by Annie Groves
Katie could hear the twins coming down the stairs, banging on her door, and urging her to hurry, as they went past.
Jean and Sam were waiting for them in the kitchen, Jean telling Katie firmly but affectionately, raising her voice to make herself heard above the noise of the siren, ‘And there’ll be no coming back for any tea cups tonight, I’ll have you know.’
‘Come on.’ Sam was shepherding them all towards the door.
Once outside Katie could see everyone else from the street hurrying out of their front doors to make their way down to the shelter.
Lou pulled a face and complained, ‘Oh, no, look. Mr Simmonds’s got his accordion. That means that we’re going to have to listen to him playing all night.’
‘That’s enough, you two,’ Jean checked them. ‘He keeps all the older ones’ spirits up, even if you don’t appreciate his playing.’
Tonight they were safely inside the shelter well before Katie heard the first drone of the bombers’ engines.
‘They’re heading for the docks and Birkenhead again,’ Sam announced, shaking his head as one of the men asked him if he wanted to join the card game being set up in one corner of the shelter.
Jean got her knitting out, and, as Lou had predicted, Dan Simmonds was playing his accordion, whilst the mothers with young children were tucking them into the bunks and telling them to go to sleep, before sitting down themselves on the lower bunks to exchange news.
It was an almost homely atmosphere, Katie recognised, especially when flasks and sandwiches started coming out of baskets.
Whilst Jean was discussing the problems of knitting with wool unwound from old clothes with a neighbour, Sasha edged along the bunk they were sitting on to get closer to Katie, leaning towards her to whisper, ‘Katie, when you went out with your dad did you ever go to any dance competitions?’
‘Dance competitions?’ Katie queried. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, the kind you can put your name down for and enter, and if you win you get a prize,’ Lou explained.
‘No. Never,’ Katie told them. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, no reason,’ Lou answered airily. ‘We just wondered, that was all.’
Whilst Katie was engaged in conversation with their mother, Lou dug Sasha in the ribs and reminded her, ‘We said that we wouldn’t talk about the competition to anyone.’
‘Well, I wasn’t talking about it, I was just asking,’ Sasha hissed back indignantly, before adding, ‘Oh, I do hope that we’ll win. Kieran says that he reckons we will.’
Kieran and his opinions had become a frequent topic for discussion between them, even more frequent, in fact, than their illicit visits to the theatre to practise their special dance routine in front of Con’s sternly critical eye. It wasn’t that they wanted to deceive their parents, and especially their mother, Lou had told Sasha earnestly, it was just that for the moment it was better not to worry her.
‘Once we’ve been in the competition it will be different,’ she had assured Sasha optimistically, ‘especially if we win.’
‘I don’t think Dad will let us go on the stage, even if we do,’ Sasha had predicted.
‘It’s a pity that Auntie Fran isn’t here. She’d be on our side,’ Lou told her twin now.
They’d chosen the Royal Court Theatre as a starting point for asking about dance competitions because it was where their aunt had sung when she had first started out, which reminded Lou of something.
She gave Sasha another dig in the ribs and hissed, ‘You nearly let the cat out of the bag when we were at the Royal Court, didn’t you, when you started to tell Kieran that we had an aunt who’d sung there, after we’d given him made-up names so that no one would know who we are. Just as well I managed to pretend to have that coughing fit.’
‘You know when we do that bit when you dance and then I copy you?’ Sasha began, changing the subject.
Lou nodded and soon the girls were deep in conversation about their dancing, and oblivious to the noise outside the air-raid shelter.
‘Things have changed a bit whilst you’ve been away.’
Bella and her billetees were in the kitchen when she made her announcement, Maria and Bettina Polanski having just returned from a visit to see some other Polish refugees with whom they were friends.
Mother and daughter both had the same high cheekbones and dark hair, but while Bettina’s hair curled thickly round her face, her mother’s was drawn back into a neat chignon, and marked by silvery streaks.
