by Pam Weaver
After a moment’s thought, Pip said, ‘You don’t need clothing coupons for curtain material.’
‘Oh great,’ said Lillian. ‘Blackout or heavy brocade. I’m sure we’ll look fantastic in that.’
‘Actually, she may have a point,’ said Stella. ‘Some curtain material is quite lightweight.’
‘But it’s always in such awfully dull colours,’ said Lillian.
They all sighed.
‘I guess it’s back to the jumble sales, then,’ said Pip bleakly.
CHAPTER 13
The big boys had found a way into the derelict house. They had always been thwarted by the barricaded doors and the boarded-up windows. The shed had been a great den until Flora ran into it the night the German plane came down and the adults found her.
At first, the boys were angry and blamed Georgie, but when Flora’s injuries became clearer, they decided she had done the right thing.
‘We are protectors of the realm,’ Billy reminded them. ‘It’s our job to rescue people from the Hun. Even,’ he added with a grimace, ‘girls.’
But now that everybody knew about the shed, it wasn’t much good as a secret hideout (which was why they had asked Georgie to hide their stuff), though they still enjoyed running around outside the house as they played Robin Hood or Hopalong Cassidy. What they wanted was somewhere where the grown-ups couldn’t see them.
Today, Billy and the other boys had been playing in the grounds. He had been kicking. He had nothing to kick, so he was just kicking, but when he jumped onto a sloping bit covered in ivy that was jutting out from the wall, the wood under his foot splintered. It was a scary moment because he almost fell through. On closer examination, the boys discovered that underneath was a coal cellar. In a moment of daring, they broke in and jumped down. The cellar was dark and covered in mouse droppings. It smelled musty and damp, so they didn’t want to stay there, but the really exciting bit was when they found a door that led to the rest of the house. The gang had a fantastic afternoon playing cowboys and Indians as they dashed along the corridors and ran upstairs, hid in empty cupboards and yelled down the echoey, brown-stained loo pan.
‘We can keep all our treasure here,’ said Gideon eventually. ‘No one will ever find it.’
‘We’ve got to get it back from Georgie Porgie first,’ said Billy. ‘Any idea where he put it?’
The rest of the gang shrugged.
‘I think when he gives it back,’ said Gideon, ‘that we should make him an honorary member.’
‘But he’s only a little kid,’ Billy protested.
‘I’d vote him in,’ said Norman.
‘And so will I,’ said Gideon.
‘He’s too young,’ Billy insisted.
But Gideon wasn’t about to give up so easily. ‘We could make him our mascot until he’s old enough to take the gang oath.’
And so it was agreed.
By the end of November, as the Christmas decorations began to appear in the shops, their singing had come on by leaps and bounds. They had agreed to adopt a close harmony as they sang, and for the past few months, they’d been adding stage moves to their routine. Phyllis, Stella’s mother, had helped them from the word go. She was strict, but Pip and Lillian didn’t seem to mind. She taught them how to do exercises to strengthen their vocal cords, and they learned how to look after their voices. While she was up in the loft looking for Christmas decorations, Stella had found an old wardrobe mirror. She laid it across the sofa so that they could perform in front of it and watch their every move.
Phyllis also gave them some golden rules. Drinking alcohol was bad for a singer, and one should never perform after a big meal. She encouraged them to do their exercises every day whether they were singing or not, and before long the girls found they had a greater range and singing was less of a strain.
‘Deep breaths,’ she cajoled. ‘Bring it up through the diaphragm . . . No, no, you’re singing through your nose . . . Let the note swell . . . Slowly, slowly and bring to a close.’
On Saturday night, they found out that the Andrews Sisters were on at the pictures in a film called Buck Privates with Abbott and Costello at the Plaza Cinema. With babysitters arranged for the children, the three girls set off together to see it. Afterwards, having seen the film twice, they discussed every move and tried to emulate the professionals. They discovered that by standing together, they could move slowly across ‘the stage’ if they swung their right leg outward and only made a small step. Once they’d got the footwork right, they paid attention to their hand movements. All this had to be done, of course, while keeping in sync with the tune and looking happy.
