Queenie had gone on to sing ‘A Bird in a Gilded Cage’, almost as though that was how she saw herself. Her blue eyes flashed with temper, looking as stormy as a rippling tide. Then forgetting the next verse, she went back to singing the chorus slightly out of tune.
Cecily cringed. ‘Oh Lord, will she calm down and win them round, do you think?’
‘We can but hope so,’ Merryn muttered, sounding entirely unconvinced.
A soldier in the audience began to boo and others joined in. Looking livid, Queenie lurched forward to wave her clenched fists, apparently ordering these grumpy young men to shut up. It was then that she lost her balance, tripped and fell flat, letting out a loud scream. Cecily froze with shock.
The audience jeered and booed all the more as the curtain was brought quickly down. Coming to her senses, Cecily rushed to help, Merryn already having dashed to their mother lying sprawled on the stage, her legs spread wide and her eyes completely blank. As they attempted to lift Queenie to her feet she screamed again, the pressure on her ankle proving that she’d injured it and was in great pain. The backstage men ran to help them and carried her back to the dressing room. Seconds later the dancing girls came on stage again, quickly lightening the mood of the disgruntled audience.
Before they’d had time to do more than settle her on the couch, the door burst open and the director stormed in. ‘Why on earth did she fall? She certainly has no time to sit here feeling sorry for herself. She should be back on stage now!’
‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question, she’s in considerable pain,’ Cecily said, making no mention of the fact that Queenie was drunk.
Hovering over Queenie, he growled with fury when he sniffed the reek of gin on her breath. ‘Ah, I understand why she fell, the stupid woman. So that’s it, she’s finished. I will not allow her on this stage ever again.’ Looking from one to the other of her daughters, he pointed at Cecily and said, ‘The audience is still waiting, so you’ll have to take her place.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. My daughter is not a star,’ Queenie retorted.
‘This lass can sing.’
‘Absolute rubbish! She has no talent at all.’
‘I’ve heard her quietly singing to herself and been quite impressed. She has a most pleasant, well-modulated voice with a London accent and she’s a lovely girl,’ he firmly retorted.
Cecily listened in stunned disbelief to the argument that ensued between them. She did not see herself as lovely. Her mousy-brown hair was a tangled mess, not sensibly bobbed. It was also soaking wet right now, thanks to the deluge of water her mother had tossed upon her, drooping over her pale oval face and violet-blue eyes. Yet a part of her felt the urge to do as he requested. ‘I do enjoy singing, although I’m not convinced I can sing well enough to please this audience.’ As neither the director nor her mother responded to this comment she felt a tension rise within her, destroying her determined sense of quiet reserve.
Merryn gave her hand a squeeze. ‘You sing with a wonderful tone of voice, so why not have faith in yourself ?’
Cecily met the glow in Merryn’s hazel eyes with deep appreciation, recalling how the two of them would sometimes entertain themselves with her singing and Merryn playing her piano accordion. She could hear the audience yelling for someone to sing, surely not a request that could be ignored.
‘It’s Christmas Eve so we can’t let the audience down. Smarten yourself up, girl. You are needed on stage now. You have three minutes to get ready,’ the director sternly announced before marching off.
‘Don’t you dare do as he demands!’ Queenie strictly informed her. ‘I need you to stay here and care for me, not take over my role in life.’
Should she obey the director or her mother? Over the years she’d developed a strong sense of independence, regardless of giving way to most of Queenie’s orders in a bid to create more affection between them. Deep in the core of her, Cecily was all too aware that she deeply enjoyed singing. Was this the moment she’d always longed for? Much as she felt the urge to obey the director’s instructions, could she truly perform well? Panic welled within her. ‘Will you join me, Merryn? You could play your instrument.’
Merryn shook her head. ‘The band is in charge.’
‘Then sing with me.’
‘You’ll do fine on your own,’ her sister assured her, and quickly tugging off Cecily’s damp dress, she pulled a pretty blue silk gown over her head. Within seconds, she’d tucked up Cecily’s hair and pinned it with a matching blue slide. ‘There you are, you look lovely. Now go out there and please those poor men and do have faith in your ability to sing well, lovey.’