All three of the Polanskis were tall and lean, with olive skin and dark eyes, but brother and sister were far more outspoken than their gentle mother.
Bella had been so proud of her kitchen when she had first moved into the house as a bride. She’d plagued her father for her Cannon gas cooker, with its cream enamel and its matching set of pans and oven dishes, insisting that she had to have it although it was Maria who used it more than Bella. The yellow distemper on the kitchen walls gave the room a sunny air to it, although, of course, like most kitchens, it faced north to keep the food in it as cool and fresh as possible.
The red cherry design on her white curtains, and the gathered skirt covering the space under her draining board and sink still looked as stylish as it had done when she had first chosen the fabric in Lewis’s.
The kitchen was large enough for a table and chairs, and for the cream dresser Bella had insisted on having, with its shelves at the top and cupboards beneath it, whilst the linoleum on the floor shone, thanks to Maria, who kept the whole house spotless.
Bella didn’t even try to keep the smug note from her voice as she continued, ‘You’ll have to fend for yourselves a lot more from now on because I’m going to be working,’ she told them, not in the least bit self-conscious about the fact that thus far during the Polanskis’ stay, fending for themselves had been the order of the day rather than an exception, and that in fact, after her miscarriage, it had been Maria Polanski who had cooked for Bella, caring for her as tenderly as though she had been her own daughter. However, now in the excitement of her new official position, and the authority she felt it gave her, Bella was conveniently ‘forgetting’ all those things that might not reflect well on her in her role as Assistant Crèche Supervisor.
Bettina, though, looked meaningfully at her mother before asking Bella with some disbelief, ‘You’re going to be working?’
‘Every young woman of twenty and twenty-one will soon have to register for work,’ Bella pointed out, adding loftily, ‘I’m surprised that you aren’t aware of that yourself, Bettina, although of course with you being older and a refugee …’
Bettina’s finely arched dark eyebrows snapped together, her brown eyes registering her anger. ‘I already work,’ she reminded Bella coolly.
‘Well, I suppose you could call helping out with other refugees every now and again a sort of work, but I’m talking about a proper job,’ Bella informed her. ‘There’s a crèche going to be opened in the church school for people who have been bombed and for mothers who are doing their bit by going out to work, and I’ve been appointed the Assistant Manager.’
‘You mean that you are going to be working with babies and small children?’
Someone thinner-skinned and with less self-confidence than Bella might have been daunted by the incredulity in Bettina’s voice, but Bella merely nodded her head, before adding sharply, ‘So you see, you’ll have to fend for yourselves from now on, as I shall be far too busy for any domestic work, especially with all the bombing we’ve had here in Wallasey. In fact, that’s why I’m going out now to the crèche, although officially we won’t be opening until the beginning of April. As I said to Laura, who works with me, when I rang her this morning, heaven knows how many children we may have to deal with with all this bombing that’s going on.’
It had in fact been Laura who had rung Bella to warn her of this concern, but of course there was no need for the Polanskis to know that, Bella decided as she put on her coat and gloves and picked up h
er handbag.
The house that had belonged to her in-laws and in which they and their son, Bella’s husband, had died the night in November when it had been hit by a bomb, had been demolished now, leaving a raw gap in the avenue of immaculate red-roofed detached houses, with their garages and neat front gardens, but Bella barely gave the house or those who had died in it a second thought as she walked past it on her way to the school.
Whilst her own avenue remained unscathed, beyond it the devastation was obvious, with Lancaster Avenue reduced to untidy heaps of rubble amongst which men were working tirelessly to make things as safe as they could, whilst here and there families were poking disconsolately around in the remains of what had been their homes, looking for anything they could salvage.
The sight of one man leaning on his shovel to wipe the sweat from his eyes made Bella pause in recognition. Sam, her auntie Jean’s husband. She wasn’t going to acknowledge him, of course. Someone might see her. She had her position to maintain now and it wouldn’t be the thing at all for her to be seen talking to a common workman.
