The Bluebird Girls: The Forces' Sweethearts 1

by Rosie Archer

  ‘Yes,’ said Blackie.

  ‘No,’ said Jo. You could almost touch the silence that followed, she thought. Sooner or later she knew her clever daughter would start to wonder exactly what had triggered the girls’ sudden good fortune.

  ‘Well, Mum, what is it?’

  The ominous silence intensified.

  The car was turning into Albert Street.

  ‘Blackie, it’s time Rainey knew the full story. Do you have time to come in and talk?’

  There was concern in his eyes when he turned to look at her. ‘I think it’s for the best,’ he said, pulling up outside number fourteen.

  The kitchen was warm and welcoming as Rainey, Blackie and Jo sat round the table. Jo’s heart was pounding. She had put off telling Rainey her father was dead because she didn’t want to see the hurt in her eyes. In the short while since she had heard the truth of Alfie’s death she had wanted to find the right moment to tell Rainey. Now the time had presented itself.

  Jo listened as Blackie told Rainey of Alfie’s bravery. Rainey’s eyes filled with tears, and Jo breathed a sigh of relief that, despite everything, Rainey had loved her dad.

  ‘I wanted to find you so I could tell you he saved my life. I’m glad I did because I now know the authorities hadn’t any idea of your whereabouts. Rainey, your father told me you had a wonderful voice, and he was right.’

  Jo left her chair and went to her daughter. She put her arms around her, half expecting Rainey to shrug her off because she hadn’t told her the truth straight away.

  Somehow Blackie had anticipated this: ‘Your mother’s been waiting for the right time to tell you the truth.’

  Jo could feel Rainey shaking and she wanted to take away her daughter’s pain. Rainey looked at her. Her voice was little more than a whisper when she said, ‘He did love me, after all, didn’t he, Mum?’

  *

  The smell of fried bread and bacon made Jo’s mouth water as she sat on a stool at the counter in Bert’s café with Della at her side, swamped by a huge fluffy dressing-gown.

  ‘You don’t mind if Bert hears everything, do you?’ Della said. ‘He’s like family, see.’

  Della looked worn out, thought Jo. It was barely seven in the morning. Bert had had to wake her.

  This hour was the only time Jo could fit in her visit to Ivy’s mother. She wanted to cycle home to find out how Rainey had fared. Her daughter had got up at the crack of dawn to apply for a job on the nightshift at Priddy’s armament factory and Jo had to get to the newspaper shop.

  ‘This is one of Bert’s busiest times of the morning.’ Della scratched her head. ‘Breakfasts are his speciality. Do you want anything to eat? The eggs are fresh and there’s some tasty bacon.’ She put her hand across her mouth and whispered, ‘Bert’s well liked in the black market.’

  Jo shook her head. The cup of tea in front of her looked as if it had been made with tar.

  Della yawned, showing small, very white teeth. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I’m normally in bed asleep at this time. You said you’ve got news about the three girls taking up a singing career?’

  Jo explained about her meeting with Madame and Blackie. When she’d finished, Bert caught her eye and winked. ‘You’d really do that, look after them girls?’

  ‘My Rainey’s seen things she ought not to have done, but she’s no age to be mixing with stage folk.’

  Della chimed in, ‘Too right!’

  ‘Don’t you put the boot in before you know all the ins and outs, Della. This is what young Ivy’s always wanted,’ said Bert.

  Jo thought Della with her mascara smeared and no heavy lipstick looked like a young girl. Now Della’s eyes seemed to cloud as though something was worrying her. ‘Of course you’ll be wondering, but if they get through their audition I’ll look after her.’ Jo picked up one of Della’s hands. ‘If you’re not happy about this, though, and would prefer her to work somewhere else, fair enough, but it’s the three girls Madame Walker wants because their voices are so distinctive.’ There, she thought. She could do no more.

  Della had disentangled her hand from Jo’s and was stirring her tea. Jo thought she looked very sad for someone who had been given good news.

  Bert put money into the till and handed out change to a customer. The wireless was playing dance music and already there was a fug of cigarette smoke in the café. He wiped his hands down the side of his apron. ‘Della, give your girl the chance you never had.’