‘I’ve just thought of something,’ Pip suddenly said at their rehearsal. ‘Supposing there’s no one to play the piano.’
‘Oh crumbs,’ Lillian gasped. ‘I don’t really want to sing unaccompanied. What shall we do?’
‘Perhaps your mum would help us out?’ Pip suggested.
Stella shook her head. ‘I think I’d prefer to play it myself,’ she said.
‘But we can’t have you stuck down in the orchestra pit!’ cried Lillian.
‘We’ll get them to put the piano on stage,’ said Stella, ‘and we’ll sing round it.’
‘Then you’d better practise a few moves standing round the piano,’ said Phyllis. ‘It’s important that you look professional whatever you do.’
They spent some time practising new moves, which, although carefully choreographed, made them look casual and at home.
‘Smile, girls,’ Phyllis cajoled every time they looked too serious. ‘Smile.’
It didn’t take long before they had a repertoire of five songs: ‘I’ll Be With You in Apple Blossom Time’, ‘Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree’, ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’, ‘Fools Rush In’ and ‘I’m Sending a Letter to Santa Claus’.
‘I’ve got us an invitation,’ Stella told them one evening. ‘My mother has asked us if we can sing in the canteen up at Broadwater. Apparently, an officer who is billeted with her is organizing the entertainment and has been let down at the last minute. I said we could go . . .’
Lillian took in her breath, and Pip gulped. ‘But we haven’t even got a name for ourselves yet,’ she cried.
‘And we still have nothing to wear,’ Lillian wailed.
Stella looked uncomfortable and chewed nervously on her bottom lip.
‘What?’ said Pip with a frown.
‘Mum told them we were Sussex sisters,’ Stella said cautiously, ‘and the organizers thought that was our stage name.’
‘Sussex Sisters?’ said Lillian.
‘I like it,’ said Pip.
‘I think I do too,’ said Lillian, nodding slowly. ‘The Sussex Sisters it is, then.’
‘But there’s still the problem of a costume,’ Pip reminded her.
‘Siren suits!’ cried Stella.
Lillian and Pip stared at her in disbelief.
‘Siren suits?’ said Lillian. ‘Oh, please . . .’
‘No, listen,’ said Stella. ‘The Andrews Sisters wear uniforms because they’ve been signed up. We’re all civilians. Why not let the ordinary women feel they have a real part to play in this war? I’ve never seen anyone make a fuss of them.’
Lillian looked sceptical.
‘You know she’s right,’ said Pip. ‘We can make the factory worker and every hardworking woman feel special. They deserve that much, don’t they?’
‘Yes, but in a siren suit?’ said Lillian. ‘They’re all baggy and covered in pockets. Hardly flattering.’
‘If we turn up in a siren suit,’ Pip went on excitedly, ‘we’d be saying, “We know exactly what you’re going through because we’re one of you.”’
‘I suppose we can glam them up a little,’ Stella suggested.
Lillian wasn’t convinced. ‘How?’
‘I’d be quite happy to take them all in a bit, to give them some more shape,’ said Pip. ‘We could wear a colourful turban, and a bit of lippy would work wonders.’
‘Would we have time?’ asked Lillian. ‘The show is next week.’
‘I’ll make time,’ said Pip firmly, ‘and there’s no time like the present. Where’s your suit, Stella, and have you got any dressmaking pins?’
‘My suit is at home,’ said Lillian dully. She was disappointed, and she showed it.
‘That’s fine,’ said Pip. ‘I’ll make a start on Stella’s, and you can pop round after work tomorrow evening.’
A slow smile played over Stella’s mouth as she fished around in her needlework box. ‘You know what? The idea is really growing on me.’
‘It would certainly put the Sussex Sisters in a class of their own,’ said Pip, taking the pincushion from her and setting it on the table.
Stella was pulling on her suit. Pip brandished the scissors. ‘Now, let’s give this baggy old thing a bit of glamour.’
