Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Harper 2015

Copyright © Kay Brellend 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Photography by Henry Steadman; Background scene © Imperial War Museum (D 5597)

Windmill Theatre photographs © Getty Images; three girls in their dressing room © Hulton-Deutsch Collection/Corbis

Kay Brellend asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007575282

Ebook Edition © January 2015 ISBN: 9780007575299

Version: 2014-11-22

Dedication

For Mum, who worked as a telephonist at Holborn Exchange during the height of the Blitz and went fire-fighting after shifts.

For Dad, who served in the RAF as a Leading Aircraftman, keeping the planes flying.

For all those people who didn’t see active service, but helped to win the war, working behind the scenes.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Epilogue

Keep Reading …

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Kay Brellend

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

‘You shouldn’t risk going out on a night like this!’

‘I must … I want to see how my mum is.’

Gertie Grimes blew a cautionary hiss through her teeth. ‘Take it from me, there’s going to be a bad raid tonight, I can feel it in me bones. And if that weren’t enough I’m getting a fright from that moon out there. It’s like a peeled melon.’ Gertie shook her head. ‘You know how Fritz likes to come over on a full moon. You should stay here, love, tucked up safe and sound.’

That remark earned Gertie a dubious frown.

‘I’ll look after you, Dawn. Don’t you worry about that,’ Gertie chuckled slyly. ‘I can see off a randy sod for you with one hand tied behind me back.’

Dawn Nightingale didn’t doubt the older woman’s promise to protect her virtue. Her wry expression was due to her understanding the reason behind Gertie’s mirth: the staff at the Windmill Theatre, where Dawn had just finished her shift as a showgirl, had been allowed to bed down on the premises since the start of the London Blitz. Some stagehands welcomed the arrangement as it provided opportunities for sexual shenanigans. The management insisted on segregated quarters and lights out after the theatre closed at eleven but a few men had been discovered creeping about to try their luck.

But Dawn wasn’t interested in any nocturnal visits from fumbling Romeos. She had a boyfriend in the RAF and though she hadn’t seen Bill for months, she would never be mean enough to casually two-time him.

‘Best get off now; don’t want to miss my bus home.’ Dawn whipped her coat from the peg and slipped it on.

‘You take care of yourself.’ Gertie watched her colleague doing up her buttons. ‘Get yourself down the underground sharpish if the sirens go off.’

‘Will do …’ Dawn gave a wave as she set off along Great Windmill Street.

She kept her head lowered as she walked, protecting her cheeks from the bitter late January night air, her mind preoccupied with thoughts of her mother. She hoped Eliza was feeling better, yet doubted she would be. If anything, her mother seemed to be getting worse. And Eliza could only blame herself for that.

Eliza Nightingale liked a little nip, as she called it, and had done so for very many years. By anybody’s standards, the woman had had a run of bad luck that might send her to the bottle. She’d lost her husband to pneumonia when her daughter was just five, then her intended second husband had scarpered, leaving her pregnant with her son. But according to Eliza she felt unwell not because she drank too much but because of the weather. It was too hot or too cold, too dry or too damp, for a body to be healthy, she’d mumble while stacking up the empties under the sink.

Dawn and her brother knew why their mother vomited and looked like death warmed up on some days. Dawn tried to be tolerant but often lost her temper and shouted at her mother to leave the booze alone. But Eliza continued to empty a few bottles of gin or port a week, saying she needed a drop of medicine to steady her nerves.

Dawn was startled from her worries by the whine of an air-raid siren. She came to an abrupt halt, cussing beneath her breath. She’d just passed Piccadilly tube station and pivoted on the spot, wondering whether to hare back and shelter there. If the planes passed overhead she’d be safe enough in the open till the all clear sounded and she could get on her way home. Her mother and brother, of course, might not be so fortunate in Bethnal Green as the East End had been taking a dreadful hammering. But they had an Anderson shelter in their back garden that had done its job so far during the Blitz.

A hum of engines grew louder, making Dawn instinctively shrink back against a brick wall. Her eyes scoured the inky heavens and she was relieved to see that the moon’s milky surface was patterned with stringy cloud, hampering the Luftwaffe’s mission to obliterate London. Dawn attempted to count the swarm of aeroplanes but found it impossible to separate them, there were so many. She jumped in fright as an early explosion rocked the pavement beneath her feet. She skittered sideways into a shop doorway and crouched down, arms instinctively coming up over her head to protect it from any shrapnel.

The sound of a person sobbing nearby reached Dawn’s ears, as did the crash of falling masonry and shattering glass. She jerked upright, peering into the flame-daubed darkness. Finally she located a young woman hobbling along on the opposite pavement. At first Dawn thought the stranger might have been injured but then noticed that her uneven gait was due to her having one shoe on and one in her hand.

‘Here! Over here!’ Dawn called out, feeling sorry for the girl and hoping to comfort her.

The young woman swivelled about. Removing her shoe she pelted over the road in stockinged feet, breathlessly collapsing onto her posterior in the doorway.

‘It’ll all be over soon.’ Dawn crouched beside her.

An abrupt blast made them huddle together, heads so close they were in danger of cracking foreheads.

‘I thought I’d have time to get to the underground shelter.’ The newcomer swiped her wet eyes with the back of a hand.

‘Me too …’ Dawn returned in a soothing whisper. ‘Passed it by only moments ago. Unlucky, eh?’

‘Them planes came out of nowhere …’ the girl complained. ‘Warning came too late. Don’t think those damned Jerries will swoop down and strafe us, do you? Gonna get killed, ain’t we?’ she rattled off, peering up fearfully at the sky.

Suddenly a pane of glass on the opposite side of the street fell in smithereens from its frame to the pavement.

‘Told me dad I didn’t want to go out tonight, but he made me do some deliveries.’

‘Hush … we’ll be alright … the bombardment’s over there …’ Dawn hoped she sounded convincing because she wasn’t at all sure they were safely out of harm’s way.

‘We’ll get cut to bits if we stay here! I’d sooner have a bomb land on me head than get me face all scarred up.’ The girl agitatedly eyed the glass doorway of the shop in which they were sheltering, pressing her flat palms to her cheeks to protect them from any imminent flying shards.

‘The planes usually head towards the East End; perhaps just a couple of stray bombs have landed over this way.’ Dawn prayed that was so and that her mother and brother were safely inside their Anderson shelter. A burst of flames illuminated the street and Dawn got a better look at her companion. The girl was fair and pretty and about eighteen, three years Dawn’s junior.

‘What’s your name?’ Dawn hoped to calm the girl down by chatting to her. ‘What were you delivering for your dad at this time of the night?’

‘I’m Rosie Gardiner and it’s none of your business if I was running an errand or not …’ she snapped then broke off, listening.

Rosie started to rise but Dawn pulled her back into the shadows, sensing something was amiss.

She realised now why the window opposite had shattered despite no other premises having been affected by tremors: a brick had been thrown through it. Another missile hit the outfitter’s shop, demolishing what remained of the pane.

A trio of men, now in full view, immediately began crunching forward over the debris to ease clothes through the jagged hole. They appeared careful not to damage the merchandise as they began bundling goods onto a handcart. The smallest fellow then leapt agilely through the aperture and disappeared. Soon he was back to start lobbing his haul onto the cart.

Dawn squinted at him through the darkness; his stature was remarkably short and slim, putting her in mind of somebody, but she couldn’t recall who it was.

‘They’re stealing that stuff on purpose!’ Rosie gasped, turning to face Dawn. ‘They put in that window!’ Her astonishment transformed to glee. ‘Let’s go and help ourselves too. Me dad could do with a new overcoat.’

‘Fancy a spell in prison, do you?’ Dawn whispered, dragging on her companion’s arm to make her again sit down. ‘’Cos that’s what you’ll get if you end up mixed up in that lot.’

The courts were treating more and more harshly the ‘bomb-chasers’ who turned up undercover of raids to rob premises. While the police were otherwise occupied with saving lives, seasoned criminals exploited the mayhem, seizing the opportunity to go unhindered about their business. But there were grave repercussions facing the thieves if caught: prison terms and even a death sentence had been handed down. Dawn was shrewd enough to realise that she and Rosie could be in peril if these men felt they had nothing to lose by adding battery – perhaps murder – to their charge sheets.

The looters seemed well-organised; the barrow was already stacked high. Seething with rage though Dawn was at their vile behaviour, she’d no intention of interfering, or of advertising her presence. She hoped they’d soon be on their way so she and Rosie could also get going. They’d trouble enough negotiating the rubble and infernos, and finding some transport running to get them home, without these men adding to their problems. The gang would not want witnesses to their night’s work. Dawn realised she’d come to feel responsible for Rosie Gardiner’s safety yet she knew nothing about the girl other than her name. And Rosie had been quite rude to her when Dawn had tried to make conversation about what she’d been out delivering for her father.

The laden cart had been pushed about fifty yards along the street when Rosie’s impatience got the better of her. Shaking off Dawn’s hand she ran to the damaged shop front and scrabbled amongst discarded coat hangers and broken glass for something to take.

‘Greedy sods have taken the whole lot,’ she complained loudly. ‘Not even a bleedin’ scarf left for me dad.’

The slightly built man had heard her and swung about. He had hung back to light a cigarette while his cohorts – one tall and one stout – pushed the cart. At any other time Dawn would have thought them a comical-looking bunch: short, fat and thin. As it was she simply broke cover and yanked on Rosie’s arm to drag her away. Finally Rosie seemed to understand the peril in the situation. Hand in hand they hared in the opposite direction with the sound of flying footsteps behind them.

Dawn darted into an alley tugging Rosie after her. She kept going, her lungs burning with exertion, making sure to dodge around overflowing dustbins that smelled of cooking fat and rancid food, yanking Rosie clear of the obstacles too. Having tried a few back doors she finally found one unlocked. She shoved Rosie inside and quickly followed her.

Dawn raised a finger to her lips, miming that Rosie should keep quiet in case their pursuer was sniffing around close by.

They settled back against opposite walls, their chests heaving with every painful breath, straining to listen for a sign that they’d been followed.

Five minutes passed in the dim corridor without a sound other than their suppressed pants, but the young women’s eyes remained wide open and locked together. Suddenly Dawn took a tentative step towards the door and eased it open an inch. There was a sound of frantic industry in the area as the rescue crews raced from place to place. But there had been no more blasts close by. Further afield could be heard the rattling retorts of anti-aircraft guns and the crump of exploding bombs. Immediately Dawn was thinking of her mother and brother in the East End that was surely now bearing the brunt of an attack.

‘Cor … the smell of that Chinese grub’s making me feel hungry.’ Rosie sniffed the stale aromatic air in the building, her voice high and cheery as though she’d never been snivelling earlier. ‘I bet the kitchen’s through there. If they’ve all gone off down the shelter we could see if they’ve left any noodles in the pot and help ourselves.’

Dawn shook her head. ‘Time to go,’ she said quietly, realising the young woman might be on the verge of having hysterics, she was talking such rot.

‘I suppose I’ll have to settle for a bit of toast and dripping for me supper.’ Rosie pushed past Dawn into the street. ‘Hope a bloody bus is running my way. I’ve got blisters all over me feet from me new shoes …’ She swung the leather courts she’d been carrying in her hand.

‘Well … if yer a good gel, maybe I’ll give you a ride home on me cart and save yer tootsies.’

A man plunged out of the shadows, clamping his fingers over Rosie’s mouth, stifling her shriek of fright.

‘’Course, if you upset me I’ll feed you a bunch of fives and you won’t get home tonight … nor any night …’ he threatened close to her ear.

Dawn had been on the point of defending her companion when she felt as though her arms might be ripped from their sockets. Another one of the looters had sneaked from the gloom to drag her backwards.

Dawn stamped her heel down hard on her captor’s foot making him howl and loosen his grip. She spun to confront him. ‘Brave lot, aren’t you?’ She glared at the short fellow who’d had hold of her, then turned her attention to his stocky accomplice. ‘So where’s your lanky pal? Hiding the stuff you nicked?’ She guessed the third man had scooted with the night’s haul.

‘You’ve got a big mouth for a little gel,’ the big man snarled. ‘Now … you two are gonna keep your gobs shut if you know what’s good for you. You ain’t seen us do nuthin’ … ain’t that right?’

Rosie quivered her head in agreement, blinking in fright.

