by Tania Crosse
She’d imagined the beloved faces of her parents and brother smiling down at her from the box Monsieur Clément had promised. But the joy of dancing this beautiful piece, knowing her family were in the audience, hadn’t happened. At least, not until several weeks later when physically she’d felt sufficiently recovered. But it hadn’t been the same. How could it be after what had happened? And even now, though her soul took wing when she was on stage, afterwards the elation was always tainted with bitterness and anger. She was beginning to wonder if she could ever be the same person again.
‘Shush, you lot!’ the café owner’s voice pierced her dark thoughts. ‘Sounds like there’s something important on the wireless.’
The babble of voices quickly died away as he turned up the volume on the radio behind the counter. The monotone flared across the tables, and everyone paused to listen. Faces slowly took on serious, shocked masks as the news unfurled, and silence hovered for some moments when the announcement was over.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Sean whispered when heads began to shake in disbelief. ‘Does it take something like this to make the Japs surrender?’
‘Surely they will now?’ someone else asked as low voices began to murmur softly again.
Cissie said nothing, but her head was spinning like a whirlpool. Would the world ever be the same after this? Would it end the war against Japan? What did the future hold for any of them?
Perhaps her own troubles weren’t so desperate, after all.
*
At Number Eight Banbury Street, the radio was turned off. In the kitchen, Jake was playing some popular tunes on his guitar, and Stan and Eva joined in as he sang. Happy and laughing together, they decided not to wait until Mildred came home from her shift and went straight to bed without turning the wireless on again.
While they slept peacefully in their beds, the entire world was shocked by the news.
Twenty-One
Saul Williams slung his rucksack on his shoulder and waited his turn to step down from the carriage compartment. Once on the busy station platform, he strode out, slipping past the other passengers and then aching with frustration when he had to queue to get through the barrier. There was no time to lose.
It was Saturday 11th August, and the expectation in the air was almost palpable. Saul imagined it must have been the same back at the beginning of May when it was known Hitler was dead, and the nation had been waiting with bated breath for Germany to surrender.
Saul had been in France, where the atmosphere had been different. To witness towns and villages that had been living under the terror of Gestapo reign for years suddenly liberated was joy itself. But that was immediate, freedom exploding only as Allied forces marched in, confirming that the hated retreating occupiers would not return. The citizens of France ran to cheer their liberators, hug them, kiss them. But London on this Saturday morning was holding its breath.
Everyone in Britain who hadn’t heard the radio announcement the previous Monday evening had woken the following morning to the news that the United States had dropped what was called an atomic bomb on the Japanese city of Hiroshima. Of huge military significance, the whole place had simply been wiped out in one massive explosion that had caused the very air to catch fire. There was virtually nothing left. The morning papers had featured photographs of a vast, mushroom-shaped cloud spiralling overhead, a tornado of death that nothing could escape.
This was the utter destruction Japan had been warned of in the Potsdam Declaration. Even though it had happened on the far side of the world, the news had been shocking, whatever you thought of the Japanese. But still they wouldn’t give in. It wasn’t until America had dropped a further A-bomb on Nagasaki three days later, and Russia had declared war on Japan the same day, that Japan had taken a further day of deliberation before it finally announced its intention to surrender under the terms of the Declaration.
Saul felt shot through with shame and sadness that his mother country had felt obliged to do this terrible thing in order to save further bloodshed. The same horror and guilt he had felt because a fellow American had perpetrated the heinous crime that he himself had been helpless to prevent. But at least it looked as if the inhuman act of destruction had achieved its aim and was bringing the global conflict to an end. There could be no good whatsoever in what Chuck Masters had done.
A horrible, cloying disgust still ate into Saul’s insides like a cancer. Even more so now that he’d learnt the poor girl had produced a child as a result, or so it seemed, and that she and her family had been driven from their home because of it. And now she had a name to make it seem even more real.
