Sing Them Home

by Pam Weaver

  ‘So long as your deliveries are done, Mrs Harris,’ he told her, ‘the railways are keen to support you as you do your bit for our gallant troops in hospital.’

  Iris and Betty were not quite so generous.

  ‘And who’s going to make sure she’s done all her work?’ said Iris, leaning over the counter in a confidential way as her friend Betty popped in for her afternoon break.

  ‘I’m sure she won’t take advantage,’ said a customer. ‘She seems like a hardworking girl to me.’

  ‘Oh, she’s that all right,’ said Betty, her voice full of innuendo.

  The door opened and a cold blast of air came in with Mr Knight. Iris looked up. Three-thirty. He’d come for his afternoon cup of tea. ‘Nothing would surprise me,’ she sniffed. ‘That girl’s got the morals of an alley cat.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ the customer protested.

  ‘It seems it’s one rule for her,’ said Betty, looking down her nose, ‘and something quite different for the rest of us.’

  ‘If you’re talking about Mrs Harris,’ said Mr Knight when he overheard them grumbling, ‘it does a man good to have a pretty girl sing to him when he’s in hospital.’ He smiled, remembering his own experience not so long ago when Anne Shelton came to the hospital where he was being patched up. ‘You haven’t heard them. They’re terrific. I reckon they could beat Vera Lynn any day.’

  Betty looked slightly embarrassed. ‘We didn’t mean to criticize, I’m sure,’ she said, but Iris harrumphed and passed his tea, spilling some in the saucer on the way.

  She remained tight-lipped until he’d left the room. ‘That’s as maybe,’ she said acidly when he was out of earshot, ‘but the girl is employed to work for the railway, not go gallivanting about the county and cavorting about on the stage.’

  For Pip, rearranging her day wasn’t too problematic. She didn’t have to give the children she cared for lunch, anyway, as they’d all gone home, so by extending her lunch hour from noon until two o’clock, she had plenty of time. She didn’t even have to find someone to collect Georgie. On the few occasions when Dorcas wasn’t around to look after them, Flora and Hazel came along as well. They were as good as gold, and the nurses or the canteen staff, depending on where they were, enjoyed making a fuss of them.

  The war ground on with no tangible sign of ending, and before long the girls fell into a well-worn pattern. People were war-weary and tired, but they spurred each other on with the promise that it would ‘all be over by this time next year’. They didn’t want reminding that every week was the same as the last: queuing, counting coupons, making do and going without. It was a miserable existence, but because everyone was in the same boat, they just kept going.

  All the time, the Sussex Sisters were becoming better known and in greater demand. Their repertoire had increased to ten songs, and there was even talk of a record being made. Publicity became an issue. Stella was keen to make them better known and didn’t mind very much how they went about it. Lillian was dead keen, but Pip seemed reluctant to be in the limelight. It was only when a reporter turned up to do an article in the Sussex County Magazine that she agreed to having a photograph taken. The other two were so excited. On the day it came out, in April 1943, Stella bought a copy for all the teachers in her school, and the headmistress pinned the article on the school noticeboard. Stella took a magazine to her parents-in-law. The result was predictable. Desmond and Judith were as delighted as her own mother, and Judith said she would buy an extra copy to send to her son.

  Lillian put the magazine in the station waiting room, but it wasn’t long before it mysteriously disappeared. Mr Rawlings pinned the article on the noticeboard next to the ticket office in the station forecourt, and throughout the day, passengers paused to read it. It put a smile on every face.

  Pip sat alone in her kitchen to read her copy of the magazine. She studied the inside page very carefully. The offices of Sussex County Magazine were in Eastbourne, with branches in Worthing and London. London – her blood ran cold. She had been led to believe it was purely a magazine for Sussex. She never would have agreed to be in it if she had known they had offices in London. The address was Fleet Street no less. That meant it was more important than a locally produced magazine, didn’t it? What was the range of distribution? Was it likely to go further afield than Sussex?