‘That’s good … very sensible, ’cos pretty gels like you two wouldn’t want yer faces rearranged, would yer?’ He pinched Rosie’s chin in hard fingers.

‘You leave her alone!’ Dawn shouted, pleased to see that Rosie had elbowed her tormentor in the ribs. ‘As you’re not off fighting the Germans the least you two brave souls can do is go and give a hand clearing up the mess they’ve made.’ She pointed at the orange glow in the sky, visible above the rooftops. The smell of charred timber was heavy in the air. Suddenly she was bubbling with fury. Her mother and brother might be digging themselves out of rubble … if they were lucky. She might not have a home or a family to return to, yet these vile men were out to make a profit from the raid.

Without a clue as to what had jarred her memory Dawn realised why the small fellow seemed familiar. Yet, according to his sister, Michael Williams had shipped out and was on his way to Malta with his crewmates. Gertie’s brother shouldn’t be in London at all.

‘What you staring at?’ Michael snapped. He’d got a brief glimpse of Dawn by the outfitters and thought he recognised her. Stupidly he’d mentioned that to his associates and they’d been furious at the idea they might be arrested before the goods were concealed in the warehouse. ‘What you staring at, I said?’ he snarled.

Dawn’s intuition was telling her to play dumb as though she didn’t know him. Inwardly she prayed that the horrible little man was for the high jump – from his sister and the authorities when they found out he’d deserted.

‘Never seen such a short-arse before, has she?’ the stout fellow taunted his cohort. He’d taken Dawn’s blank response at face value and was reassured that she didn’t recognise Midge, as Michael was nicknamed by those who knew him.

‘Shut yer mouth, Roof.’ Midge Williams was sensitive to such comments, especially when women were around.

‘That’s fuckin’ clever, ain’t it, blabbermouth?’ Roof roared. ‘Want to tell ’em me address ’n’ all, do you?’ He loosened his grip on Rosie to swing a fist at his sidekick.

While Michael nimbly ducked away from the punch Dawn saw her chance. She grabbed Rosie’s elbow and they bolted to the end of the turning, out into an empty lane then kept going. Finally Rosie’s whimpering penetrated the deafening thud of blood in Dawn’s ears. She let go of the hand that was straining in hers.

Rosie folded over at the waist gasping in breath, hugging her shoes to her waist. ‘Me feet are cut to ribbons!’ She hopped from foot to foot. She was in pain and still scared. ‘We lost ’em, d’you reckon?’ she moaned.

Dawn shrugged and grasping Rosie’s hand again she began tugging her towards the crossroads ahead.

‘This is me only pair of nylons,’ Rosie wailed. ‘They only had one ladder ’n’ all – now they’re like lace!’ She lifted a torn and bloodied foot for inspection. ‘Look at the state of me!’

‘You’ll live …’ Dawn returned shortly, aware of mingling shouts up ahead. Turning the corner she was relieved to see that people were milling about a few yards away. Mounds of debris had fallen to block the road and flames were dancing from a gaping hole that once had been a window of a house. She and Rosie merged into the crowd. There were cries from people desperate for help for an injured companion, while others could be seen wandering dazedly to and fro.

Despite the chaotic scene Dawn was still conscious of pursuit, and glanced over her shoulder to see if there was any sign of the men. They had followed! And they hadn’t been far behind even if they had taken a different route, no doubt in the hope of intercepting them.

Roof and Michael were standing at the mouth of a junction, watching them. Roof slowly raised a finger and jabbed it in their direction. Dawn swung her face away, understanding the threat in the looter’s gesture. But she knew they’d not hound them further with so many witnesses about.

CHAPTER TWO

‘Mum says she’s gone up to bed with a headache and to tell you to get me supper ready.’

Dawn had barely put a foot over the threshold when she received that greeting from her brother. Weary she might be, following her run-in with the crooks, but she was relieved to have arrived back and found that her family was safe. A house on the corner of their street had lost its side, showing how close to home the bombardment had been. Curbing her exasperation with her surly brother she managed to give him a smile.

‘You’re old enough to get your own supper ready, y’know.’ Dawn hung her coat over the back of a chair then rolled up her sleeves and went to the pantry to see what it contained. She didn’t hold out much hope of an appetising selection: if her mother were under the influence again the grocery shopping would have borne the brunt of the cost of her ‘medicine’.

‘Don’t want no tea anyhow,’ George muttered. ‘Lost me appetite cramped up in that Anderson shelter for hours. ’Nuf to make you want to puke, it is.’

‘Stop whining and thank your lucky stars you got out of it in one piece. I’ve only had a shop doorway for protection on my way home from work.’

Some neighbours had helped dig out their shelter and fractured a sewage pipe while doing so. Now the garden, and especially the Anderson, stank to high heaven because the repair hadn’t been done well.

‘Ain’t eating anything so you’re wasting yer time poking around in that cupboard.’ George slumped into a chair.

‘That’ll be the day, you turn down a plate of grub.’ Dawn didn’t want to fall out with her brother. He could be selfish and lazy when it came to lending a hand about the house but then a lot of teenage boys were like that.

It seemed daft to get tetchy over something trivial when she lived with a constant fear of rounding the corner of their street to find her home blown to smithereens. ‘There’s half a loaf and some plum jam left … d’you want a jam sandwich?’ Dawn moved a packet of custard powder and pounced. ‘Or …’ She turned with a large potato rotating in her fingers. ‘D’you fancy waiting while this bakes in the oven? There’s no cheese but you could put a bit of marge in it …’

‘Ain’t waiting that long!’ George whined. ‘I’m hungry now.’

‘Thought you said you didn’t want anything,’ Dawn reminded him wryly.

With a scowl, George slunk out of the kitchen, leaving his sister to spread jam on chunks of bread.

A few minutes later Dawn gave George his tea plate. She left him in the parlour with it balanced on his lap, listening to the wireless and tucking into his jam sandwich, and went upstairs to her mother’s room.

‘Want a cup of tea, Mum?’ Dawn whispered into the gloom. The stale air hit her, making her wrinkle her nose. But she didn’t retreat; she approached the bed and looked down at her mother’s drawn profile. ‘It’s − not yet ten o’clock, why don’t you come downstairs and I’ll make you a snack? We can listen to the news on the wireless.’

‘No appetite, dear,’ Eliza mumbled. ‘Don’t want to listen to the wireless. Just bad news all the time, ain’t it.’

‘There’s a big old moon out tonight, have you seen it? Shall I open the curtains a bit?’

‘No … the light makes my headache worse …’

‘The gin gives you a headache, Mum,’ Dawn snapped. The fug in the room was overpowering her, making her tetchy. Suddenly she reached beneath her mother’s pillow, feeling for glass. With a mutter she pulled out the half-empty bottle and tossed it onto the coverlet.

Eliza burrowed further into the bed. ‘It’s alright for you. You ain’t been stuck out in that shelter with the bombs banging down all around,’ she moaned. ‘Bitter cold it was; enough to give a body pneumonia let alone a migraine. Anyhow … what have you been up to today?’

‘I did a couple of matinees and finished early. I told you about it yesterday.’ Dawn knew it was pointless trying to reason with Eliza, so gave up. ‘Have the Gladwins got their national assistance sorted out?’

A family in the next street had been made homeless last week following a direct hit on their house. Thankfully they’d all been in a shelter so only the property had been lost.

‘Those Gladwin kids should have been evacuated long ago, in my opinion.’

‘George should have been evacuated as well.’ Dawn’s blunt comment drew a snort from her mother.

‘George is old enough to stay where he is. He’s nearly thirteen and getting a job soon.’

‘Yeah … but he wasn’t when war broke out, was he, Mum?’ Dawn reminded dryly.

‘I will have a cup of tea, dear.’ Eliza meekly changed the subject as she invariably did when stuck for an answer. She liked having George’s company and was determined to keep it.

On the point of leaving the room, Dawn returned to her mother’s bedside. By the time she got back with a cup of tea Eliza would have emptied the bottle if she left it where it was.

‘I’ll put this in the kitchen cupboard.’ Dawn ignored Eliza’s peevish mumble and went downstairs feeling tempted to empty what remained of the booze down the sink. But she didn’t because it would make matters worse. Her mother would only buy more with their housekeeping money.

‘Can’t get a bit of extra sugar for love nor money up at Royce’s.’ Eliza’s complaint about the corner shop preceded her shuffling into the kitchen.

Dawn had hoped that her mother might drag herself out of bed and come downstairs for her tea. Although Eliza’s wispy hair looked matted and in need of a brush the simple act of putting on her dressing gown and slippers seemed to have bucked the woman up. Dawn set a steaming brew in front of her mother as she settled down at the kitchen table. Planting her elbows on its wooden top Eliza sunk her chin into her dry palms.

‘Don’t like me tea without two sugars in it. It looks weak as well. Have you used fresh leaves, Dawn?’

‘There isn’t any tea … only the grouts in the pot.’

‘I’m fed up with this rationing lark; the war should’ve been over by now. It started off like a damp squib …’

‘But it’s gone off like a rocket now,’ Dawn returned bluntly, setting two pieces of bread on the grill ready to be toasted. She shoved the pan into position beneath the gas flame. She found her mind returning to the looters and whether she’d been right in thinking her colleague Gertie was related to one of them.

Gertie Grimes was mum to a brood of young kids as well as being a cleaner. The woman worked very hard, not only at the Windmill Theatre but doing odd charring jobs in the evening. Dawn hadn’t known Gertie long as the woman had only recently started at the Windmill. But Dawn liked Gertie and wondered how the woman would feel knowing that her own brother was looting while she was working her fingers to the bone. Of course, Dawn couldn’t be sure it had been Michael …

‘There was a letter for you today. Reckon it’s from Bill.’ George had appeared in the kitchen to give his sister that news and to slide his empty plate onto the table. ‘Wouldn’t mind a bit of toast if there’s any going.’ He patted his belly.

‘Don’t be so greedy, George!’ his mother scolded. ‘Me and your sister’s not had a bite of supper yet.’

Dawn got up and felt on the shelf where the post was put every day. She usually checked it morning and night but George’s demand to be fed as soon as she walked in the door had broken her routine. The kettle started to steam but she ignored it for a moment and smiled at the envelope she’d found, recognising her boyfriend’s handwriting.

‘Go on then; open it,’ Eliza nodded at the letter. ‘And take the toast out of the grill or it’ll be charcoal. And that kettle’s hissing fit to put me teeth on edge.’

Dawn pulled out the grill pan and turned off the gas under the kettle. She was ready to pop Bill’s letter in her pocket to savour reading it in private but knew it would be mean to deprive her family of a bit of interesting news. She inserted a thumbnail under the envelope flap.

‘Oh no! Not again!’ An air-raid siren had made all three of them stand stock still, grimacing up at the ceiling.

‘Turn off the lights!’ Dawn ordered her brother and he obediently hurried round turning off the gas lamps on the walls.

‘Blackout curtains are all in place; I checked earlier,’ Eliza said. She’d suddenly bucked herself up no end.

‘Get that bit of toast spread,’ George called to Dawn, still thinking of his belly despite the imminent danger. He was hovering close to the last lamp still alight, before plunging them all into darkness.

‘I’d better get something warm to put on,’ Eliza wailed. ‘I’ll catch me death in that ice box in just me dressing gown.’

Dawn whipped her coat off the chair back. ‘Here, you can put this on. Now hurry up …’ She settled the warm tweed about her mother’s shoulders then opened the back door and looked up, straining her ears and eyes. In the distance she could see anti-aircraft ammunition tracing fiery lines in the sky.

Together, Dawn and George helped their mother down the back step into the garden then they hurried arm in arm towards the bottom end where the corrugated roof of the Anderson shelter was just visible.

CHAPTER THREE

‘Had a letter from my Fred.’

‘Ooh, ain’t you the lucky one …’ Gertie Grimes’s acid muttering was intentionally audible.

Olive Roberts turned to give her colleague a withering stare. ‘My Fred always keeps in touch. Doesn’t matter how busy he is with all his duties, he’s always found time for his wife.’

‘Way you go on about him you’d think he was a brigadier general instead of a bleedin’ corporal.’

‘He’s got the responsibility of having men under him …’

‘That wouldn’t surprise me,’ Gertie snickered.

‘What you implying, you dirty-minded cow?’

