by Iain Maloney
We strutted down the road, lions on the prowl, shoulders back, heads high. Just the four of us, Terry had made that clear. No competition. A military hardness to our walks that hadn’t been there at the start of the year, but we weren’t marching, we were hunting. Well, I wasn’t, not the way Terry and Joe were, but for months now it had been nothing but the company of men. I wasn’t on the pull – I’d have happily gone for a tea with Lizzie, just for a change of chat, a different perspective. Even Doug, who professed disinterest in the whole scheme, was caught up in the mood. We’d had a few drinks in the hotel bar, the warmth of it was enlivening. This was nothing like Soho. It wasn’t far to the WAAF hotel. Terry took the lead, marching in through the door like a millionaire on the Riviera or an old boy arriving at his club. We followed him all casual steps, smoking. ‘Oi, where do you lot think you’re going?’ The harsh military voice, the put on accent masking a working class one, the shrill tones meant only one thing: A Napoleon.
‘Urgent secret business, sir,’ said Terry.
‘Not in ’ere you’re not. This ’ere ’otel is reserved for WAAFs and while you may look like fairies, you certainly ain’t no WAAFs. So clear off out of it.’
‘Now, look here, sir,’ said Terry, affecting a posh accent. ‘This is an hotel is it not? And hotels have public bars, do they not? All my colleagues and I wish to do is enjoy our evening off with a beverage or two in this here fine establishment.’
We were attracting a small crowd in the lobby, all those pretty WAAFs in their uniforms, and it was making Terry brave. ‘I’ve told you no. Now bloody ’op it. I know what you’re after, the four of you, dirty little beggars.’
‘If I may ask, sir, what you are doing here?’
‘I’m ’ere to keep riff raff like you out. Now sod off before I have you on a charge for insubordination.’
‘Now, look here, sir,’ Terry tried again. ‘I think it’s dreadfully unfair that the men should be barred from entering a public bar while the officers are free to enjoy the, ahem, amenities of the locale. I mean, we’re all in this war together, aren’t we? What do you say, sir?’ he said, dropping the accent, and his voice. ‘Turn a blind eye for half an hour and let us have a crack at these lovely ladies?’
‘Right,’ he shouted. ‘That’s it, you four—’
‘Ah Danny, there you are!’ said an Irish voice, followed by a female body cutting between us and the officer. She grabbed Terry by the arm. ‘Come along Danny, we’re late enough as it is.’
Stunned though Terry was, he recovered quickly enough to join the charade. ‘Ah there you are, my dear. I was just having a lovely chat with the Sergeant here.’
‘Sergeant Dudley,’ she said. ‘This is my brother, we’re going out for a while.’
‘But Miss—’
‘Sergeant, you know better than that. I’m First Officer Keane, not ‘Miss’ anything. You wouldn’t like it if I called you Mr Dudley, so be kind enough to treat me the same. Now, we’re late enough as it is, so if you’ll excuse us.’
Not giving him space to respond she marched Terry outside, us three following behind and three girls after. When we got out of sight of the hotel, she stopped.
‘That was very nice of you,’ said Terry. ‘I’m Terry.’
Her red hair was pulled tight under her cap but frizzy strands were bidding for freedom. ‘That was a very stupid thing you did back there. Dudley is a nasty little man and would’ve had you breaking rocks for cheeking him like that. What did you think you were doing, anyway? Did you seriously think they’d let male cadets swan into a hotel full of women? They weren’t born yesterday. Now, introductions. This is Mavis, Rose, Mary and I’m Winnie,’ she said, indicating the three women who had caught up with us. ‘You’re Terry, and these are?’
‘Joe.’
‘Doug.’
‘Jack.’
‘Pleased to meet you all, we’re sure. Now, let me guess,’ she said, turning back to Terry. ‘You were planning to get into the bar at the hotel, find some gullible sap, feed her strong drink then attempt to have your wicked way with her?’
‘Aye,’ said Joe.
I rolled my eyes. She spotted it, turned to me. ‘Is that what you’re after?’ she challenged me. ‘Are you after getting into our knickers?’
