Della scowled at the mocked-up stage. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said to Beau. ‘I hope you’re not expecting me to do the splits on that.’
Mr Jones squawked with laughter, a sheen of sweat making his plump red face glow. ‘The splits indeed! Ooh, I say. I like the sound of that.’
The receptionist, who had followed them up the stairs, said, ‘The ladies can change in the locker room, Mr Jones; we’ve cleared a space for them. But the men will have to make do with the lavvy.’
Eric Baxter frowned and in the captain’s voice said to Beau, ‘Not good enough, old bean. Rather infra dig, don’t you know.’
There was a slight pause and then Beau replied, ‘I’m afraid there’s no choice. You’ll have to change in there. It’ll be alright.’
That was odd, Catherine thought. He’d sounded almost nervous.
The show went wonderfully well and the canteen echoed with cheers. The factory workers, tired-looking women in grey boiler suits, with their hair covered, turban style, in flowered triangles, loved every minute of it. Even Eric and Captain Fortescue pulled out all the stops, daring to tell some quite filthy jokes, which the women in the audience didn’t mind one bit, screaming with laughter behind pretend-modest hands. Then Signor Splendoso drew gasps of delighted surprise when he pulled paper flowers out of his top hat and coins from the ears of one of the factory girls. He did some tricks with cards and ended by pretending to slice off Howard Jones’s finger in a miniature guillotine.
‘Pity it wasn’t his you-know-what,’ yelled one of the workers, but it was in a good-humoured way and gales of laughter followed, with Mr Jones joining in. They all quietened down to hear Godfrey sing the ‘Serenade’ from The Student Prince. His tenor voice filled the room and had some of the women in tears. Catherine, standing beside the door, smiled congratulations to him when he stepped down from the stage.
Della was next, and with Tommy’s lively accompaniment, his foot jammed on the loud pedal, she sang out her number and, having calculated the size of the stage, jumped off and continued her energetic dance in the aisle between the seats.
‘Well, I never,’ one of the factory women yelled above the noise of clapping. ‘That’s Ma Flanagan’s girl. I’d know her anywhere, even with that hair.’ She stood up and cheered. ‘Well done, Delia, love. Well done!’
Howard Jones, who’d applauded vigorously throughout, now looked as though he was about to have a heart attack. His grinning face was scarlet, and he seemed very short of breath, but the cheerful receptionist was obviously used to it and hurried off to find him a glass of water.
‘Is he alright?’ Della asked her anxiously.
‘Oh yes.’
The receptionist was unconcerned, but Beau was determined to calm the room and beckoned Catherine forward. Tommy started the introduction to her French song and the room fell silent.
The melody and her sweet voice found a home in everyone’s heart. She sang to each corner of the room, looking into the women’s eyes and finding similar longings to her own.
‘Lovely,’ the women called, when she’d finished, and, ‘Give us another one, duck.’ Beau gave her a nod and she went over to Tommy and pointed to a piece of music. The strains of ‘As Time Goes By’ were heard in near silence, broken only by the occasional sniff and the odd little groan of contentment. Catherine poured all her yearning for Christopher into the words, remembering their early days together, walking hand in hand in Regent’s Park and sitting on a bench by the lake. It was there that he’d asked her to marry him. She remembered the rain pouring down and them sitting very close together under a large umbrella. Of course she’d said yes. And then he’d kissed her, in full view of the Londoners scurrying by, and the rain was forgotten.
Oh God, how she missed him.
When Catherine stepped down from the stage, several of the factory workers came up to her and touched her hands and shoulders, and one even gave her a hug. They were doing the same to Della, and the older one who’d shouted out about her mother had grabbed her arm and was deep in conversation with her.
‘You were both brilliant,’ said Frances, when the three of them were in the locker room, changing into their day clothes. ‘Beau is so pleased, and I loved every minute.’ She smiled at them, showing white, even teeth in a generous mouth. The flecks of green in her hazel eyes sparkled and Catherine realised, for the first time, that Frances was rather pretty.
‘Thanks,’ said Della. ‘It was fun today.’
‘Yes,’ Catherine nodded. ‘But I’m looking forward to going home. What time’s our train?’
