by Leah Fleming
In loving memory of my parents,
Alex and Helen Fleming
If you love a person, you want them to be happy, not take them like butter and spread them thinly over your own bread to make it more palatable for yourself.
From Nella Last’s Wartime Diary
(Mass Observation Unit)
Author’s Note
This is a reissue of my first novel: Dancing at the Victory Café, which was published under my original name, Helene Wiggin, in 1995 to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the ending of the Second World War. Now that I am better known as Leah Fleming, I’m keeping life simple by sticking to that name.
The events and characters in this story are entirely fictitious and any mistakes in locations or dates are entirely my own. However, running a café in a market square for several years gave me many useful experiences to share in this story.
I am indebted to friends and relatives for wartime stories and recipes, especially the late Vivien Dewes, who first sparked my interest in wartime Lichfield. I have used the late Marguerite Patten’s Till We Eat Again for information on the Kitchen Front.
I would like to thank my agent, Judith Murdoch who saw the potential in a raw piece of writing and encouraged me to polish it into something publishable. I would like to thank Joanne Dickinson and the team at Simon and Schuster for the lovely new cover.
I salute the ‘loyal and ancient city of Lichfield’ for encouraging new writers with the former Lichfield Prize for which I was short-listed in 1993. I owe my writing career to the boost of confidence this gave me. Finally, as always, I thank David and my family for giving me the time and encouragement to write this story.
Leah
Contents
Epigraph
1 VICTORY CAFÉ
2 VICTORY PIE
3 DANCING AT THE VIC
4 DORRIE. SOLO
5 BELLE. SOLO
6 CASSIE
7 VE DAY
8 REPRISE
Friday Evening
The letter fell from her grasp, half open on the rug, like butterfly wings. Isobel Morton gazed out of her cottage window, tucked in an alley behind the Cathedral Close, to watch blue tits pecking mortar from the window frame. The wind rattled through the ancient building. She could feel the draught of winter on cheeks as thin as tissue paper; she sighed as her denim eyes, faded tearless, re-examined the pink notepaper.
Dear Mrs Morton,
I saw your wartime cookery article in a magazine recently and just had to write to you with a belated, hello! It brought back such memories of our time together in the café.
I shall take the liberty of calling to see you on Sunday afternoon.
Never go back they say, but I am curious. It is time to tread the hard road of broken dreams, back to Lichfield, the city of my sorrow.
Yours sincerely,
(You will remember me as)
Dorrie Goodman
Isobel shook her head. ‘It’s come at last as I knew it must: the final demand note, fifty years too late. Just when I’d decided to slip away quietly with no fuss. I’m too tired for the song and dance routine she will want to perform. The day of reckoning is upon you, old girl, so dust down the Purchase Ledger and pay your dues.’
Already, memories were chipping in her head like woodpeckers hidden in a dark tree, hammering into the soul. Where do I begin? Where were the seeds of love first sown? Back, of course, in the spring of 1943, with the birth of the Victory Café.
1
VICTORY CAFÉ
Menu
Harvest Broth
Jugged Hare with Gamechips and Vegetables
Belle’s Bread and Butter Pudding or Apple Pie and Custard
March 1943
‘My dear, your hymen is holding up the works,’ says the doctor with a torch on his head, like a miner peering down into a pit. He stretches and twists her insides like tough elastic. ‘That’s better. Now just you get that husband of yours to do his duty and you’ll be back in no time, complaining of morning sickness!’
In four years of marriage, Belle Morton’s husband had never managed to do his duty. She was sure nothing would change that state of affairs. ‘It’s not that easy, Doctor,’ she stammers, as she mops up the blood between her legs. ‘We, er . . . Dennis, can’t seem to . . . to do anything.’
‘Nonsense, young lady, a few whiskies . . . a bit of feminine encouragement.’ It is the doctor’s turn now to falter at specifics. ‘Dennis Morton’s a sensitive sort of chap and being in the forces isn’t easy for a fastidious man . . . Just you relax. Let nature take its course. That’ll be all.’