I blushed at the language, but I liked her, she reminded me of Lizzie, that spark, that force. When I was younger, the constant ribbing from Lizzie, her habit of turning everything into a dig at me, was infuriating. Now I realised I missed it. ‘No,’ I said. ‘But the Queen’s Head has got some Algerian wine in, and these three haven’t got the sophistication for a drink like that.’
‘And you think we have?’
‘Are you saying you haven’t?’
‘What do you think girls? Wine?’
‘Wine not?’ said the tall brunette. We all groaned.
The pub was quiet when we entered. We got a couple of round tables near the back. Like us, the women were from all over the country. Winnie from Belfast, Mavis, the one who made the pun, from Surrey, Rose and Mary were both from Liverpool. I was beginning to learn about English accents, to divide them by geography, which ones were northern, which southern. Some of them still baffled me, though. I knew what a Geordie sounded like, but it didn’t mean I could understand him. Liverpool I could manage, and Surrey was easy. Belfast was a new one on me, but it was more or less Scottish, so I was fine. The bar was quiet, just a couple of lads playing darts, an old local at the bar drowning himself. Terry and I got the drinks in, a tray each on the way back. The Algerian red was sharp, acidic. I wondered if Willie had drank this stuff, if he’d been in Algeria. I’d never drank wine before, but it was what they drank in Paris, in the jazz clubs. That and absinthe, but there was none of that in Babbacombe. Joe stuck to beer, the rest of us split a bottle. ‘So, what are you WAAFs doing in Babbacombe then?’ asked Doug.
‘Oh, we’re not WAAF. We’re ATA. Air Transport Auxiliary,’ said Winnie. ‘We’re pilots.’
‘Pilots?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘We move planes around the country. Last week we took a fleet of new Lancasters straight off the production line out to… well, shouldn’t really say where.’
‘You flew Lancasters?’ said Joe, unbelieving.
‘Of course,’ said Winnie. ‘How do you think they get from the factories to the airfields? You think they drive them along the road?’
‘No, I thought it was proper pilots that did it.’
‘Proper pilots, is it? And just what is a proper pilot? One with an extra stick in the cockpit, I’d guess. Well, let’s see, hands up all those here who’ve ever flown a kite. No? Only us little ladies? Ever even been in one?’
‘No, I’m just saying,’ said Joe, digging himself further down, ‘that when you think of pilots, you think of men, don’t you?’
‘Do you?’
‘There you go, Joe,’ said Terry. ‘Maybe you should factor more women into your Socialist Utopia. You’re going to need women like this in your People’s Republic of Scotland.’
‘You’re a Red, then?’ Winnie asked him.
‘I am,’ he said, proudly, jumping onto firmer ground.
‘Don’t puff yourself up there. You’re in company. The four of us are Comrades, too. And don’t look so surprised. Don’t tell me only men are allowed to have politics in Glasgow?’
‘No, no, it’s just—’
‘You can’t think yourself progressive and radical if you hold onto old-fashioned views. You really think when the revolution comes we’re just going to sit quietly at home, knitting and cooking, and let you men make a complete mess of the world a second time over? Oh no, you lot have run it long enough, and look where it’s got us. Well, now it’s our turn. Listen, you must’ve heard of Ethel MacDonald?’
‘Who’s she?’ I said.
‘An anarchist from Glasgow,’ said Joe. ‘Went out tae Spain during the war. Aye, I know her. She was there the same time as my brother.’
‘Your brothe
r was in the International Brigade?’ said Mary.
‘He was, aye.’
‘He died out there, didn’t he,’ said Mary. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just, so did my brother.’
‘Aye, he did. In Brunete. How about your brother?’
‘In Barcelona.’
They more or less split off from the group, sharing and comparing memories. I looked at Rose, trying to think of something to say.
‘What’s it like? Flying, I mean.’
‘Nothing like it,’ she said, and the others nodded. ‘Up there, by yourself, that’s freedom that is.’
I tried to imagine it. The closer we got to flight, the more real it became, the less I could actually picture it. At home, in my room, up in a tree, it was easy, swooping and diving. Here, weeks away? Blank. I realised I’d tuned out, the conversation had moved on. ‘How come they always name these places after Kings and Queens?’ Rose said. ‘It’s not like any of them ever set foot in anywhere like this. Why not name them after real people?’