Olive was a skinny, big-boned woman of above average height but she didn’t frighten Gertie who was tubby, a good six inches shorter and, at twenty-six, nearly ten years younger. Gertie stuck her hands on her hips, staring defiantly at Olive.

‘We all know you’re like a bitch on heat but there’s no need to think we’re all at it,’ Olive spat. ‘Four kids and only in your mid-twenties?’ she scoffed. ‘You need to get that husband of yours down the recruiting office. A bit of active service’ll take the lead out of his pencil.’

‘My husband knows his duty to his family comes first, so you can piss off trying to tell us what to do. Just ’cos you ain’t got five minutes for those boys of yours, don’t think we’re the same. My kids are my life.’ Gertie began poking her broom beneath a chair to drag fluff and hair out from beneath it. ‘You’re just jealous of us because we’re a happy family.’ If Gertie was annoyed that her colleague had hinted she was a scrubber she didn’t let on. Gertie preferred talking dirty to actually doing the deed. The other, as she called it, robbed her of sleep and always seemed to bring her another mouth to feed.

‘Jealous of you, Gertie Grimes? You’re jealous of me, more like, ’cos your husband might get you up the spout regular as clockwork but he ain’t man enough to join up, is he.’

‘You leave my husband out of this!’ Gertie threw down her broom in temper. ‘Don’t you dare say nothing bad about him. He’s a father with little ’uns to consider before he considers himself.’

‘Reckon he is considering himself … that’s why he’s sweeping roads instead of carrying a rifle,’ Olive scoffed, turning away to bring the row to an end.

‘You’d better apologise for that.’ Gertie poked Olive in the shoulder. ‘’Cos if you don’t …’

‘Oh, shut up, you two!’ Dawn exploded. She’d just entered the dressing room to find the theatre’s cleaner and kiosk attendant at each other’s throats as usual. Her feet were aching and she had a thumping head because she’d been on the side of the stage close to the trumpet player. Her temples were still throbbing from the ear-splitting toots.

‘Customers won’t like hanging around in the foyer waiting for you to sell ’em tickets. If Phyllis finds out you ain’t where you’re supposed to be you’ll be for the high jump.’ Gertie stared pointedly at Olive until the woman stormed towards the door.

‘All her airs ’n’ graces yet she ain’t got a minute of time for those two boys of hers.’ Gertie’s lip curled in disgust. ‘Kids should come first in my book, not shoved to one side soon as the opportunity turns up.’ She glanced at Dawn for a comment but her colleague flopped down onto a seat at the dressing table.

Dawn averted her sore eyes from the glaring bulbs edging the mirror in front of her. She eased off the feathered headdress and once released from confinement her honey-blonde hair cascaded to her shoulders in untidy waves. She dropped her face forward and gave her tender scalp a massage with her fingers. ‘If Phyllis finds out you two are still at it you’ll be for the high jump too.’ Dawn’s caution emerged from behind a screen of glossy hair.

‘Well, Pocahontas.’ Gertie tweaked the feathers that Dawn had discarded on the dressing table littered with brushes and cosmetics. ‘I don’t care if I do get the sack from here for telling Olive what I think of her; she deserved it. How did the performance go? Was it a full house?’

‘Almost, and the comedian got a lot of applause, even though he forgot his punchline a couple of times …’ The rest of Dawn’s report was drowned out as more showgirls came into the room, chattering like starlings. The troupe was dressed in beaded Red Indian costume, with colourful feathers embellishing their hair.

‘What’s up with Olive Roberts? She’s got a face on her fit to curdle milk.’ Sal Fiske was stepping out of her short, fringed skirt while speaking.

‘No change there then …’ Gertie muttered. ‘The woman’s ugly as sin, don’t know what her husband sees in her.’

‘Have you been upsetting Olive again, Gertie, you naughty thing?’ Lorna Danvers had entered the dressing room to boom that out in her cut-glass accent. She began unhooking fancy suspenders and rolling down her fishnet stockings. ‘I dearly hope we don’t have to wear these costumes again; this leather’s made me itch dreadfully up here.’ She started to scratch close to her groin. ‘I’ll wriggle about in a mermaid tail for my wages but I really don’t fancy getting eczema on my Minnie for a thousand pounds.’

‘I reckon you would!’ came a chorus of voices.

‘Gordon’ll scratch it for you,’ Sal called out.

It was well-known that the senior stagehand had a thing for La-di-da Lorna, as she was fondly called due to her upper-class roots. Gordon was starting to get on Lorna’s nerves because he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

‘You need a bit of Endocil cream on that.’ Gertie examined the angry rash Lorna was picking at. ‘My brother suffers with eczema something chronic on his knees ’n’ elbows. Told him to always dab a bit of Endocil on to soothe it.’

Dawn carried on hanging up her squaw’s costume, strolling to and fro in just her brassiere and camiknickers, as were the other girls as they moved between the various dressing cupboards. But her ears had pricked up on hearing Gertie mention her brother. She’d tried to forget about the robbery last week and hadn’t mentioned anything to Gertie about suspecting Michael might be a looter.

Dawn had never been introduced to Michael but Gertie had once brought her brother to Dawn’s notice by telling her that he’d bagged a prime spot in the front row of the theatre. Dawn had promised to look out for him and when she went on stage had squinted through the lights in the direction of a boyish-looking able seaman. Dawn’s boyfriend had spoken about Midge Williams too, not because he liked Gertie’s brother, but quite the reverse. In Bill Sweetman’s opinion Midge was a troublemaker with a chip on his shoulder and he was glad their paths crossed only rarely when they both had leave. But before saying she suspected Michael was a deserter and a thief, Dawn knew she’d have to be sure of her facts. Gertie was short like her brother but could be aggressive, especially when defending her relatives. Gertie’s animosity towards Olive stemmed from her disgust because the older woman didn’t fawn over her children in the same way as Gertie did. Dawn had to agree that Olive seemed a remote mother, but different people had different ideas about bringing up kids.

‘Don’t suppose it’s easy for your brother to get Endocil cream on a frigate.’ As Gertie had brought up her brother’s name a few minutes ago Dawn took the opportunity to carry on the conversation. In that way she might discover if Midge was in Malta and put her suspicions to rest.

‘You’d be surprised what the NAAFI can get hold of.’ Gertie laughed.

‘I wouldn’t!’ Sal chipped in. ‘I’m beginning to wish I’d joined the NAAFI instead of taking this job. Could’ve made myself a packet selling hooky stuff on Loot Alley. Not that I’ve ever been there …’ She dropped a sly wink following her mention of the haunt in Houndsditch where merchandise changed hands.

‘Had a letter from your brother Michael yet?’ Dawn tried again to pump Gertie for information while putting on her outdoor clothes.

‘Ain’t one for letter writing, is Michael. I expect he drops Mum a few lines in Clacton.’

‘Michael’s in Malta then?’ Dawn continued doggedly, making Gertie glance sharply at her in surprise.

‘Reckon he might have docked. But he don’t give us his timetable,’ she said rather sourly.

Dawn supposed that reply would have to do; she must have been mistaken in thinking Michael a villain. Having dragged a brush through her hair she gave the others a cheery wave as she’d finished her shift. Gertie followed her towards the cloakroom.

‘Off home then, are you?’

‘Yeah …’

‘Mum better, is she?’

Dawn gave Gertie a speaking look; Gertie was aware of her mother’s drinking because Dawn had once mentioned it to some fellow dancers. Afterwards, she’d wished she’d kept schtum because women working together forgot nothing and gossiped about everything.

‘Don’t you worry, she’ll pull herself round once this war’s over with. It’s taking it out of all of us.’ Gertie nipped at her lower lip with her teeth, looking thoughtful.

‘What’s wrong?’ Dawn prompted.

‘Were you asking about Michael for a reason?’

Dawn blushed guiltily.

‘Now you tell me what’s wrong,’ Gertie demanded. ‘Come on out with it. I knew there was more to it than eczema and Endocil cream.’

‘It’s nothing really …’ Dawn blurted. ‘It’s just … I thought I saw him recently; but you’ve said he’s abroad, so I must be mistaken.’

‘Yeah … you must.’ Gertie gave a slow emphatic nod. ‘If people got to hear he was still round these parts, they’d think he was a deserter now, wouldn’t they?’

‘I’ve said I’m probably mistaken.’ Dawn sounded cross too. ‘It’s an easy mistake to make as he is quite … remarkable, isn’t he.’

‘What d’you mean by that?’ Gertie snapped.

‘Well … there aren’t many men about as small as him; that’s why I thought it might be him.’

‘I suppose you could say he’s wiry … Anyhow, I’d be obliged if you’d keep your ideas to yourself.’

‘Right … sorry I mentioned it,’ Dawn muttered to Gertie’s retreating back.

Gertie got her coat out of the cloakroom, obviously ready to leave work herself. Dawn loitered for a moment wondering whether to offer to walk a short way with the other woman, as they sometimes did. At Piccadilly Circus Gertie would then head off towards her home in Holborn while Dawn travelled east to Bethnal Green. Gertie barged past and hurried out into the street. Dawn shrugged to herself and slowly followed her colleague into the dark early evening, hoping that she’d get home without the need to bomb-dodge.

No such luck! Dawn inwardly groaned a few moments later as the sirens started. With a cursory scouring of the sombre heavens she joined those dashing towards the underground station. Her heart was pumping and her misty breath bathed her cold face as she ran down the steps, jostled and bumped by others seeking shelter. As she stepped onto the busy platform, the smell of urine and dirt immediately struck her, making her wrinkle her nose. Picking her way through bodies and bedding she found a small space close to a tiled wall and squatted down. After a moment fidgeting to find a comfortable position she shrugged out of her coat and folded it, lining outward to protect the tweed, planning to use it as a cushion to sit on.

‘You’ll ruin your lovely coat, love. Here you are, you can borrow this.’

Dawn gratefully accepted a worn blanket being held out to her. Before handing it over the woman helpfully folded the wool into a pad.

‘Thanks very much …’ Shivering, Dawn quickly donned her coat, buttoning it up to the throat. Despite the press of humanity she felt chilled from the draught whistling down the steps that led to the street. A moment later she spied Gertie also sheltering from the raid, sitting some yards away, and decided she might as well try and make up with her colleague. Some of the Windmill girls liked nothing better than a bit of a ding dong at work, but Dawn lived by the rule: don’t go looking for trouble ’cos it’ll find you soon enough. Handing back her makeshift cushion with a smile and thanks, Dawn picked a path over bodies to Gertie’s side.

‘Crikey … where did you get him?’

Gertie was attending to a baby in a makeshift wicker crib. She tucked the covers in about the mewling infant, making hushing noises. ‘Met me husband down here with the kids; he was bringing ’em to meet me from work. He does that sometimes … so he can get shot of them and bugger off to the pub.’ Gertie’s mouth turned down in a rueful smile. ‘Anyway the raid’s put paid to that idea for him. So he’s gone off with the older ones to keep them occupied.’ She gave Dawn a conciliatory smile. ‘Sorry about … you know … earlier …’

‘Yeah … me too,’ Dawn said, peering in at the baby. She knew that Gertie had four boys but because Gertie was a fairly new recruit at the theatre, Dawn had never before met any of the woman’s family. In fact, if Midge Williams hadn’t turned up to watch a show at a time coinciding with Gertie’s evening shift at the theatre, Dawn would never have had him pointed out to her.

Even when Dawn was a bit dishevelled, as now, she still looked pretty in Gertie’s opinion. Self-consciously she pushed some lank brown hair behind her ears. ‘Don’t get a lot of time for me looks any more.’ She glanced at the sniffling baby. ‘Got Harold here and then the other three all playing me up.’

‘Where have they gone off to?’ Dawn took a look about.

‘Oh, they’re around somewhere, with their dad. Me husband gets bored stuck here all night so goes looking for somebody to have a game of cards with. He takes the boys to watch him play. Teaches him his tricks, so he says …’ Gertie started unbuttoning her blouse as Harold let out a wail. ‘Feeding time at the zoo,’ she muttered, looking around, her face a study of distaste. Picking up the infant, she concealed him, as best she could, inside her coat. ‘Like a bleedin’ farmyard it is down here, stinks to high heaven.’ She mimed gagging, then turned her attention to the baby’s feed. ‘I’d sooner not come here but we’ve not got a shelter dug out the back, you see. Rufus keeps saying he’ll do it but never gets round to it.’ Gertie raised her eyebrows, displaying fond exasperation for her lazy husband.

