by Jan Casey
‘Well,’ said a young man. ‘They had their chance with the Potsdam Agreement and they wouldn’t accept it.’
Another, with tiny eyes behind thick spectacles, said, ‘Still, it doesn’t seem right. Look, it says here.’ He turned the paper around and pushed it towards his colleague. ‘That the device was more than two thousand times more powerful than the largest bomb used to date. Two thousand times. I ask you. When you think about the capacity of the V-1s and 2s. It makes you wonder.’
‘What was the damage? Does it say?’
The man with poor eyesight leaned in close to the newsprint. ‘Not really. Only that they can’t make an accurate assessment because the bomb, or device as it’s being called, left a huge cloud of impenetrable dust covering the target.’
‘Well, as I said. They had their chance. What else could the Yanks do?’
They didn’t take their paper with them when they got up to leave so Joan pinched it and read the headline. US Drops Atomic Bomb on Hiroshima. She tried to take in what was meant by President Truman’s statement that the device marked a victory over the Germans in the race to be first to develop a weapon using atomic energy. She hadn’t a clue about that. But any sort of triumph over the Germans sounded good as did the warning to Japan that the Allies would completely destroy their capacity to make war. And Hiroshima was one of the chief supply depots for the Japanese army. So all in all, it must have been worthwhile.
But then she was stuck on the same point that had overwhelmed the man in glasses. Two thousand times more destructive than any other bomb. If they’d taken a hit from something like that here in London, there’d be no one left to talk about it.
Three days later a larger device was dropped on a place called Nagasaki.
‘Have you heard about that other place in Japan?’ Alice asked Joan as she took off her coat in The Blue Posts.
Joan nodded. ‘I have,’ she said. ‘Seems to have been the only topic of conversation at work.’
‘Strange business,’ Evelyn said. ‘I feel as though we should be celebrating, but there’s something ominous about it.’
Joan was impressed with the astute observation. ‘I know what you mean,’ she said. ‘Almost apocalyptic.’
‘Did I tell you what Hazel had to say about last Monday’s bomb?’ Alice said.
‘I don’t think you did,’ Joan said.
‘She listened to Attlee’s announcement on the wireless, looked over at me and said, “I thought he were supposed to be on the side getting rid of evil, sweetheart.”’
Joan snorted; Evelyn’s laugh was dispirited.
‘And I’ll wager a round she says the same thing again tonight.’
*
Colin was jubilant when he secured a regular slot for Colin’s Kats every Sunday night at the Jigs in Wardour Street. The drummer they all enjoyed playing with guaranteed he could make the ten o’clock session and if he couldn’t, Colin was sure they could borrow a percussionist from another group.
Although the club had a shady reputation it was quite a coup, Joan had to agree. Warming the crowds for the likes of The Caribbean Club Trio or the Harry Parry Band. Fats Waller was said to have frequented the place before he died, and it was supposed to be one of Duke Ellington’s favourite hangouts when in town, although Joan had never seen him there.
Their starting date was the third week in September, and they rehearsed as often as they could get together until then. They practised the start and end melody of every song on their playlist over and over again, until they knew their own and each other’s parts and moves with absolute accuracy. At each boundary of the piece, Colin impressed upon them, there was no room for error. The audience had to recognise the tune and be able to dance, tap their feet or fingers, nod along to it.
The middle section was much more loose and difficult to judge. What the crowd wanted to hear during the bulk of the number was improvised solos that might or might not have anything to do with the original tune. It was a chance for each band member to develop and interpret the song. Bernie was master at that. But it wasn’t as simple as being in your own little world, showing off your musical prowess. During the solos the band still had to interact with each other, read musical signals about how to support the soloist, when to join in, when to back off, the right time to take over. It was a whole new way of playing, so different from orchestral music during which the conductor alone was allowed to indulge his version of the music. More often than not they ended their sessions warm and glowing, laughing with satisfaction at what Colin called their ‘sweet sound’.
‘Who are you going to invite along?’ Colin asked after one rehearsal.