Oh, wonderful, wonderful: three letters from Johnny! It was Tuesday and Stella snatched them from the mat as she walked in through the front door. She felt lightheaded and breathless with excitement. She was tempted to rip them open there and then, but she forced herself to reach for the letter-opener instead. She hurried into the sitting room and threw herself into a chair.
She put them in order; then she slid the opener along the first one and feasted her eyes on the familiar and much-loved writing.
My darling Freckle-Face,
I have so much to tell you. Life changed dramatically for me the day I was caught out in the sandstorm. It came rolling in like a huge black cloud 20ft high. The wind itself must have been at least 35mph. The lads and I were in the Katie ambulance, which only has canvas closures, not doors, so we had to cover our faces with a damp cloth and protect our eyes with goggles, or, in my case, sunglasses. It’s very hard to breathe, and the sand gets into your nose, eyes, mouth and lungs. When it was all over, we were sitting ducks and so we were captured by the Germans. We were kept together in some sort of stockade until they handed us over to the Eyeties. It was then that we heard that Tobruk had fallen.
There were about 500 of us, not all British. After a couple of days, we were herded on board ship, South Africans, Indians and Aussies. It was hell on earth. Nobody was allowed on deck, and with only 10 buckets between us, you can imagine the stink. Some of the men already had dysentery, so it was no picnic, I can tell you.
I had no equipment, so as a first-aider, you can imagine how helpless I felt. Despite my best efforts, we lost a few men.
We spent two days down there before we reached port. After several hours waiting, we were lined up on the dock. I must have looked a pretty sight. I hadn’t washed for over a month. I was lousy, ravenously hungry, and my uniform hung in tatters. It was only the thought of you, my darling girl, that gave me the will to go on. Before they marched us to camp, they took us into the town and put us in cages. The locals chucked rotten cabbages and tomatoes at us. Surprisingly, some of the tomatoes were only soft and tasted all right, so we were all grateful for the moisture.
After a day and a night, we were moved to a POW camp, where I had a shower. The weather was kind enough to be able to wash our clothes, and we walked around in our underpants while we dried them on the roof.
Things are a bit better now. There’s talk of being moved to another camp, but so far we’ve made the best of it here. A chap from the South African Artillery, a PE instructor, has licked us back into shape, and the Red Cross parcels add a bit of variety to the monotonous food.
It helps to think of you all back in Worthing. Your letters make such a difference. I had two the other day. I imagine you’ll be eating Dad’s strawberries before long. When I’m in bed, I hold your letters close to my heart and remember our times together. I try to imagine kissing the mole on your thigh and caressing you. I want to make love to you madly. It’s hard to bear because it enflames me, but I miss you so much, Freckle-Face. Please don’t forget me. That’s all for now.
Your ever-loving Johnny
Poor Johnny. How awful. Stella became aware that her arm was hurting. In her rush to read his letters, she had pulled her left arm out of her coat sleeve but sat in the chair before releasing her right arm. As a consequence, she’d sat awkwardly and the sleeve was cutting off the circulation. She raised herself and pulled off her coat, dumping it untidily on the floor. Wiping her eyes and giving her nose a good blow, she opened the second letter. It was much shorter than the first.
Hello, Freckle-Face,
Please don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a while. I have a plan.
All my love,
Johnny
She frowned. What did that mean, Please don’t worry if you don’t hear from me? She took in her breath noisily. He was going to escape, wasn’t he?! They shot people who tried to escape, didn’t they? Her heart was in her mouth as she slid the letter-opener under the seal of the third letter.
My darling Freckle-Face,
I have just received no less than six letters from you! Oh, my sweet Stella, it was so good to read about Worthing and the things you’ve been up to. Thank God that plane came down where it did. I can’t bear the thought of you being so close to it. Tell Pip I think she’s the most wonderful girl in the world (apart from you, of course) for pulling you inside. I’m so glad you haven’t forgotten me.
Thanks for the news of Mother and Dad. I also received a letter from her, but she says so little apart from her WVS work.