He was sure it was her. He could sense it deep inside his raw soul. He felt such a coward, and there was no way out of this hellish agony, except to carry out his plan. To allow his good Christian upbringing some atonement for his failings. Even then, it wasn’t a way out, just a way to let himself breathe when he’d been suffocating all this time. But it would still haunt him until the day he died.
But time was running out. There had been speculation among the ranks that if the Japs didn’t give in soon, America might want to pour more troops into the fray. That instead of being transported home from the US base where they were being held, they might be sent to the Far East to fight yet again.
As his comrades discussed the situation, Saul kept his thoughts to himself, letting his heart thump away in his chest as a cold sweat broke over him for the thousandth time. Now that Japan was about to surrender, he definitely wouldn’t be around here for much longer. He had to find her. Make recompense in whatever way he could. Not that he would ever feel unburdened.
He tapped the bulge in the breast pocket of his uniform. It was still there. Every goddammed English pound he’d been able to draw from his army pay. He measured his failure by its fatness as it grew, week by week.
Discovering her name had made her seem real, and he’d taken every darned pass he could to come to London in search of her. The scruffy, backstreet boarding house where he stayed had become a second home. The landlady, despite her curlers and slippers and the fag dripping from the corner of her red-painted lips, always kept for him all the newspapers she could lay her hands on. She wasn’t sure exactly why he wanted them, but he was a good customer, and he always paid up front.
‘Morning, Saul! You back again?’ she greeted him when he knocked on the front door. ‘Guessed yer might be coming, so I kept Room Four free for yer. All made up wiv clean sheets,’ she lied, since the bed had only been slept in for one night by a very clean young woman. No sense in making work for herself, but she’d changed the pillowcase as it smelt faintly of telltale perfume. ‘You drop yer fings upstairs, an’ I’ll have a cuppa waiting for yer in the dining room. An’ I’ll put out all the newspapers for yer, an’ all.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Saul answered politely as he loped up the stairs two at a time. He wasn’t a fool. The place was a dump, and the landlady wouldn’t have kept a room for him if she’d had the chance to let it. But it was cheap, and he didn’t have time to waste finding somewhere else. Besides which, the woman was useful, collecting so many newspapers for him. Newspapers and the odd theatre programme any of her other guests left in their rooms.
Five minutes later, he was working his way through the pile she’d accumulated for him over the past fortnight since his last visit. There were only two theatre programmes, flimsy things since paper was such a precious commodity. But both were from plays, which wouldn’t be of any help.
Onto the newspapers then. Saul’s broad chest fell in a deep sigh of frustration. They were all full of the two atomic bombs, plus speculation over Japan’s intention to surrender. And rightly so. This must be the most important and profound news of the twentieth century. But it didn’t help Saul. Nevertheless, he scoured every theatre-related column, searching for a dancer by the name of Cecily Cresswell. But it was hopeless. And what if she hadn’t gone back to dancing after having the baby? And even if she had, maybe she was just
some chorus girl who mightn’t even be named in a programme. But something drew Saul on as if a string was attached to his chest. There’d been something so special about the way she’d moved, visible for just those flickering seconds of moonlight. She was no chorus dancer, he was sure.
He leant back from the table and stretched his long arms out towards the ceiling. He’d have to resume his search of the London theatres, buying any programmes he didn’t already have. He had an old map of London, and had been systematically working his way through the streets, marking off every theatre he’d been to and noting it down on a sheet of paper. He’d covered all of central London, so now he’d need to cast the net wider, but in which direction? He really didn’t know.
And this could be his last chance. They could be leaving the base any day, transported by train to one of Britain’s ports, maybe back down to Plymouth where they’d arrived, and onto a troop ship bound for home. Leaving a festering sore in Saul’s heart forever.
Oh, well, he might as well go through the last of the papers before he set out on his mission. The landlady had, as always, made a surprisingly neat pile as she collected them, so that they were in reverse date order. Now Saul was working his way backwards over a week previously, but he was beginning to lose heart and started flipping over the scanty editions with just a cursory glance. Was it really worth the effort? It was beginning to seem pretty pointless.