Frances consulted her clipboard. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t go until seven twenty-one, and I’m afraid we’ve got another wait.’ She looked at her watch, gold on a thin moiré band. ‘It’s just gone one now, so we’ll have to find something to do for the next five hours. I think we can get a bus to the shops in the centre of Liverpool, maybe, or go to a cafe.’
‘I’m going to visit my ma,’ Della said. ‘She lives not more than a couple of streets away from here, and it’s been over a year since I was home. It’ll be nice to see her and my brother and sister, if they’re around.’ She turned to Catherine. ‘Why don’t you come too? Ma would love to meet you.’
‘Alright,’ Catherine nodded. ‘I’d like that.’
There was an awkward pause while Frances picked up her coat and walked towards the door. ‘You’ve got to be at Lime Street Station at seven o’clock,’ she said, as they all went out into the corridor. ‘Please don’t be late.’
Tommy and Colin Brown were leaning against the door beside the gents’ lavatory and looked up when the girls arrived. ‘We’re waiting for Godfrey; then we’re going to the pub,’ Tommy said. ‘Colin knows one by the docks that will be open. D’you want to come?’
Della shook her head. ‘I’m going to see me ma, and Catherine’s coming with me.’
‘Oh,’ said Tommy, ‘are you?’ and then cocked an eyebrow at Frances. ‘Pub?’
Frances smiled. ‘Thanks, but I’ll give it a miss. I have to keep my wits about me.’
‘Okey-dokey.’ Tommy looked slightly relieved, Catherine thought. Frances was still a bit of an outsider compared with the others. But he gave them a grin and hammered on the gents’ door, yelling, ‘Come on, Godfrey. What the hell are you doing in there?’
The girls said goodbye and started to walk down the stairs. As they turned onto a half-landing, Catherine looked down and saw Beau and Eric standing close together in the reception hall. Eric was speaking quickly into Beau’s ear, and as she watched, Beau reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his wallet. They saw him take out a five-pound note and push it into Eric’s open palm.
Della gave her a dig in the arm. ‘I didn’t realise we were being paid today,’ she whispered.
‘We’re not,’ Frances murmured from behind them. ‘The money will be in next week.’
Eric had gone through the door to the street by the time they reached Beau. He looked a little flustered and was leaning heavily on his walking stick. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve got some things to do, so I’ll see you at the station.’
‘I need to ask you about the schedule.’ Frances held up her clipboard. ‘Shall I organise better transport for the—’
‘Not now, Fran.’ Beau brushed a shaky hand through his blond hair and then straightened his tie. ‘See you all later. Bye.’
Frances stood, frowning and obviously puzzled, and Catherine realised that she had intended to spend the afternoon with Beau.
‘Well, let’s go,’ said Della, picking up her case and walking to the door, but Catherine lingered.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked Frances, who was standing rather uncertainly, her clipboard with its dangling pencil still clutched to her chest.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said, and then smiled brightly. ‘Perhaps I’ll find a cafe or the cinema.’ She sounded cheerful, but Catherine could see that she wasn’t.
Della looked back over her shou
lder. ‘Oh Lord,’ she groaned. ‘Go on, then – come with us to see me ma.’ She gave Frances a hard stare. ‘But I’m telling you now – we aren’t what you’re used to. I’m sure of that. Ma lives in the Courts, and it’s a bit rough, so be warned. But she’ll give us a cup of tea and a bit of cake.’
‘No,’ Frances shook her head. ‘I’ll be alright on my own. Don’t worry.’
‘Do come,’ Catherine urged. ‘It’ll be fun to get to know each other, won’t it, Della?’
Della heaved a sigh and then nodded. ‘Yes. But come on, for God’s sake. It’ll be time to go to the station if we don’t get a move on.’ She pushed open the door and Catherine linked her arm in Frances’s and the two of them followed Della out of the building.
Outside, looking up the street, Catherine could see Beau. He was walking as quickly as his limp would allow and, ahead of him, carrying the suitcase that contained Captain Fortescue, was the thin, sloping figure of Eric Baxter.
Frances looked too and frowned.
‘I didn’t know that they were friends,’ Della said.
‘Neither did I,’ said Frances. ‘He never mentioned it to me.’
