At Long Last Love

by Milly Adams

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Milly Adams

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Read more

  Copyright

  About the Book

  ‘Would anyone ever think of her with real love?’

  It’s July 1942, and twenty-three year old nightclub singer Kate Watson has made a home for herself in bombed-blitzed London. A motley crew of friends has replaced the family she’s not spoken to in years. That is until the evening Kate’s sister Sarah walks back into her life.

  Sarah has a favour to ask: she needs Kate to return home to Dorset for one month to look after her daughter, Lizzie. Reluctantly Kate agrees, even though it means facing the troubled past she hoped she’d escaped.

  Kate is confronted once again by the prejudice and scrutiny of the townsfolk, including the new village vicar. As the war continues, Kate must fight her own battles and find not only the courage to forge a future but perhaps, at long last, love.

  About the Author

  Milly Adams lives in Buckinghamshire with her husband, dog and cat. Her children live nearby. Her grandchildren are fun, and lead her astray. She insists that it is that way round. Milly Adams is also the author of Above Us The Sky and Sisters at War.

  Also by Milly Adams

  Above Us The Sky

  Sisters at War

  Jan, playmate since we were nine

  Rowena, an artist who spoils me

  Georgina, editor and chum

  And in memory of ‘Lucy’, an SOE agent who was captured in France, suffered greatly, but survived. She gave Jan and me (as youngsters) lunch and inspiration in the tranquillity of her Somerset home, and the memory of that watershed day has stayed with me ever since.

  Acknowledgements

  I have no-one to thank for the nightclub scenes except me. I put my heart and soul into being my sultry singer, Kate, it’s the closest I’ll get. As for the subsequent story of Kate’s past – well, sadly I have known people in that situation.

  My interest in the SOE started when I met Lucy, and then there was a neighbour we had when growing up who was the quietest man, but had operated in France, and then there was the film Carve Her Name with Pride. I realise the older I get, and boy, do I get older, that I have met the most extraordinary people, to whom I owe a great deal.

  I have always pondered how both men and women manage to undertake appallingly dangerous work when the chances are that they may well leave their children orphans. Again and again I have come back to this conundrum throughout my life and I’m not sure I have an answer, and what a cheek to think I have a right to one. We all do what we feel we must.

  As for the details of training and actual activities: over the years I have read many memoirs of those in the SOE, far too many to list, and had a discussion with one person in particular. I remember thinking as we spoke of the awful loneliness of not being able to trust anyone, and the stress of being in continuous danger.

  This has been brought home to me through my involvement with Words for the Wounded, a charity that raises funds for wounded service personnel. I have met those who have operated behind the lines and am aware of the difficulty of dropping the necessary alertness, or should it be paranoia, with peace. Can it ever be done? I’m not sure.

  War is a dirty business, and our debt to those who wage it on our behalf is beyond price. We should remember that, and, in our turn, do all that we can to protect them when their job is done.

  Thanks

  Thanks to Dr Kathleen Thompson, author of the brilliant From Both Ends of the Stethoscope, who is also a ballroom dancer. She tangoed me through the dance, so that I could pretend I was an expert.

  To Josie, who performed magnificently in the LEAP production of Anything Goes and described in detail her tap dances; and to Megan, her sister, who did my ironing and housework for pocket money, to free up much-needed time to write. Last but not least, to Mabel, who is always so thrilled when she sees my books in shops. Ah, there’s nothing like grandchildren.

  Thanks also for the hundreds of books I’ve read over a great many years covering the rise of National Socialism and the Second World War, and to all those who operated behind the lines, like Lucy, and in so doing suffered great loneliness, peril and too often death, in order to keep our democracy in place and us safe.

  My gratitude knows no bounds. I just hope that we are worthy.

  Chapter One

  Early July 1942 – Soho

  Kate leaned against the baby-grand piano, smiling as applause rippled around the nightclub. She sipped a weak gin. ‘Medicinal purposes,’ she grinned, toasting Roberto, the pianist. He winked.

  ‘I’ll Be with You in Apple Blossom Time’ always went down well, especially with the few newly arrived American GIs, who seemed to have time to spend in London. ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’ was probably the second favourite. Kate had opened with it this evening and, to signal the end of the first half of her act, she would perform ‘Begin the Beguine’, a song that, without fail, brought the Blue Cockatoo’s audience to its feet.

  Roberto warned her with ‘his’ look, and began the introduction to ‘A Foggy Day in London Town’. She replaced her glass on the piano top and straightened, picking up the microphone. The GIs wouldn’t know what fog was, but they’d find out pretty soon, when autumn arrived. There was also no blossom in London, nor any nightingales – only a great many gap-toothed buildings, along equally bomb-damaged streets.

  Roberto, head bent down over the keys, was into his twiddly bits, and she knew better than even to clear her throat until he’d finished. She glanced to the left of the stage, where Stan on saxophone and Elliot on bass were, as she expected, grinning as Roberto milked his moment of glory.