He transferred the next thin newspaper into the ‘read’ pile almost without looking at it. And then a flush of heat washed down through him like boiling water in his veins. Had something jumped out in the subconscious part of his mind, his brain latching onto some familiar words among a whole jumble of print?
His big, strong hand shook as he retrieved the paper, the pupils of his mahogany eyes flaring wide, making it difficult to focus. But there it was, leaping out at him from a sea of wavering letters. Her name. Cecily Cresswell.
He gulped. Blinked. His whole body trembling and his stomach suddenly turning vicious somersaults. He must be mistaken. It wasn’t possible. But there it was. In black and white.
His eyes shifted to the beginning of the short article, quickly scanning the lines. The Romaine Theatre Company opens its run at prestigious Wimbledon Theatre with a triumphant variety show. Wimbledon? Jeez, where the darnation was that? He’d never heard of it. But he could soon find out!
He was breathing hard, forcing himself to concentrate. The short piece mentioned a couple of singers – apparently well known, though their names meant nothing to Saul – a comedian, and a wonderful chorus of singers and dancers. However, the journalist concluded that the highlights of the evening were the two enchanting pas de deux by the company’s leading dance principals, Sean O’Leary and Cecily Cresswell. One was in a more modern style, being an interpretation of Gershwin’s ‘Rhapsody in Blue’, while the other was a classical ballet to Wagner’s Overture to Tristan and Isolde. The two differing pieces displayed the extreme versatility of these two accomplished and talented artistes.
Below the article was a telephone number for the theatre’s box office, and here Saul’s mind came to a stunned standstill. He continued to stare at the paper, but the print had blurred into an indecipherable haze of hieroglyphics. For a good minute, not a muscle in his body moved as he waited for the tumble of crazed thoughts in his head to land into some sort of order.
Was he completely mad? Wouldn’t the best thing be to walk away from the whole sorry affair? He could go back to the States and forget it ever happened. But could he live with himself for the rest of his days, knowing that he could have at least apologised to her for being unable to stop it? The pain of his guilt would grind him down to nothing if he let the opportunity slip through his fingers now.
Of course, what if he was wrong? What if it wasn’t her, after all? In a way, he hoped it wasn’t. But if it was… Jeez, he felt as if his heart was being torn in two. What if her memories of what had happened that night were blurred, and she accused him of being the… the… He couldn’t even bring himself to think the word. The baby, if it had been conceived that night, couldn’t be his, of course. The girl he’d met had said it was white. But what if Cecily Cresswell had been so confused – after all, she’d looked virtually unconscious – that she believed he’d assaulted her as well? Then he’d be hanged. Chuck was right. No one would believe the protestations of a black GI. But death would be less cruel than the torture he was living, day in, day out.
There was only one thing he could do. He turned his back on the sensible side of his brain and, in a blind, unseeing fog, ripped the article from the thin sheet of paper and blundered out to the front door. Where was the nearest telephone box? If there weren’t any tickets left for that evening’s performance, he’d go anyway. Wait by the stage door and find out if it really was her.
And then what?
At that moment, Saul didn’t know. But what he did know was that if he did nothing, he’d hate himself forever.
Twenty-Two
Mildred hummed softly to herself as she turned into Banbury Street and let her bike slow to a halt as she freewheeled across to Number Eight. The shift pattern had changed during that momentous week, and she was on earlies again. She’d finished at two o’clock on that Saturday afternoon. The sky was grey and overcast, and it was decidedly chilly for early August, but at least it wasn’t raining. And something bright and sunny was singing in Mildred’s head. It was unexpected, but it was warm and happy, and filled her with a deep inner contentment she hadn’t felt in a while.
She let herself inside Number Eight, propping her bike in its habitual place against the wall in the hallway.
‘I’m home!’ she grinned, popping her head round the door to the kitchen. ‘And how’s me little banker brother?’ she asked in a light, teasing tone as she bounced into the room.