Ignoring her mother’s furious protests, Cecily nodded, straightened her shoulders and hurried off, her heart thumping.
Walking on stage, she gazed out at this audience of men who had gone strangely silent. Below, in the pit, the leader of the band stood holding up his baton, his expression clearly asking what she wished to sing. Cecily felt paralysed with nerves. Never in her life had she performed on stage or in public. Yet as she gazed into the faces of these brave young soldiers, the need to please them banished the panic within her. She might not be the star her mother was but this could prove to be the experience she’d so longed for – how she loved to sing!
She began with ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’, a song written by Ivor Novello at the start of the war. Giving a big grin and a wink of the eye, the leader waved his baton and the band instantly started to play for her. A glow of happiness brought forth the instinctive pleasure Cecily experienced whenever she sang for herself, and to her amazement and delight this audience appeared spellbound by her performance. When the song came to an end, the soldiers roared with pleasure and loudly applauded. From the corner of her eye, Cecily could see Merryn in the wings, grinning and clapping her hands with jubilant appreciation. Growing in confidence she went on to sing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’, ‘Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag’ and many other favourites. The men joined in whenever she urged them to do so, clearly loving every minute of her performance, as did she. When she finished singing and gave a little bow before leaving the stage, feeling dizzy with excitement over the success she’d experienced, she heard them call out for an encore.
‘Give them one more song,’ the director eagerly instructed her when Cecily reached him in the wings, his usually arrogant face a picture of satisfaction.
‘He’s right, you were wonderful, so do as he says,’ Merryn urged, giving her a hug.
‘How is Mama?’ The prospect of facing Queenie’s anger at her star performance being taken over by her least favourite daughter was too dreadful to contemplate.
Merryn wrinkled her plump little nose. ‘Johnny the drummer has taken her home in his Ford car, so Nan will take care of her.’
‘Thank goodness for that.’
As the director pushed her back on stage, Cecily grinned and happily went on to sing ‘Roses of Picardy’, fulfilment echoing in her heart.
TWO
SEATED BESIDE her mother who lay fast asleep in bed, Cecily gazed wearily out over the Sound. She watched a couple of fishing boats plough through the white horse waves, tossed about like mere toys by the vicious wind on this cold winter day. The grey clouds unexpectedly split open to reveal a shaft of sunlight that encircled the boats. Would that Queenie’s behaviour could light up as brightly. She’d barely slept a wink last night, sobbing and crying as she suffered yet another nightmare. Cecily, along with her sister, had rushed to offer comfort, never certain what caused this, assuming it to be a consequence of her addiction to alcohol.
This time the nightmare could have been in consequence of her fall on stage or else she felt racked with guilt over the failure of her voice, having worked hard at singing her entire life. Queenie could also have been irritated at seeing her star role pass to her daughter. Guilt echoed in Cecily at the thought.
It was difficult to decide how to resolve her mother’s problems, knowing surprisingly little
about her past, something she refused to speak of, save for being considered quite a talented singer as a child. Her parents had encouraged her to sing at local churches and shows. They apparently treated her very like a star and had lovingly spoiled her, buying her many gifts. These comprised pretty frocks, teddy bears, a pretty doll’s house and a family of dolls that still sat upon her bedroom window ledge. Later, she’d moved on to success in the theatre, viewing herself as a celebrity of great talent. This now seemed to be on the wane, which naturally made her increasingly ill-tempered.
Queenie woke when the door opened and Nanny Aldcroft, or Nan as she preferred to be called, walked in. She’d looked after her mistress and themselves as children for years. Born in the East End of London, she and Merryn had spent their entire lives constantly moving around the country: Bristol, Liverpool, Preston, Newcastle, Brighton and here in Plymouth. Queenie had always insisted that she needed to tour in order to perform. Forever on the move, they hadn’t felt they belonged anywhere and rarely found time to develop any friendships. It had, however, created a closeness and dependence between them as well as a deep affection for Nan, who felt much more like a mother to them than Queenie ever had. Loyal, efficient, disciplined and utterly reliable, she was a woman with a strict routine, giving out instructions on life as if she knew best. Not easy to defy, but filled with love for the two of them. Giving Cecily a cheerful wink, she placed the breakfast tray across her mistress’s knee in her usual brisk, unfussy manner.