I have been moved to another prison camp, this time in Germany. I got away for a few days by pinching a motorbike, but I got caught out at a checkpoint because I didn’t have any papers. It was good while it lasted.
Oh, Stella, how I wish you were here and I could take you in my arms. I miss having sex, and I miss you. Mr Cuddles can’t wait to come into your garden again.
Stella giggled at his naughtiness and turned the page. What would the censor have made of that sentence? Would he have understood the intimate language? She felt her face flushing as she read on.
I don’t have to worry about having nothing to do any more. They send us out in working parties every day. I set out at 5 a.m. for a local coal mine three miles away. We get some black bread and sausage at 10 a.m., some vegetable soup at noon and supper when we get back to camp after a five-o’clock finish. As you can imagine, it’s pretty deadly.
Since I’ve been here, we haven’t had any Red Cross parcels at all. It looks like I shall be spending Christmas here, so if I get the chance, I’ll raise a glass of water to you, Mother and Dad. Think of poor, lonely Mr Cuddles, won’t you?
All my love,
Johnny
She cried for a while after she’d finished reading them. Everything sounded so bleak apart from his brief moment of freedom. Having made a couple of hankies soaking wet with her tears, Stella pulled herself together. Walking to the writing bureau, she pulled out her fountain pen and some paper to begin a carefully worded and cheerful reply. Now that she knew where he was, tomorrow she would put together a few Christmas things and some necessities into a parcel. He probably wouldn’t get it until the new year, but she was determined to brighten his day sometime soon.
CHAPTER 14
Their first ever singing engagement was on the following Saturday December 5th. Stella didn’t mention it to the teachers at work. The preparations for the Christmas nativity play were well under way and she didn’t want to distract them from that. That was what she told herself, anyway. If the truth be told, she wanted to see how the engagement fared first. Singing round her sitting-room piano was one thing, but singing in front of a crowd of strangers in a canteen was another entirely.
Pip had asked one of her neighbours to babysit for the evening, but she didn’t say why. It was beginning to dawn on her that after carefully keeping out of the public eye for nearly eight years, being a member of the Sussex Sisters had suddenly made her very vulnerable. The sensible thing would be to abandon the idea, but she enjoyed singing, and besides, how could she disappoint the others? She kept telling herself she was miles an
d miles away from her old home and that the probability of anyone finding out where she was was remote, to say the least. Yet in this time of flux, when everyone in the country was on the move for one reason or another, it wasn’t as improbable as it might have once been.
Lillian asked a friend to look after Flora. Dorcas would have been there, but she was on duty tonight. Lillian had been tempted to tell Mr Rawlings about it, but in the end, she had satisfied her desire for notoriety by telling Ron Knight. To her great surprise and delight, he’d expressed the desire to be there.
‘But it’s an army camp,’ she’d protested. ‘I’m not sure you’ll be allowed in.’
Mr Knight had thumbed his nose. ‘Ways and means,’ he’d said mysteriously. ‘Ways and means.’
There was just enough petrol left in Stella’s car to get them to Broadwater and back. The performance was billed for seven-thirty, so Stella set out to pick the others up an hour earlier. It was a bit of a mad rush for Pip to make sure that the children were tucked up in bed before the babysitter came. She usually spent time reading them a story and saying prayers for Daddy, but tonight, all that had to go by the board when she heard Stella tooting the horn outside in the road at six thirty-four.
Nobody spoke as they travelled: they were far too nervous for conversation. Lillian was not only concerned about the performance but was also wondering how she would feel being in a room full of Canadian soldiers all dressed like Woody. They found the camp with no problem, and Phyllis was waiting with the guard on the gate. Once their ID cards had been checked and he’d opened the case in the boot to check the contents, Phyllis climbed in the back seat and guided them to the canteen, which was in a Nissen hut at the far end of the camp. The authorities had given them a small room behind the stage in which to change. It was more like a store cupboard, and Pip was glad they had opted for the siren suits. Getting changed into evening dresses or fancy gowns in such a confined space, surrounded by mops and buckets, would have been problematic. Something would have been ruined, for sure.