‘My sister and her husband, a couple of friends and a girl I’ve started seeing,’ Bernie answered. ‘You?’
‘Anyone I can bribe or persuade,’ Colin said. ‘Mum and Dad, uncles, aunts, cousins. Eileen and Ed. You remember them, Joan. Don’t you? A few others from the orchestra, friends from school. I think we should try to pack the place out, make it look like we have a fair few followers.’
‘Right,’ Bernie said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He packed his sax away with obsessive orderliness and ran for his bus.
Colin turned to Joan. ‘What about you, old dear?’
‘Don’t call me that,’ Joan said. ‘Or if you must, leave off the old.’
‘Touchy tonight, aren’t we?’
‘I wasn’t until you started.’
‘Alright. I apologise. Well, who’s on your opening night invitation list?’
‘I intend to ask Alice, Evelyn and Gwen.’
‘Gwen?’ Colin asked.
‘She was on the bridge. But we didn’t have too much to do with each other until recently.’
Colin drummed his fingers on the case of his double bass. ‘That it?’
Joan nodded, her back to him.
‘Listen. Joan. I know you don’t want to hear it, but what about your mum? You know, Mother. And your dad?’
‘Father’s away and Mother…’ Joan raised her hands to the ceiling. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start telling Mother about jazz and dingy late-night clubs. And if by some miracle she did come along, she would probably stand up and shout that I shouldn’t be using my hands to play that kind of music.’ Joan thought Colin would laugh along with her at the image, but he looked as disappointed in her as he had when she failed to take her seat at the theatre in favour of meeting with Ralph. It was a look she had hoped never to see again, but there it was.
For their first night, Joan wore a full-length, midnight-blue dress that had been passed from Sylvie to Evelyn and from Evelyn to Joan. The material fell in beautiful, soft, unstructured pleats from the waistline, and tiny pin-tucks formed a lovely shape on the shoulders and bodice. With the addition of sequins along the neckline and a sparkling buckle at the hip, Joan felt like she’d stepped out of a magazine.
The club was dark and crowded. Every table was occupied, bodies like shadows dressed in sombre colours pressed together along the walls. Weak candles flickered in empty bottles. Thin, lazy wisps of smoke curled towards the low ceiling and hung there in a haze. Joan could make out the faces of the people sitting almost on top of the stage, but beyond that everyone was a blur. The MC jumped onto the stage and in a low, seductive voice said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Your new, regular, ten-on-the-dot spot… Colin’s Kats!’
Joan wiped her hands on her dress as he hopped off, clapping. Then they were on, starting their first number.
Joan had never been so nervous when she played with the orchestra, but then she’d been one of many. Here she was exposed and scrutinised; there was no one to hide behind. The first two songs went well; she was grateful Colin had been a stern taskmaster during practice. ‘Dig You Later’ was next and it was a powerful feeling when the audience joined in with the chorus of a-hubba-hubba-hubba. Colin was beaming, a film of sweat shining on his forehead.
Carried away, their solos got a bit rowdy and lasted longer than they’d rehearsed, but it felt like a
n initiation test. And they were passing it. A trumpet player with the Knights of Rhythm jumped in and improvised with them, and although it threw them initially, they recovered in time to make it work. They finished their last three numbers and enjoyed a good round of applause.
Standing in line for a bow, Joan reached for Colin’s hand, but he continued to bend forward with one hand in front of his waist, the other behind his back. She told herself he was ignoring her because he felt he’d be leaving Bernie and the drummer out of the gesture of solidarity. But she felt sure there was something about her that still disappointed him. If there was any chance he wanted to take their relationship further, as she hoped he did, perhaps he thought her refusal to deal with her estrangement from Mother didn’t bode well for any future differences they might have.
During the interval before the main act, there were a lot of introductions to be made: Joan to Colin’s parents and family, friends and hangers-on. She kissed Eileen, who was expecting a baby, and chatted to Edward, but they seemed distant. Then they met Bernie’s girl and his crowd. Joan made sure that her three guests tagged along with her and were included in the handshakes and chitchat.