‘Pretty unpleasant down here, isn’t it.’ Dawn politely averted her eyes from Gertie’s exposed flesh, staring instead at the exit and straining her ears for a sound of the all clear. She’d not heard a bomb drop so was praying the planes had gone straight over, or it was a false alarm.

‘Wish we could go back to the phoney war we had at the beginning. At least we all got to sleep in our own beds,’ Gertie mumbled, stroking her baby’s cheek. ‘Worried all the time about my boys, I am.’

‘Are your older sons being evacuated?’ Dawn asked conversationally. She gazed at the contented baby, his fine auburn hair verging on flaxen and nothing like Gertie’s dark brown locks.

‘Oh, no! Nobody would look after them properly for me.’ Gertie sounded adamant. ‘I know them best. They’d never settle with anybody else.’

‘Bet our troops overseas miss their own beds …’ Dawn had reverted to their previous topic of conversation. Gertie had sounded defensive in the way her own mother did when talking about children being sent away into another woman’s care. Dawn thought of Bill, far away, perhaps soaring high in the heavens in his Spitfire, under the moon and stars. But there was no romantic side to any of it. Wherever Bill was, he was probably cold and scared, especially if he had a Messerschmitt on his tail. ‘I wish the bloody war was over with …’ Dawn said on a heartfelt sigh.

‘’Course, we all wish that.’ Gertie rubbed slowly at her baby’s back as he suckled. ‘War to end all wars, that last one was meant to be. Now look at us. Bloody Hun!’ she muttered. ‘Your boyfriend’s a pilot, ain’t he, Dawn?’

Dawn nodded. ‘I think about him, and pray for his safety, day and night … but I’m so proud of him too …’

‘My Rufus wanted to do his bit, of course,’ Gertie piped up, as though fearing Dawn might think him a coward for not enlisting. ‘But I need a bit of help with the four boys,’ she added flatly, as though she’d forgotten saying a moment ago how happy her husband was to avoid looking after his sons in favour of a trip to the pub.

‘They mustn’t half be a handful,’ Dawn said. It was the most Gertie had ever spoken about her family.

‘You’re not kidding! Run me ragged, they do. Oi … what’s your game? Never seen a hungry baby before?’

A young fellow had been lounging on his coat next to them. He’d been reading a book, in between slyly trying to get a glimpse of Gertie’s bare breast. He blushed scarlet and rolled over onto his other elbow, bringing the novel right up in front of his face.

‘Bleedin’ saucy git!’ Gertie muttered, giving Dawn a wink.

‘Oh … here he is …’ Gertie put the quietened baby back in his basket and whipped the edges of her coat together, surreptitiously buttoning her blouse underneath. ‘He don’t like me flashing me tits in public, as he calls it,’ she whispered. ‘So don’t let on I’ve given little ’un a drink or that the young bloke there was having a gander or Rufus’ll cause a scene.’

Gertie suddenly waved to attract her husband’s attention. ‘He don’t look happy; probably lost a packet at cards,’ she grumbled beneath her breath.

Dawn turned to look at some people making their way through the crowd. She froze for a few seconds before shrinking back against the tiled wall. Her shoulders were hunched up towards her ears in an attempt to conceal her face while she darted glances to and fro. But there was no chance of a quick getaway without drawing attention to herself; she was hemmed in on all sides. From under her lashes she flicked another look at the stout, red-headed fellow approaching, accompanied by three boys of varying sizes.

It might have been dark that evening, and she might only have seen the brute for a matter of minutes, but she was certain Gertie’s husband was the same man who’d threatened her and Rosie Gardiner to keep their gobs shut about the robbery at the outfitters. It occurred to Dawn then that she’d heard the man she’d thought was Gertie’s brother call his mate ‘Roof’. With sudden clarity she realised it was Rufus’s nickname. She was now wondering if she’d been right in thinking that she short bloke had been Midge Williams … Rufus’s brother-in-law. It’d be an odd coincidence indeed if it weren’t the case …

‘I’m going to make my way to the exit so I can escape as soon as the all clear sounds.’ Dawn whispered the remark, trying to remain inconspicuous while sliding upwards against the tiles.

‘Don’t think you have to shove off, Dawn, ’cos me old man’s turned up. He won’t mind you sitting with us.’

Dawn gave a fleeting smile, watching the little group getting closer. She realised that, with the press of bodies all around, she’d not manage to get clean away before Rufus joined them so crouched down again with her face lowered into her collar as though she felt very cold.

Rufus swung his smallest son over the seated people, then stepped over too. The other two boys made their own way to their mother’s side. On squatting down by Gertie, Rufus immediately began bickering with his wife because one of the boys had been misbehaving, making him lose concentration while playing Rummy.

Dawn turned further away from the couple, as though to give them privacy, glad Rufus Grimes was too preoccupied to have glanced her way. Now she’d heard his coarse voice there was no doubt he was one of the thieves. But he hadn’t recognised her, and at the first opportunity she’d slip away.

A little stack of novels, belonging to the fellow who’d ogled Gertie, drew Dawn’s lowered eyes. She was tempted to pilfer one, and pretend to read it. She knew, without conceit, that she was pretty and men tended to eye her up. She feared that once Grimes stopped chastising his son he might take more notice of his surroundings, and her …

‘Sit yer arse down, Joey, and stop fidgeting,’ Dawn heard Rufus snap at the eldest boy. Dawn slid a glance at the child, realising he was like his father with his chunky limbs and reddish hair.

Dawn’s heart began pounding beneath her ribs as Gertie’s husband turned his head in her direction. She adjusted her collar, pulling it to her cheeks as though for warmth. Remembering that she had Bill’s letter in her bag, she delved inside for it. Angling it carefully to shield her face she stared sightlessly at it.

‘So you ain’t won any money at cards then?’ Gertie sounded upset.

‘Shut up,’ Grimes rumbled beneath his breath while clumping Joey, who’d continued irritating him. ‘Might as well get going,’ he said testily. ‘Ain’t heard one bomb drop …’

A moment later a short whistle preceded a loud explosion that rocked the ground and sent a cloud of choking dust into the underground.

‘That’ll learn you to keep your mouth shut,’ Gertie chortled, making her eldest son erupt in laughter at his father’s expense.

Grimes shoved Joey in the shoulder for mocking him and in doing so started another row with his wife.

Dawn realised she wouldn’t get a better moment to flee. She stuffed Bill’s letter back in her handbag and keeping her face covered with a hand, as though to sift the filth floating in the air, she got carefully to her feet. She gave Gertie a small smile and a farewell wave.

The peeping Tom rolled over, attempting to get a look up Dawn’s skirt as she stepped over him, making her lose balance.

Grimes put out a hand to steady Dawn and prevent her trampling his kids. ‘’Ere, mind your step, yer clumsy cow …’

‘Oi, she’s me workmate!’ Gertie protested. ‘Watch your language.’

‘Oh … friend of yours, is she now …’ Grimes was peering at Dawn’s face. He drew his head back on his thick neck, cocking it to one side. ‘Is she indeed?’ he muttered softly. ‘Wondered why she looked familiar. Gonna introduce me then, are yer, Gert?’

‘No, I ain’t! And there’s no need to stare at her ’cos she’s pretty,’ his wife hissed resentfully.

‘Going over there by the steps,’ Dawn whispered, twisting her arm free of Grimes’s fingers when he seemed reluctant to let her go. There was a horrible leering mockery in his expression that let her know he remembered where he’d seen her before.

‘So … what’s yer friend’s name then?’ Grimes repeated his question as Dawn negotiated the lounging bodies.

‘’Bye, Dawn …’ Gertie called out. ‘She’s Dawn Nightingale and she’s a dancer at the Windmill Theatre. You shouldn’t have stared at her like that. She’ll think you’re a dirty old man.’

Dawn let out a sigh as she carefully put distance between herself and the Grimes family. Rufus Grimes now knew not only her name, but also where she worked. Dawn rarely swore, but she cussed repeatedly beneath her breath as she made her way towards the exit. She hunkered down close to the steps, ready to make a dash up them the moment the all clear sounded.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Would you show the new girls the ropes, Dawn? I’m in a bit of a rush. The accountant’s turned up and is waiting for me in my office.’

Dawn had been comfortably lounging in a chair, aching feet up on the dressing table, having a crafty smoke. Quickly she stubbed out the cigarette and stood up, tightening the belt on her dressing gown as Phyllis, the manager’s secretary, ushered in two young women then hurried out again.

Dawn had a couple of matinees to do before home time. A short while ago she’d been rehearsing for a new tap routine in shorts and top with her fellow dancers. Her colleagues in the chorus line had sped across the road to the café to snatch a bite to eat before the first show started at half past two.

‘This is a bit poky, ain’t it?’

‘I’ve seen worse in other places.’

‘Suppose it won’t matter in any case; ain’t gonna need a dressing room much if I’m in me birthday suit all the time.’

Dawn thought she recognised that chirpy voice and she tilted her head to see the young blonde standing behind an older brunette.

Rosie Gardiner noticed Dawn then. Her mouth dropped open in surprise before she grinned. ‘Well I never. It’s you, ain’t it! Didn’t know you was a Windmill girl. You got home alright that night after the commotion then?’

‘So did you, I see.’ Dawn looked Rosie up and down. She’d only seen her before in half-light. In the glare of the dressing-room bulbs Rosie’s hair looked artificially blonde. But she had pretty dimpled cheeks and a snub nose dusted with freckles that made her look impish rather than vampish. ‘Didn’t know you were in theatre work too,’ Dawn remarked.

‘Didn’t get much time for chitchat, last time we met, did we?’ Rosie widened her eyes in emphasis. ‘Anyhow, I ain’t in showbiz … I was a shop girl but I need better pay, so thought I’d give this a go.’

‘So, you’ve been a showgirl at other theatres, have you?’ Dawn turned her attention to the brunette, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Dawn Nightingale, by the way.’

‘I’ve worked at a few other places in my time. My name’s Marlene … Marlene Brown.’ Marlene shook Dawn’s hand. ‘So you two already know one another then?’

Rosie nodded. ‘Lucky, weren’t we, that night?’ she said to Dawn.

Dawn hoped Rosie wouldn’t mention the incident. She reckoned the fewer people who knew about that the better. ‘We sheltered together from a raid in a shop doorway,’ she briefly explained to Marlene.

It had been several days since Dawn came face to face with Grimes in the underground shelter. She’d convinced herself that he’d want to forget they’d bumped into one another as much as she did. Gertie hadn’t done a shift since and in her absence Dawn had been brooding on whether Rufus had told Gertie what had gone on. Of course, there was a good chance that Grimes kept his looting sprees from his missus. But meeting Rosie unexpectedly like this had brought back a feeling of foreboding. From Rosie’s attitude Dawn guessed the younger woman hadn’t been able to fully dismiss the episode from her mind either.

‘Right then, I’ll show you where things are kept,’ Dawn said briskly, hoping to buck herself up.

‘Are you one of the nudes?’ Rosie asked, as Dawn opened a cupboard to reveal racks of colourful costumes.

‘No fear! I didn’t fancy going on stage starkers; anyhow my mum would have a fit … or a few gins.’ Dawn muttered the last bit to herself. ‘I’m a chorus dancer and can sing a bit.’

‘I wanted to be a showgirl,’ Rosie sighed dejectedly. ‘But I made a mess of me audition …’

‘Probably ’cos you can’t dance,’ Marlene piped up. ‘Thought I had two left feet but, bleedin’ hell, you was all over the place, Rosie.’

‘Thanks! Anyhow, the manager and his secretary said I’d got a great figure and shouldn’t cover it up.’ Rosie flounced about, turning her back on Marlene.

‘Been here long?’ Marlene asked, poking through some gilt headdresses in another cupboard.

‘About a year,’ Dawn replied. ‘I used to work in a hotel as a cabaret singer and dancer but I got put off when the war started and the hotel closed.’

‘Bloody war!’ Rosie announced with feeling. ‘I’ve had enough of it. Can’t even get meself a new pair of stockings.’

‘I know where you can …’ Marlene said slyly.

‘Where?’

‘Loot Alley.’ Marlene smiled. ‘Can get anything you like down there.’

‘If you can pay for it,’ Dawn chipped in dryly.