  Della looked at Jo, who saw the brightness of tears as Della answered, ‘Yes. And thank you.’

  *

  Alice Wilkes threw her blue two-piece on the bed. It wasn’t right. She couldn’t put on an outfit she’d often worn on those summer Sundays when she’d sat at the bandstand with Graham. Of course, it didn’t matter what she wore, not really. He wouldn’t be able to see her or her clothes. But that wasn’t the point: she wanted to look as good as she possibly could for him. And a summer dress wasn’t suitable for late November. She finally decided on a warm lambswool jumper and a tweed skirt.

  ‘Get off, Toto!’ she admonished. He was playing with her black shoes and she didn’t relish a shoe hunt before leaving the house. She picked him up. ‘We’re going to see your new friend, Bess. You’ll like that, won’t you, my little one?’ Thinking of Bess brought Graham back to mind. ‘You don’t know how I’ve longed to see him again,’ Alice said, smiling at her little friend. She placed him on the floor, where he sat and stared at her with sorrowful eyes.

  The telephone call had been short yet straight to the point. ‘Alice, can you meet me on Sunday at the usual place, usual time?’ He hadn’t waited for a reply but had ended the call.

  At first she’d stood by the telephone, thinking he might call back.

  Then she realized how much courage he must have summoned to ring her. She stared into the mirror. ‘Where did I go, Toto? When did that slim, pretty young girl with her heart and head full of dreams disappear?’ A greying, frumpy woman stared back. In her blue eyes Alice could still see the hopeful, youthful self. She might look different on the outside, but inside she hadn’t changed at all.

  And neither, she hoped, had Graham.

  *

  Della sat in front of the mirror. Hands trembling, she spat on the tiny brush and rubbed it along the small black block so she could begin coating her eyelashes with mascara. She hated the way she looked tonight. A face puffy with crying stared back at her.

  It had come at last. A possible new beginning for the daughter she loved more than life itself. Part of her wanted fame and recognition for Ivy but she feared it would slip through her daughter’s fingers when the trio made the headlines, as they surely would, and Della’s means of making a living came to light.

  ‘My girl is doomed even before she steps on the ladder to success,’ she told her reflection.

  She glanced at the clock. It was time to meet Jim in the Fox. No doubt he had already lined up customers for her services. The manager of the pub threatened to bar him permanently for soliciting, but every so often Jim gave him a backhander, which shut him up.

  Since Jo’s appearance in the café that morning, Della hadn’t been able to think straight. Mechanically she’d gone about the business of daily life. She’d not slept – how could she? Of course, she could go to Jim and tell him it was all over, that he’d had the last pound of her flesh. Let the younger girls make more money for him.

  She was frightened. Of course she was. She was money on legs to Jim.

  He’d accompany her to the massage rooms in the flat opposite Gosport’s bus station and the long night would begin. She knew she couldn’t tell him of Ivy’s good fortune and that she now wanted a different life for herself. He’d beat her up, that was a dead cert. He’d done it before when he thought she’d stepped out of line. Not that she’d told Bert, of course not. She’d simply slapped on more Pan Stik to hide the marks and put a smile on her face.

  Jo was going to tell the girls the good news. She said Della should be
at Maud’s when they heard. Blackie would be there, too, so they would have a clear picture of what was expected of them and what he could offer. But that was the last thing Della wanted, to be sitting in someone else’s house, as if she was one of them. She declined. Anyway, she knew the facts, and when Ivy arrived home she would be excited and tell her all over again.

  Did Della think any of the girls would opt out of being managed professionally by Madame Walker? No: singing was all they ever talked about.

  Della put the finishing touches to her mouth with her brightest red lipstick, dabbed Californian Poppy behind her ears and slung her fox fur around her shoulders. Its glittering eyes looked at her reproachfully.

  *

  ‘No Jo today?’ Syd asked Mr Harrington. He waited in the shop for his change for the newspaper.

  ‘Had to let her go early, some family commitment,’ came the answer.