The doctor washes his hands. Belle adjusts her skirt and stockings. Her husband rarely comes home and when he does, he will down his spirits, flop to the far end of the double bed and rasp away the night with hearty snores. It is his mother who sits, like Madame Defarge, in the waiting room, knitting scarves not bootees, assuming the absence of offspring to be entirely the fault of a careless wife.
‘We are hoping for a tribe of Mortons to see the Leather Works into the next century. His father was one of six sons. England expects, Isobel dear,’ she hints, sniffing with a delicacy which restrains further comment.
Belle also expected more from the shy Works Manager, with his Leslie Howard good looks, expected more than a kiss and a cuddle on their wedding night, on their honeymoon in France and during the four dreary years of this wartime marriage.
Now her life is at a standstill, like Mona the Morris Eight tourer, sitting on bricks in the garage of their bungalow. The house has withstood the worst of the Birmingham blitz, ten miles away, but the marriage is shot to pieces. Belle adjusts her smile to face the inquisition on the other side of the door.
‘Well? What does he say?’
‘He thinks a change will do me good,’ she lies.
‘You know you can help out at the works any time, plenty of bookkeeping to keep you out of mischief,’ her mother in law replies.
‘I’d prefer to do something on my own, use my canteen training, catering perhaps.’
‘I’m sure our Dennis would not want you mixing with roughnecks in a N.A.A.F.I. canteen. You’re a Morton now. What would people think!’
‘The Civic restaurant needs volunteers or the W.V.S. I don’t do enough,’ Belle continues.
‘Don’t you think you should stay close at hand for Dennis? His furlough is so unpredictable. If we’re ever going to have our grandchild, you’ll need to rest at your age. Thirty-five is cutting it a bit fine.’ The gauntlet drops with a thud.
‘I shouldn’t bank on that, Mrs Morton.’ The challenge is accepted.
‘What do you mean? The doctor says you are A1, doesn’t he?’
‘Oh, yes, but it’s not me with the problem, actually!’
‘And just what does that mean?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘Are you suggesting that there is something wrong with our Dennis? He’s fit enough to be in the forces, which is more than you are!’ The hackles are rising.
‘Yes, I know, but this is slightly different.’
‘I don’t like the tone of your remarks, Isobel. War is strenuous work. It separates a lot of couples but I don’t see a shortage of bulging prams on the High Street. Explain yourself!’
‘Not here, mother, another time.’ Belle edges to the door. ‘I do need a change, another outlet for my energies. Firewatching is not enough!’
‘I hope you are not going to end up one of these soldiers’ pickups. That’s what happens to bored housewives with too much time and very little sense!’ The woman stabs her needles into the ball of wool.
‘How dare you! Only a warped mind would suggest such a thing. No wonder your pre
cious son can’t make a woman of me, can’t do his duty by me. If we carry on much longer like this, it’ll be an annulment, I’ll be entitled to, not divorce!’ Belle’s blue eyes flash, hard as diamonds but the tears are welling fast.
‘Don’t make an exhibition of yourself, lady,’ whispers the older woman. ‘It could be said that a self-educated cook, who has too many opinions for her own good and jumped up notions, at that, might not encourage the passion in any man. I always told our Dennis he was a fool to pick a chainforger’s daughter, when he could have had the cream of the local crop. You two were never suited.’
‘Don’t you think that is for us to decide? Instead of interfering at every turn. I’ve had enough of your opinions to last me a lifetime. There’s more to life than providing heirs for Morton’s Leather Works and I mean to find some.’
‘And I shall be writing to Dennis, to tell him what an ungrateful wife he’s lumbered with. Don’t expect us to fund your selfish schemes. You go and suit yourself!’
‘I certainly will!’
Once out of the surgery, out onto the bustling High Street, Belle’s spirits soar, rinsed and freshened by the outburst, like damp greenery after a much needed shower. ‘If I can’t have a child, I’ll get myself a little business. But not in this smoky furnace of a town; there’s nothing left for me here.’