‘Don’t always need cash to pay for it,’ Marlene said. She drew out a pack of cigarettes and handed it round. ‘A girl can get what she wants if she’s prepared to do a bit of sucking up …’ She giggled and struck a match.

Dawn shook her head at the offer of a cigarette but Rosie took one. ‘Don’t let Phyllis hear you talk like that.’ It was a light warning from Dawn. ‘The management likes to think us Windmill girls draw the punters in with our nice personalities, and big smiles …’

Marlene hooted a laugh. ‘It ain’t my big smile those randy sods will come to see.’ She thrust forward her full bosom. ‘Let’s face it, if I didn’t have them, I wouldn’t have got the job, would I?’ She took a drag on her cigarette. ‘It’s right, is it, we’ve got to stand there as still as a statue ’cos if you move it’s rude?’

‘If you move we’ll get closed down!’ Dawn stressed.

The Windmill Theatre’s management were sticking to the rules laid down regarding the tableaux vivants. The Lord Chamberlain had threatened to use obscenity laws against any theatre that allowed a nude ‘statue’ to so much as fidget on stage.

‘Why’s that then?’ Rosie asked. ‘We’re still gonna be in the altogether whether we stand still or prance about.’

‘You don’t see statues in museums moving about, do you? You’re supposed to be works of art, not flesh and blood,’ Dawn explained.

‘Good Gawd.’ Marlene took another pull on her cigarette, then held it at arm’s length so she didn’t catch the flimsy gauze alight while she riffled through garments.

‘Did those men catch up with you that night?’ Rosie hissed the question at Dawn the moment the other woman wandered off to sort through some cosmetics discarded on the dressing table. Marlene opened a Yardley lipstick and striped her wrist with it to examine its colour.

‘No. I’ve not told a soul about it, have you?’ Dawn returned in a low voice.

Rosie shook her head, looking sheepish. ‘I was after taking something for me dad from the shop they robbed, after all. Don’t know what come over me … I feel ashamed about that now.’

‘You were probably in shock,’ Dawn said kindly. ‘Those bombs came down pretty close.’

‘I reckon I was in shock, too. I’ve never got caught out like that in a raid. We’ve got a cellar at home, you see, so me and Dad go down there.’ She glanced at Dawn. ‘Hope I never run into any of those men again. Thing is … I thought one of them seemed familiar to me.’

‘Oh?’ Dawn demanded. ‘Which one?’ She was wondering if Rosie also thought she recognised Gertie’s husband, or perhaps her brother, if Midge had been involved. And the more Dawn thought about it, the more she reckoned she’d been right first time about Midge.

‘The tall one who went off pushing the cart. I never got a look at his face though so wouldn’t recognise him again. It was just something about him …’ Rosie shrugged.

Dawn bit her lip, wondering whether to own up that she’d already had the misfortune to run into one of them, and she’d recognised him straight away. And what’s more he was a colleague’s husband!

‘You’ve seen one of ’em!’ Rosie had guessed what was making Dawn look so preoccupied. ‘Who was it … the short-arse? You stamped on his foot, didn’t you?’ Rosie pulled a comical face. ‘The big bloke who had hold of me … what was his name now? The little bloke got a punch for saying it, remember?’

‘Roof … he’s the one I bumped into. I was chatting to his wife in a shelter.’ Dawn felt she might as well admit to the awful meeting. ‘Of course, I didn’t know she was married to him until he turned up. Just my luck, eh?’

Rosie’s eyes had grown round in disbelief. ‘What did Roof say?’ she squealed.

‘He recognised me, just as I did him. But that was it. Neither of us said anything. That’s the way I want it to stay.’ Dawn settled on leaving it at that. She wasn’t going to stir the pot by adding that Roof’s wife worked at the Windmill too. If Gertie were kept in blissful ignorance over it all by her husband, then Dawn was happy to play along.

‘Seen him since, have you?’ Rosie gasped.

Dawn shook her head in a reassuring way. ‘He won’t want to see me any more than I want to see him. I expect he’s keeping his head down.’ She barely knew Rosie so couldn’t recount the full story and trust her to keep her mouth shut. Gertie could be abrasive, as Dawn had already found out, and if challenged over her husband’s thieving, all hell might break loose. As far as Dawn was concerned the less said the better! Her life was complicated enough as it was.

‘’Ere! What you playing at?’ Sal Fiske had entered the dressing room to find Marlene testing her lipsticks. She snatched one from Marlene’s hand. ‘Give it back. That’s mine.’

‘Sorry … only taking a look. Got me own stuff anyhow.’ Marlene threw another tube back on the dressing table and stalked off.

‘Look at these beauties!’ Lorna came in carrying a posy of early spring flowers. ‘Phyllis just handed them over. A fellow called Peter sent them for me,’ she said, reading a small card resting in the foliage. ‘He thinks I’m beautiful and he’d like to take me out.’

‘Ah … sweet …’ Marlene mocked, having listened to Lorna’s cut-glass accent with some amusement. ‘He’ll be out the back waiting for you later then,’ she added knowledgably. ‘So be prepared to show him how grateful you are for his daffs.’

A lively banter continued between Marlene and the chorus girls wearing dressing gowns who’d trooped in from the café. Dawn took the opportunity to draw Rosie to one side as the younger woman appeared rather downcast about Roof’s reappearance.

‘Buck up!’ Dawn said, smiling. ‘We can’t let you out on stage at the Windmill with a face like a wet weekend. You’ll scare away the customers.’

That raised a smile from Rosie and Dawn linked arms with her. ‘Come on … I’ll give you a guided tour of our lovely Windmill Theatre before we open up.’

‘Me mum brought me here to see a variety show when I was a kid; I remember it as being a lot bigger.’ Rosie grimaced. ‘Reckon she must be spinning in her grave to think of me prancing about starkers on stage.’

‘No prancing!’ Dawn wagged a finger in mock reproof.

‘When I was doing me audition I was too nervous to have a good look beyond the footlights.’ Rosie was standing in an aisle close to the stage. Pivoting on one heel she gazed at the rows of seats fanning out in front of her.

‘All good things come in small packages,’ Dawn said proudly, tweaking the heavy tasselled curtain pooling on the stage.

‘Blimey! Didn’t see that when I was up there earlier!’ Rosie was pointing down into the small orchestra pit. ‘Better watch me step or I might end up crashing down the hole,’ she giggled, taking another careful peep. ‘That ain’t very big either, is it?’

‘The building used to be a cinema, till it closed and Mrs Henderson bought it and turned it into a theatre.’

‘Good for her …’ Rosie said.

‘Anyway it might only have about three hundred and twenty seats but we could fill twice that amount. Most nights we’ve got queues of servicemen stretching round the corner. Our revues are the original and best, you see.’

‘The Piccadilly and Pavilion are catching up fast with their nude shows.’ Marlene was sashaying into the auditorium, newly lit cigarette glowing between her fingers.

‘They’re imitating us; we’re the original and best,’ Dawn repeated immediately. She felt a good deal of loyalty to the Windmill. ‘Have you worked as a nude at either of those places, Marlene?’

Marlene gave a lazy nod. She’d told Phyllis at the audition that she was experienced in working in the nude … which was true, but not in the way Phyllis might have hoped. In fact Marlene had only ever been a cigarette girl at the Piccadilly although she’d had jobs at several other nightspots. But lies and exaggeration came easy to Marlene.

‘I’ve never taken me clothes off for strangers before.’ Rosie gave a shy grimace.

‘Always best to get to know him first, Rosie …’ Marlene mocked.

‘It ain’t funny!’ Rosie exclaimed. ‘If the pay weren’t so good, I wouldn’t do it.’

Marlene cocked her head, blowing smoke, and giving Rosie the once over. Suddenly she pointed her cigarette at Rosie. ‘You’re a good looker … and young. How old are you?’

‘Eighteen …’ Rosie mumbled.

‘Girl like you should wise up, and make all that work for her.’

‘You sound as though you’ve been a few places,’ Rosie said, half in awe of her fellow new recruit.

‘Me?’ Marlene tilted her head and took a long lazy drag on her Sobranie. ‘I’ve done it all and regretted none of it …’ she drawled, ending her boast on a dirty chuckle.

Dawn stepped forward; she’d heard enough from Marlene. There was something hard and brash about the woman that was already putting her back up. And she’d only known her about an hour! ‘Come on,’ she urged Rosie. ‘I’ll show you the roof terrace. We go up there to cool off … or sunbathe, depending how we feel, when we’ve got some spare time. There’s an outside staircase too goes down the building. We have fire drills …’

By the time the trio had finished looking around and had got back to the dressing room it was time for the showgirls to start getting into costume.

‘Reckon I’ll need a nip of gin to get me out there first time,’ Rosie said while watching the dancers applying their make-up.

‘You’ll be fine,’ Dawn said, using a sponge to put on grease paint.

‘Well, look what I’ve got … handy, eh?’ Marlene gave Rosie a nudge in the ribs as she took a small flask from her bag. She gave her pretty young colleague a wink, dropping the gin back whence it came.

Dawn had seen that in the mirror while outlining her large green eyes with kohl; again she sensed she wasn’t going to get on with Marlene Brown …

CHAPTER FIVE

‘I ain’t going to cause problems, so stop bleedin’ nagging.’ Rufus Grimes turned his attention back to the sports section of the News of the World.

Gertie began bouncing the pram up and down to hush Harry who’d started to whimper at the sound of raised voices. ‘Well don’t expect me to ask Dawn to keep her gob shut, ’cos I won’t do it.’

‘I ain’t expecting you to do nuthin’!’ Rufus exploded. ‘Ain’t your business, anyhow.’ Exasperated, he picked up the newspaper and hurled it at the wall with a loud oath, making little Harry cry louder. ‘Just play dumb and she’ll do the same. Dawn Nightingale don’t want no trouble … guarantee it.’

Gertie whipped the baby from his pram and began rocking him to and fro against her shoulder while glowering at Rufus’s stubbly profile.

‘Is my business now though, ain’t it?’ Gertie snapped. ‘You should’ve told me that Midge was still about. Why d’you let me think he’d sailed when you knew all along he hadn’t?’

‘’Cos he asked me not to tell you!’ Rufus roared. ‘He knew you’d go on about it, like this, and didn’t want earache off you. Can sympathise with the bloke. You’re driving me nuts. Now fer Gawd’s sake shut up.’

‘You won’t say that when the coppers turn up looking for him, will you?’ Gertie stormed. ‘You’ll scarper and leave me to do the talking.’

Rufus approached his wife, fist raised and shaking. ‘I said shut up about your bleedin’ brother. He’s a pain in the arse at the best of times. Now if you got a gripe with Midge, take it up with him, the bleeder.’

Rufus stalked off and flung himself down in a chair at the table.

Far from not knowing about her husband’s criminal activities, as Dawn had suspected, Gertie Grimes encouraged Rufus to supplement his municipal earnings as a road sweeper with ‘overtime’ worked during bombing raids. So far she’d done quite nicely out of his thieving. She’d received a few bits of quality clothing for herself and the kids, and some household stuff. But he didn’t like to upset Pop, who controlled the gang Rufus was in with. Most of the stolen merchandise went straight to the fences, or to Loot Alley, to be sold and the proceeds were then split between the gang members. Gertie had moaned at Rufus that she deserved a little dip in before the stuff was spirited away, but her husband was charier of Pop than he was of her. That annoyed Gertie because she’d got used to being the person pulling her husband’s strings.

When Rufus had his cut of the proceeds in his pocket, that’s where it stayed. His ‘bunce’, as he called it, was his alone. And Gertie knew where his money went: booze, gambling and prostitutes. There might be a war on, but there was still a thriving market in every sort of vice in London, if you knew where to look.

‘No point sulking over it, Gertie,’ Rufus lilted in a conciliatory way. He never fell out with his wife for too long; she was too useful to him to upset. ‘Tell you what, gel, we’ve got our sights on a tobacconist next ’cos Pop wants a nice briar pipe. See if I can get you a few packs of Players, shall I?’

‘Reckon you can do that, do you?’ Gertie muttered sourly.

Rufus came up behind her, nudging her buttocks with his groin. ‘Do anything for you, gel, you know that …’

Gertie gave a smile, unseen by Rufus. He always came round when he was feeling horny … which was most of the time. She let him open her blouse and slide a hand inside to squeeze her warm breasts.

