Ellie

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘What happens when you have to choose between your career and Charley?’ Brenda asked. ‘Do you really believe you can have both?’

  Ellie frowned. This was a question never far from her mind and she had no answer to it. ‘I’ll think about that when the time comes.’

  ‘Spoken like a real trouper.’ Brenda smacked Ellie’s bottom playfully. ‘Now are you going to give me a hand out there for a while, or is the star too big for that now?’

  ‘Of course I’m not,’ Ellie grinned. ‘Let’s go and see what Jimbo’s managed to get in the way of booze tonight.’

  Alcohol was scarce everywhere now, and most of the pubs had signs up saying ‘No Whisky. No Gin. No Brandy.’ There was talk of ‘bathtub’ gin being made in secret, even cases of people being poisoned by home-made ‘hooch’, but Jimbo’s supplies of the real stuff never ran out completely. But then anything was available to those with the right contacts and the Blue Moon continued to be the black marketeers’ favourite watering hole.

  Ellie was behind the bar polishing glasses as the first customers came trickling in. Brenda and the other two waitresses made their way over to the tables to take orders and as Cyril the barman had slipped out for a moment, leaving her in charge, Ellie turned her attentions to Jimbo and his companion, drinking at the bar.

  In the past year Ellie’s already keen powers of observation had become even sharper. She didn’t even need to speak to people to weigh up their character – the way they spoke, moved or their facial expressions told her so much. The club was a never-ending source of material. She’d seen the whole spectrum of human behaviour here, both good and bad, from the courageous pilots out for a drink before what might be their last mission, to married women having a fling while their husbands were away, and the rats who had made a fortune out of war.

  Jimbo was talking to one of these now, a shifty-eyed character who called himself the Doc. Like Jimbo, his suit was hand-tailored, his hands well-manicured. He had a pale, foxy face and Ellie guessed he got his nickname because he could fix anything.

  She moved closer to the men, wiping down the shelves at the back of the bar. Although her back was to them she was well within earshot.

  ‘It’s a wizard prang,’ the Doc said, using the RAF slang which he foolishly thought made people believe he was out of the top drawer. He often forgot himself when he’d had a few drinks and lapsed into pure Whitechapel, which she guessed was where he really came from. ‘We buy the name and licence of a club out in the suburbs. There’s dozens going begging for around a grand, then we sell it on to someone else in the West End for three or four times as much.’

  ‘The police will soon clamp down on that,’ Jimbo said disparagingly. ‘I’m not risking my money.’

  ‘There’s no risk, not even any outlay,’ Doc retorted, taking a cigarette out of a flashy silver case. ‘It’s perfectly legitimate. There’s dozens of premises perfect for clubs in the West End, men out there with the readies to buy in, the only hitch is getting a licence. I know a lawyer who’ll cover our traces. You want to get your hands on a theatre, don’t you? It couldn’t fail now the war’s nearly over and all the boys coming home. But that takes big money, Jimbo! How else you gonna get it?’

  Ellie was called away at that point but as she turned she could see from Jimbo’s face that he was more than tempted.

  It was easy to feel nothing but contempt for these men who grew rich wheeling and dealing while men like Charley risked their lives nightly for a pittance. But on the other hand Ellie felt a surge of excitement at what it could mean for her if Jimbo joined this man.

  Singing in a seedy club wasn’t going to get her very far: her voice was good, but not exceptional. Ellie knew her real talent lay in musical comedy. The problem was getting the chance to prove it.

  ‘Have I told you the one about the actress and the camel?’ Jimbo asked the audience.

  The club was packed to capacity. Candle-light created a soft, intimate atmosphere, concealing the shabbiness of nicotine-stained plaster, and cigar smoke masked the musty, damp smell. A lone spotlight played on Jimbo. In his impeccably cut dinner-jacket, starched dress-shirt and bow-tie he looked debonair and almost handsome.

  Brenda moved closer to Ellie. ‘Yes, five million times,’ she whispered.