June 1943
‘Where shall I hang the King, Mrs Morton?’ shouts the waitress from her perch on a ladder, clutching portrait and hammer.
‘Anywhere, Dorrie, as long as he’s straight,’ is Belle’s distracted reply, as, swaddled in splattered dungarees and a turban, she sloshes on the last of the distemper in the newly altered dining room.
The senior waitress mutters under her breath – something about not being a builder’s mate – as she sweeps up the dusty remains of the plaster work. The café had been closed for two weeks, so they could bash out the dividing wall from front to back, to let in light but more importantly, to squeeze extra tables into the dining room. Gone are the custard walls, dripping with treacle nicotine staining, the cocoa paintwork. No lunchtime shoppers with cheerful chatter and clink of teacups need hide the overall neglect of the place now. No wonder the three Greville sisters, former proprietors, are grateful for this quick turnover of lease. They have no energy left to devote to such a busy establishment, now that they are preoccupied with a young evacuee from Birmingham, a little toe-rag by all accounts!
Belle tries to conceal her panic as she slaps the last of her savings across the walls, but Connie Spear is stomping sulkily with the broom. ‘I mustn’t lose my staff. I must stay calm.’ She looks at each of them in turn.
Dorrie Goodman is a strange girl, but she’s eager to please and her looks will pull in the uniform trade. Poor old Wyn Preece is stodgier, a simpler soul but a workhorse nevertheless. Connie Spear, the manageress, will need to be watched and wooed. Connie knows all the procedures with Food Office regulations and inspections, knows the best suppliers and what to order. Her bristling efficiency rubs against Belle’s inexperience. Her obvious disapproval of the new regime is plain to see and hard to ignore. How long they will tolerate each other remains to be seen.
The café is in the heart of the bustling city centre of Lichfield, opposite the bus terminal, close to the market stalls and the Cathedral; a place where weary visitors can rest bunions and swollen legs, meet a friend and have a pee! Opening up the window onto the street will allow new customers to peer inside and read the daily menu, handwritten in a spidery copperplate by Connie Spear each morning.
Lichfield is certainly a crisscross of trunk roads, with plenty of ‘comfort stations’ for travellers to exchange petrol coupons, where troops pass hours at the cinemas and dance halls. For convoys of trucks, it is a convenient punctuation mark on the long supply treks, north or south.
The ‘Cathedral Café’ was only licensed for twenty covers or diners; hardly a viable number to make a profit and repay debts. If she can expand that to thirty placings, then they can receive extra rations and chits to cover the increase in turnover. Belle knows the theory. Now comes the real test: to compete with the multitude of cafés vying for a decent share of growing custom. Her secret plan to develop upstairs foundered on the rock of the upstairs tenant’s refusal to budge from her billet. At the rear of the dining room is a door out into the courtyard and walled garden beyond. There are no funds left even to think about altering there. The rush to finish the alterations strains everyone’s goodwill. Madame Oblonsky, known affectionately by the girls as the upstairs Princess or ‘Prin’, complains incessantly about the noise and the mess. Connie moans about the indignity of it all. The two waitresses stand stock-still at the demolition.
‘Hitler couldn’t have dropped one better!’ gasps Wyn Preece. ‘We’ll never get our old customers back!’
I hope not, Belle prays secretly. Please God! No more genteel ladies from the Cathedral Close in their straw bonnets and lace gloves, who perch overlong with a pot of tea, demanding constant refills of hot water, and who peck on tiny fancies from silver-plated cake stands, twittering all morning like starlings. New customers are what we need, with pounds in their pockets; passing trade with hungry bodies to refuel.
Sipping tea with dusty lips, they all stand back to admire their handiwork: the unboarded fireplace with shining Victorian tiled surround, the chimney freshly swept and waiting for a ration of wartime coal for cold days; the threadbare linen tablecloths, cut down into dainty place mats.
