Sing Them Home

by Pam Weaver

  ‘You dark horse,’ cried Stella. ‘I had no idea you were engaged. Who is he?’

  ‘He’s in a reserved occupation working on the farm,’ said Brenda, beaming from ear to ear. ‘Oh, Stella, he’s so wonderful. He’s kind and considerate, and he’s so handsome.’

  ‘You must be in love,’ Lillian quipped.

  Flora had spotted some chickens near the farm gate and was desperately trying to catch one. Georgie was more interested in the huge shire horses working in the field, while Hazel clung to her mother’s skirts, overwhelmed by the strangeness of everything.

  The farmer’s wife, Mrs Elkins, was very welcoming, and after a cup of tea and a bun, they were given a ride round the farm on a low-loader behind the tractor. Pip leaned back and gazed heavenward. How wonderful to be out in the fresh air and countryside.

  ‘You seem to have plenty of help,’ Stella remarked as she watched the men hoeing a field of turnips.

  ‘They’re prisoners of war,’ said Brenda. ‘The Italians don’t do much – they prefer to cook using herbs from the hedgerows – but the Germans are more hardworking.’

  Sure enough, the Germans kept their heads down, while the Italians waved and called out to them, kissing the ends of their fingers with an exaggerated gesture at the same time.

  After the tractor ride, they went round the farm buildings to look at the animals. The children were having the time of their lives.

  The girls hadn’t come empty-handed. Lillian had brought some of her mother’s sugar ration. Since Dorcas had given it up for Christmas, she’d never gone back to using it. Lillian also brought some soap and a couple of flannels. Stella had brought some custard powder, and Pip had brought some tacks and rubber for mending shoes. Even the children had brought something: a painting or a drawing. Everything was gratefully received, and Mrs Elkins pinned the drawings all around the kitchen before they sat down to a delicious pigeon pie and vegetables. The POWs ate their lunch in the field, but the other farm workers joined the family round the table. Here, the girls met Sidney, Brenda’s future intended.

  ‘It’s no wonder she’s fallen for him,’ Lillian whispered out of the corner of her mouth. ‘He may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’s certainly the best-looking.’

  ‘Now, my dears,’ said Mrs Elkins as soon as the clearing-up was done, ‘Brenda is going to take you into Pulborough. You can leave the kiddies here. I’ll look after them.’

  ‘Oh no, Mrs Elkins,’ cried Pip. ‘We couldn’t. It’ll be far too much.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Elkins. ‘My sister is bringing her boys up in a minute. They’ll all have a wonderful time running about in the orchard. You go along and enjoy yourselves.’

  She waved them off, calling, ‘Don’t forget you said you’d sing to my ladies.’

  Pulborough was only a two-mile walk, and the weather was warm.

  ‘I’ve got another surprise for you a bit later,’ said Brenda.

  The village itself was long and spread out. Close to the River Arun, it boasted some lovely Georgian buildings. There was a pretty church, and a stone bridge over the river that dated back to Saxon times. The girls enjoyed their wander, and when they came to a rather posh-looking hotel, Brenda made to go in.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Stella asked.

  ‘This is your surprise,’ said Brenda. ‘I’ve booked us afternoon tea.’

  As soon as they walked into the hotel, Stella wondered if Brenda had made a mistake. It was very grand. They were faced with eight tables, each with its own crisp white linen tablecloth and silver cutlery, and chairs with rather faded pink powder-puff seats. Well-dressed matriarchs and their snooty friends occupied almost every table. At the far end of the room, beside a huge potted palm tree, a man in a dinner jacket tinkled the ivories of a white grand piano.

  A waitress padded towards them with a tired-looking pink-and-gold menu tucked under her arm. With a slight bow, she ushered them to a window seat overlooking the formal gardens and they all sat down.

  Brenda ordered cucumber sandwiches, a pot of tea for four and cakes.

  The sandwiches, when they came, were as thin as tissue paper. The tea was in a pink rosebud china teapot, and the cakes looked out of this world. Brenda poured the tea, while Stella handed round the sandwiches. Lillian adjusted the plate of cakes so that her personal favourite was closest to hand. As they ate, they all made polite but hushed conversation. Pip was suddenly reminded of those teas at her grandmother’s place when she had to sit bolt upright at the table and be on her best behaviour. As if on cue, the pianist began to play ‘The Breeze and I’.