  Ellie grinned. They were both taking advantage of Jimbo’s act to sneak a quick drink at the bar. They knew once he’d told his favourite long-winded joke he would launch into his parody of Hitler, which wasn’t side-splitting either. But the audience were jovial tonight: a group of Canadian airmen, all with various war injuries, had come in earlier determined to make their last night in London memorable. One of them had insisted on buying drinks all round and now the atmosphere was more of a private party than a club.

  ‘You’d better give them something special tonight,’ Brenda said. ‘Got anything up your sleeve?’

  Ellie made a show of peering up it. ‘Only a damp armpit,’ she said with a dead-pan face. She had already planned to deviate from her usual routine. The crowd were receptive and she had no wish to sing sad songs with all those boys sitting there with arms in slings, patches on eyes and crutches propped up against their chairs. They needed to laugh and put aside memories of their comrades who didn’t make it back from France.

  Roy and his band had been primed earlier when Jimbo wasn’t watching. They’d even moved the first row of tables back a couple of feet from the stage to give Ellie more room. Jimbo liked her to sing like Vera Lynn, but Ellie’s forte wasn’t crooning, and tonight she intended to show them what was.

  Jumbo Jameson was sitting at the bar when Roy struck up the opening chords of ‘I’m Gonna Get Lit Up’. Jimbo frowned, turning on his stool to look towards the stage. He had told Ellie to sing sentimental songs tonight and there she was disobeying him.

  ‘Whisky,’ he snapped at Cyril, irritated to see even his barman had stopped working to listen.

  Cyril jumped to it. He was nearly sixty and he wanted to keep his job when the war was over. ‘You had ’em creased up tonight,’ he said in the oily voice he kept specially for his employer. He poured a generous measure of whisky and passed it over. ‘Our Ellie’s gonna knock ’em dead too, by the looks.’

  Jimbo downed the glass in one gulp. He was a troubled man, unsure of which way to turn next, and whisky was the only thing that took the edge off his anxiety.

  When he was honest with himself he knew he was burned out as an entertainer. His jokes were stale, his impersonations tired and dull. The club was making money, but he knew that once the war was over new ones would sprout up like mushrooms, taking away his trade.

  As the whisky scorched its way down to his stomach, he found he was warming to the Doc’s suggestion. If history repeated itself, the post-war period would be boom time. People would want to dress up again, to see a bit of glamour. He could picture himself running a theatre. Show girls in spectacular costumes, comedians, singers and novelty acts, a slick, fast-moving variety show. With money behind him he could get a decent producer and flashing neon signs ten feet high, pack the crowds in and make himself a fortune.

  Jimbo stood up as wild applause broke out, nudging his way through the crowd to find a corner to watch Ellie. Cyril was right, she was knocking them dead – but what on earth was she doing telling jokes instead of singing?

  Jimbo had been so immersed in his private thoughts that he’d missed the point of the joke. It seemed to be something about a nurse, a wounded soldier and a bedpan, and to his amazement everyone was roaring with laughter, especially the Canadians up front.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d been surprised by this bit of a kid. Her ability to hold an audience, the way she responded to them, and her stamina had stunned him more than once. But it was her determination which had endeared her to him above all else. The way she’d turned up night after night, even when her aunt was injured. Her stoicism when he found other singers and pushed her back as a waitress. Even when she found a boyfriend she didn’t let that i
nterfere with her work. Night by night her performance had improved, and if he was totally honest he’d be lost without her now.

  But as Ellie launched into ‘My Baby Just Cares for Me’, Jimbo got a jolt down his spine. She had stepped down from the stage and she was out amongst the wounded Canadians, doing the most erotic shimmy he’d seen in years. She was sending up all those ‘sweet young things’ who normally chose this number, making the men laugh as she perched on laps, ruffling their hair. At one point she even stole an airman’s cap and held it over her heart.

  Jimbo wasn’t in the habit of watching her do more than one number, but now he was rooted to the spot, aware he had underestimated her ability. The numbers she was doing now were old music hall ones, but she was giving them a whole new humorous slant and the punters were captivated not only by her voice, but her dancing too.