‘Kings are real people,’ said Mavis. ‘I mean, they’re not imaginary.’
‘You really think people would want to go to a pub called “Joe’s Head”?’ Terry said. ‘Or “Jack’s Nose”? “Doug’s Ears”?’
‘Henry the Fifth went to a lot of pubs,’ said Doug. ‘At least, he did before he was King. In Shakespeare’s Henry IV part I—’
“Mary’s Arse” said Winnie.
‘No, it’s true,’ said Doug.
‘No, “Mary’s Arse” would be a good name for a pub.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Terry.
‘Why? What’s wrong with “Mary’s Arse”?
Mary was quietly going beetroot in the corner.
‘Nothing,’ said Terry. ‘But if you take a phrase like “I’m just going up The Queen’s Arms,” it doesn’t work.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Winnie. ‘I think it has a nice ring to it. “Hey lads, fancy going up—”’
‘WINNIE!’ Mary shrieked.
Winnie cackled. Terry laughed. ‘So, I assume you ladies aren’t politically opposed to music?’ he said.
‘Not at all,’ said Winnie. ‘Why, are you going to ask me to dance?’
‘I would if there were any music here,’ he said. ‘But the three of us are a trio, jazz. I was thinking you all might like to come and listen to us play sometime.’
‘You play concerts? With ENSA?’
‘Not yet, but we’ve got an audition tomorrow for the next show. Until then I thought you might like to come back and hear us.’
‘Oh, back to your hotel is it? You’re a fast one, aren’t you?’
‘Aye, that’s an idea, Terry,’ said Joe. ‘Are you interested Mary?’
Doug and I looked at Mavis and Rose. They smiled, friendly but non-committal. ‘Well, we’ll think about it,’ said Winnie. ‘Although we’d much prefer a proper dance. Sitting watching you three sounds a little too much like a piano recital for my tastes. If you can get a dance organised, let us know. You can find us at the hotel. I’ll tell Sergeant Dudley to keep an eye out for you.’
She stood. The other women followed her lead. ‘You’re not going, are you?’ said Terry.
‘We are,’ said Winnie. ‘Thanks for the drink. Let us know about that show.’ With a final smile at Terry, she marched out the door. Mary bid Joe goodbye and the other two nodded at Doug and I. Crestfallen, back to our drab foursome, we settled in and got drunk.
Next day Evans, the PT instructor, was waiting for us. Something about his walk, the smile, an aura, something. This was going to be a problem. ‘Hello boys, how’s it coming?’
‘All right, sir,’ I said. ‘Well, boys, I have some good news for you. Next week is the ITW sports day. We’re competing against the other ITWs in the area and I’ve entered you all into the cross-country run.’
‘You’ve done what?’ said Joe.
‘Well,’ said Evans, ‘you’re the most enthusiastic athletes we have here, so I knew you’d jump at the chance. It’s next Sunday, from oh-nine hundred hours. I’d suggest getting into training but I know I don’t need to tell you boys that. Best of luck. You’ll be representing Number One ITW.’
We all looked at Terry.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, pale. ‘I’ll think of something.’
‘Aye, that’ll be good,’ said Joe. ‘Just what we need. Another of your smart ideas. God, why dae I listen tae you?’
‘We need a sick note,’ I said.
‘No chance,’ said Terry. ‘Not all four of us.’
‘Well, what are we going to do?’
‘I’ll think of something.’
The audition was that evening. We set up and ran through our four-song set. We sounded all right, but nothing special, nothing to get excited about. I couldn’t work out what was wrong – nerves maybe or lingering post-attack blues. We looked at each other, searching for an answer. ‘I know,’ said Terry, and left the hall. He returned a minute or so later with what must have been everyone in the bar. Bill, Pete, Chalky, most I didn’t really know. Clive wasn’t there. He avoided our bar these days. They settled themselves around the tables, their pint mugs out of place on the white tablecloths. ‘Jazz in an empty room is like drinking a pint in your kitchen,’ he said. ‘It’s better than nothing, but not how it should be done.’