Glowering at the plate of food, Queenie looked as though she felt the urge to toss the sausage and toast on to the floor. ‘This is not at all what I wish to eat. You are well aware that I prefer scrambled eggs.’
‘We’ve none left,’ Nan retorted, her wrinkled face exceedingly stern, her wide mouth tightening over the obstinate jut of her square chin. ‘Food ain’t easy to come by with this war on.’
‘Then try hard to find some for tomorrow,’ Queenie haughtily ordered.
Folding her hands across her plump belly, Nan gave a chuckle and the kind of scalding look she used to give them as children whenever they were naughty. ‘If I succeed in finding some eggs, you can’t have them every day or there’d be none left for these girls. They too deserve the odd treat. I’ll go out to do some shopping later on today. It’s a pity you aren’t well enough to come with me, as you so like to do. Is there anything else you’d like me to buy for you?’
‘I need a new gown since I tore my favourite one in this accident,’ Queenie said with a scowl.
‘Now I wonder why that happened,’ Nan drily commented, busily tucking in the sheets and pretending she didn’t know Queenie had been drunk. ‘Would you like me to find you one?’
‘No, you are no good at shopping, fussy woman.’
Cecily put her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle as she listened to their familiar dispute. Her mother always wished to be dressed in a most stylish fashion, swamp herself in jewellery and spend money as if there was no tomorrow, so loved exploring all the marvellous shops here. Cecily had little interest in such things.
Now Queenie gave Nan a dismissive nod. ‘I’ve no wish to eat this breakfast, so you can take it away.’
Nan stubbornly placed the tray on the side table and poured Queenie a cup of tea. On her way out, she paused to speak to Cecily. ‘When that young drummer Johnny fetched your mother home, I sent him in search of the doctor who has promised to call round this morning to examine her injured ankle.’
‘So glad to hear that. Thank you, Nan.’ Giving her a grateful smile as she marched off, Cecily returned to her mother’s side to plump up her pillows and gently suggested she should eat her breakfast in order to aid her recovery.
‘I am still in pain and in desperate need of relief, not food.’
‘I’m sure the doctor will supply you with a little opium, once he arrives. Meanwhile, drink your tea, dearest, and take a slice of toast if nothing else.’ As Queenie at last began to eat, Cecily risked changing the subject. ‘You may be interested to hear that my performance went well. Not as good as yours is, Mama, but so thrilling,’ she said, her violet-blue eyes glimmering with a stir of excitement.
Queenie gave a twisted little smile, envy marring her expression. ‘Do not imagine for one moment you will always perform well. Being an actress or singer can be fun if also highly stressful. Performances can easily go wrong.’
‘I can’t say yours ever did, Mama, not until you started to over-indulge yourself on alcohol – a little foolish. The doctor could make that point too.’
Her face flushing, Queenie sharply retorted, ‘Gin is produced here in Plymouth at the distillery in the Barbican, so why would I not take advantage of it? You should appreciate that having endured a considerable amount of anguish throughout my life, I feel the need for a glass or two before a performance to help deal with my nerves or possible stage fright. Now that I’ve been dismissed from the Palace Theatre, will nothing ever go right for me?’
‘I know it was opened as a music hall back in 1898 but it is still hugely popular, so I’m sure we can persuade the director to change his mind, as you are also popular,’ Cecily assured her.
‘I am indeed. They may have featured many famous stars such as Lillie Langtry, Gertie Gitana singing ‘Nellie Dean’, and the illusionist Harry Houdini performing his escape tricks, but I too am a true star.’