Sam watched Bella walk past him with her nose in the air, and grimaced. He had no time at all for Jean’s sister Vi, or her family, but he’d got more important things to do than think about them.
No one had expected Wallasey to be so badly hit, and some reckoned that the Luftwaffe had missed their real target and then dropped their bombs on defenceless Wallasey out of spite or desperation or maybe both. One of the bombs had hit and broken the trunk main supplying water for fire-fighting purposes, which had meant that such water had failed completely, leaving people having to stand and watch their property burn. This was why Sam and his team had been called out to help out with the clearing-up operation, and were likely to be working on it for several more days yet.
ELEVEN
Katie stared at the letter. She’d read it three times already, and now her heart was thumping unsteadily and she was going hot and then cold. They all knew why the mail had to be scrutinised but somehow or other the thought that they might actually come across a letter that was potentially ‘suspect’ became lost beneath the mundane normality of virtually everything they read.
The only other things she’d had to deal with had been the same commonplace things as the other girls – such as a man in uniform writing home, ‘I can’t tell you where I am, of course, but it’s really hot here and there’s a lot of sand – and camels,’ which had to be crossed through.
But this was different. She could be wrong – so very easily – and then she would look a fool, and worse, an ignorant fool if she said anything, but then if she didn’t and she was right …
‘What’s up with you?’ Carole demanded.
‘It’s this letter,’ Katie told her quietly. ‘I think there’s something in it that isn’t quite right. It isn’t one of your jokes, is it?’
‘Don’t be daft. I’d never do that to you,’ Carole assured her, before sitting bolt upright and exclaiming in a voice loud enough for the whole table to hear, ‘Guess what! Katie’s caught a spy.’
Katie couldn’t have felt more mortified. ‘No, I haven’t. I mean, I could be wrong. I only thought …’
To Katie’s relief Anne came to her rescue, getting up from her own chair and coming over to her to ask calmly, ‘What exactly is it that caught your attention, Katie?’
Anne’s calm manner soothed Katie’s nerves.
‘It’s this bit here,’ she told the head of their table, ‘where the writer talks about dancing at the Ritz to the Orpheans, and then goes on to mention two of their favourite dance numbers, and asking for them by special request.’
‘Yes?’ said Anne.
‘Well, the Orpheans play at the Savoy, not the Ritz; the music he refers to just isn’t the kind of thing the Orpheans normally play and the night he says they asked them to play their request, the Orpheans’ normal band leader wasn’t leading them, so they couldn’t have asked him for a request. I know that because my father was standing in for him and I was with him. I remember it particularly because of the date: the first of May, my mother’s birthday.’
‘So what you’re saying is that the writer of this letter and its recipient couldn’t have danced to a request as he claims they did?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Katie looked directly at Anne, admitting worriedly, ‘But maybe the writer has just made a mistake. People do sometimes.’
‘Yes, they do,’ Anne agreed with another calm smile, ‘but I think under the circumstances it’s better to be safe than sorry so I’m going to take this letter over to the supervisors’ desk. They’ll want to talk to you about it, of course, but don’t worry, I’ll be with you. We are all on the same side here, remember, Katie. If the questions you’ll be asked seem a little harsh it’s only because the supervisor will want to be sure of the facts before anyone makes any kind of decision.’
Katie gulped and nodded.
‘Fancy you uncovering a spy,’ said Carole excitedly.
‘I haven’t uncovered anyone,’ Katie reminded her friend.
They were in the cloakroom where Carole was checking her makeup. She had a date for the evening with Andy, the soldier she had met the night of the Grafton’s Christmas Dance and who she’d been seeing regularly since she’d bumped into him again several weeks earlier.
‘As good as,’ she insisted, pulling a face at herself in the mirror, then complaining, ‘Just look at my eyebrows. I’d love to have eyebrows like that Vivien Leigh.’ She opened her purse and very carefully removed a spent matchstick, which she then applied to her eyebrows, rubbing in the resultant dark stain with the tip of her finger before carefully replacing the matchstick in her purse.
