  Little Kit darted into the street, where she quickly looked both ways.

  ‘They’re getting into a car, down on the right,’ she cried.

  Ian jumped into the driver’s seat of his car.

  ‘Get in, Catherine, and keep down,’ he cried urgently as he started the engine. ‘We’re done for if he recognizes those damn white overalls.’

  Crouched in the narrow footwell, Kit held her breath as Ian swung out on to the main road.

  ‘Can you see them?’ she gasped.

  ‘I can see them: he’s driving a big Bentley,’ Ian replied. ‘I’m going to slow down.’

  ‘WHY?’ she yelled in alarm.

  ‘I need to put another car between me and him so that he doesn’t think I’m tailing him.’

  When he’d successfully accomplished the manoeuvre, Ian let out a tense sigh as he settled back in his seat.

  ‘He’s going at quite a lick,’ he told Kit as he upped gears.

  ‘For the love of God, don’t lose sight of him,’ Kit implored from the footwell.

  Back at Stockport Palais, the audience had been swiftly ushered out of the ballroom by the manager and his attendants, leaving the Bomb Girls, Edna and Arthur on the stage. Seeing that they were in a state of deep shock, the manager took a brandy bottle and several glasses from behind the bar. After giving each of them a double shot, he suggested they too packed up and went home.

  ‘You can’t stay here all bloody night,’ he told them firmly.

  Arthur, who was as white as a sheet, couldn’t even begin to think straight. WHY? WHY? WHY had she never told him? Nothing in the world would ever stop him from loving her. Why couldn’t she have trusted him with the truth? Everything about her neurotic behaviour when she’d started at the Phoenix suddenly became clear. She was a woman on the run from her husband – she was living in terror. Seeing the tears in his eyes, Gladys approached Arthur.

  ‘Why didn’t she take us into her confidence?’ she asked him.

  ‘I’m asking myself the same question,’ he answered weakly. ‘If I’d known, I could have protected her; instead’ – his voice choked – ‘she’s out there somewhere with that, that – animal!’

  ‘She must have run away from him,’ Gladys mused. ‘She was a complete bag of nerves when I first met her.’ She gulped back tears that were threatening to overwhelm her. ‘What do you think he’ll do to her?’ she whispered.

  Arthur gripped his hands so tight the knuckles of his hands showed white. ‘Oh, God, help my poor girl,’ he said in an agony of pain. ‘How’s she going to fight off a brute like him?’

  Fearful for Violet’s life, Gladys asked, ‘Shouldn’t we call the police?’

  ‘That would ruin Kit and Ian’s chances of tailing Violet,’ Myrtle answered sharply. ‘For the moment they’re our only hope.’

  Looking frightened, Edna said thoughtfully, ‘I’m not sure the police can interfere in a domestic dispute like this one.’

  As the Bomb Girls stared at each other in anguished disbelief, Myrtle added, ‘If Mr McIvor manages to successfully follow Violet’s wretched husband, we’ll soon know where she’s been taken.’

  As Edna and the girls nodded dumbly, Myrtle, determined to instil in them a shred of hope, continued, ‘We can only assume that Mr McIvor will be in touch as soon as he has anything to report.’

  Struck by her words, Edna was suddenly seized by a burst of activity. ‘Then we’d better get back home right away, just in case they call,’ she announced as she started to collect up scattered sheet music and instruments. ‘Ian has my number – he’s used it in the past. Come along now, let’s get everybody back to the Phoenix.’

  Arthur bit back tears as he placed Violet’s silver clarinet in its battered old leather case. He ran his fingers tenderly along the name she’d proudly written on it as a young girl: VI
OLET MARY MARSDEN. FORM 5. COVENTRY GRAMMAR SCHOOL.

  ‘Darling girl,’ he said as he snapped the clips down, then walked out of the ballroom, which he prayed as long as he lived he would never see again.

  After Edna had deposited the sad and weary girls at the Phoenix, she turned to hollow-eyed Arthur.

  ‘I’m going to my shop, where I pray I’ll get a phone call from Ian sometime soon,’ she told him.

  ‘May I join you, Edna?’

  ‘Of course you can, lovie,’ she replied.

  As Nora and Maggie hurried back to their digs, they exchanged their chaotic thoughts.

  ‘Who would ever have thought it – Violet married!’

  ‘Maybe that’s why she ran away, ’cos of the way he treated her.’

  ‘Why didn’t Arthur tackle him?’ Maggie murmured. ‘He’s been in the army – he can fight his way out of trouble.’

  ‘He can’t go beating up Violet’s husband,’ Nora protested. ‘She’s his wife, so legally Violet belongs to him.’

  Maggie shuddered. ‘Sweet Jesus! That’s nothing less than a death sentence.’

  Clutching her own and Violet’s instrument case, Gladys returned to the cowshed alone. After closing the front door, she slumped on to the old sofa, where she removed Violet’s clarinet from its casing, and, putting the mouthpiece to her lips, she played a few notes, which reduced her to tears.

  ‘Oh, Violet! Violet!’ she sobbed as she buried her face in the sofa.

  Who could ever have imagined that the much longed for final would turn into a nightmare?

  In the back room of the chip shop, Arthur and Edna took it in turns to man the phone for what remained of the rest of that long dark night.

  As dawn broke over the moors where the curlews called, Edna wearily brewed a pot of tea.

  ‘Oh, God …’ she sighed, too tired to think straight. ‘I can’t even remember the town where Violet said she came from.’

  ‘Coventry,’ Arthur reminded her.

  ‘Coventry …’ Edna checked the clock ticking away on her mantelpiece. ‘They’ve been gone eight hours – they must be there by now.’