by Daisy Styles
‘And I’m Nora Barnes,’ said the other girl. ‘I play the trombone – a bit,’ she added nervously.
‘We’re both on the cordite line – Canary Girls,’ Maggie, the bolder of the two, said. ‘I work with mi sister, Emily.’
Gladys smiled as she replied, ‘I know Emily, she’s a great cook.’
Maggie smiled proudly. ‘She likes making pies and pudding when she’s not building bombs!’ she joked. ‘Best cook in Lancashire, our Em.’
Gladys quickly jotted down their names on a scrap of paper.
‘Thanks for turning up, I’ll be in touch soon,’ she promised.
When she joined her friends, who were halfway through their break, Gladys gratefully accepted the mug of tea that Kit had saved for her.
‘I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies – looks as if I’ve found myself a trumpet player and a trombonist. Let’s just hope they can actually play!’
‘That’s a start,’ said Kit enthusiastically.
‘No pianist, though,’ Gladys added. ‘We won’t get far without a pianist,’ she added gloomily.
‘One thing at a time,’ Violet insisted. ‘Audition the new girls, then worry about the pianist.’
The next day Gladys auditioned Maggie and Nora in the cowshed. Luckily both girls had their own instruments.
‘Okay, ladies, let’s hear what you can do,’ Gladys said as she settled herself on the sofa in between Kit and Violet.
Maggie on trumpet was loud and brash, but she had genuine rhythm and could sing like a bird.
Gladys smiled as Kit gave her a gentle dig in the ribs.
‘She’ll do,’ she said with a wink.
Nora, on the other hand, was not so good. She was a wildly over-enthusiastic amateur who would need a lot of training, but her heart was in the right place.
‘I know I’m not up to scratch,’ she said bluntly. ‘But if you give me something to practise, I’ll improve – I’ll work at it,’ she declared with a winning smile that showed the gap between her big front teeth. ‘I won’t let you down.’
Gladys reached for her alto sax.
‘Let’s try playing together. I’ve only got one music sheet but not to worry,’ she added as she saw Nora’s anxious expression. ‘We’ll peer over each other’s heads and do our best.’
Kit didn’t have any drums to play, but, as Violet and Gladys swung into ‘Moonlight Serenade’, she kept up a steady beat on the wooden dining table. Swaying to the rhythm, wriggling their bottoms and tapping their toes, Violet and Gladys set the tempo, which Maggie immediately picked up from the music sheet. Winking at Nora, Maggie encouraged her to join in whenever she could. It was impromptu but Gladys could see that with plenty of regular practice sessions they could pull together as a group – if only they had a pianist!
It was Kit who discovered the pianist. Shift work didn’t allow her time to go to St Columba’s Catholic Church in Pendleton, so occasionally she’d sneak into the little chapel on the Phoenix factory site and say a prayer to herself. Whilst she was on her knees saying the ‘Our Father’, her eyes strayed to a drum kit half hidden behind a curtain.
‘BEJESUS!’ she thought to herself. ‘That could be a godsend.’
Another time, when Kit was hurrying down one of the many labyrinthine corridors that threaded through the factory site, she’d stopped dead in her tracks at the sound of accomplished piano playing ringing out. Curious, she’d followed the music to the chapel and tentatively opened the door to see who the pianist was. Seated behind the upright piano was a tall, middle-aged and big-boned woman wearing glasses that swooped up at the sides like silver diamanté wings. Creeping closer so as not to disturb her, Kit watched, fascinated, as the pianist’s long, flexible fingers persuasively caressed the keys, drawing life and sound from the old upright that had been neglected for years.
After the final chords had faded away, Kit approached the woman.
‘You play beautifully,’ she enthused.
The lady bowed graciously. ‘I was a piano teacher before the war, and a Sunday school teacher too,’ she said as she stretched out a hand to Kit. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Myrtle Tindal. I’m in packing.’
‘Kit Murphy, filling shed.’ Determined not to let this precious opportunity pass her by, Kit blurted out, ‘Have you ever thought of playing in a swing band?’
Myrtle burst out laughing. ‘I heard the announcement in the canteen, an all-girls’ dance band,’ she said and then added, ‘I think I missed that boat.’