  ‘Oooh,’ whispered Stella. ‘That’s my favourite. Johnny and I love this song.’

  Brenda lowered her eyes with a faint smile.

  ‘Did you ask him to play it for me?’ said Stella. Her eyes glistened.

  ‘I don’t believe this!’ Lillian suddenly exclaimed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a nail in my sandwich.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A piece of fingernail.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There!’

  ‘Good heavens above! She’s right,’ Brenda frowned. ‘Well, I’m not paying all this money for you to have a dirty nail in your sandwich. Waitress!’

  ‘Actually, it’s not dirty,’ Lillian protested.

  ‘That’s not the point . . .’ Brenda hissed. ‘Waitress!’

  When she arrived at the table, Brenda wordlessly pointed to the offending article. Horrified by their discovery, the waitress beckoned the manager.

  The manager arrived looking down his nose, as if he’d encountered a rather bad smell, until he saw the nail.

  ‘Madam,’ he gasped in an urgent whisper, ‘I apologize. Most profusely.’ And sweeping the plate away from her, he carried it all the way back to the kitchen. As he passed by the tables, he was accompanied by a little buzz of excitement, which grew louder as the other customers began to realize something a little out of the ordinary was happening. The girls could hear urgent whispers.

  ‘A complaint? Did you say a complaint?’

  ‘But they say no one ever complains here.’

  ‘Something wrong with the sandwiches.’

  ‘The sandwiches? Do you think mine are all right? Waitress . . .’

  ‘Waitress!’

  They heard the sound of raised voices coming from the general direction of the kitchen and everyone looked anxiously from one to the other. The pianist struck up a noisy rendition of ‘This Will Make You Laugh’.

  Two minutes later, the poker-faced manager swept out of the kitchen and made his way to their table. He was followed by a very red-faced man in a chef’s hat and apron. He had the look of a man whose days were numbered.

  ‘Madame, I must apologize,’ gushed the chef in a heavy French accent, ‘I yam mortified. Je suis mortifié! I cannot imagine ’ow this ’appen.’ He glanced at the sour-faced manager and swallowed hard. ‘I serve this ’otel for twelve years,’ he went on, almost in tears, ‘and this never ’appen before.’

  He looked so desperate that the girls began to feel sorry for him. Was he really hinting that his job was on the line? Surely things wouldn’t go that far?

  ‘Please,’ said Brenda, calming down. ‘It’s just that this was supposed to be a special occasion and—’

  The manager glanced around the room at the sea of faces watching them. ‘We shall of course reimburse you the cost of this tea,’ he interrupted.

  Brenda was still finishing the sentence she’d started. ‘. . . although I am a little disappointed—’

  The manager put up his hand to stop her. ‘I cannot allow that, madam. The hotel will pay for all your teas and give the lady who found the . . . er’ – he leaned forward and muttered behind the menu – ‘object . . . a voucher for another occasion.’

  Lillian had become aware that the whole place was silent. The pianist had stopped playing, and all the other customers, though not looking their way, were obviously st
raining their ears to hear what she would say. Even Pip, Stella and Brenda waited with bated breath.

  ‘Er . . .’

  The manager leaned towards the table. ‘No one ever complains here,’ he said urgently.

  ‘Then we shall say no more,’ Lillian stuttered. ‘Thank you for your generous offer.’

  There was a collective sigh of relief. The manager bowed stiffly and followed the repentant chef back into the kitchen. As the swing door closed behind them, a heated argument ensued.

  The pianist began playing and the rest of the customers resumed their conversations, although every now and then, a head would turn in their direction with a nod and a smile of approval.

  Lillian dared not look at the others or she knew she’d start laughing, but when the chef, his face flushed with embarrassment and his hat at a crazy angle, burst back out into the room, she struggled to keep the laughter in.

