The Bluebird Girls: The Forces' Sweethearts 1

by Rosie Archer

  Ivy was glad that their first stop was Bea’s house. Bea went straight indoors to get ready for work, chattering excitedly to her mother and Eddie, who was already home. Granddad was taking a nap. Eddie said he didn’t want him to wake so he braved the cold to come out to the car, threatening to gag Bea if she didn’t keep the noise down.

  ‘Jo,’ he said, ‘I’m so pleased about everything and I’d like to thank you, and you, mate –’ he grinned at Blackie, who’d stepped out of the car to light a cigarette ‘– for giving Bea a chance.’ He lowered his voice and whispered through the window Rainey had wound down, ‘Jo, Bea will do well, I’m sure. Look, it’s no good beating around the bush, she’s fragile. You know that, don’t you? This singing business has happened so quickly and it’s only a few months since that – that . . .’ He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Ivy watched Eddie run a hand through his blond hair. She knew he meant Bea’s unfortunate mishap at the Fox.

  ‘I know you worry about her,’ Jo said, ‘but I’ll look out for her.’

  Ivy added, ‘We’ll all look out for her.’

  Eddie’s eyes held Ivy’s. Suddenly a jolt ran up Ivy’s spine, like an arrow, riveting her with helpless attention to Eddie’s concerned face. He moved back onto the pavement. It was as if he had suddenly remembered something he had long forgotten. Ivy turned away and wound up the window. Her heart was thumping.

  Blackie had opened the driver’s door and reclaimed the front seat. ‘He’s a nice bloke,’ Blackie said cheerfully. Ivy could smell the fresh cigarette smoke on him.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Jo answered. ‘Can you drop Ivy off next?’

  As the car drove slowly down the street, Ivy watched Eddie in the side mirror. He stood on the pavement, frowning and looking at her until Blackie turned the corner.

  Rainey was talking non-stop about the costumes she thought would suit all three of them, but Ivy’s head was in a whirl. What had happened between her and Eddie back there? Somehow it was as if they’d been seeing each other for the very first time. Whatever it was, she knew he, too, had experienced it.

  She heard Jo ask, ‘When shall the girls start practising?’

  Blackie said, ‘When Madame suggests something it’s usually done and dusted. Tomorrow would be good for me.’

  He turned his head briefly towards Jo, who answered, ‘Perfect. Now I know the definite amount of time I need away from Harrington’s, I can sort out something more permanent there. I might offer to do the morning newspapers so I can leave earlier in the afternoons.’

  ‘Do you think your boss will agree?’

  ‘I can ask,’ said Jo. She turned to Ivy. ‘Can you let Bea know tonight that we’ll start practising tomorrow?’

  Ivy nodded.

  When the car arrived in Gosport town and pulled up outside the café, Ivy shouted her goodbyes to Jo and Blackie. She’d be seeing Rainey again later for the nightshift. She’d already decided she could easily walk to the David Bogue Hall and be there at the designated time. Jo had planned the practices to fit in comfortably with the girls working nights and getting some sleep. It made a big difference not to have to make their way to Southsea every day on ferry boats and buses.

  Her face fell as soon as she walked into the warm, smoky interior and discovered her mother wasn’t there.

  ‘Sit down, love, I’ll do you something to eat and a nice cup of tea and you can tell me everything. Don’t go asking about your mum. She went out about an hour ago.’

  Ivy could see from the stains on Bert’s blue and white striped apron that he’d had a busy day. She was more than disappointed to find her mother wasn’t waiting to hear all that had happened that day. She sat down in her usual seat just inside the door.

  Bert came from behind the counter carrying a cup of tea. ‘How did you get on, love?’

  She smiled shyly. ‘We’re to have special rehearsals to sing popular music, new clothes, maybe make a record . . .’

  ‘Whoa, hold your horses,’ he said. ‘That’s too much for my tired old head to take in.’

  She laughed at him. ‘It’s too much for me an’ all. They want to make us into stars.’

  ‘And what will we call you? The Gosport Girls?’

  ‘That’s good, Bert, but not good enough. We’re to be the Bluebird Girls.’