Kit stared at her in confusion. ‘Why, what’s wrong with you?’
‘I’m a middle-aged woman, serving my country in the only way I can. I am not a young gadfly in a short skirt!’
‘It’s your music that counts,’ Kit insisted. ‘You play like a film star!’
Myrtle actually blushed with pleasure; she rather liked being called a film star.
‘Come and meet Glad,’ Kit begged, then she stopped short. ‘No, other way round, Glad should come here and meet you and hear you play the piano.’
Myrtle quickly checked her glittering marcasite watch. ‘I was just having a brief practice – I’m due in the dispatch yard soon,’ she said sharply.
‘Wait there!’ cried Kit. ‘I’ll be ten minutes.’
Tearing across the site, Kit didn’t pause for breath until she got to the cowshed, where she flung open the door and yelled, ‘Glad! Come to church now!’
Gladys appeared with her gorgeous brunette hair in rollers. ‘Are you joking?’ she laughed.
Kit grabbed her arm. ‘No, I’ve got a surprise for you,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Violet!’ she called. ‘You come too.’
Not wasting a second to explain, she dragged her friends across the site to the chapel, where they found Myrtle still at the piano. Panting for breath Kit said, ‘Can you play a swing number, Myrtle?’
Myrtle paused for a second, then without sheet music she launched into Woody Herman’s ‘Woodchopper’s Ball’. The girls stood open mouthed as Myrtle beat out the rhythm, and, finding it impossible to stand still, they started to dance around the piano. Gladys’s fine strong voice soared out as she harmonized alongside Myrtle, who finished the piece with a series of rippling chords.
‘Wonderful!’
‘Marvellous!’ the girls cried as they applauded Myrtle, who was now on her feet, clearly in a hurry to get back to work.
‘So do you think you could be our swing-band pianist?’ Kit sweetly asked.
‘I’m far too old,’ Myrtle said again, though the glint in her eye belied her demure reply.
‘You’re not!’ Gladys cried as they hurried down a corridor after her. ‘It’s about the music, not age.’
Before they parted ways at the workshop door, Gladys said, ‘Please just think about it?’
‘You’d make all the difference,’ Violet assured her.
‘Pleeeease,’ begged little Kit.
Myrtle nodded. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said with a smile.
By the end of her shift, Myrtle had decided she would join the swing band on condition that she would never have to wear a short skirt or dye her hair blonde.
‘You’re perfect as you are,’ said Kit as she hugged the new band member.
Kit later showed Gladys and Violet the dusty drum kit she’d noticed behind the curtain in the chapel.
‘It needs a good clean up,’ she said as she sat down before it. ‘But it plays well.’ Pressing the pedal, she hit the base and the snare drum and clashed the cymbals.
‘We’re in business!’ Gladys laughed.
‘Though we’d better check with the chaplain,’ Violet added.
‘You’re not telling me that he comes here on a regular basis to knock out a few jazz numbers?’ Kit joked.
‘No, but he might get a shock if you suddenly start up drumming during one of his sermons,’ Violet teased.
Later that night, as they boiled milk for their bedtime cocoa, Gladys was still worried.
‘If we can get Nor
a up to scratch on the trombone, we’ll be in business; if not we might be looking for a new trombonist and that would break poor Nora’s heart.’
It was Myrtle who took Nora under her wing. Having taught music for years, she was experienced in bringing on young musicians. With Myrtle in packing and Nora on the cordite line, their shifts didn’t always overlap, but that didn’t stop the determined couple from meeting at least once a day, whether it was an early-morning practice or last thing at night. Myrtle taught Nora the techniques she needed, such as how to blow down the trombone instead of puffing at it.
‘You have to purse your lips like this,’ she explained as she puckered up her own lips to demonstrate. ‘You need to get a steady stream of air into your instrument if you’re to produce a clear note,’ she added. ‘At the moment we’re getting a lot of flat notes.’
Nora chuckled, ‘More like rude noises!’ she joked.
‘Practise positioning your fingers on the valves,’ Myrtle advised as she took up Nora’s trombone. ‘Keep your fingers soft and supple so you can stretch to the furthest valve,’ she said as she demonstrated the move. ‘And try not to get flustered; if you do you’ll hit the wrong one.’