  The contents of the magazine helped to make her feel a little less agitated. There was an article on Sussex sprites and goblins, another two called ‘Nature Notes’ and ‘The Bells of Sussex’, and one about village yew trees. The picture on the front cover was of a country church – hardly the sort of thing to be of interest to anyone outside of the county or without a real connection to Sussex itself. The article was halfway through the magazine. It was well written and enthusiastic, and the picture had come out well. But what if someone from her past read it? She chewed the side of her mouth anxiously. It had been years since she’d seen any of them. They probably wouldn’t recognize her even if they saw the magazine. She smiled to herself. The Sussex County Magazine? She was fretting about nothing. Nobody she knew was going to read that.

  ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you,’ Stella began excitedly when next they met. ‘I had a letter from Basil Dean.’ She got up and went to the writing bureau in the corner of the room.

  ‘Basil Dean?’ said Lillian. ‘I know that name, but where from?’

  ‘He’s the head of ENSA,’ said Stella, removing a letter from the drop-down drawer. She took it from the envelope and handed it to Pip. ‘He’s invited us to audition.’

  ‘An audition!’ Lillian echoed.

  ‘Apparently, our reputation has gone before us,’ said Stella.

  ‘What difference would it make if we were part of ENSA?’ Pip asked.

  ‘We’d get a lot more money, for a start,’ said Lillian. ‘I’ve heard that some of the performers get as much as ten pounds a week.’

  Pip’s eyes grew wide.

  ‘I’m not sure we’re good enough to ask for money,’ said Stella, ‘and it might mean that we’d be sent further afield, maybe even abroad.’

  Pip took in her breath.

  ‘But we all have commitments,’ said Lillian. ‘How could you carry on teaching if we had to go miles and miles to our engagements?’

  Pip shuddered at the thought of being moved all over the country. There was no telling where she might end up. ‘More importantly,’ she said, seizing the moment, ‘who would look after the children?’

  Stella’s smile died. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘How stupid of me. You’re both absolutely right. I was only thinking that we’d reach a bigger audience or get on the radio with the BBC, but you’re right. The children come first.’

  ‘Shame,’ said Lillian, shaking her head and passing the letter to Pip to read. ‘Fame and fortune might beckon, but I’m stuck with working on the railway.’

  Pip was relieved. Just supposing they’d been sent to her old home town. Just supposing . . . She closed her eyes. Thank God they weren’t going. What a lucky escape.

  CHAPTER 16

  Georgie wasn’t stupid. He knew the big boys wouldn’t be very pleased with him now that Mummy had found the bullets. He knew they’d been hard won. One boy, Leslie Hoare, had risked life and limb to collect three of them after a lone Jerry had machine-gunned the road near the station. Everybody said Leslie’s uncle Eric was a hero. He’d been on his bike on his way to work when the Jerry plane came over. His uncle had spotted the pilot turning the plane and knew what was coming. As the plane screamed towards him, Uncle Eric had dropped his bike in the road and leapt over a low wall. The gunner sprayed the street and Uncle Eric’s bike with bullets, then flew on towards the sea. Uncle Eric checked to make sure he didn’t have a puncture, then without a backward glance, got back on his bike and rode off. Leslie had rushed outside and picked up three spent bullets before his mum yelled at him to get back in. Now thanks to Georgie’s mum, the bullets were gone.

  Leslie was furious when Geo
rgie told them what had happened.

  ‘You idiot,’ he cried. ‘Well, he can’t be our mascot now!’

  ‘She didn’t find them all,’ Georgie protested. ‘I hid everything in different places.’ The other boys stared at him in amazement as Georgie tipped out an old teapot with a chipped spout and a couple of spent bullets and an army great-coat button rolled across the table. ‘I’ve still got the best bits of shrapnel,’ he told them, ‘but I couldn’t bring them without Mummy finding out.’

  The next minute, everyone was slapping him on the back and ruffling his hair and calling him a good egg. It made Georgie feel very happy, and he was even more so when they decided that he could be their mascot after all.

  Lillian’s sense of humour had become a trademark of their appearances on stage. Of the three women, she was the most at ease with performing in public. She was cheeky and flirtatious, and egged on by the audience, she gave as good as she got. When men heckled, she had a cheeky answer.