  He descended onto their table with another plate of sandwiches perched on the tips of his outspread fingers and placed it in front of her with an exaggerated flourish. Then, thrusting his nose high into the air, he swept past the startled waitress, back into the kitchen. The whole charade was done in absolute silence, but as soon they were left to themselves, the buzz of conversation in the dining room rose to a noisy crescendo.

  Behind their napkins, Brenda and the girls struggled to contain their giggles.

  When at last the meal was finished and they stumbled through the door, the manager handed Lillian her voucher. They only just made it into the formal gardens before they all collapsed into uninhibited laughter.

  ‘Are you going back to use the voucher?’ Pip asked, as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

  ‘I wouldn’t dare,’ Lillian giggled. ‘It was a lovely place, and thank you for taking us there, but I’d never manage to keep a straight face.’

  That set them all off again.

  As they walked back to the farm, Lillian shivered. ‘Ooh,’ she said, reaching for her cardigan, ‘it’s getting a bit chilly.’

  ‘I haven’t laughed so much in ages,’ said Stella. ‘This afternoon has done us all the world of good.’

  Lillian pushed her hand through the armhole of her cardigan and reeled back in pain. ‘Ouch!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘My finger really hurts,’ Lillian began. She glanced at her hand. ‘Oh no!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That broken nail . . .’ she gasped, ‘it was mine!’

  CHAPTER 18

  When the children at the farm had got together, they’d played shyly at first, but before long they were climbing trees. After a while, Mrs Elkins came out to tell them they could climb the big beech tree but not the apple trees or they might damage the fruit. Then she took Flora and Hazel indoors to play with the cat’s kittens, and that’s when the boys really got to know each other. Georgie had brought his cars in a bag, so when they’d had enough of climbing, they made a track along a fallen log. Brian and Christopher were evacuee children from Deptford in London, but they were going back home at the end of the week.

  ‘Me mum finks it’s much safer now,’ said Brian. ‘She says if Jerry bombs the place, we’ll all go togevver.’

  Georgie’s eyes grew wide. ‘Have you been in the bombing?’

  Christopher shook his head. ‘Nah.’

  Georgie told them about the Heinkel 111 crashing into the house on the corner and the boys listened with rapt admiration as he told them about the German airmen, the Canadians and the fire. Apart from the odd bomb jettisoned over the fields as the Germans went home, Brian and Christopher had enjoyed relative peace and quiet in the countryside, although of course they thought it was boring. Georgie told them about his shrapnel collection and Goliath.

  ‘We’ve got a tail fin,’ said Christopher. ‘Uncle Cecil reckons it’s from a insenerary bomb.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Georgie asked.

  ‘It makes a big fire,’ said Brian, waving his arms to show just how big. ‘It set the trees alight in the wood.’

  ‘Cor,’ said Georgie, impressed.

  ‘You can ’ave it if you like,’ said Brian. ‘We won’t be allowed to take it home wiv us.’

  ‘Anyway, they got them all over the shop in London,’ his brother scoffed.

  My darling Freckle-Face,

  Thank you for your parcel, which arrived last week. It was wonderful to get a few things to remind me of home. Whenever I am alone, I hold the inside wrapping against my face. I want to smell your perfume and imagine you in my arms. Oh, my darling, it has been so long. Thank you for the photograph. I look at it all the time. After so long, I’m ashamed to say it was hard to remember exactly what you looked like.

  When you see me, you’ll find me much changed. I have lost about two stone in weight, and I keep getting boils up my nose. Bloody painful, I can tell you. I guess it’s because of the poor diet. We’ve eaten all sorts to supplement our rations: squirrel, rabbit, all kinds of birds and even a frog or two – well, only the legs. My friend Reg got a few of us together and we went up to the Red Cross depot and one of the lads managed to collect a couple of parcels. We only get German rations now and then, and it’s mostly coarse black bread and margarine. We make cakes for ourselves from crushing Red Cross biscuits with the margarine. They wouldn’t do for the Peek Freans factory, but they taste a darned sight better than the other muck. We sometimes get hot drinks from the villagers who come out to meet us on the way to the mine. God bless them, I say.