  It was the laughter and the movement which suddenly brought home to Jimbo just how gorgeous she really was. Singing by the piano she was just another pretty girl with a nice voice; seen moving, she was captivating. Dark eyes flashing, that wide full mouth so expressive and delectable. As for her body …

  Strange he’d never noticed it before. He’d always thought of her as skinny. Now as she moved he saw the womanly curves, legs as long as any Ziegfeld girl. Another year or so and she’d be a show-stopper.

  All at once Jimbo knew he was going to join the Doc in his scam. He’d make a pile, get a theatre and launch Ellie as his protégée.

  ‘You want to take me out to dinner?’ Ellie repeated Jimbo’s invitation, thinking perhaps she’d misunderstood him.

  ‘Yes, dinner.’ Jimbo smiled at her surprise. ‘It’s impossible to have a serious talk here. I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow and take you to Maxim’s grill.’

  When Jimbo called her over after her performance she’d thought he was going to tell her off. But instead he not only complimented her, but asked solicitous questions about Marleen and seemed pleased to hear she had progressed to sitting in a wheelchair. He was almost fatherly, which was very odd for a man who normally barked out orders. And now this invitation.

  Ellie was flattered that her performance had created such unexpected interest in her, but she wasn’t sure Charley would approve of her accepting such an invitation. ‘I haven’t got anything to wear,’ she said, blushing with embarrassment.

  If Ellie looked well dressed and even glamorous to the other girls at the club, it was because she payed close attention to grooming. No one noticed that she came in nightly wearing the same plain wool skirt and blouse, because they were well pressed, her hair always gleaming, her one pair of shoes polished. Jimbo had supplied the red dress she wore to sing in and although it looked good in dim lighting, it didn’t bear close inspection. Everything else she owned was second-hand, perked up by a bit of new trimming or by careful alteration, but not smart enough to wear to a posh place like Maxim’s. Even the green dress Annie had given her was looking a little shabby now.

  Jimbo’s wife always claimed she had ‘nothing to wear’ when in fact she had more dresses than Marshall and Snelgrove. Jimbo didn’t think this was the case with Ellie, though: she was too innocent to consider playing up to a man for a hand-out. ‘There’s a dress that should fit you in my office,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and get it.’

  While Jimbo was gone, Ellie hastily consulted Brenda. The club was slowly emptying now, as transport for the Canadians arrived to take them to their hotel.

  Brenda took a slug of gin as she listened to Ellie’s hasty explanation. ‘I don’t think he’s after your body,’ she said drily. ‘If nothing else, he’s faithful to his wife. But he’s a snake, Ellie, he never does anything for nothing. Just remember that, whatever you decide.’

  ‘Some help you are,’ Ellie laughed, but Brenda’s words chilled her. ‘What would you do?’

  ‘With your talent and ambition, I’d go.’ Brenda shrugged her shoulders. ‘He’s obviously got some scheme in mind and you might as well hear him out. Just be careful, that’s all.’

  Jimbo came back with the dress over his arm. ‘Any good?’ he asked, holding it up for her to see.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she said weakly. It was black, the sort of dress any girl would die for, plain but sophisticated and clearly expensive. She held it up to herself and looked in a mirror. Even without trying it on she knew it would fit. Soft wool crêpe, with a high neckline and long sleeves, the slim skirt softened by stylish drapery over one hip.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Ellie asked, wondering whose it was and whether he meant her to keep it.

  ‘Quite sure.’ Jimbo smiled at her awed expression. He’d got the dress for his wife through one of his contacts, but she didn’t need it. ‘That’s settled then. I’ll call at seven.’

  A light dusting of snow had fallen during the evening and it was bitterly cold. Ellie shivered as she let herself into the kitchen. The fire had gone out hours ago and she guessed Annie had gone to bed early.

  Now she was home, seeing Charley’s best shoes tucked under the dresser and his white newly ironed shirt hanging on the clothes-horse, she suddenly felt guilty. He wouldn’t like this arrangement one bit and he would see the black dress as a sinister inducement. Should she say Brenda lent it to her?

  Up in her bedroom, she hastily undressed and tried it on. The mirror was a small one and the light dim, but even so she could see she looked sensational in it. The soft crêpe clung to her figure, the drapery on the skirt was so elegant, giving her that fashionable hour-glass shape. She wanted to wear it, she wanted to have dinner at Maxim’s, but she was frightened of telling Charley.