Jake glanced up from poring over the books he had spread out on the far end of the table. ‘I’m never going to be a banker proper. And I haven’t even started working at the bank yet, as well you know,’ he chided playfully. ‘But Rob’s lent me these books so I can get an idea before I start.’
‘Always knew me second clever son could make something more of himself,’ Eva declared, shuffling in from the scullery in her slippers.
‘Gonna knock a football around in the park later, though, ain’t you? With your mates from Price’s?’ Stan said, emerging from behind his depleted newspaper. ‘Gonna be great when we can go and watch some decent football matches again soon, ain’t it?’
‘Will you be back in time for tea, love?’ Eva asked.
‘Er, no, probably not, Mum. Not sure what we’ll end up doing afterwards.’
‘OK, love. Only gonna be bread and cheese and a bit of pickle, anyway.’
A frown twitched on Mildred’s forehead. Sounded to her as if Jake was being a bit evasive. She was going to need to be economical with the truth herself in a minute but couldn’t quite summon the courage just yet.
‘Where’s Primrose?’ she asked instead.
‘Upstairs, going through her clothes, deciding what to wear for her interview on Monday. Not that she ain’t got much to choose from. But if she wants this job in the womenswear department, she needs to look her best.’
‘Flaming lucky Charlie Boy Braithwaite got her the interview before he and his missis go off to Africa,’ Stan chipped in.
‘Yeah, I know. Must be feeling brave, even if it is to see their daughter.’ Mildred nodded hard. ‘Still a bit scary, mind, if you ask me. But I liked Jessica. What I remember of her, anyway.’
‘Yeah, nice kid,’ Eva agreed. ‘You ready for a cuppa, then, Mill? Or d’you want to change out your uniform first?’
‘I’ll change first, Mum. Only…’ She paused just for a second, letting the warm flush wash through her. ‘I mightn’t be in for tea, neither. You know I mentioned me new driver? Chap called Oscar?’
‘Yeah, and you was none too happy about him, neither.’
‘Well, he’s OK really.’ Mildre
d tried to act casually. ‘He looks after his invalid mum and his little sister. He said he’s got some things to do this afternoon. But, after that, we’ll both be at a loose end, so we’re meeting up later. Maybe going for a drink or something. Can’t be late, though, being on earlies. Even if Sundays ain’t as early as weekdays.’
She prayed the pink spot she could feel in each cheek wasn’t too visible but watched as her parents exchanged glances. She forced a chuckle as she tried to throw off the awkward moment.
‘We’re just friends,’ she protested with a laugh she hoped sounded natural, and to save herself any further embarrassment, turned swiftly out of the room.
Yeah, that’s all they were. Friends, she told herself firmly as she danced up the stairs. Oscar was bloody attractive, but he was also kind, intelligent and had a wonderful way of reasoning things out that she liked. A bit like her elder brother, Kit, who had the ability to see all sides to a situation and then rationalise them. She recognised the same quality in Oscar, and she had to admit, she found it rather appealing. So when he’d asked her if she fancied doing something with him later on, she’d jumped at the chance.
Primrose was standing in front of the old, mottled mirror when Mildred went into the bedroom they now shared. Her youngest sister was twisting this way and that in order to contemplate her reflection from all angles. Cor, she didn’t half look like their mum, Mildred considered. Even more so than Gert, herself and Trudy, who all took after Eva. Frizzy, auburn hair, scattering of freckles on her round face, slim at the moment but with wide hips she’d doubtless grow into, and broad, stocky shoulders. Rationing had slimmed their mum down, but she was still plump, with a generous bosom. At fourteen, Primrose’s chest was only just starting to gain womanly curves, but she’d no doubt be well endowed, too, when she was older.
‘What d’you reckon?’ she asked Mildred now, smoothing her hands over the navy serge skirt that hugged her hips. ‘It’s me old school uniform, and it’s getting a bit tight.’
