by Betty Walker
And that should have been an end to it.
But it seemed Patrick Dullaghan and his blasted Dagenham Daggers were now turning their spite towards Violet instead. How long would it be before the little brutes returned to taunting the so-called spy’s daughters?
‘I have to get those girls out of here,’ Violet muttered, filling the teakettle and putting it on the gas ring to boil. ‘But how?’
CHAPTER TWO
The Upside-Down Club, Central London, May 1941
‘He’s out there again tonight!’
Eva twitched back the curtain and gasped, her heart thumping.
Sure enough, the dark-haired RAF pilot with the Hollywood good looks was seated at one of the front tables, surrounded by his usual gang of uniformed friends, all chatting noisily over the band’s playing. She had tumbled head-over-heels in love with him two weeks ago, when he first turned up and sat smiling directly at her throughout their number. To her delight, he had returned with his companions a few nights later, and this was now his fourth time at the club.
‘Perhaps tonight’s the night,’ Karen said, and nudged her with a grin. ‘Look, now he’s going over to Walter. I wonder what he wants.’
Eva stared, her hand clutching the edge of the curtain. The good-looking young pilot had indeed wandered over to the manager of the Upside-Down Club, and was now talking in Walter’s ear. It was all very mysterious.
Suddenly, Walter looked over to the backstage area, his eyes sharp and watchful.
‘Oops!’
Hurriedly, Eva let the curtain fall back into place. They weren’t supposed to peek out at the audience between acts; it was a serious offence and could lead to the docking of pay. Not that Walter was that strict. His bark was worse than his bite, as Karen regularly remarked. Sometimes he reminded her of her kindly Uncle Teddy, who had been charged with her care since her father left London.
Poor Uncle Teddy, she thought with sudden remorse. She had grown bored of working in a typing pool at his stuffy offices and had given him the slip one day, escaping to find work as a dancer. That had been about six weeks ago. She had left a note, telling him not to worry, she could take care of herself, and would be back in a few months. But no doubt Uncle Teddy would have fretted anyway. But really, he ought to have let her get a more exciting job. Didn’t he know there was a war on and girls like her were determined to take advantage of the new freedom this brought?
Shirley, the backstage manager, was calling the girls together, clapping her hands. ‘Five minutes to curtain up!’ she kept saying as she checked everyone’s hair and costumes.
A moment later, Walter appeared backstage, a folded piece of paper in his hand. ‘Eva,’ he said in his gravelly voice, roughened by years of cigar-smoking. ‘There’s a note for you. From some Yank out the front. Though I shouldn’t really give it to you.’ He shook his head at her. ‘You know I don’t like you girls getting too friendly with the clientele.’
Eva looked at him pleadingly. ‘Please, Walter? Just this once?’
He handed it over but watched in disapproval as she opened it with shaking hands. ‘What am I going to do with you? Shirley, can’t you keep these girls in line?’
Shirley turned, hands on hips, her heavily made-up face crinkled in lines of disgust. ‘I’ve told them, no boyfriends, or they’re out. But I can’t watch them every bleeding minute of the day, can I?’
Head bent, Eva read the note with mounting excitement.
Dear Miss Ryder,
Forgive my impudence in writing this note, but I have admired you from a distance for too long, and one of the staff was so kind as to furnish me with your name. May I beg you to join me in a glass of champagne after your act?
Your smitten admirer, Lt. Max Carmichael
‘What does it say?’ Karen tugged at her sleeve, her voice a high-pitched squeak. ‘Tell me, tell me!’ Wordlessly, Eva passed her friend the note, then laughed at Karen’s wide-eyed expression of awe. ‘Oh, doesn’t he write lovely? Furnish me with your name … And a glass of champagne? With a pilot? My word, Eva, you lucky thing! You always get the good ones.’
Shirley grabbed the note and crumpled it up. ‘That’s enough of that nonsense,’ she hissed. ‘The curtain’s about to go up. Into position, girls, quickly now!’