  Syd pocketed his change, grunted a goodbye and walked back to his garage. He glanced at the car to which he was fixing windscreen wipers and decided to step outside for a cigarette. The indicators needed looking at, too, but a smoke might just put him in the mood to carry on. He took a deep breath of the oily air, a smell that, usually, he couldn’t get enough of, but today he felt a bit lost.

  No doubt Jo was seeing the dark-haired chap with the odd eyes. He was a nice enough bloke but why had she needed to go out for a meal with him? How could Syd afford such niceties as meals out in smart places? Syd had planned on asking her if she fancied going to the Criterion picture house to see The Old Maid : he knew she liked Bette Davis. No chance now – the cinema changed films tonight.

  Syd took a long drag on the Woodbine. He had seven cigarettes left in the green packet. He’d have to make them last. He didn’t like the Turkish ones. Decent fags were difficult to get hold of now, just like the jobs on cars were dwindling. Petrol rationing was putting his livelihood at risk. Luckily his was the only maintenance garage in Alverstoke and the affluent society who lived there, doctors and naval people, were still running their cars. He’d be out of business otherwise.

  He missed Jo: that was the problem.

  She’d been like a scared rabbit when he’d first met her, but she had come out of her shell now. She’d explained what she was prepared to do to make sure the young girls came to no harm and he was proud of her. But it was Blackie he was worried about, filling her head with ideas Syd couldn’t compete with.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Ivy yawned as the four of them stood outside the unprepossessing locked building in Southsea. Although she was excited she was also tired. It had taken an hour to travel across on the ferry to get here and would take another hour to get home. She’d managed a little fitful sleep but after this meeting with Madame Walker, which might change their lives, there was a nightshift to do at Priddy’s armament factory. The sooner she got away from the fumes and dust that stained skin yellow, the happier she would be. But that miracle would only happen if Madame liked their voices.

  Ivy had been pleased when Rainey had rushed round to the café to tell her she’d secured a job at Priddy’s and that they were still hiring workers. She and Bea had applied and been immediately taken on.

  All night long she poured concentrated explosive powder into shell cases that were then hooked to a conveyor-belt to be checked by the manager. Priddy’s supplied ships, aircraft and troops with the explosive equipment they needed in the fight against Hitler. Although she’d worked there just a few days, Ivy hated the noise of the machinery, the powder that got into her throat, making her cough, and her eyes, making them sting.

  She agreed that it might be a long time before they fulfilled their ambition to sing on the stage so meanwhile they needed to work. She hoped with all her heart that today would be the turning point in their lives.

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ said Jo.

  The heavy oak doors opened with a creak and Blackie stood aside to admit them. ‘Madame’s already here,’ he said. He stood aside so they could all troop in. ‘Don’t forget what we spoke about the other night. Lots of smiles.’

  ‘He sounds like Mrs Wilkes,’ said Bea. Ivy had noticed how unsure of herself Bea was. She’d hardly spoken on the way over, and as she’d sat holding her penny ticket on the ferry boat, her hands had been shaking. Rainey was the one in control. It was all so exciting. The only thing that worried her was that her mother was content to allow her this chance to go ahead, yet she didn’t seem as excited as the other two mothers.

  They walked down a long parquet-floored hallway and into a large room, where about a dozen chairs faced a small stage.

  Madame was already seated. Blackie went over to the piano and sat down. No one seemed to be talking among themselves. It reminded Ivy of being in school again.

  ‘Take off your coats,’ Madame instructed. ‘Let me see if I can differentiate between you. Bea?’ She gave Bea a long stare through dark-rimmed spectacles. Then she smiled. ‘Hello, my dear.’ Ivy thought Bea looked like she was going to the guillotine. Madame then peered at Rainey. ‘Ah! Rainey, I’d know you anywhere because of the photograph.’ Ivy had shed her coat and now stood next to Bea. ‘So you must be Ivy.’ Ivy nodded. She felt as if she ought to curtsy to the woman dressed in grey velvet and smelling of some flowery perfume. ‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘Let’s start as we mean to go on. I like the look of you all.’

  Ivy smiled at Jo, who was sitting down with her back so straight a board might have been propping her up.

  ‘Get up on the stage,’ commanded Madame. ‘You have music, dear boy?’

  Blackie nodded.