‘Well, it takes all sorts.’ Della shrugged as they walked along the street in the opposite direction. ‘Perhaps he doesn’t find him as horrible as we do, but …’
Catherine had another glance over her shoulder. Beau had disappeared, but Eric had stopped to light a cigarette and was looking back at her and the other two. Why did he make her feel so uncomfortable?
At the corner of the street, Della paused. ‘We go down here,’ she said, and pointed to a narrow lane leading off to the left. Catherine could see a warren of alleyways where lines of washing hung from building to building and tough-looking women stood, arms akimbo, gossiping with their neighbours and yelling at their grubby children.
Della looked back at Frances. ‘Still sure you want to come?’
‘Of course,’ Frances laughed. ‘Lead on.’
Chapter 4
The Courts was an area of slum houses, no different from the slums in any big city, Catherine supposed. And she’d seen plenty of those in London. The row of terraced houses where she’d grown up, and where she and Christopher had made their home, was perfectly respectable, and their neighbours had jobs and steady incomes, but she’d gone to a school a few streets away that was surrounded by run-down housing and she was used to seeing children without shoes and men and women struggling with poverty.
So when Della led Catherine and Frances through an archway and they found that they were in a large, square courtyard closely surrounded by tall, grimy houses, the area was not a surprise, or in the least bit alarming to Catherine. Frances, used to farm cottages with dirt floors and where the smell of animals pervaded the air, wasn’t shocked either. It was a different type of poverty, that was all.
Water leaked from a hydrant erected on the cobbles at the centre of the courtyard, and puddles trickled slowly away in dirty little streams. An elderly woman was filling a big enamel jug from the tap, and a couple of young girls, dressed in ragged dresses and wellington boots, kicked through the puddles, sending sprays of mud all about the square. They were giggling and having a wonderful time, and Catherine and Frances smiled at them, but when a spurt of dirty water landed close to Della’s white shoes, she didn’t find it in any way charming.
‘You little devils,’ she shouted at them. ‘I’ll tell yer mam and you’ll get in trouble.’
‘You don’t know who our mam is,’ said one of the girls, with a cheeky laugh.
‘That’s what you think,’ Della growled, as the children, still laughing, skipped away through the archway that led to the next court. The old woman with the enamel jug stared at her, her head on one side, obviously trying to place her.
‘Do you know those children?’ asked Frances.
‘No, of course I don’t,’ Della snorted, stepping carefully across the cobbles. ‘But it did get rid of them.’
Catherine and Frances looked at each other and smiled.
‘Ma lives in that house,’ Della said, pointing to a building across the square. It looked in better condition than the rest: the windows were cleaner, and the front door appeared to have been recently painted. Catherine recognised the colour as ‘battleship grey’ and guessed that it was the actual paint that the navy used for ships and was probably pinched from the dockyard. That grey door was open, and as the three girls walked towards it, a young man came out, his cap perched on the back of his head and his lips pursed as he whistled a tune.
‘Paddy!’ Della called. ‘Why aren’t you at school?’ She looked back to her friends. ‘He’s my brother,’ she said.
The boy stopped and then grinned and ran over. He gave Della a clumsy hug. ‘Delia,’ he said joyfully. ‘Where the hell have you come from? Does Ma know?’
‘London, and no,’ Della said. ‘And you haven’t answered my question. Why aren’t you at school, you little beggar? You’ll end up a dunce if you don’t go.’
‘I’ve left,’ Paddy protested. ‘I’m working now.’
‘But you’re only thirteen.’
‘Fourteen,’ he corrected. ‘I left at Easter and Jerry Costigan gave me a job.’
‘Doing what?’ Catherine noticed that Della was frowning.
‘I run errands for him,’ Paddy said defensively, but he wouldn’t meet her eye.
‘I’ll see about that,’ said Della angrily, and walked across the cobbles and through the door, yelling, ‘Ma? Ma, where are you?’
Paddy followed her in.
Frances and Catherine waited outside, nervous in case there was going to be a family row and not wanting to be involved. ‘Have you noticed that people call her “Delia” round here, not “Della”?’ asked Frances. ‘And that her mother is “Mrs Flanagan”, not “Mrs Stafford”?’