Everyone jostled into line behind the thick red curtain, seven girls in tight-fitting white uniforms and pillbox caps, listening for their cue as the band began to play their opening number. Eva was at the centre, as the tallest of the troupe, and arguably the most attractive, if you ignored the too-generous mouth and the upward tilt of her nose. But attractiveness, as she knew only too well, was not what ultimately mattered. Not with men. A pretty face was how you caught them. But not how you held on to them.
The good ones …
Eva said nothing, but she was thinking back over her past boyfriends with a flicker of chagrin. None of them had been ‘good’. Or at least, not to her.
In fact, the men she seemed to attract usually turned out to be out-and-out bounders. They were only ever after one thing. And when she turned them down flat, they simply disappeared, running off to the next potential conquest. Leaving her broken-hearted and alone, wondering what she’d done wrong.
Though she was rarely broken-hearted for long, it was true. Her nature was too bold and resilient for feelings of angst to last much longer than a few dismal months. Sometimes only a few weeks, depending on how much the man in question had turned her head. Then she would be back on form, smiling and batting her eyelids, and hoping for the best from whichever young soldier had caught her eye this time.
Maybe she was a bit flirty at times. But, at only nineteen, she didn’t feel she needed to worry too much about that. It wasn’t time for her to settle down yet. And everyone said you had to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince. Eva was intent on kissing as many potential princes as possible before the marriage trap closed about her. Though kissing was as far as it ever went, because she knew better than to encourage wandering hands.
The curtain rose, and they danced out together, arm in arm, singing and kicking their legs as high as their tight skirts would allow. Eva avoided looking at the front table where the RAF pilots were sitting, focusing instead on getting through the complex routine without any mishaps. But towards the end, she risked a quick glance in their direction.
Gosh, he was rather dishy!
Backstage again, Eva checked her reflection in the big bulb-lit mirror that all the performers shared, elbowing each other for more space. Her face was glowing and needed a quick dab of powder before she was satisfied.
The band was playing a slower number now, as the evening drew towards its official close. She checked the clock on the wall. It was nearly half past eleven. The club was only supposed to stay open until midnight, but few people regarded the rules these days. So long as there were no lights showing, nobody seemed to care. Some nights Walter kept the place rocking until the early hours.
Suddenly nervous, she caught Karen’s eye in the mirror and guessed what her curious expression meant. ‘Five minutes,’ she told her friend, ‘that’s all. He’s probably just the same as the rest.’
‘Aren’t they all?’
‘But he is offering champagne …’
‘Yes, fair play to him.’ Karen grinned. ‘And he has the bluest eyes, don’t you think?’
‘I’m sure I didn’t notice his eyes.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Though I do love blue eyes.’
‘Me too,’ Karen said dreamily.
‘Especially when they belong to a gorgeous pilot.’
They both giggled, much to the annoyance of Shirley, who had appeared in the doorway tight-lipped and with folded arms.
‘That’s quite enough noise in here,’ she grumbled. ‘Settle down, would you? The punters will be able to hear you.’
Karen made a face at Eva, but said nothing.
Eva deliberately snatched up a scarlet lipstick and leant forward, artfully a
pplying it to her lips while the other girls stripped off their costumes around her. Shirley’s eyes widened.
‘Walter shouldn’t allow it.’ She tutted loudly. ‘You younger girls are under our care in this establishment.’
Her patronising tone made Eva’s blood boil.
‘I’m not under anybody’s care,’ she declared, and thrust the lipstick into her handbag before waltzing past the older woman with a defiant look. ‘I’m nineteen, not nine, thank you very much.’
‘Well, I never!’ Shirley shook her head, lips pursed. ‘You’d better watch out, young lady, with that attitude. Walter will give you the sack if you bring this club into disrepute.’
‘Oh no, he won’t,’ Eva retorted.
‘Is that right?’
‘I’m his favourite. Walter would never sack me.’