  Mr Cuddles and I can’t wait to get you between the sheets again. I reckon when I come home, you’d better take a week off to make up for lost time.

  All my love,

  Johnny xx

  In the summer of 1943, the girls were back at the Lancing carriage works for a lunchtime concert. As soon as she walked through the factory gate, Lillian found herself looking forward to seeing Nigel again. The minute she saw him and he smiled, her heart pounded wildly.

  So far, the Sussex Sisters hadn’t been caught up in an air raid while performing, but that day, they were unlucky. The sirens wailed almost as soon as they got to the canteen, and Nigel made it his business to make sure they knew exactly where to go. The railways had devised a system whereby the workers had to go to the air-raid shelters outside the works itself. Each shelter was staffed by an ARP warden and an ambulance man. As they entered the shelter, each man put his name on a ticket. Lillian, Pip and Stella had to do the same. The names were put into a round metal container, and as soon as everybody was inside, about a hundred of them, the warden threw the container outside the shelter and shut the door. The idea was that if the carriage works took a direct hit, any rescuers would know who had been in the shelter.

  Not willing to miss the opportunity to cheer everybody up, Stella suggested they sing unaccompanied and an impromptu concert began, with the sound of dropping bombs all around them. When they emerged, some coaches had been destroyed and the panel shed had been damaged, but everyone escaped unscathed, and admiration for the Sussex Sisters had rocketed.

  It was difficult for Georgie to get back to the gang members. Not only had his mother forbidden him from spending time with the big boys, but he also ran the risk of Hazel telling tales if he tried sneaking off. He couldn’t wait to tell them the story of the tail fin and how the whole of the woods were burned down. ‘If you thought the fire at Reydon was big,’ he’d say, ‘you should have seen how bad it was at Pulborough.’

  The summer was almost gone and the nights were drawing in. Following their rendition for the ladies of the WI at Pulborough, the Sussex Sisters had been asked to sing for the annual general meeting of the WI in Worthing Assembly Hall. It was to be by far their largest audience. Members had gathered from all over the county for their first joint meeting since 1939.

  The girls were still using their trademark siren suits, but by now they had made them look even more glamorous. Lillian had rhinestones on her collar. She had carefully picked them off an old evening dress she’d bought at a j
umble sale. Pip had a sparkly belt round her waist, and Stella wore a small polka-dot scarf knotted cowboy-style round her neck. They had long since used up all their own lipstick and nail varnish, but such were the perks of fame that they had been given quite a few half-used lipsticks as presents. Their songs included several new ones, such as ‘You’ll Never Know’ and ‘Sunday, Monday or Always’, but their audiences still enjoyed the old ones.

  Their performance was to be the climax of the day, so most of the afternoon was taken up with reports and presentations in recognition of the selfless service the ladies of the WI had put into the war effort.

  The Sussex Sisters had been asked to do two sessions. The first was to come at the end of the committee business. The rest of their performance would be performed after the members had had their tea. Remembering Phyllis’s advice, the girls declined to eat before they sang, so they waited in their dressing room.

  ‘Did you see that lady in the third row?’ Lillian asked Pip.

  ‘What lady?’

  ‘She looked just like you,’ said Lillian. ‘In fact, if you hadn’t been standing right next to me, I might have thought she was you.’

  Pip’s face paled. ‘I didn’t see her.’

  ‘A woman with short, curly hair?’ said Stella. ‘I can’t say I noticed her on the third row, but I have seen her before.’

  ‘When?’ Pip asked softly.

  Stella shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It was months ago. I can’t remember where. Oh, hang on, wait a minute, she was in a taxi. Why? Do you know her?’

  Pip didn’t answer, but her friends could see that she was troubled.

  There was a sharp knock on the door and someone called, ‘Two minutes.’

  They all took once last look in the mirror and stood up to go.

  ‘Where did you say she was sitting?’ Pip asked as they made their way to the stage.

  ‘Third row, fourth seat,’ said Lillian.

  By the time they reached the wings, they were already being introduced. ‘And now we proudly present . . .’

  ‘You can’t miss her,’ Lillian whispered close to Pip’s ear. ‘Her face is scarred.’