  Annie had put a stone hot-water bottle in her bed. The thoughtful act reproached Ellie still further. Why couldn’t she be like other girls? Just settle for a nice home and a loving husband. Why did she hanker for bright lights, expensive clothes and fame?

  Alone in the dark, the covers pulled right up to her chin, Ellie thought about Charley. She loved him for his kindness, sense of humour, his courage and strength. But there was a physical need too, which she kept a tight lid on. So many nights she’d lain here in a state of turmoil. When he was home she could hear his breathing in the room next to hers and she longed to go in to him, climb into his bed and quench the terrible thirst of wanting. She felt his need each and every time she kissed him; a brush of his hand and her limbs turned to jelly. But all she allowed was kissing and mild petting: she was too scared to let it go any further.

  Sometimes she wished she could talk to Charley about it. But although they talked about anything and everything else, somehow that subject was too difficult. Her reticence to make love wasn’t exactly a question of morality, although after observing Marleen’s behaviour and more recently the other girls at the club, she felt it was sensible to be wary. What she was afraid of was losing control. Down deep inside her she knew that once they’d become lovers the commitment would be too great. Next they’d be married and all her choices would be gone.

  Her mother had married a docker and her career as a dancer ended there. Again and again as a child she’d overheard singers and dancers bemoaning the fact that their job was hated by their husbands and saying they wished they’d never married.

  Charley would never be content with waiting at a stage door; he’d expect her to slip into the same role as his mother, cooking, cleaning and having babies. Yet what would she do if he got tired of waiting? He was her friend, her love and no other man could ever take his place.

  Charley opened the kitchen door and stamped the snow off his boots before going in. It was seven in the morning and the snow had become heavy during the night. He was chilled to the bone, for his uniform had got soaked at a fire, then frozen on him.

  ‘Hello, Mum.’ His teeth chattered. ‘Blimey, it’s cold!’

  Annie kissed his icy cheek and winced as she touched his coat. ‘Take that off this minute!’ she said, undoing the thick leather belt and silver buttons as if he were a child. ‘It’s a wonder to me you don’t get pneumonia.’

/>   She took the heavy coat and hung it up to one side of the fire. Within seconds it was steaming, sending out a pungent smell of wood smoke.

  ‘And the trousers!’ she said bossily. ‘Was it a big fire?’

  ‘It was hell.’ Charley slipped off his trousers. Wearing only his woolly long underwear and his uniform blue shirt he sat down by the fire, holding his hands out to the blaze. ‘It was in a warehouse over Camden Town way. We got soaked as usual, our uniforms steaming one moment in the heat, then freezing on us the moment we stepped back. Poor old Fred’s hand got frozen on the branch. Tore off a lump of skin when we tried to get him free.’

  Annie tutted in sympathy. Charley rarely complained, so when he did, it meant it was truly bad. ‘What caused the fire?’

  ‘Don’t know. The other shift replaced us before we put it out completely. I tripped over an old paraffin stove when we got in, perhaps they’d left that alight.’

  Annie poured him a cup of tea, then dipped some bread in powdered egg and milk and fried it for him. ‘I’m going down the market after I’ve done the breakfast,’ she said, bending down to feel if his long pants were damp too. ‘I thought I’d try and get some fish.’

  ‘I’ll just doze down here.’ Charley gave a weak smile through his exhaustion. ‘I thought of taking Ellie sledging up on Hampstead Heath, but it’s too cold for that. It’s her night off tonight so perhaps we’ll go to the pictures instead.’

  By the time Annie had finished dishing up the lodgers’ breakfasts upstairs in the dining-room, Charley was fast asleep in the chair. She covered him up with a blanket, turned his uniform, banked up the fire and put on her coat and hat.

  Charley woke instantly at the explosion and ran up the stairs two at a time to the top floor to look out of the windows. From the back was only the view of the railway siding of Euston. It looked quite beautiful with the lines, trains and sheds covered in snow, but Charley could see no craters or dust rising in that direction. He moved quickly to the front of the house, opened the window and peered out.