A gasp from Shirley and a stunned silence followed that bold statement. But at least Shirley didn’t bother to dispute it. Everyone knew Walter had a soft spot for Eva, and always gave her more leeway than the other girls.
Eva walked off without looking back, hands on hips, walking daintily on her high heels. She wasn’t a big-headed girl, and she knew her luck was bound to run out one day. Luck had a nasty habit of doing that at the worst moments, she found. But for now, she intended to make the most of her natural advantages. Whatever the likes of Shirley might think of her.
The handsome young RAF pilots all stood up as a group, hastily scraping back their chairs and smiling as she approached the table. A little breathless, amazed at her own daring, Eva slid into the seat one of the pilots had pulled out for her.
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m so glad you could join us, Miss Ryder.’ To her delight, she realised that Walter was right: the flight lieutenant was not English, but American! He had a marvellous twang to his accent, soothing as honey and like something out of the pictures. ‘I’m Max,’ he added, his eyes smiling, ‘and yes, I’m from across the pond. But don’t worry, I’m the only one. These other chaps are British.’ He then introduced her to his friends, starting with the young man next to him, who winked. ‘This is Mike, and that there is Eddie. The one with the stupid grin is Tommy, and the handsome devil on your other side is Mac. He’s Scottish, you know?’
‘Pleased to meet you all,’ she said politely, looking round at them all. ‘But do call me Eva. Miss Ryder sounds so stuffy.’
The flight lieutenant sat down, and all the other airmen copied him. ‘A gal after my own heart, eh?’ He held out a tanned hand and she shook it, thrilling at the way his lean fingers curled about hers. ‘It’s a real pleasure to meet you too, Eva. I’ve got to say, I couldn’t take my eyes off you up there on the stage.’ He shook his head, still clasping her hand. ‘The routine was swell, and you’re a real knockout.’
The other pilots agreed, grinning and banging the table enthusiastically.
Eva smiled too, a little breathless. ‘Thank you.’
Max released her hand at last, looking round for a waiter. ‘We were just about to order some more drinks. Would you care for a glass of champagne, Eva?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
He laughed and waved a hand at a passing waiter, who happened to be Bertram, an old sweetie and one of Eva’s favourites at the club. He threaded his way towards them with a harassed expression, balancing a tray of empties on one hand.
‘Sir?’
‘We’d like a bottle of champagne.’
‘Which kind, sir?’
Max stared at him, taken aback. ‘There are different kinds of champagne?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I see.’ Max hesitated, glancing awkwardly at Eva, who carefully said nothing but examined her nails for chips in the varnish. There were always a few at the end of a long night at the club. ‘Well, bring us whichever champagne is the most popular. And six glasses.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Bertram hurried away with a grunt. He was a kindly man in his sixties, always dapper in his waiter whites, but overworked by Walter.
As the band launched into one of the latest swing tunes, Max pulled his chair closer to Eva’s and began to tell her about himself. He described his parents’ bean farm out in Missouri, his little sister Pam and how she made sure to write to him every week he was away from home. Eva listened, charmed by his warmth and the expressive glint in his eyes. He wasn’t just good-looking, she thought. He was friendly and down-to-earth, too. And there weren’t many men like that about, she thought, instinctively drawn to him.
‘How come you’re in the RAF, then?’ she asked at last, curious. ‘I mean, you’re an American. Why fight for our country?’
‘I flew crop planes back home, so I decided to volunteer.’ His face sobered. ‘My grandfather was born an Englishman, from Surrey, and I could see how unhappy he was about these damn fascists. He wants America to join the war, crush them for good. But while I couldn’t do anything about our foreign policy, I was able to cross the border into Canada and volunteer my services as a pilot. They sent me over to England for training with the RAF, so here I am!’
‘How brave you are. I wish I could do something more useful.’
‘Oh, I’m no braver than anybody else.’ He winked at her. ‘You keep us entertained; I fly a plane.’ When she looked at him closely, wondering whether Max thought less of her for being a dancer, he said more seriously, ‘We all do our bit in our own way.’