  Stan lifted his glass of Scotch to her. Kate half laughed. How on earth had he wheedled that out of Graham? She glanced towards the bar, where patrons sat on high stools. Ah, no wonder; it was dear old Frankie serving the cocktails and he was a sucker for the entertainers, bless him. He’d lost his Gertie in the bombing and took refuge working here whenever his Air Raid Precautions duties allowed. ‘It helps,’ he always said, ‘to be amongst other people who are trying to forget whatever it is they don’t want to remember.’

  Offstage to her right, Brucie, the owner, was imitating winding a crank handle and stabbing his finger at her. She ignored him and let Roberto play on, stepping away from the piano in her tight strapless, scarlet evening dress slit to the knee, her blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders. She slipped the microphone into its stand. Around the dance floor the patrons were sitting at what seemed like elegant little tables, but in this dim light everything looked better than it was, even the entertainers.

  She tapped the microphone. ‘Listen closely, you lovely people, the fog of winter has gone, the bombers have not returned – and perhaps wo
n’t. But, as always, the party doesn’t stop, even if they do. We will continue to play for you, while you dance till dawn.’

  The audience laughed, but one or two hunched their shoulders, looking nervously at the ceiling. Maybe she shouldn’t have used the word ‘perhaps’, but you never knew. The London Blitz was over, but the poor old provinces were getting a bashing even as she spoke. She hurried on, over the rising chatter, hearing Roberto still tinkering behind her. ‘I was just thinking that although the winter is over, and spring too, Soho has no apple blossom.’

  Kate waited for just a few seconds until they fell silent. She nodded towards the bar, where Teresa was stubbing out a cigarette beneath one of her high heels, ready to circulate with her tray of single roses.

  ‘But, gentlemen, though there may not be blossom out there, inside the Blue Cockatoo we have a rose for your lovely partner. It’s summer, after all, and Teresa is most ready to oblige.’

  She waited for the expected laughter. It came, along with whistles and hoots. A deep voice called, ‘Come to me, darling. I have money in my pocket, and a heart and soul that need obliging.’

  Brucie nodded, pleased with Kate, as Teresa sashayed her way to the soldier, her suspenders just about hidden by her short black skirt, and her breasts by the strapless top. She winked at Kate as she passed. For every rose she sold, Brucie gave her a commission. Not a lot, but enough.

  Roberto was now playing her in, Stan put his glass down and Elliot eased his shoulders. Kate held the stand of the microphone, closed her eyes and began to sing, feeling the timbre of the words, because she too had been a stranger in the city, just as the song said, and hadn’t known what to do. She reached that line, paused, looked up and waved the audience to join in.

  For a moment the patrons of the Blue Cockatoo joined together in the face of their uncertainty, and perhaps it was a comfort, much like the cocktails, for which they paid over the odds. But nothing really touched the coiling fear inside them all, and the unanswered questions: what the hell was going to happen, and when would the tide really turn?

  Kate sang on, reaching the chorus. Again she waved the audience in, and together they sang. Teresa was still circulating, and the roses were going as though there was no need for money tomorrow. As Kate sang she swayed with the music, seeing movement from her left. She stood away from the microphone as Stan took her place, playing his saxophone solo. She moved to her position at the piano again, lifting her glass, swirling the drink around. It was mostly water, with no lemon of course. There was a war on. She smiled wryly.

  But war was good for some. She was thinking of the spivs who did their business in the club, night after night, day after day. It must have cost Brucie a fortune. He also made one, of course, but how many lives were lost bringing the goods to their shores? It was best not to think about it. She gulped her drink. She was as bad; if she had any morality, she would only have water.

  Stan was drawing to a close and tapped his foot. It was code for ‘Any minute now, come and join me.’ She did, draping her arm around his shoulders. They had known one another for more than four years; she was twenty-three, he fifty-three, and they were close friends, after working night after night in the club, whatever raids were in progress.

  The ARP wardens called all the workers at the club an ‘essential war service’, manned by people as brave as lions. Mark you, they were biased, because of the nip of gin Brucie would give them when they stuck their heads round the doors, complaining that they were ‘showing a light’. But they were quite right, for even a sliver was too much.

  She sang slowly, loving the last line, because it lifted all hearts to think that the sun was shining everywhere.

  The applause was warm, and roses were thrown towards her, most of which she caught. The scent was nothing like that of the roses that grew in the gardens of her dim and distant village, but it did bring the softness of the long-ago summers into the club. She bowed in thanks and placed the roses alongside her glass. After her shift, they’d be collected and resold. She always kept one, though, and frequently wondered why she did that to herself, for Little Worthy, her village, equalled self-flagellation.

  Was it still the same? Was her father still the same? She stopped: that was enough; think of the next song, the next cigarette, and perhaps another gin. Brucie wouldn’t like it, but what the hell.