An audience. Shit. ‘From the top?’ said Terry. I turned my back to the watchers. Focused on Terry and Joe. Nagasaki went well, and we got a round of applause at the end. My first. During the intro to Tangerine, I heard the squeak of the door, looked. Bryson, the ENSA rep, had arrived. I nodded at Terry. He knew. This was it. His left hand jumped higher, the bass bouncing along infected me, trumpet up, this was it, the moment it became serious. Not just pals having fun, a band, a real band and maybe, if we didn’t fuck up, a real show. We finished our set with Straighten Up and Fly Right, got a cheer so big they must’ve been taking the piss. Doug took over drinks for us and the lads clinked glasses, patted us on the back. Bryson waited for the scrum to clear then came over.
‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘I can give you four numbers near the start of the show this weekend.’
‘Done,’ I said.
The theatre was tiny. An old proscenium, ageing velvet curtains. Soft seats worn almost flat. Out front was more like a football match than a night at the theatre. Drinks had been drunk, and the merry saw no need in waiting for the show to start. Obscene versions of famous tunes rattled the cobwebs.
Backstage was pandemonium, a hurricane of lost props, half-complete costumes, AWOL cast. The three of us kept out of it, a bottle of whisky Terry had ‘found’ to warm ourselves. I needed as much liquid support as possible. I wished Lizzie was there, or Willie.
I’d heard the expression ‘butterflies in the stomach’ and thought it a poor description. Whatever was churning up my insides was a lot weightier than a butterfly. My stomach felt more like a sack full of chickens, like a sock full of frogs. I was going to throw up. I sat on the floor hoping the whisky would settle down the menagerie in my belly. ‘All right, love?’ said Doris, the woman in charge backstage. ‘You look like your girl’s just run off with a Yank.’
‘You don’t look too good,’ said Doug.
‘How did you get back here?’ I asked him.
‘I told them I was your manager. It’s chaos, no-one’s paying attention. Are you all right?’
‘Bit nervous.’
‘Afraid you’ll look like a complete idiot in front of all those people?’ laughed Joe.
‘What if I make a mistake? What if I come in at the wrong time? In the wrong key?’
‘One, you won’t,’ said Doug. ‘You’re a good musician. Two, if you hit a bum note, you can correct it on the next and then you’re fine again.’
‘Three,’ said Joe, ‘they’re RAF boys so who gives a fuck what they think?’
‘Four,’ added Terry ‘this is ENSA. Expectations aren’t high.’
Lights dimmed. On stage, the show started. Whistling,
cheering, booing, screams. There is nothing a group of young men relish more than making childish noises in the dark. Our MC for the evening, a fat man in a tuxedo, walked on into the spotlight. More cheers, shouts of ‘hide the grub’. He gestured for silence. The dying noise gave someone the space he needed. ‘He’s had more hot dinners than I’ve had hot dinners.’ Laughter again, smothering his introduction. Not our problem. All we cared about was our twenty minutes. We were on third after some old woman assaulted the White Cliffs of Dover and a beard in a suit gave it As Time Goes By. Doris, who seemed in charge backstage, approached us. ‘How do you want announced?’
‘Good point,’ said Terry. ‘We don’t have a name.’
‘Aye we do: The Joe Robertson Trio.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since now.’
‘I’m not sure about that name.’
‘What’s wrong with my name?’
‘Not your name. The band name.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Well, it’s not very democratic is it, naming it after only one member?’ I said.
‘Never liked democracy. One man one vote? I’ve met some men. I wouldnae give them a fright if they needed a shit, let alone give them a vote. We can’t call it “The Joe Robertson Jack Thingy and Terry Taffy Trio” can we?’
‘Any other ideas?’ Terry said.
‘How about Viva Joe Stalin?’
‘How about no?’
‘If you’re going to use anyone’s name, it should be Jack’s,’ said Doug.
‘What?’ I said. ‘No.’
‘The Jack Trio? That’s a bit shite, isn’t it?’
‘No, his surname. The Devine Trio. Devine, like divine. Holy, spiritual, wonderful.’
‘He’s no holy, spiritual or wonderful,’ said Joe. ‘The only holy thing about him is the one he speaks through.’
‘No, it’s a pun, you see? Devine. Divine.’
‘I need something now,’ said Doris.
‘We seem to have two suggestions,’ said Terry. ‘The Joe Robertson Trio or The Devine Trio, which is a pun, apparently. Hands up for the first.’