Eva smiled. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. But yes, I suppose you’re right.’
‘And it’s fun, in a mad kinda way. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Even the damn air raids.’ Max met her eyes. ‘Being so close to death … It makes you feel more alive, don’t you think?’
She nodded, captivated by his charm. ‘Yes, absolutely.’
While they talked, the other pilots smoked and chatted among themselves, only casting the occasional sideways glance at her tight-fitting stage costume. She didn’t mind the attention though. Most men stared and didn’t care a jot if she saw them. It was nice not to be leered at for a change.
The champagne arrived, and everyone had a little in their glass. Eva knocked hers back without hesitation, and saw Max’s surprised look. Probably not the ladylike thing to do, she thought with sudden chagrin.
Since her mother’s death, she’d been brought up by her father, who was a military officer and often absent or too preoccupied to notice her. Eva loved him dearly, but instilling proper manners in his rebellious daughter had not been high on Daddy’s list of parental duties. And once war had been declared, and her father had been packed off to the back of beyond, somewhere down in Cornwall, she’d barely seen him.
Suddenly, the eerie, all-too-familiar whine of the air-raid siren rose above the swing music. The band stopped playing at once and began to pack away their instruments, and the singer slipped away backstage for her coat.
Once, the band might have carried on playing through the air raid, like the band on the Titanic was reputed to have done when the iceberg famously struck. But there’d been a near-miss the other week, completely demolishing a building a few doors away, and since then Walter had made the decision to call it a night whenever the sirens went off.
Eva jumped up too, straightening her skirt. ‘I’m sorry,’ she told the soldiers with genuine reluctance, for she did not often have a chance to talk to such interesting people, ‘but we have to head to the shelter now. It’s only a few hundred yards down the street. Will you come?’
She managed a smile, but could have screamed with frustration. They had been getting along so nicely. As far as she was concerned, the timing couldn’t have been worse. Drat those German bombers!
Flight Lieutenant Carmichael seemed to share her disappointment. But he was preoccupied, glancing doubtfully at his friends. ‘We should probably report back to base. It’s quite a drive away.’ He got up too, swiftly followed by the others. Around them, everybody was knocking back their drinks and filing towards the front entrance. ‘But I can walk
you to the shelter first.’
‘Thank you.’
Outside on the dark London street, people were quickly making their way towards the shelter, some in dressing gowns and slippers, summoned from their beds by the siren. Above them, the night sky was lit up with criss-crossed searchlights and the frequent flash and crack of anti-aircraft guns.
Rather cheekily, Max took her hand as they hurried down the street together. Eva was surprised but decided not to pull away, even though it was a bit of a liberty for a man she had only just met. He had such an irresistible smile, after all.
But before they could reach the underground station where she had spent so many nights before, Eva heard the terrible whistle of a bomb descending.
‘Bomb incoming!’ someone shouted. ‘Run for the shelter!’
The whistle grew louder and louder as it hurtled towards the earth, almost directly overhead.
People started to scream and run all around her.
‘Quick!’ Max pushed her through the churning crowd towards the mouth of the underground station entrance, only a few feet ahead but packed with people. ‘You get to safety, honey.’
Eva protested and tried to turn around, but stumbled on her heels, pushed along by the crowd of hysterical club-goers on every side. She could hardly breathe, she was pressed in so tight. They were nearly there, nearly at the shelter.
Suddenly, she felt herself lifted off her feet as though flying …
Then everything went black.
CHAPTER THREE
Near Porthcurno, South Cornwall, June 1941
Hazel caught a glimpse of her curvy reflection in the small mirror over the mantel, and hurriedly pulled her long dark hair forward to hide the livid scar above her eye. The ugly bruise on her cheek had long since vanished, but the scar remained, an unsightly reminder of her husband’s famously short temper. No amount of face powder could entirely conceal it, though she had applied plenty this morning. But if she set her curls more loosely than usual, and left off her headscarf, it might do to draw the eye away.