Cecily gave her a smile. ‘You are, Mama. So if I stand in for you again, it will only be until you are fully recovered. Oh, and I really enjoyed singing.’
‘You should be aware that it’s far more important for you to find yourself a husband, not to spend your life trapped on stage, as I have been,’ Queenie snarled. ‘That would not be wise as most men tend to treat actresses, dancers and singers as prostitutes. It could destroy any hope of a decent offer of marriage and children for you. Raising a family is what we women are expected to do with our lives, a tradition you’d be wise to follow.’
Giving a little sigh of frustration over her mother’s obsession with marriage, Cecily perched herself on the edge of the bed. ‘Do stop bossing me, Mama. I’m in no rush to marry.’
‘You are almost twenty-one years old and growing older, Cecily.’
‘With luck I won’t be much older when this dratted war ends.’ She paused, wondering if this was the moment to reveal the truth. Taking a breath, she said, ‘Actually, Ewan having been my sweetheart since I was sixteen, we became secretly engaged before he left for the war and fully intend to marry once it is finally over.’
Queenie’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. ‘Goodness gracious, the notion of you marrying that fellow is too dreadful to contemplate. Ewan Godolphin is a scraggy mess, only employed as a fisherman by his father. Not at all the kind of man I wish for either of you girls to cavort with. He is obviously keen to take advantage of your money and status.’
‘That’s a dreadful thing to accuse him of. He loves me as much as I love him.’ A frown puckered Cecily’s brow as she recalled how her mother had always been entirely disapproving of their friendship and did her utmost to destroy it. She was a complete snob, uncaring of Cecily’s chance of happiness, being more concerned that her own reputation could be ruined if her daughter married a working-class lad from low society.
Oh, and how she missed him. The last she’d seen of him was over a year ago when he’d come home on leave. Cecily remembered that day well. Hearing the train come puffing into the station she’d run along the platform, anxious to find him. The instant he saw her she’d fallen eagerly into his arms, delighted to see his face beaming with delight. ‘Oh, I’ve missed you so much, darling,’ he’d told her, pulling her close.
‘I’ve missed you too,’ she’d cried.
He was instantly kissing her, coaxing her lips open to devour her in a way that brought a thrill of excitement into her heart. Cecily had pulled off his cap to stroke her hands through the short locks of his brown hair, loving the fact he was pressing her tight against his chest.
Ewan Godolp
hin was tall and athletic with powerful shoulders and long lean legs, dark brown eyes and gloriously good looking. His face had appeared a little more rugged and tired than usual, as a consequence of all he was suffering in this war. His expression was still filled with warmth, compassion and love. Once he’d returned to his battalion, Cecily continued to write to him most days and received regular letters in response. There were periods when she heard nothing at all from him in ages, as had been the case recently. A quiver of fear would rustle through her until his next letter arrived.
‘That boy has little hope of ever earning a decent living,’ Queenie sternly announced. ‘And do not assume for one moment that I will supply you with the necessary funds if you do marry him. I have quite enough expenses, not least dealing with the upkeep of this fine mansion house. You need a man with money and status who can provide you with a wonderful life.’
The irritating thing was that she seemed perfectly content for Merryn to remain at home as her carer, while constantly urging Cecily to marry a rich man with whom she could live her life elsewhere. She’d no intention of obeying such ridiculous instructions, while Merryn was most keen to marry.
‘Happiness in marriage is not about money,’ she remarked dismissively, giving a little chuckle in the hope of lightening her mother’s temper. ‘I really have no wish to be a domesticated, stay-at-home wife with a man I don’t love. I fully intend to live the kind of life that suits me. Ewan is not against my working for a living and proud of the job I do for the electric trams. It’s not quite what I would have chosen to do, but with this war on, I feel it’s right to do my bit. I accept it won’t be easy to find more interesting employment once it is over, or earn sufficient money, particularly as women do not get equal pay let alone the right to vote. That could change with time, and I’ll find something that appeals to me.’
‘Why would you? A young woman’s job should end once she marries.’
Girls of the Great War Page 2