Dorrie has polished the dark oak tables into mirrors. With a posy of fresh flowers in season, the whole effect suggests a cosy parlour, a cheery welcome with flags and Mr Churchill on the walls, complementing the gaily printed curtaining backed by black-out linings. All this achieved on a threadbare budget and a visit to the auction mart on the Greenhill, where they discovered a bolt of printed linen cloth that the upstairs seamstress transformed into curtains, for the promise of some free hot dinners. Now there is only the final blitz on the kitchen grease and grime, more sloshings of whitewash and scrubbings of Vim and a shelf to put up for Belle’s recipe books.
‘What on earth does she want these old books for?’ The manageress fingers a leather-backed tome with tissuey pages. ‘Eliza Acton – who’s she when she’s at home?’
‘A very famous cook, with lots of ideas for meatless pie recipes and delicious puddings,’ Belle replies.
‘What’s wrong with our steak and kidney pud then?’
‘Nothing Mrs Spear, but why not offer something different? If regulations say only one protein dish, then why not ring the changes?’
‘Well,’ offers Wyn, ‘as long as it’s not Lord Woolton’s pie – that is disgusting. My mam had a go and it was like wallpaper paste!’
‘We’ll do better than that, girls – just you wait – stews and casseroles, spiked with herbs and spices. We can grow them on the top of the Anderson shelter.’
‘You can’t get stuff like that round here!’
‘You can if you beg, borrow or steal cuttings. I brought herbs back from France years ago and grew pots on my window ledge. Herbs can hide a multitude of sins, revive an inferior cut of meat, tingle the tastebuds, I promise you.’
‘When did you go to France, Miss?’ Wyn questions.
‘On my honeymoon, just before the war broke out.’
‘How romantic,’ sigh the two younger girls.
‘My mam went to Blackpool with my dad,’ Wyn chirrups.
‘Maggie Preece’s had a few more honeymoons since then,’ whispers Connie, out of earshot.
‘Did you go to Paris then?’ Dorrie asks.
‘We just passed through on our way south to the river Loire and the Châteaux.’ She might as well have conjured names from the moon for all they knew.
‘When will we be seeing Mr Morton?’ pries Connie.
‘I don’t know.’
‘In the forces you said?’
‘Yes,’ Belle mutters, ‘hush-hush sort of job.’
‘What did he
do in Civvy Street then?’ The questions come thick and fast; Belle bangs in the cuphooks.
‘Not a reserved occupation, then?’ Connie seizes the moment. Belle drops the hammer, an inch from Connie’s big toe.
‘Oh, sorry! So careless, my mind slipped.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on the hob,’ Dorrie jumps in quickly.
‘You’ve all done a good job. It looks ten times better, don’t you think?’
‘The Grevilles will be upset.’
‘Why’s that, Mrs Spear?’
‘The Cathedral Café won’t be the same.’
‘How clever of you to bring it to our attention. A new owner, new premises and a new menu, why not a new name to celebrate?’
‘What will you think of next, Mrs Morton?’ Connie concedes.
‘Something bright and cheerful, something optimistic!’
‘The Cosy Café,’ offers Wyn.
‘The Copper Kettle – if we had one,’ giggles young Dorrie.
‘Come and see for yourself.’ They troop out onto the street, where the sign writer is completing the bold lettering across the window boards: ‘VICTORY CAFÉ.’
‘Splendid,’ shouts a woman, wobbling down the cobbles from the Close, on a black sit-up and beg bicycle, jam jars clinking in her basket. ‘You have given the old place a new lease of life – we’ve been keeping an eye on all your alterations. Do you take bookings for lunch parties? I’m with the W.V.S. We like to support local enterprise when we have working lunch meetings. Hope we’ll be your first customers?’
Belle stands in astonishment as a bright faced woman of her own age, in flat velour hat and red jersey, holds out a firm hand.
‘Mrs Baverstock – Bindy Baverstock. Welcome to Lichfield, Mrs Morton. The Grevilles have told me all about you. I’m sure you will make a go of it. I think the new name is wizard, absolutely right for the times! Good luck!’
The cyclist wobbles off again, in the direction of the city centre, pedalled by a pair of legs as sturdy as tree trunks. The upstairs window opens and a familiar voice pours over them.