  She always ended her shift with ‘We’ll Meet Again’, but it wasn’t nearly time for that. Yes, she had sung two sessions, but it had to be three, if you were top of the bill. Roberto left the stage and she sang, to Stan’s saxophone, the opening line to ‘The Way You Look Tonight’: ‘Some day, when I’m awfully low …’

  The patrons were clinging together on the dance floor waltzing, eyes closed, the men resting their heads on the women’s heads. Her voice wavered; would anyone ever close their eyes and think of her with real love?

  She wondered if the cheeks of the women were as soft as those she sang about, and did their partners feel there was nothing for them to do but love them? She did hope so. As she breathed the words out into the ether, she too closed her eyes. Did they hope their love would never change, and that they’d keep their soft, nightclub-induced charm? She held the last note, stepping back, making room for Stan again. She smiled around the room, wondering if Brucie had remembered that she must leave at dead-on one forty-five. Mark you, best not to say ‘dead’, in this day and age.

  She saw that Tony, the doorman, had left his post outside the street door and was instead standing in the darkness at the back, by the curtain that hung between the corridor and the club. He waved to attract her attention. She strained to see him in the shadowy gloom. He was pointing to someone standing at his side, someone who stepped forward into the low light. It was a woman, wearing a felt cloche hat and day-clothes: a short jacket, a flowered dress and flat shoes. The light was insufficient to make out the colours.

  Kate shrugged, turning and looking at Elliot, who was the only one standing behind her. Did Tony mean him? She gestured towards the woman. Elliot shook his head. She moved back to Stan, draping her arm over his shoulder again, singing the last refrain. Now the dancers turned and swayed on the spot as they joined in.

  The applause was almost sleepy, as though a great calmness had fallen over the dance floor. Stan kissed her cheek. ‘Well sung, darling Miss Watson. But who is that woman over there, looking as though she’s found herself amongst sinners in a den of iniquity and has a stare that could pierce an armoured car?’

  Kate had forgotten about Tony, and now she looked again as the woman turned to him, waving her hand towards Kate, pushing her head forward to make herself heard against the noise. Kate slipped from Stan, feeling shock in every sinew, though all she said was, ‘Ready for “Begin the Beguine”?’ Roberto had made his way back to the piano. They began, and all the time Kate watched Sarah edge further into the light. Her older sister had changed in eight years. Well, hadn’t they all? For that’s what time did to people.

  As Kate sang, she acknowledged Sarah. That was all. If Sarah wanted to talk to Kate, she’d have to wait amongst the company her younger sister kept, which was a far cry from the rectitude of Melbury Cottage, High Street, Little Worthy. But was she even still living there?

  As she sang, Kate blessed, as she always did, the deadness, not of desire, but of memory. It had taken a while, but in the end had faded into something manageable. She sang of love, of the heaven they were in, and therefore at last able to begin the beguine.

  She couldn’t hold the final note, she had to breathe, and then again, but it must never be a sob. Never. Stan covered for her, his notes soaring and swooping, but his eyes were fixed on her, checking that all was well. She nodded and swayed to the music, shimmying across the stage, spinning slowly and looking over her shoulder, smiling at a familiar lieutenant sitting close to the stage with three of his friends, all from the same frontline regiment, all on embarkation leave. A bottle of champagne rested in an ice bucket. He had been coming for the past
week, and he was nice.

  She shimmied to Stan’s side, bringing the song to a close.

  She hung her head, and bowed as applause burst from the patrons, accompanied by hoots and whistles. What a bloody idiot she was to think she’d really deadened the memories. She lifted her head, knowing that her eyes were full. She must not blink. She bowed again, and let the tears drop to the stage, unseen, then stood straight, smiling around at the audience, who were on their feet, cheering and laughing. ‘Encore!’

  She stepped away, gesturing to Stan, who took a bow, taking her hand, squeezing it. ‘All right, lovely girl?’ He looked puzzled.

  She nodded. ‘Just a face from the past – family.’

  He nodded and twirled her beneath his arm. They both bowed. He murmured, ‘Time for a drink, methinks. Get one for the tank-piercer, it might blunt her thrust.’

  Kate stared at her sister, who was not applauding, just standing quite still. Their eyes met.

  I’m a star, in spite of you and Father, Kate wanted to say. I can sing, and audiences like me. I can dance. I have friends who do the things I love, all the things I wanted to do, and which you all thought so wrong. Yes, here I am. I have begun the beguine, O sister of mine. Do you even know what a ‘beguine’ is? It’s a dance, a sort of rumba – a dance of joy, I like to think. But you don’t dance. You’re proper, whereas I am not. I am a polluter, Father said, not suitable … She stopped.

  Sarah was looking around the club, her distaste visible. Kate kept her head up, her smile in place, saying into the microphone, ‘Well, time for a break, everyone, maybe for more drinks, perhaps some food. Manuel will be here to provide a few wonderful tunes, if you are still in the mood for dancing. You see, we cover your every need. The girls will be moving amongst you, and we’ll start again in twenty minutes.’

  A man waited to steady her down the three steps. He kissed her hand. ‘Dance with me?’