‘I have,’ Catherine nodded. ‘“Della” will be her stage name.’
‘And “Stafford”?’
Catherine shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
Suddenly a large, handsome woman strode out of the door, followed by Della. ‘Will you ever come inside?’ she roared, holding out her hands. ‘Is me house not good enough for you?’
‘This is my mother,’ Della muttered, unnecessarily, for although Ma Flanagan had grey-streaked dark red hair and was much heavier, the two women had exactly the same striking face and blue eyes. ‘And this is Catherine Fletcher’ – Della pushed Catherine forward – ‘and’ – she nodded to Frances – ‘Frances Parnell.’
Ma Flanagan took hold of Catherine and Frances’s hands and gave them a hearty shake. ‘Friends of Delia, would you be? At the theatre? Well, you’re most kindly welcome. Come in, do,’ and she drew them towards the door. There, she paused and looked over Catherine’s shoulder to the old woman with the enamel jug.
‘Good day to you, Mrs Button,’ she called. ‘I’ll be round later with your tonic.’
There was a cackling laugh in response, but Catherine didn’t have time to look back, because Ma Flanagan had ushered them into a dark, over-furnished room, where a red velvet-covered sofa vied for space with two matching armchairs and a large mahogany table. Six velvet-seated chairs were arranged round the table, and Frances noticed that the glass vase that sat in the centre of it was a match to the Waterford set that they had at home. And, to her astonishment, she saw other nice pieces on a shelf and on the windowsill that would have certainly graced the formal dining room at Parnell Hall.
Della sighed. ‘Ma, I told you – I’m not at the theatre now. I’ve joined this company where we entertain the troops and factory workers. We’ve just come from the engineering works round the corner. We put on quite a show.’
‘Did you, indeed?’ her mother said. ‘And why didn’t you let me know so I could come to see you? That would have been grand.’
Della shrugged. ‘I dare say you’ll be told about it: I recognised lots of the workers.’
Her mother nodded. ‘Oh yes, many of the women from the Courts work there.
Rather them than me.’ She crossed herself. ‘Mary, Mother of God but the work is dangerous.’
Catherine and Frances looked at each other and then at Della. She was giving her mother a puzzled look.
‘What the hell are they making?’ she asked.
‘Munitions, of course. Filling shells with TNT or something. Sure and I wouldn’t know what, and neither do those poor women.’
‘Goodness,’ laughed Frances, looking at Della. ‘And there was you dancing up and down the aisle. You could have blown us to kingdom come. No wonder that Mr Jones was sweating.’
‘Him?’ Ma Flanagan snorted. ‘He’s always sweating. Too much exercise in the trouser department with the girls at the factory.’ A glimmer of a smile crossed her face. ‘The old eejit will peg out soon.’
Paddy was leaning against the door, jiggling the coins in his pocket. He was a good-looking boy, with the same strong features as his mother and sister.
Della scowled at him and then at her mother. ‘Why is he working for Jerry Costigan?’ she asked. ‘Your man’s nothing but a crook.’ Catherine noticed that Della had fallen into the same Irish accent as her mother.
Ma Flanagan grimaced. ‘Don’t I know that? But, Jesus and Mary, wasn’t I exhausted trying to keep the boy at school? And besides, I’ve had words with Mr Costigan. He’ll keep him out of trouble. He knows there’ll be hell to pay if he don’t.’
Paddy straightened up. ‘See?’ he said with a cocky grin, and then, ‘I’ve got a message to run, Ma. See you later,’ and he disappeared through the door.
Ma Flanagan shook her head, rather indulgently Catherine thought, and then said, ‘Now, you girls sit down and I’ll fetch the tea. But first, I’m going to bring Maria down. She’ll be thrilled to see you.’
‘I’ll get her,’ said Della, and, turning to Catherine and Frances, said, ‘Won’t be a sec.’
They sat, not talking but looking around, waiting to see what would happen next. Ma Flanagan had gone through a door into the next room, but soon reappeared with a tray of cups and saucers, and a big fruit cake on a heavily decorated plate. Catherine wondered where she’d found the sugar and the dried fruit to make such a huge cake, and said so.
The Very Thought of You Page 4