The dim lights faded further and the headliners arranged themselves on stage ready to go. She could hear bursts of laughter and the tail end of comments from both her fellow band members’ large parties. There didn’t seem to be space amongst them for anyone else, but when a tall man in a suit rushed in and clapped Colin on the back, another chair was squeezed in with ease. Joan sat between Alice and Evelyn at a table near the door with plenty of room around them and no one else expected. Looking at each of her friends in turn, she told herself she was lucky to have them – and she meant it. And if she had invited Mother and Father, well, that would have only made two more.
Their technique developed, and every Sunday night the club was full, whether to see them or the leading act didn’t matter too much as it gave them the experience and exposure they needed. Friends and family came and went. Alice often showed up, sometimes on her own, sometimes with Evelyn. Gwen never returned, but she had responsibilities at home. Edward put in an appearance from time to time, but Joan didn’t see Eileen again, probably too busy with the baby. Colin’s mum was their most stalwart and devoted supporter, only absent for other family obligations like grandchildren’s birthdays. It was hard to believe she’d given birth to Colin: she was as short and round as he was tall and gangly. Colin’s hair was a light strawberry blonde; his mum’s bubbly white perm would have been dark when she was younger, if her eyebrows and lashes were anything to go by.
One cold, dank autumn night when Colin wanted to stay on to jam with a few other musicians, he put Joan and his mum in a taxi together and told the driver to drop off Joan first. Their route took them over Waterloo Bridge and Colin’s mum said, ‘Have you ever noticed that from the Embankment vehicles appear to be gliding across here? I suppose that’s how we look now to anyone watching from the walkway below, as if we’re drifting along.’
‘I drove a crane on this bridge while it was being built,’ Joan said.
‘Did you?’ The older woman looked astonished, her eyes wide, mouth round and puckered. ‘How marvellous. Tell me about it.’
‘There’s not much to tell. It was just a job.’ Joan turned to watch the bridge receding behind them as they coasted off it into Waterloo Road. ‘It seems like a long time ago now.’
‘Well, yes,’ Colin’s mum said. ‘Life’s like that when you look back. Broken up into a lot of different chapters or scenes. Changing all the time.’
Neither spoke for a minute or two then Joan said, ‘You must really enjoy jazz, to come and listen as often as you do.’
‘I much prefer classical.’
‘Same as my mother.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know… I haven’t met her, have I?’
‘No,’ Joan said. ‘I don’t think she’d approve of the club. Or the music.’
‘What a shame,’ Colin’s mum said. ‘I go anywhere my children invite me, on principle.’ She laughed. ‘And to annoy them.’
Joan watched a drop of rain break its hold on the window and spill down the pane of glass. She followed it with her finger. ‘It isn’t worth inviting her. I know what the answer would be.’
Colin’s mum took Joan’s chin in her hand and studied her face. ‘No wonder you always look so sad,’ she said. ‘But that might have been her answer during a time that’s gone, all but forgotten. Things could be different now.’
Joan brooded on her conversation with Colin’s mum for some weeks before she decided to write to Mother. She kept the letter short, asking after her and Father’s health and telling her about the filing job and the slot at Jigs. Mother wrote back right away and said she was surprised Joan was playing again. The last she knew, Joan was waitressing at the Strand, or was it the Regent’s Palace? She wished Joan luck and signed the letter with love. Although there hadn’t been a formal invitation to come along and listen, Joan found herself scrutinising the audience every Sunday night hoping Mother would take the hint.
Then, one evening, she saw a familiar shape in the gloom, head held high, fox fur around her neck, taking a seat at a table right at the back. Joan’s mouth was dry, her hands shaky. She turned her back on the audience and whispered to Colin, ‘Mother’s here.’
‘Come on then, old thing,’ Colin said. ‘Let’s give it to her.’