‘Nip upstairs, shall we?’ Rufus breathed against her cheek. ‘The boys ain’t due in from school for a while. Stick Harry back in his pram; only be five minutes, won’t we …’

‘No fear!’ Gertie pushed him away. ‘I reckon it’s the wrong time of the month for me and I don’t want another kid filling that there …’ she pointed at the pram ‘… before I’ve even turfed Harold out of it and onto his feet.’ She turned to confront Rufus, hands planted on her hips. ‘I’ve got enough kids running round me ankles, Rufus, and I don’t want no more.’

He looked sullen, avoiding her eye. They’d had this conversation before and he always got moody when she mentioned visiting the Marie Stopes clinic. Like most men he thought women who used birth control were sordid, yet he wasn’t prepared to spoil his own pleasure by using a Johnny instead so they could limit the number of mouths they had to feed.

‘Please yourself,’ Rufus muttered, shrugging himself away from her. He began gathering pages of the newspaper scattered on the floor. ‘Probably won’t be able to get you no fags on the sly anyhow when we do the tobacconist.’

Gertie knew his game; it was always the same one – she was nice to him and he was nice to her. She put little Harry back in his pram and sat next to her husband at the table. He had his elbows planted on the open newspaper and his chin cupped in his palms, continuing to ignore her.

Gertie’s fingers crept to undo the buttons of his fly. He was hot and hard … as usual. It didn’t matter what time of the day or night it was, Rufus was ready for action. In a way, Gertie felt quite sorry for him and his affliction.

‘Could do with a lighter as well as some fags,’ she murmured as her fingers started to pump beneath the table. ‘Silver’s nice … if you spot one like that …’

Dawn bobbed to and fro on the station platform looking for a tall figure dressed in smart blue uniform. Suddenly she spotted him, and dodging around a couple strolling in front of her, she broke into a trot.

Bill Sweetman dropped his kit bag, ready to grab Dawn as soon as she was within reach.

‘You look well,’ Dawn said breathlessly, hanging onto her hat as he spun them around. She touched his freshly shaven cheeks.

‘Plenty of bracing air where I’ve been,’ Bill said, swooping to kiss her on the lips.

Picking up his bag they strolled arm in arm towards the station exit.

‘How have you been keeping?’

‘Not bad …’ Dawn smiled.

‘How about your family?’ Bill had picked up on a slight hesitation in Dawn’s reply.

‘Mum’s driving George and me bonkers. She won’t let up on the gin.’

Bill grimaced in sympathy. ‘Everything alright at the Windmill?’

‘We’ve got opening night for a variety show next week. We’ve got to dress up as ghostly wraiths. A couple of new girls have been taken on as living statues.’

‘I’ll come and take a look,’ Bill said wolfishly.

Dawn gave his arm a playful thump. ‘If you come and have a look at anybody, it’d better be me.’

‘I wish you’d get another job, Dawn,’ Bill said, growing serious. ‘I don’t like you working there with loads of blokes leering at you all the time.’

‘They don’t leer … well, some of them do, but mainly at the nudes.’ Dawn knew that wasn’t strictly true. All the showgirls, whether in the chorus line or in the artistic tableaux, received attention from fellows in the audience. Naturally, naked female flesh was fascinating to the opposite sex – especially those youths who’d never before clapped eyes on an unclothed woman. ‘A lot of the servicemen who come along seem quite young and sweet.’

‘Fancy going to the pictures later?’ Bill changed the subject quite abruptly.

‘I don’t finish till eight o’clock. We could try and fit in a late show somewhere,’ Dawn suggested. Bill had frowned on hearing she had to work, so she added quickly, ‘Are you planning on seeing your folks?’ Bill’s parents were quite well to do and lived in Surrey.

‘I’ll drive over to them this afternoon then meet up with you later on this evening.’

Dawn went onto tiptoes and kissed his cheek. ‘How is it all going in Suffolk?’

‘The main news – and very bad it is too – is that our local brewer has been sent to prison. Shame about that, ’cos he produced a decent whisky.’ Bill, tongue-in-cheek, recounted a tale about the fellow in Ipswich who’d had his illegal still, and his liberty, taken by the authorities. ‘Oh, and there’s a rumour that Midge Williams has gone AWOL. Top brass in the Navy know our top brass and the news filtered down that there’s a bit of a to-do about it. A rating called Jack Chivers was found stabbed in a lifeboat, and Williams has gone missing … odd.’ Bill hadn’t noticed that his girlfriend had turned pale at his news. ‘Midge didn’t return to his ship. But to give him his due, there were some heavy raids on London during his last shore leave.’ Bill paused. ‘He might be under rubble or perhaps he’s still recovering from the effects of too much rotgut.’ Bill glanced at Dawn for a comment, realising she’d remained quiet. ‘Oh, God, I forgot …’ He grimaced in apology. ‘Midge’s sister does cleaning at the Windmill, doesn’t she?’ He drew Dawn close with an arm about her shoulders. ‘Is the poor girl in a state? Has Midge come a cropper somehow or other?’

‘I haven’t seen Gertie for a few days … different shifts,’ Dawn explained.

She’d been mulling over whether to voice her suspicions that Gertie’s brother was alive and a member of a gang of bomb-chasers. Bill had never liked Midge since the seaman and some of his Navy pals had taunted Bill and his RAF colleagues in a pub, calling the airmen nancy boys and starting a fight. Dawn certainly didn’t want Bill feeling he ought to jump to her defence and confront Midge, especially now she knew that Gertie’s brother was wanted for questioning about a murder. But there was no proof of anything, she reminded herself. Nevertheless she decided to keep quiet about the horrible night she and Rosie had witnessed the gang out looting.

‘Is that you, Rosie?’

‘Yeah, it’s me home, Dad.’ Rosie slipped out of her jacket and hung it on a peg on the wall before closing the door. The hallway of the Victorian terraced house was dog-legged and painted in a sepia colour that deepened the gloomy interior. But dark or not, she’d glimpsed her father, in his tan cotton coat, scurrying out of the cellar a moment ago. He’d obviously been alerted to her presence by the sound of her key grating in the lock. ‘You’ve been down there again then?’ she accused. ‘You said you were going to pack it in.’

‘Well I’ve changed me mind.’ John Gardiner sounded obstinate. He shoved his hands into his overall pockets. ‘How else are we going to get by if I don’t tinker around and make us a few bob?’

‘I got a job posing with no clothes on so you wouldn’t need to tinker around,’ Rosie shouted, rapidly approaching him.

John Gardiner pulled off the rubber gloves he’d been wearing and stuffed them in his overall pocket. He turned his back on his angry daughter and disappeared into the kitchenette, throwing over a shoulder, ‘I’ve told you what I think about that! Daughter of mine, acting like a little tart! Disgusting!’ A moment later Rosie could hear the squeaky tap being turned on.

‘And I think it’s disgusting what you’re getting up to … and dangerous too.’ Rosie sighed, thinking it was pointless arguing with the stubborn old git. ‘You’d better pack it up, Dad,’ she warned with a hint of despair in her tone. ‘We can manage now I’m working at the Windmill Theatre and getting good pay.’

John started setting cups as though he’d not heard her pleading with him. ‘Brought me in any empties, have you?’

‘No! And I’m not going to! And I’m not doing any more deliveries for you neither. Nearly got me head blown off in a raid last time.’ Rosie kept quiet about the fact that she’d also almost got set about by looters. Her father exasperated her, but she didn’t want to worry him unnecessarily. Besides, Dawn had reassured her that nothing more would come of it. And Rosie put a lot of store in what Dawn Nightingale said. She wasn’t sure why that was, being as they hardly knew one another.

‘I’ll pay you for them … a shilling a pop … that’s a good amount for an empty bottle of whisky.’ John carried on as though he’d not heard his daughter’s complaint. He glanced slyly at her. ‘Must be loads of places round in Soho where they’re putting out empties. Can’t you just have a poke around the dustbins, dear, and fetch me some in?’

‘Somebody died of rotgut poisoning the other day, you know …’

‘Nothing to do with me.’ John banged the filled kettle on the gas stove and put a match under it. ‘I know what I’m doing; I worked as a chemist’s assistant for a long time.’ He tapped his nose in emphasis.

Rosie’s father had always been one to do a bit of home brewing, just for the family, but since the war started he’d seen the profit to be had operating an illegal still, as had many other people who’d turned to peddling hooch.

‘Mum would hate what you’re doing, you know,’ Rosie said in desperation, hoping to talk sense into her father.

‘Oh, yes, I know that. Prudence never liked me enjoying myself or having cash in my pocket.’ John’s lips thinned as he recalled his dead wife. She’d been gone seven years, having succumbed to pleurisy, leaving him to raise their daughter.

A bang on the door made Rosie start to attention and stare wide-eyed at her father. She was on tenterhooks all the time fearing that either the police or the Revenue men would get a tip-off and turn up to search the house. Rosie knew if her father’s still in the basement were uncovered he’d get a long prison sentence. If he were implicated – even wrongly – in supplying lethal moonshine that had poisoned somebody, he might hang.

Unconcerned by the rata-tat John finished filling the teapot with boiling water. ‘Calm down,’ he told his agitated daughter. ‘That’ll be Lenny fetching me round some labels. I’ve been expecting him.’ John held out a cup of tea towards Rosie.

‘Don’t want no fuckin’ tea!’ Rosie was incensed by her father’s attitude. From the moment she’d heard the knocker crash against the door her heart had been crazily racing. ‘I’m sick of being scared half to death all the time,’ she hissed. ‘If you don’t pack it in, I’m moving out.’ She stormed out of the kitchen and ran up the stairs. About to enter her bedroom, she hesitated, smearing angry tears from her lashes. Crouching down by the banisters, she watched through the sticks as her father opened the door and ushered inside a young man.

They started to talk in low voices and Rosie strained to hear what her dad said to Lenny Purves. Lenny and his father had a legitimate printing business on the High Street and did some under-the-counter stuff on the side. Rosie watched her father hand over some money in exchange for a brown paper package that the young man took out of his pocket. Then her father was ambling away, leaving Lenny to see himself out.

But he didn’t; he glanced up and saw Rosie watching him.

‘Ain’t sure you should be up there earwigging, should you?’

‘Ain’t sure you should be wearing civvies. Too scared to fight?’ Rosie taunted.

‘Got poor eyesight. Can’t see nuthin’, me,’ Lenny said slyly. He’d swung the lead at his medical. His father had dodgy eyes so Lenny had pretended he was afflicted too and couldn’t see past the end of his nose. He’d been discharged from the army on medical grounds almost before he’d been enlisted.

Lenny liked to think he wasn’t a coward, he was just protecting his inheritance. His father was a crafty git who’d stashed away a tidy sum, and Lenny was an only child because his mother had died having him. Lenny didn’t want to risk taking a bullet and losing out on enjoying a pot of money coming his way.

‘Can’t see nothing … that right?’ Rosie said sarcastically. ‘Just saw me well enough, didn’t you.’

‘Yeah … well, you’re a sight for sore eyes, ain’t yer, Rosie,’ he purred.

‘Piss off,’ Rosie said defiantly, standing up. She knew Lenny fancied her; he’d tried to touch her up before on one occasion when he’d come round to bring her father’s order. But she’d nothing but contempt for him. He was a gangly, spotty youth with unkempt greasy hair.

Lenny swaggered to the bottom of the stairs and gazed up at her, head cocked to one side. ‘Gonna give us a show then?’ he asked coarsely. He pulled out the money her father had just handed over. ‘Want paying to flash yer tits, I suppose, do you?’ He peeled off a ten-shilling note. ‘There … how about that for a start?’ He began climbing the stairs, leering at her and waving the cash in his fingers to and fro. ‘If I like what I see I’ll pay up for the works …’

Rosie felt her face burning in anger and embarrassment. She hadn’t told many people that she’d started working as a nude in the Revudeville shows at the Windmill Theatre, but obviously word had got around.

Lenny lived just a few streets away and was about twenty-one. He’d been at the same school but in a different class. Rosie had never liked him; he’d always been a show-off with a fast mouth.

‘I told you to piss off, so get going before I call me dad and tell him what you just said to me.’

Lenny was just below her on the stairs now. He poked his face forward giving Rosie a close up of a yellow-headed spot on his chin. She recoiled from his sour breath but refused to back away.