  He let out a low whistle. ‘You’re having me on?’

  Ivy shook her head. ‘No. It’s like I’m going to live in a different world.’ She sighed. ‘Where’s me mum? Why isn’t she here so I can tell her all about it?’

  *

  The cold air nipped at Alice Wilkes’s stockinged legs. Toto bounced along beside her, happy to be out in the fresh air, every so often stopping to sniff at the exciting new smells he encountered.

  The curt telephone message from Graham weighed on her mind. She was happy to have heard from him. Many times, after searching the telephone book for his number, she’d been on the verge of ringing him. Prudently she’d decided to allow him to recover from the shock of their meeting after such a long time and allow the next move, if there was to be one, to come from him.

  As she crossed the road towards the beach, she wondered again why he’d chosen not to elaborate on their meeting place or the time.

  The trees were bare, the ground hard underfoot. Here and there a holly bush showed its shine and the promise of red berries. She could hear the sea now, rolling in and pulling back over the pebbled beach as if there was no war, no Germans hoping to invade. Did the government really believe stringing barbed wire along the stones would deter Hitler?

  And then she saw the sea. Despite the weak sun, the water was a murky brown stretching towards the Isle of Wight. In the distance, near the bandstand stood a figure with a dog. Her heart began to beat faster. He’d come to meet her! Alice had no intention of shouting to him. She wouldn’t need to do that: the dogs would tell each other and Graham that she’d arrived.

  The bandstand was battle-scarred with the years. Once painted a bright white, it was now a flaking, forlorn ghost of its former self. The deckchairs, once colourful and filled with cheerful men and women, children playing at their feet, were no more.

  Bess wagged her tail. Trapped by her harness, she was trained not to show emotion. Toto ran around her, then Graham bent down, felt for the little dog and asked, ‘Pleased to see us?’

  He stood up again and faced Alice. ‘I’m sure it’s all changed but I’ll always remember this place as it was.’

  Alice looked at him. She didn’t see his scars, just the man she’d fallen in love with all those years ago.

  ‘I hoped you’d come,’ Graham said. ‘I hoped you’d remember.’

  ‘How could I forget?’ Alice said. Now she understood the brevity of his call. He wanted her to have remembered their special Sundays, just as they had never eluded him.

  Graham said, ‘I’ve prepared tea at home. Bess and I would like it very much if you and Toto would join us.’

  Alice said, ‘Toto and I would be happy to do just that.’

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  ‘You’ve already got three bookings for tonight.’ Mandy was outlining her mouth with a fuchsia lipstick, a mirror propped up against the telephone.

  Della sighed, then turned the ledger to see who had booked in to use her services. First was Paul Harris.

  ‘I can see you’re not happy, Della. What’s the matter? Making money upset you?’ Jim took off his Homburg hat and threw it at the coat-stand. It landed neatly on a peg.

  ‘Clever sod,’ said Mandy. Her black roots were showing through her blonde hair.

  ‘Paul Harris’s breath stinks like a sewer,’ Della grumbled.

  ‘Well, I’m not asking you to kiss him . . .’ Jim gave a belly laugh.

  Mandy giggled.

  Jim liked to think he was sharp with the repartee, thought Della.

  She looked out of the window at the bus station. A number three was just leaving for Fareham. She wished she was sitting on it instead of waiting in thi
s knocking shop for a fat, greasy bloke whose breath smelled of onions. She had been trying to pluck up the courage to tell Jim she no longer wanted to work for him. Ever since she’d met him in the Fox tonight, where he’d had her usual port-and-lemon ready on the bar for her, she’d wanted nothing more than to say, ‘I want to devote myself to helping my daughter achieve the career she deserves. Jim, it’s over.’

  The words wouldn’t come. Didn’t come.

  After she’d finished her drink, he’d walked her with propriety down the street towards the ferry. With every step she took she tried in vain to make the words form in her mouth.