The music took over for Joan that night; she felt light and unencumbered. Mother was here and, whether she approved or not, it seemed she’d been interested enough to turn up. At the end of the set the MC said that Colin’s Kats were on fire. Phenomenal. Mother stood, applauding in her gloves, and the crowd followed. Their first standing ovation.
‘One more, ladies and gentlemen?’ the MC asked.
‘Over to you, Joan,’ Colin said.
Joan looked straight at Mother, nodded and played the opening bars to ‘I’m Beginning to See the Light’. When they finished and took their bows, Colin reached for her hand and held onto it for the rest of the evening.
17
10 December 1945
Dignitaries surrounded Deputy Prime Minister Herbert Morrison as he stood on a makeshift podium in front of a forest of microphones, a pair of scissors in his hand. His wife, standing next to him, had thick waves under a black hat and was pressing an enormous bouquet of red and white flowers to her coat. Morrison alone had his head exposed to the icy wind that whipped an unruly wave into a ripple above his head. Newspaper reporters jostled for a prime spot in front of him as he blinked, like a short-sighted owl, through his round, dark-framed glasses and said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am very, very glad this morning to open the new Waterloo Bridge.’
‘Did you know,’ Joan said to Evelyn, pulling her collar tight around her neck, ‘that he’s blind in one eye?’
‘No,’ Evelyn said. ‘Poor man. Was that the Great War? Or The War, as your Hazel insists on calling it.’
‘Oh,’ Joan said. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I does,’ Alice said. ‘He lost the sight in it through a childhood infection. He were a Conchie in the war before this one.’
Joan turned to Alice and looked her up and down with round eyes. ‘You amaze me,’ she said. ‘How do you know so much?’
Alice blushed. ‘I listens to what people talk about when they come into the shop. A bit of earwigging, I suppose. And I likes to read the papers.’
‘He would have been the PM,’ Alice continued. ‘Except he doesn’t have a lot of… something… charm, I think.’
‘No, he doesn’t seem to,’ Evelyn said.
‘Or charisma,’ Joan added.
‘That’s the word.’
They huddled together with a small group of onlookers who had been asked to stand with their backs to Somerset House, behind and away from Morrison who was facing Parliament and Big Ben. They had to strain to hear what was being said.
‘The time came when Rennie’s bridge became shaky and it had to be propped u
p. There followed ten years of keen discussion, argument and debate between equally sincere people as to what should be done about the bridge and finally, after these ten or eleven years had passed, it was decided to demolish the old bridge, which was difficult for navigation, and to substitute a new one – and the new one is here.’
Evelyn looked around and wondered what interest the other spectators had in the bridge. ‘Do you recognise anyone?’ she said. ‘I don’t.’
‘One or two,’ Alice answered. ‘No one to speak to.’
Gwen shook her head and kept her eyes on her feet as she stamped them in rhythm to keep warm. She could identify those missing more easily than those standing around them. Sylvie, Olive. And of course her Johnny. She touched the spot where her boy’s hanky had comforted her. She cleared her throat. ‘He must stop talking soon,’ she said.
‘Time was some girl or another in a turban would have shouted, “Get snipping or I’ll do it for you,”’ Evelyn said.
‘Go on, then.’ Joan laughed. ‘I dare you.’
‘I’m too much of a nice girl,’ Evelyn said. ‘Dad will tell you that.’
‘Listen,’ Alice said. ‘I think he’s finishing now.’
‘The men who built Waterloo Bridge are fortunate men,’ Morrison was saying.
Evelyn turned to her friends, her eyebrows fierce and arched, a terrier with her hackles up. ‘And ladies,’ she mouthed.
‘He means mankind,’ Joan said.
‘No he doesn’t, he means men.’
Joan knew she was right.
Morrison paused as a microphone crackled. ‘They know that, although their names may be forgotten, their work will be a pride and use to London for many generations to come. To the hundreds of workers in stone, in steel, in timber, in concrete the new bridge is a monument to their skill and craftsmanship. Keep it white. Its whiteness is one of its glories.’
‘Cleaning,’ Alice said. ‘That were his tip of the hat to us.’