‘And that’ll be another rude noise,’ Nora commented.
Myrtle discovered that if she played a soft piano accompaniment to Nora’s trombone pieces, the girl visibly relaxed and her confidence grew.
‘Excellent,’ Myrtle said in praise of her student after she’d completed her best piece of music to date.
Nora’s big round face grew pink with pleasure.
‘Now,’ Myrtle added. ‘Let’s try that Gracie Fields song you love so much.’
Nora nodded enthusiastically. ‘ “Sing as We Go” – it’s my big sister Nellie’s favourite song,’ she said as she pursed her lips exactly as Myrtle had taught her and blew a series of clear melodious notes.
As Myrtle made progress with her student, Gladys and Maggie practised backing harmonies, whilst Violet accompanied Kit to the chapel, whenever it was available to them, so Kit could play the drums and Violet her clarinet.
It took over two weeks of hard concentration and repeated practice sessions (in between their long gruelling shifts) before they really began to swing as a band. After a lively rendition of ‘South of the Border’, with Gladys and Maggie singing in beautiful harmony to Violet’s lilting clarinet, Kit’s seductive drumming and Nora’s gritty trombone playing, Gladys smiled in approval.
‘I think it’s time we launched ourselves on the public,’ she announced.
‘You mean perform?’ Maggie gasped.
Gladys nodded. ‘Put on a show at the canteen, open it up to the public as well as the workers.’
Nora paled. ‘Are we ready for that so soon, like?’
‘We could be waiting forever for the right moment,’ Gladys replied.
Myrtle nodded in agreement. ‘There’s nothing like a performance to focus the mind,’ she said knowingly.
‘Well, then, we’d better come up with a name for ourselves,’ Kit giggled.
Gladys, who’d spent months day-dreaming about her band, grinned as she answered without a moment’s hesitation. ‘I’ve got one already: The Bomb Girls’ Swing Band.’
Myrtle, Nora, Maggie, Violet and Kit smiled at each other.
‘It’s got a nice ring to it,’ Myrtle said approvingly.
‘Let’s take a vote,’ cried excited Gladys. ‘Show of hands, ladies!’
As five hands shot up in the air, Gladys clapped her hands excitedly.
‘YESSSS! The Bomb Girls’ Swing Band is launched!’
11. Swing Band Debut
A Saturday night at the start of May was suggested to Mr Featherstone, who promptly agreed that the Phoenix canteen could be thrown open to the public to attend a dance there, on condition that he and his wife could attend too.
‘This will boost war-time morale,’ he enthused to Malc, who’d been delegated by Gladys to approach the factory boss.
‘I should think half of Pendleton will be there when they hear it’s an all-lasses band,’ Malc commented.
‘Just make sure you get me tickets. I wouldn’t miss this show for the world,’ Featherstone replied.
With their debut night less than a fortnight off, Gladys was getting cold feet.
‘It was you that suggested going public in the first place,’ Edna reminded her after Gladys had poured out her woes one wet breezy evening in the dispatch yard.
‘I thought it would boost our morale,’ Gladys replied limply.
‘And it clearly has,’ Edna remarked. You might well have up to 200 people to entertain if all the Phoenix girls show up.’
‘They won’t all come!’ Gladys answered dismissively.
‘Don’t count your chickens,’ Edna teased.
Gladys groaned. ‘Stop tempting fate, Edna,’ she begged.
Lighting up a Player’s, Edna got down to brass tacks. ‘What’s worrying you most, our kid?’ she asked bluntly.
‘The amount of numbers we’ve got to learn,’ Gladys blurted out. ‘The song list is SIXTEEN!’ she cried.
‘They’re not all songs, though, are they?’ Edna asked.
‘A mixture of dance numbers and songs,’ Gladys told her.
‘Do the girls already know the songs?’
Gladys nodded. ‘I purposefully chose the songs we use for our practice pieces.’
‘Well, then, that’s not so bad if they’re already familiar with them,’ Edna said as she pushed a clean chip bag and pencil towards Gladys. ‘Write down all the songs you know off by heart.’
After Gladys had scribbled down eight song titles, Edna stubbed out her cigarette and studied the list.