  Della hated herself for leaving the café before Ivy had come back from Southsea. Her daughter had been worried they wouldn’t like her singing. But Blackie, with the funny eyes, and that Madame wouldn’t go to all the trouble of inviting the three girls along for a talk without good reason. Ivy was destined for something Della had never dreamed of and she was frightened that the way in which she earned her living would hold Ivy back. If Della could get out of the business now, before the girls hit the big-time, then with a bit of luck her past wouldn’t be raked up.

  So, rather than talk to Bert and wait for Ivy, she’d taken a walk over to Walpole Park. She’d sat on a freezing bench where the swans were huddled together for warmth on the boating pond and decided what she would say to Jim. She stayed there, thinking, until she felt like a block of ice.

  She would tell Jim tonight, then walk away from her old life.

  Only it hadn’t worked out like that. She’d forgotten how scared she was of him. Now she glanced at the clock on Mandy’s desk.

  A row of five chairs were placed along the wall for the men to sit and wait if the girl of their choice was unavailable. The three bedrooms, behind closed doors, contained beds, chairs, dressing-tables and a small cupboard, which held the necessary tricks and tools of the trade.

  Of course prostitution, living off immoral earnings, was illegal. But Jim didn’t worry about that: a great many worthy members of the police force and the local council had sampled his girls for free. Again Della stared at the clock.

  ‘The hands won’t turn any faster with you staring at it,’ said Jim. He’d already poured himself a whisky.

  Della opened the door to her room. ‘I need a word with you, Jim.’

  He followed her in. She moved to the window. Here at the back the view was of the rear of Woolworths and their overflowing rubbish bins. She saw it had started to rain. Drops chased each other down the dirty window.

  Jim came and stood next to her. ‘Gonna be a filthy night, Della.’

  ‘I’m not doing this no more. I’ve had enough.’

  She felt the blow before she saw him raise a hand. Then the trickle of blood ran from her nose and she watched, mesmerized, as a drop, bright red, dripped onto the clean white sheet. Then she almost choked as the blood, metallic, reached her mouth.

  The flat of his other hand smacked her.

  Della staggered under the force of the blow. One of her clip-on ear-rings flew to the lino. She put up her hand to her head and felt the dampness of more blood.

  ‘Get yourself cleaned up. You got a client coming soon. I won’t have my girls looking like trollops.’

  Della bolted from the room. She knew she was unsteady on her feet and feared any moment that she’d trip on the stairs. She burst out into the cold rain and ran as fast as her high heels would allow along Mumby Road. A couple of times she stumbled on slabs broken during the bombing. She used the back of her hand to stem the flow from her nose, and even in the darkness she could see the blackness of blood on her skin.

  She’d been hit before, of course she had. But Jim would sort out an over-enthusiastic punter – most of the time he was around when the girls were working. As for him punching her? She knew this was his way of saying he owned her. He would expect her to return to the brothel and apologize to him, after she’d cleaned herself up, of course. Then life would go on as before.

  But she didn’t want that life any more. What she wanted was for Ivy to be proud of her. She wanted to support the girls, like Jo was doing. She didn’t want her Ivy to be labelled by the gutter press as the singer with the prostitute mother. If she could give up her way of life now, she knew Blackie and probably Madame would do everything in their power to make sure their money-makers were squeaky clean. That meant they’d nip in the bud any rumours that their families were less than wholesome.

  Ahead she could see the corner of North Street where the café stood in darkness, the blackout curtains doing their usual excellent job.

  Ivy would be at Priddy’s now, working the nightshift. If Della could pass along the hallway and the ever-open doorway that led into the café she could get upstairs before Bert saw her and began to interrogate her. Bert always worried about her when she worked.

  There was no sound from the wireless as she pushed against the street door. That meant the café was quiet tonight. Della took a deep breath and moved quickly. She didn’t dare glance into the café but took the stairs, running like a mad thing.

  ‘Della? Is that you?’

  She heard his footsteps on the bare wood at the bottom in the hall but she didn’t look down or answer him.

  Quickly she inserted the key into the lock and she was inside her room, shutting the door behind her, leaning against the cold wood and taking deep breaths. Slowly she slid to the floor as her tears came thick and fast.