‘What’s yer old man gonna do to help you?’ Lenny drawled. ‘I’ll knock him down with a punch. He’s probably disgusted by you anyhow now you’re stripping off. Come on … how much to go all the way?’ He looked Rosie up and down, suddenly grabbing at her breast.

Rosie shoved her palm into Lenny’s face making him stumble down a few stairs and clutch at the banister.

‘Rosie? Want any tea this evening or are you still sulking up there?’ John Gardiner had come out of the kitchen and ambled along the hallway. He stopped when he saw his daughter and his business associate face to face on the stairs. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing, mate, just thought I’d say hello to Rosie being as we used to be school pals.’ Lenny descended the stairs in a cocky, rolling gait, grinning. ‘Let us know when you need a few more of them labels run off. Nice doing business with you. Me dad says hello …’

As the front door slammed shut after Lenny’s departing figure John stared suspiciously at his daughter. ‘Was you misbehaving with him just then?’

Rosie choked a laugh. ‘I can’t stand the creep and I wish you’d tell him not to come here. Anyhow, it ain’t me misbehaving, Dad, is it? It’s you; and if you keep doing business with people like him …’ Rosie jabbed her forehead at the front door. ‘Then you’re gonna be in big trouble.’

CHAPTER SIX

‘Are you driving to Surrey to stay at your mum and dad’s tonight?’

‘Is that an invitation to come home with you instead?’

Dawn smiled wryly, moving her cheek against Bill’s pleasantly scratchy jaw as they waltzed to the jazz trio. ‘I don’t think my mum would appreciate seeing you on the couch in your vest first thing in the morning.’

‘If you top the old girl up with gin she’ll be too sozzled to see me at all, arriving or leaving. Then I could bed down upstairs with you,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I’ll happily stump up for a bottle of Gordon’s for your mum and a few beers for that brother of yours, if you agree to me staying over.’

Dawn drew back, frowning at Bill. Sometimes his sense of humour was too black for her to appreciate; that was, of course, assuming he was joking. If he weren’t then she’d be worried …

‘Don’t take it so seriously, darling.’ Bill drew her close again, nuzzling her neck. His hands, stroking at the centre of her back, began massaging closer to her buttocks. ‘Let’s get a room in a hotel, then, if you don’t want to upset your family. I don’t intend driving to Surrey, and I’m damned sure you could do with a break from your set-up in the East End.’

Dawn was fed up with things at home: her mother drove her mad and her brother George’s moodiness was a pain, but she didn’t want Bill rubbing it in simply to get her into bed. Dawn knew he was getting impatient with her because she hadn’t yet agreed to sleep with him. She wasn’t holding out because they’d only known each other for a short while, or because he would be her first real lover. She’d been kissed and caressed by boyfriends but the thought of an unwanted pregnancy was always at the back of her mind, terrifying her when she was aroused and tempted to capitulate. But the main barrier to her throwing caution to the wind with Bill … and he was by far the boyfriend she fancied the most … was Bill himself.

His callous joke about her mother’s alcoholism had added to her niggling doubts that he might not be the right man for her. When they’d first met she’d been sure she’d fallen head over heels for him after the first few dates, but then the giddy pleasure of the newness of it all had faded, removing the blinkers from her eyes.

On the first occasion she’d seen Bill he’d been in the audience at the Windmill Theatre, giving her his undivided attention. He’d sent her a lazy wink, blown her a kiss that had almost put her off her step, and then disappeared at the end of the show, or so Dawn had thought.

She’d been disappointed not to find him amongst the crowd of eager fellows hanging around the stage door, hopeful of chatting up a showgirl. Then she’d spied a man dressed in RAF uniform lounging against a lamppost further along the street, smoking.

As she’d walked towards him Bill had blocked her path, telling her he’d not let her pass till she agreed to go out with him. She’d thought him wonderfully handsome close to and his persistence had excited her. His eyes were startlingly blue and his hair as fair as her own. So she had agreed to meet him the following evening; that had been five months ago, yet although they wrote regularly Dawn realised she’d only been in Bill’s company a handful of times. The war kept them separated, as it did most young couples.

Dawn felt warm fingers fondling her behind and gave her boyfriend a ghost of a smile. Taking his hand she started leading him back to their table before the saxophonist had finished playing. As they weaved through swaying bodies, in half-light, the atmosphere was thick with cigarette smoke and the sultry scent of brandy cocktails. They sat down opposite Bill’s pal. Glenn Rafferty was stationed with Bill and was a squadron leader. Dawn got the impression that it riled Bill that his friend was about the same age but held a higher rank than he did.

Bill had said Glenn had plenty of girls to choose from when he came to London on leave. But this evening he had with him the same girl who’d accompanied him last time, called Tina.

Dawn had been surprised by how different in looks the men were; her boyfriend had the quintessentially fair and dashing looks of a middle-class Englishman, whereas Glenn was dark-haired and tanned and in Dawn’s fanciful opinion might have Romany blood. A gold earring would have completed his startlingly handsome, rather villainous presence.

They’d not planned on meeting up for another double-date this evening; Glenn and Tina had been leaving a bottle party club when Dawn and Bill had bumped into them on Regent Street. They’d entered the Kitkat Club as a foursome.

The last time they’d all been together Tina had acted sullen; she didn’t seem any friendlier this evening although she slid flirtatious glances at Glenn … Bill too, Dawn noticed with a pang of annoyance.

Determined to be friendly, Dawn attempted to draw the young brunette into conversation. ‘Do you live locally, Tina?’

‘Yeah …’

Following her terse reply Tina lifted her port and lemon and took a sip, leaving Dawn thinking she’d had no more luck in having a chat with Glenn’s girlfriend than the last time she’d attempted to make conversation.

‘Gonna dance then, are we?’ Tina nudged Glenn’s arm and pouted him a kiss.

‘Just let me finish this. I’m parched.’ Glenn lifted his glass of beer.

For a man who was thirsty he drank little, Dawn observed with a slight smile, watching Glenn take a single mouthful then replace the tankard. He hadn’t even looked at Tina when she’d spoken to him.

No need to get upset, Dawn told herself as she again noticed Tina’s dark eyes slide Bill’s way. The brunette looked quite young – about nineteen – and was probably testing her powers of attraction on every good-looking fellow she met.

‘I’ll dance with you.’ Bill had taken the hint when Tina continued staring at him and swirling her port and lemon to attract his attention. Discreetly Bill raised his eyebrows at Dawn by way of apology then led Tina towards the thrumming music being belted out by the band.

‘She’s not standoffish … just shy …’

Dawn shot a look at Glenn; it was the first time the two of them had been left alone together to talk. ‘Shy?’ Dawn queried with a snort. She might have toned down her sarcasm had she not noticed, in the light of the flickering candle on the table, a gleam of amusement at the backs of his eyes. Glenn knew as well as she did that Tina was downright rude. And that begged the question: what did Squadron Leader Rafferty see in her? Dawn got her answer quickly enough: young or not, Tina had a very vampish manner. The brunette was dancing cheek to cheek with Bill and a moment later Dawn felt her temper rise as a pair of shapely arms slid about Bill’s neck. Tina’s palms suggestively cupped the back of his head as though she might urge his face down and kiss him. Dawn’s insides writhed in anger. Tina was deliberately making a play for Bill, no doubt to punish Glenn because he wouldn’t dance with her.

‘Shall we give them a run for their money?’

Dawn snapped her eyes back to Glenn who was draining his glass. He pushed to his feet, held out a hand. ‘Come on. Bill’s not stupid … well, not all the time,’ Glenn said very dryly. ‘He didn’t have a lot of choice in it. I’m sure he’d sooner have kept on dancing with you …’

From that Dawn deduced that Glenn was letting her know he’d seen Bill’s hands roving her body a few minutes ago. Well, if Glenn Rafferty thought he could try it on too … he’d find out he was mistaken. He wasn’t going to make Tina jealous by touching her up! Slowly Dawn stood up. Once his long fingers had closed on hers he tugged her behind him onto the small dance floor.

His touch was light and cool and he kept his hands to himself. He moved very well … as well as Bill; but he was a bit taller than her boyfriend, Dawn realised. With Bill she’d no need to stretch her arm so far to rest it on a broad shoulder. Dawn darted glances Bill’s way, trying to get a glimpse of the swaying couple through the crowd.

‘Aren’t you bothered about your girl flirting?’

‘Nope …’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s not my girl,’ Glenn said and suddenly whipped Dawn around so fast in time with the beat that her next words were lost in a gasp.

It was his way of telling her to shut up and mind her own business, she realised. So she did, stiffening in his arms. As though he found her pique a challenge he urged her closer, dropping his head towards hers. As soon as the music faded Dawn pulled away, trying not to make it too obvious that Glenn had succeeded in aggravating her … and more. The pleasant scent of his sandalwood cologne clung to her cheek where their skin had scuffed together. She was the first to sit down; moments later Bill joined her.

‘She’s an odd sort of girl.’ Bill was glancing at the dance floor. Tina had intercepted Glenn before he could leave and they were now waltzing.

‘That’s an understatement,’ Dawn said sourly, taking a long swallow of her drink. ‘She’s rude and arrogant and the most outrageous flirt.’

‘You’re not jealous, are you?’ Bill sounded genuinely surprised. ‘Forget about her, sweetheart; I’ve only got one girl on my mind this evening.’ He leaned forward and slowly tickled her chin. ‘Want another brandy and soda?’

‘I think I’ve had enough, thanks all the same.’ Dawn could feel a warm glow on her cheeks and a cold top lip … sure signs that she’d had too many cocktails! Besides, she suddenly wanted to leave. She knew she had no reason to be jealous but, even so, resented another woman rubbing her nose in it while she flung herself at Bill.

Pulling out a packet of Players, Bill offered one to Dawn then took one himself.

‘She doesn’t have much to say for herself, either,’ Dawn said, dipping her head to the lighted match cupped in Bill’s palm.

‘She seems to have enough to talk about to Glenn.’ Bill drew hard on his cigarette. He sat back in his chair, watching the couple. ‘Probably discussing her price,’ he added caustically.

Dawn shot him a glance. ‘You think she’s a working girl?’

‘’Course she is … those bottle party hostesses are all the same. They’ll charge you a week’s pay for a watered-down beer and a fruit juice for themselves, then they’ll try and get you to stump up again for having the pleasure of their company all night.’ He tapped ash into an empty glass.

‘How do you know?’ Dawn asked waspishly. It sounded as though her boyfriend was admitting to using prostitutes.

‘The lads in the barracks are always moaning about that sort of girl emptying their wallets.’ Bill stuck the cigarette back between his lips.

Dawn squinted through the half-light at Tina’s profile. She was undeniably pretty: petite and with shoulder-length dark brown hair, but done up to the nines with cosmetics. Her lips were a ruby red bow and her complexion chalky with powder; but done up or not it couldn’t conceal the fact that Tina was young, perhaps not even Rosie Gardiner’s age.

‘Your friend should watch himself; she could be underage …’ Dawn frowned, thinking she didn’t like Glenn Rafferty very much.

‘It’s up to him what he does.’ Bill ground out his cigarette and shook another from the pack. ‘He’s not the sort of bloke who’ll worry if her father, or her husband for that matter, comes after him. Glenn’s an East End boy and can look after himself.’

‘You make him sound a callous so and so …’

‘Oh, he’ll go for the jugular. He’s shot down twenty enemy aircraft – that’s why he’s a squadron leader and I’m a lowly flying officer.’

Dawn took Bill’s hands in hers and gave them a fond squeeze. ‘You stay safe … all the time, stay safe and don’t take stupid risks. I don’t want to be left with just a photograph to kiss because you tried to rival your pal’s kills.’ Dawn glanced at Glenn and saw that he was watching them. For a moment their eyes locked, as though he knew she was talking about him. ‘He does seem callous,’ Dawn said, tearing her eyes away from a mocking gaze.

‘Unlike me, who would lay down his life for a fair maiden,’ Bill teased and leaned forward to kiss Dawn. ‘I blame him for our moonshine drying up too,’ Bill added, still nuzzling at Dawn’s lips.

Dawn drew back an inch, smiling uncertainly. ‘What did he do?’

‘Glenn’s in with the top brass and on their say so’s on the lookout for illegal stills.’ Bill sat back with an easy shrug when Dawn seemed more interested in talking than smooching.