‘So that only leaves eight more to learn; make them dance numbers,’ she suggested. ‘That way you won’t have to worry about any lyrics.’
Gladys’s lovely face lit up with a happy smile. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’
‘Because, Miss Panic Drawers, you’re working too hard and you’re not thinking straight.’
Gladys blew her grinning friend a big kiss. ‘Thanks, Edna. I don’t know what we’d do without you!’
Feeling better for her discussion with her older friend, Gladys walked slowly home, all the time chastising herself for her unprofessional behaviour. Edna was right: she had panicked; as bandleader she was solely responsible for not spreading alarm amongst her fellow musicians, who were gaining in confidence day by day. Nora was thriving under Myrtle’s careful supervision; Maggie’s trumpet playing had improved too, and she picked up quickly on their backing harmonies; Kit and Violet were fine, as were she and Myrtle – well, Myrtle was flawless!
Once they’d established what they were going to play, the band decided to do four dance numbers and four songs in the first half of the show; then, after a thirty-minute supper break, an equal number of song and dance pieces in the second half of the evening.
‘We’ll end the show with Nora’s favourite. “Sing as We Go!” ’ Gladys announced. ‘That’ll have ’em all on their feet.’
Confident about their repertoire, the Bomb Girls’ thoughts turned to clothes.
‘What are we going to wear?’ asked Maggie.
‘Ivy Benson’s girls wear identical ball gowns,’ Kit replied knowingly.
‘Oh, yeah, and we’ve got plenty of them tucked away in the back of our utility wardrobes!’ Maggie teased.
‘Well, actually …’ Gladys rose to her feet. ‘I’ll be back,’ she said. ‘Don’t go away.’
When she returned she was holding one of the glamorous ball gowns she’d worn when she was singing in Jimmy Angelo’s band.
‘GOD!’ Maggie gasped as she leapt to her feet to examine every detail of the full-length pink satin dress trimmed with little pink bows and sequins. ‘It’s gorrrrrgeous,’ she murmured.
‘I designed it and had it made,’ Gladys explained. ‘This is what I used to wear,’ she said, emphasizing the past tense.
‘Could we wear something like
that?’ starry-eyed Nora begged.
Gladys shook her head. ‘We haven’t got the money to spend on six posh frocks,’ she said firmly. ‘Nor the time to get them, for that matter,’ she added as an afterthought.
Kit, who was the least vain person in the world, waved her hand dismissively. ‘We should be concentrating on our music, not clothes.’
‘We should at least try to wear similar clothing,’ Myrtle insisted.
‘The only clothes we’ve got in common are the Phoenix uniforms – white overalls and turbans,’ Violet pointed out.
Gladys snapped her fingers, ‘You know, that’s not such a bad idea.’
‘I hope you’re joking!’ Maggie exclaimed.
‘Seriously,’ Gladys continued. ‘We’re the Bomb Girls’ Swing Band, so why not dress as the genuine thing?’
‘And there was I dreaming of gorgeous ball gowns,’ sighed Maggie.
‘When we’re famous, we’ll be dressed like princesses,’ Gladys promised. ‘But for now we’ll dress like the Bomb Girls we are – but without the big rubber boots!’
‘Thank God for small mercies,’ chuckled Myrtle.
The days whizzed by in a flurry of frantic activity. When they weren’t filling fuses, they were practising their numbers, and when they weren’t doing either they were sleeping deeply from exhaustion.
‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Violet one morning as they staggered into work with dark circles around their eyes. ‘I hope we’re not going to disappoint our workmates.’
‘Don’t say that, Vi!’ Kit protested fiercely. ‘We must all do our best; they need us.’
All eyes turned to Kit in surprise. Blushing, she tried to explain herself. ‘It’s our job not to disappoint our audience,’ she said firmly. ‘If we can give them a break, a chance to dance and relax, that would be enough for me.’
What her friends didn’t know was that Kit spoke from real experience. The more she played with the band, the more she loved the music, which alleviated, however briefly, the constant gnawing anxiety of how much she missed Billy and how much she worried about his wellbeing. She’d put all her faith in her sister, Rosie, but being so far away she had no real idea of what was going on back at home, something she found agonizing. If music gave her some respite, maybe it would have the same effect on her fellow workers, even if it was only for five minutes.