  After a while Della realized Ivy had drawn the blinds before she’d left for work. She got up, put on the light and went to the mirror.

  She gasped at the state of her face. Not only had Jim marked her but, because the rain had plastered her hair to her head, she looked like an old woman. With fresh tears pricking the backs of her eyes Della went to the sink, filled the kettle and lit the gas.

  She would have a strip wash, dry her hair, attend to her nose, which hurt like hell but she didn’t think was broken, take a Beecham’s Powder and get into bed. She’d be there in the morning when Ivy came home and she could apologize then for being out earlier.

  Della made a pot of tea as she undressed. She hung the sodden fur on a hanger, then put it high on the dado rail to dry off. After attending to her face – already the bruising was coming out below both eyes and it was tender to the touch – she washed with her favourite Imperial Leather soap that Bert had given her, and put on a clean nightdress. Her head felt as if someone had embedded an axe in it so she sat on the bed and, from the drawer in the small table, she took a Beecham’s Powder. She always kept a good supply – at twopence each they were a godsend in easing her many headaches. She poured the white powder into her tea. She undid another, then another and stirred them into the cup. She made a face at the bitter taste but it wasn’t that bad – she’d tasted worse. When she’d drained the cup she refilled it from the pot, added milk and more powders. Soon the pot contained nothing but used tealeaves, and a nest of powder-wraps littered the floor.

  Della didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of this before. With her out of the way, Ivy could look forward to a much brighter future.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  It was pointless staying open any longer, thought Bert. The rain kept customers away. He put up the closed sign and bolted the café door. The side door was always left unlocked for tenants.

  He would make a sandwich for Della, he decided. He’d caught a glimpse of her – she’d come home early for once. Surely she’d want to know how the meeting in Southsea had gone for Ivy.

  A few minutes later he was trudging up the stairs to the top floor with a plate of sandwiches. He banged on her door. ‘I got something to eat for you, Della. Cheese and pickle, your favourite.’

  When there was no answer, he thought perhaps she was already asleep. But he couldn’t erase the thought that she was home much earlier than usual. He knocked again. Then he noticed the strip of light shining from beneath the door. Della was very particular about the blackout: she wouldn’t leave a light burning
unnecessarily. His forehead creased with worry. Something wasn’t right.

  ‘Open this door, Della!’ It was a command. He fumbled at his belt for his pass-key and let himself in. It was the empty Beecham’s Powders papers he saw first. When he looked at Della sprawled in bed he let out a cry. ‘No!’ Her face was swollen, she had two black eyes and her nose was like a prize fighter’s.

  He was at the cupboard where Della kept her food, searching, knocking down tins of condensed milk, pushing aside a tin of cocoa. He found what he was looking for: the loaf of salt. He scraped a goodish pile into a cup and added water, stirring it in. At the bed he scooped up Della and forced the rim of the cup to her mouth. ‘Swallow, damn you!’

  The salty water trickled down her chin and onto the sheets. Her whole body was limp. What if she’d taken something more than the powders? He feared he could be too late.

  ‘No, no, no,’ he moaned. Bert tilted Della’s head back and forced open her mouth, then tipped the salty mess down her throat. For a moment she didn’t move, then a gush of warm vomit rushed at him, soaking his shirt and dripping everywhere. Della opened her eyes. They were like bright slits in the black puffiness of her face.

  ‘Thank God!’

  Then he was back at the sink scraping away at the salt block.

  When he returned to her she was vomiting again, using her elbow to hold herself steady while the watery substance fell to the floor.

  ‘Drink this.’ He held her and forced her to empty the cup whereupon she was immediately sick again. She sat in her own mess until he dragged her out of the bed and said, ‘Now walk! Then you can have some more to drink.’

  Now she managed to croak, ‘No!’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You tried to end it all, and that’s a crime. Suicide’s an offence against the law.’ He gazed into her ravaged face. ‘That Jim did this, didn’t he?’ She tried to push away from him, but he was holding her too tightly. He marched her to the sink and forced her to down another cupful he had prepared. Again she vomited. He held her hair back,

  ‘I told him I didn’t want to do it no more.’