  Ivy knew Mrs Wilkes had lent the copy of the folk song to Jo especially for today. ‘Look as though you’re enjoying this,’ she hissed, as they climbed the steps to the small stage.

  The music began and the girls sang.

  Ivy tried hard, while giving full rein to the emotions the song evoked, to judge how Madame was feeling but her face betrayed nothing. As the piano notes faded, Jo stood up and clapped, looked about nervously and sat down, obviously embarrassed. The girls stood silently awaiting Madame’s reply.

  ‘It’s a beautiful song but it’s not how I see you.’

  Ivy’s heart plummeted. She didn’t like them!

  Madame was talking again: ‘I see you dressed in uniform, perhaps, singing songs with more pep in them. I want you as entertainers, cheering our dear boys to victory, not willing them to cut their throats because of the sadness in those words. Cover songs are fine. Singing songs that other artists have had success with means singing music that is familiar, loved, even. We’ll see how it goes. Oh, yes, we need a name for you as a group. I gather all three of you are blessed with bird surnames, Herron, Sparrow and Bird?’

  Ivy thought her heart would spring out of her chest with excitement: they’d be like the Andrews Sisters or Judy Garland, when she’d sung with her siblings as the Gumm Sisters. She nodded frantically at her benefactor. ‘I’ve given it a great deal of thought,’ said Madame, ‘and wonder how you’d feel about the Bluebird Girls?’

  For a moment there was silence.

  Ivy looked at her two friends, who were practically wriggling with delight. Of course they loved the name.

  ‘Does that mean you’ll represent us?’ Ivy couldn’t help herself.

  ‘Of course,’ said Madame. ‘But you’ll take instruction from Blackie.’ She looked along the row of chairs at Jo. ‘Are you happy with this, my dear?’

  Jo said, ‘More than happy.’

  ‘I do understand it’s not feasible for you to travel here daily,’ Madame went on. ‘After all, you have jobs that are important to our country. I’ve made arrangements for the hall in Gosport, the one that was hired for the pantomime, to be available for you to use for practice.’

  Jo spoke up, ‘We can’t afford to pay for it.’

  ‘That’s all taken care of. I’m backing the Bluebird Girls until they’re earning.That doesn’t mean I’ll be paying any of you wages.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘I’m
not a charity. All of you are working, and if you want to make a success, you’ll need to understand it’s not handed out on a plate. Jo, Blackie will advise you. He’ll hold the purse strings for music, stage clothing, make-up, travel . . . If I consider it worthwhile I’ll get you a recording contract.’

  ‘You spoke about them entertaining troops,’ Jo reminded her. ‘Will there be danger?’

  ‘My dear, they have to be polished before even I will entertain this. But you can rest assured they and you will be looked after as well as any of the entertainers who amuse the troops. The Bluebird Girls will be a morale-booster to our dear boys.’

  Ivy was glad that Jo had thought things through and was asking the questions her own mother might worry about. Just imagine, she thought, they could be stars! She looked at Rainey, who was plainly dumbfounded, and Bea, white as a sheet. Jo had one last question. ‘When will they earn money?’

  ‘My dear, that depends on our three girls. The harder they work, the luckier they will be. I shall book the girls into a revue at our local theatre, the King’s. We’ll see how it goes from there. Again, Blackie will coach. I understand you’re used to appearing in front of audiences?’

  Ivy thought about the patients in hospitals Mrs Wilkes had staged shows for. They were a captive audience. She nodded at Madame, who stood up, holding on to the arms of her chair. ‘If you’re happy with my terms I’ll arrange for a contract,’ she said. Ivy watched Jo’s face. Clearly she agreed.

  ‘Blackie will take you back to Gosport by car. I don’t want to make any of you late for work. Iron out any queries with him.’

  Blackie stood up and accompanied her outside. The door swung closed on them.

  Rainey was jumping up and down on the stage. Ivy began to cry and Bea stood as still as if she had been magically turned to stone.

  ‘Well, girls,’ said Jo, rushing onto the stage and throwing her arms about them all, like a hen gathering her chicks. ‘You are on your way!’

  Chapter Thirty-six