‘Of course it could just be an ordinary couple and you’ve gone and got it wrong,’ Carole acknowledged, returning to their original subject, and causing Katie’s heart to lurch uncomfortably into her ribs.
‘Don’t,’ Katie begged her. ‘I’m sure I have got it wrong and I wish that I hadn’t said anything now.’
‘Well, it’s like Anne said, it’s better safe than sorry, and I shouldn’t lose any sleep over it, if I were you. You won’t hear anything more about it now until Monday, anyway, seeing as it’s Friday now.’
Katie nodded. She wasn’t sure how she was going to survive a whole weekend of anxiety about whether or not she had done the right thing, but she knew that somehow she would have to do so.
‘I feel ever so sorry for Katie. She’s been here over three months now and she doesn’t go out much at all, at least not like a girl her age should. She’s got a friend that she works with, but by the sounds of it she’s found herself a young man now.’
Jean paused to spoon the last of the fairy cake mixture into the bun tins lined up on her table. All the women in the street had got together as they had found that if they pooled their rations and each one of them cooked something in bulk and then shared it around, somehow the rations seemed to go further. This week it was Jean’s turn to make the fairy cakes for a children’s birthday party on Saturday afternoon.
‘No, you don’t,’ she reprimanded Luke as he looked longingly at the virtually scraped clean bowl. ‘There’s enough in there yet to make a couple more.’
It had been a wonderful surprise to have both Grace and Luke practically arriving on the doorstep at the same time and unexpectedly too, Grace looking as pretty as a picture in her lightweight cream jacket she had bought the spring before the war, and a cream blouse embroidered with bright blue flowers to match the blue of her skirt. Jean was never happier than when she had her family round her.
‘I’ve just been thinking,’ she told them both, deftly putting the first of the trays of fairy cakes into the oven, ‘seeing as you and Seb are going to the Grafton tomorrow night, and our Luke’s on leave, you could go as well, Luke, and take Katie with you. It’s such a shame that she doesn’t get out a bit more.’
Behind their mother’s back Luke and Grace exchanged mutually understanding looks.
And a
s though she had seen them Jean added immediately, ‘Not that I’m trying to matchmake or anything, before either of you start, but I do feel that I owe her a bit of something, seeing as how she risked her life to save me tea cups.’
Once again the siblings exchanged looks but this time they were looks that said they knew when they’d been outmanoeuvred.
‘Well, I don’t mind asking her if she wants to come along with us – that is, if Luke doesn’t mind – but she may not want to,’ Grace warned her mother.
‘Of course she will,’ Jean insisted briskly.
‘According to the twins she’s ever such a good dancer as well, so you’ll be put on your mettle, our Luke.’
Luke didn’t attempt to hide his surprise. ‘I thought she wasn’t supposed to be musical,’ he reminded his mother.
‘That’s singing and playing something,’ Jean corrected him patiently. ‘She can dance.’
A little to his own surprise Luke discovered that he wasn’t as anti the thought of making up a foursome for the Grafton with Katie as he’d expected. But then, of course, it was something he was doing to please his mother and not himself, he reasoned firmly.
‘Your dad’s working out at Wallasey, helping to clear up after the bombs, so I don’t know what time he’ll be in.’
‘Well, I don’t expect he’ll go and call round on Auntie Vi whilst he’s there. Did you warn him not to expect to be offered one of her Garibaldis, Mum?’
‘Huh, your dad would have something to say if he was,’ Jean retorted. ‘You know how he feels about black market stuff.’
Grace asked Luke with a grin, ‘Has Mum told you about Charlie – oh, sorry, I mean Charles – yet?’
Luke shook his head.
‘Vi reckons that Charlie is about to get engaged to the sister of that lad whose life he saved,’ Jean told her son.