  ‘Give us a kiss, darlin’.’

  ‘Join the queue,’ Lillian quipped.

  Lillian was the one who came home with flowers and stockings, but although she enjoyed the banter with men, she never allowed anyone to overstep the mark. That’s not to say she wasn’t tempted, and why not? Some of them were very good-looking, but so far she had never put herself in a position to follow through.

  ‘I had a postcard from Hitler yesterday,’ she joked. ‘He’s on holiday in the Bavarian mountains. He said he’d like to do something that would make me really happy.’ She posed in a coquettish way, with an innocent expression that made everybody laugh. ‘So I wrote back straight away and told him to take a running jump.’

  It brought the house down.

  Lillian’s favourite engagement was the Lancing carriage works. In the early 1930s, the carriage works had become one of three plants majoring in carriage construction owned by the railway. Just a year or two before, that number was pared down to two, the other being at Eastleigh. With the advent of war, requirements changed. There was a dramatic rise in the need for goods wagons, so the majority of their work became repairing bomb-damaged trucks. Passenger carriages were converted into mobile ambulances or military hospitals complete with operating theatres, which would be made available in the event of an invasion. In that eventuality, fighting men had to be protected at all costs.

  One of the workers, Nigel, was a gifted pianist, so Stella was able to join Pip and Lillian on stage for their other routine. It made a welcome change from singing round the piano while Stella played.

  Lillian couldn’t help noticing just how good-looking Nigel was. Not only that but he was the perfect gentleman. Over a cup of tea after the show, and before he had to get back to work, he told her he’d been refused in the call-up because of a weak chest. Years of infections as a child had taken their toll on his body.

  ‘You should think about a stage career for yourself,’ she’d told him.

  ‘I might be tempted if I was playing for a singer like you,’ he’d chuckled.

  Lillian gave him a playful shove. ‘Behave yourself,’ she’d grinned. ‘I’m a married woman.’

  By far and away her greatest problem on stage was the lecherous compère in one particular canteen. All the women complained about his wandering hands, and he wasted no time in latching on to Lillian. He was sly. As they stood together on stage taking a bow, she felt his hand on her waist. In no time at all, he was touching her bottom, and then, as they all bowed again, he ran his thumb between her buttocks. She elbowed him sharply, but it was difficult to get away from him with Pip pressed next to her on the other side. Lillian was helpless to do much about it.

  As the audience drifted back to their places on the assembly line, she hissed, ‘Keep your filthy hands off me.’

  He played the innocent and apologized in front of the others, but as they walked out of the dressing room (a broom cupboard again), he grinned and leaned towards her and, out of earshot of the others, whispered, ‘It’s only a bit of fun, darling, and you know you like it.’

  Lillian was furious.

  ‘I can’t bear that man,’ she told Stella later. ‘He’s such a bloody creep.’

  Stella seemed a bit surprised at the venom in her voice, until Lillian told her what he’d done.

  ‘You should complain to the management.’

  ‘And then what?’ cried Lillian, exasperated. ‘He’d sit there like butter wouldn’t melt and they’d tell me I imagined it.’

  Stella and Pip had to agree that would be about the sum of it. He wasn’t called Sly Stan by all the women in the factory for nothing.

  All alone in her cab doing her rounds, Lillian thought dark thoughts and plotted revenge. She had to find a way of making him look a fool that wouldn’t rebound on herself. It took a while to work out a plan, but at last she was satisfied. The next time they took their bows on stage, Lillian stood beside Pip and Stella, but Sly Stan pushed his way between them, and sure enough his hand gravitated to her bottom once again. This time, Lillian pushed him forward. Her movement was so sharp he almost toppled over the front of the stage. There was a small moment of silence, but the women in the audience knew exactly what was going on and began to cheer and clap. Lillian wasn’t finished yet, though. There was more to come. In a clear, ringing tone, she began a limerick.

  ‘I said to a man in this place, “At times, you’re an utter disgrace.”’

  The clapping and catcalling grew louder. Lillian turned to face Sly Stan, and wagging her finger, she continued fearlessly, ‘“Take your hands off my rump or I’ll give you a thump and wallop you right in the face.”’

  As one, all the women in the factory rose to their feet. Sly Stan kept up his pretence of innocence by giving an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders and looking slightly surprised.

  With her hand on her hip, Lillian began again. ‘“Is this why they call you Sly Stan? ’Cos you touch up the girls when you can? Touch me once more and I’ll give you what for.”’ And here she made a breaking action with her hands. ‘“When I’m done, you won’t be a real man!”’

  The limerick wasn’t all that good, but the hall erupted.

  After several curtain calls, they reached the dressing room and closed the door before dissolving into fits of laughter.

  A moment later, Stan put his head round the door.

  ‘Don’t you believe in knocking?’ said Stella haughtily.

  ‘I just wanted you to know,’ he snarled, ‘that we shan’t be wanting you bitches again.’

  The door slammed behind him.

  Lillian turned to the others. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ said Stella with a laugh. ‘You were amazing.’

  ‘But I’ve lost us the chance to come back.’

  ‘There’ll be other performances,’ said Pip, struggling out of her siren suit. ‘I think you did everybody a favour. The man is an absolute creep.’

  ‘That rhyme . . .’ Stella began.

  ‘It wasn’t perfect,’ Lillian admitted, ‘but I was so angry with him I had to do something.’

  ‘And it was brilliant,’ said Pip.

  A hundred miles away, Maud Abbott sat at her workroom table and stared into space, her hand resting on the wedding photograph. She had come across it while she was looking for a number-10 crochet hook. It was a bit of a mystery how it came to be in her needlework cupboard. She didn’t even remember keeping it. She glanced down. How young she had been, how innocent. Her dress was a pale lilac, though in the black-and-white picture, it was only a grainy grey colour. It was made of silk and it draped round the gentle curves of her body as if she were a Greek goddess. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine the heady scent of the lily of the valley and violets in the corsage on her right shoulder. The day had been perfect. As the centre of attention, she had enjoyed every minute. What a pity the marriage hadn’t lived up to expectation. Her mouth set into a hard line as the memory of her wedding night with all that heavy breathing and perspiration c
ame to mind. She’d been both horrified and revolted. She’d hated every minute and dreaded each repeat performance. She shuddered as she recalled her husband pawing at her clothes, the coarse hairs of his leg rubbing against hers and the nauseating aim of it all. When she got to heaven, she would have a serious word with God about it.

  She stood up suddenly, scraping the chair back noisily on the parquet floor. The photograph had to go, the same way as he had gone. All that was a lifetime ago, and a horrible memory she refused to trigger again. She tore the picture in half again and again and again. Heading for the kitchen range, she was still struggling to get the thought of ‘it’ out of her mind. She’d pretended that her monthlies lasted for two weeks; she’d pleaded a headache or tiredness. She never once willingly gave herself to him. To give him his due, he’d never actually forced her, but he’d never stopped wanting it. As soon as she’d got pregnant, she’d had the perfect excuse. He didn’t like it, but he’d respected it, although the moment the twins were born, he’d wanted to start the whole miserable business again.

  She lifted the lid of the range and an orange flame leapt greedily towards her hand. She dropped the pieces inside and slammed down the lid.

  Behind her, she heard the garden gate click. Her daughter would be here at any moment. Reaching for the kettle, Maud put it on the hob.

  ‘Have you seen this?’ As she walked into the kitchen, Marion threw the Sussex County Magazine across the table.

  Her mother picked it up. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘I was working in the reference library this morning,’ said Marion. ‘I had to put the library stamp on the inside page and I noticed the picture.’

  The magazine was folded back to reveal an article about the Sussex Sisters. Her mother frowned. ‘Why should I be interested in this?’

  ‘Look at the picture,’ said Marion.

  Her mother squinted at the page. With an exasperated tut, her daughter went to look for her glasses, then lowered herself expectantly into a chair as her mother began to read. She didn’t have to wait long for a reaction.