Bill’s comment about his friend made Glenn seem a bit of a nark, yet Rafferty appeared anything but. Dawn wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he was a barrow boy who did a bit of ducking and diving himself! They’d only exchanged a few words but she’d noticed Glenn had a pronounced London accent, as did she. Bill on the other hand sounded as though he might have recently come down from Harrow. Dawn let Bill light her a cigarette, although she didn’t really want it, having just put one out.

‘Shall we make tracks and find a hotel?’ Bill stared at Dawn through the smoky mist he’d exhaled.

‘I’m ready to go … but straight home. I’m all in.’ Dawn gave him a winning smile, but it did little to erase the annoyance pinching his features.

‘Right … I’ll fetch your coat,’ Bill said distantly.

As he strode away, Dawn watched him, biting her lip. She squashed the unsmoked cigarette in the ashtray, sorry they’d bumped into Glenn and Tina. Bill had been in a better mood when they’d been on their own. She wished they’d gone to the pictures as they’d planned, then for a bite to eat in a cosy café, rather than heading towards a sophisticated nightclub. She knew Bill had only a forty-eight hour pass and needed to relax and forget just for a short while that he was a Spitfire pilot. But she wasn’t sure yet whether infatuation or true love was drawing her to Bill. Before taking that leap into the unknown and spending the night with a man she wanted to be certain of the depth of her feelings.

Bill had not offered to use a rubber, and Dawn had not wanted to vulgarly bring the subject up because it would seem teasing if she then again said no. The idea of having a baby and perhaps raising it alone was terrifying. Her mother had had George out of wedlock and the upset surrounding the dreadful episode had started Eliza’s alcoholism and brought about the end of Dawn’s childhood.

‘Another drink somewhere else?’ Bill suggested as they exited the Kitkat Club. Despite there being a war on the West End was thriving. As they started strolling along Regent Street they were jostled and bumped by boisterous people – civilians and servicemen and women – intent on having a good time.

They stepped around some fresh-faced sailors squatting close to a wall playing dice, roll-ups dangling between their lips. They were just boys, Dawn realised, possibly no more than five years older than her own brother.

A tout approached Bill and shoved a flyer for an illegal bottle party at him before sidling away to a group of soldiers chatting up girls. The lads eagerly took the invitations promising them a good time.

Bill stuffed the paper in a pocket and tightened his arm about Dawn. ‘Do you fancy another drink?’ he repeated.

‘Sorry … daydreaming … no thanks, not tonight, but I’d love it if you took me to the Café de Paris when you’re next on leave.’

‘It’s pricey,’ Bill said. ‘Have you been there before?’

‘No …’ Dawn murmured. ‘I’ve heard the girls at work talking about it though. Lorna thinks she might meet a toff there who’ll carry her off and give her a life of leisure.’

An army corporal, showing off to his friends while pretending to use a machine gun, bumped into Dawn, making Bill scowl and shove him in the shoulder.

Dawn dragged him on. ‘He’s had a few too many, that’s all,’ she said, smoothing over the situation. She didn’t fancy Bill getting involved in a fight with a bunch of soldiers over something so trivial.

‘So you like a shindig with the girls when I’m not around, do you?’ Bill resumed their conversation and slung a possessive arm about Dawn’s shoulders again.

‘Sal and me sometimes go the pictures then have supper in a corner house, but since we met I only go to dances with you.’ Dawn snuggled up to him.

She looked up at the stars. She was glad that the war hadn’t frightened people into huddling indoors behind blackout curtains. ‘Two fingers up to Hitler,’ she murmured tipsily to herself with a smile. ‘Up there it’s been a quiet night; please God it stays that way.’

‘I’ll drink to that …’ Bill drew her arm through his and they strolled on. ‘Sure you don’t fancy another bevy? The night’s still young.’

Dawn kissed his cheek in thanks. ‘No … sleepy …’ She hugged into him again.

Suddenly Bill backed Dawn against a wall and kissed her tenderly. ‘I really want you to wait for me, you know. When this bloody war’s over I’ve got important things to say to you, sweetheart. But I don’t want to promise you anything now when I don’t know if I’ll be around next week, let alone next year.’

‘Don’t say that!’ Dawn whispered, touching a finger to his lips. ‘I pray for your safe return every day … and the war might soon fizzle out …’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Not much chance of that happening, eh?’

Bill caressed her cheek with a finger. ‘Let’s go and find a hotel … please. I need you so much …’

‘I can’t, Bill!’ Dawn said softly. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to …’ She put a hand to her forehead. ‘Oh, I don’t know what I want …’

‘Well let me show you,’ he urged huskily. ‘I swear I won’t ever hurt you; I know I’ve fallen for you, Dawn, in a big way …’ He kissed her again with passionate pressure.

‘I feel the same about you but …’ Dawn frowned, feeling warm and cosy from his closeness and the brandy cocktails she’d had in the Kitkat Club. She was swayed to agree to go with him just so she could revel a while longer in the lovely muzzy sensation in her head. The word yes froze on her lips and Dawn almost jumped out of her skin. Usually she was primed for that eerie sound but tonight, submerged in a sensual daze, it had come as a complete surprise. She heard Bill curse beneath his breath as they gazed at the skies, listening. Bill grabbed her hand and tugged her into a run towards Oxford Circus underground station as the drone of aeroplane engines became louder.

About to descend the steps Bill pulled Dawn around to face him. ‘Saved by the siren?’ he asked, his vivid eyes demanding an honest answer from her.

Dawn smiled and went ahead of him, merging into the throng of people.

‘Got a mo, Dawn?’

‘Yes … of course … how are you, Gertie?’

‘So-so,’ Gertie said evasively.

Dawn had just arrived at the Windmill Theatre and had been stopped by the cleaner at the top of the stairs leading to the basement dressing rooms. Dawn hadn’t seen Gertie for a while, and she realised that the older woman didn’t seem her usual cheerful self. Gertie had been off work nursing a sick child who’d gone down with bronchitis, so she’d heard. Dawn had her own ideas on what else might have been keeping Gertie occupied at home: the woman had found out her brother was a deserter and a suspected murderer. To cap it all, Rufus might have owned up to his wife that he’d been going looting with his brother-in-law, and an almighty row had probably erupted.

Poor Gertie! Dawn realised the men in Gertie’s family must be a constant burden on her. Then she had the four little boys to deal with too!

Dawn drew aside to let a couple of dancers wearing exercise shorts and shirts pass by and clatter down the stairs towards the dressing room. She sensed that Gertie wouldn’t want their conversation overheard.

‘Last time I saw you, you said you’d seen my brother Michael,’ Gertie began as soon as the chorus girls had disappeared.

‘I couldn’t be absolutely sure it was him ’cos I don’t really know him,’ Dawn said neutrally.

‘I think you know now you did see him,’ Gertie replied. ‘And so do I, ’cos I asked Rufus about it and he owned up to Midge being around. I’ve not seen me brother in months,’ she added quickly. ‘But you have. You saw ’em at work, didn’t you.’ Gertie slid a look at Dawn from beneath her lashes. ‘Yeah … I do know what me husband gets up to – but I ain’t his keeper,’ she added defensively. ‘Not saying it’s right to go bomb-chasing … but it’s wartime, ain’t it, and people don’t always act normal. They just get by.’ Gertie suddenly clammed up on that front.

‘But … what about your brother deserting?’ Dawn asked; she understood some of Gertie’s blunt philosophy, but not all of it.

‘Don’t know nothing about it, as I said, ain’t seen Midge in ages. But yesterday we had some Navy bigwigs come round looking for him, so he’s gone AWOL alright.’ Gertie’s head dropped close to her chest. ‘Really bad thing about it is, seems a sailor by the name of Jack Chivers was found dead about the same time Michael disappeared.’ Gertie wiped her moist eyes with the back of her hand. ‘’Course me and Rufus had to lie and tell them we thought he’d sailed ’cos it wouldn’t be right if he was arrested on a murder charge. He might be a deserter but he’s no killer! Stake me life on it!’ Gertie shook her head. ‘Wouldn’t hurt a fly …’ She knew that was stretching the truth so shut up.

‘Sorry, Gertie, to have to tell you this, but Michael was aggressive with us. When we ran off he and Rufus chased us ’cos we’d seen them breaking the shop window and stealing the stuff from the outfitters.’

‘We?’ Gertie croaked, pulling out a handkerchief to dab her eyes.

‘A girl was with me. It’s an odd coincidence, but Rosie now works at the Windmill too.’

‘I’ve not met her.’ Gertie shoved her hanky back up her sleeve. ‘Does this Rosie know all about the looters being my family?’

‘No … and I’m not going to tell her ’cos we just want to forget all about it. I’m not saying I wasn’t angry to see those selfish buggers stealing …’ Dawn pressed together her lips, feeling enough had been said on it all. She didn’t want to end up having an argument with Gertie. ‘Look, I’ve more important things on my mind, Gertie, and Rosie feels the same way. I expect you do too …’

‘You’re a good sort, Dawn,’ Gertie mumbled. ‘Sorry for snapping your head off that time, but I didn’t know then what I know now. I really thought me brother was on his way overseas.’

Dawn shrugged. ‘My mum often sticks up for me or George when we don’t deserve it.’

Gertie suddenly burst into tears, using a sleeve to shield her eyes. ‘You’ll keep it all to yourself, won’t you, Dawn?’ she snuffled.

‘’Course … said so, didn’t I?’ She put an arm round Gertie’s shoulders. ‘Come on, let’s go and make a pot of tea before we get cracking on the new routines.’

‘What costumes you wearing today?’ Gertie asked with a bright sniff.

‘We’re pixies, for a couple of matinees.’

‘Kids’ll love that,’ Gertie said. ‘Shame that sour-faced Olive don’t bring her boys home and treat them to a show once in a while.’

‘You managing to keep yer head down then?’ Rufus Grimes flicked down the queen of hearts. Midge trumped it with a king and, grinning, pocketed his winnings.

Rufus scowled as he saw his cash disappearing into his brother-in-law’s pocket.

‘Yeah … not had no trouble so far.’ Midge sat back, stretching out his short legs. He yanked down the brim of the cap he wore as though to conceal his features.

Rufus could have laughed: in his opinion if Midge wanted to disguise himself he’d be better off wearing a pair of stilts.

‘So, you and Gertie come up with a good story, did you, when the Navy boys turned up looking for me?’

Rufus could feel his brother-in-law’s steady stare on him, but he carried on shuffling cards. ‘Yeah, said we was under the impression you was sailing the high seas.’ Rufus raised a pair of lazy eyes to Midge’s face. ‘Did it, did yer?’

‘Did what?’ Midge drawled.

‘They’ve got you down for a murder.’

‘Don’t know nuthin’ about that,’ Midge lied and took a nonchalant swig of whisky from the bottle balanced on his knee.

Midge wished he’d hopped it to a remote spot rather than getting himself enlisted when war broke out. But when a group of bombastic pals had gone along to the Navy recruitment centre, Midge had tagged along, caught up in the moment. Following the Battle of the River Plate Midge had had enough of fighting for king and country. He’d no intention of ending up with his legs blown off, as his fellow stoker had when their frigate got torpedoed.

‘Should’ve left Hitler to it out in Europe,’ Midge muttered. ‘Weren’t nothing to do with us what he was getting up to.’

‘Fuckin’ is now though.’ Rufus was used to Midge sounding off to try and conceal his cowardice. But as Rufus had so far managed to avoid joining up, he knew not to have too much to say on the subject. Besides, he wished he’d kept quiet about the sailor who’d been found knifed in the back and dumped in a lifeboat about the same time as Midge jumped ship. Rufus reckoned the man opposite was a vicious git as well as being crafty, and he wouldn’t put anything past him.

‘Way I see it, I could’ve been blown to smithereens in the East End on the weekend I went missing.’ Midge crossed his arms over his chest, looking quite smug. ‘Bad raids fer days as I recall …’

‘So how you gonna square it when you eventually turn up bright as a lark?’ Having rolled himself a smoke Grimes generously held out his tin.

Midge started separating strands of tobacco, watching his stained fingers. ‘War ain’t over yet … I still could come a cropper,’ he replied philosophically. ‘Anyhow, cross them bridges when I come to ’em, won’t I.’

Sticking the limp cigarette in a corner of his mouth he glanced about at their murky surroundings. They were huddled in a corner of an air-raid shelter, each man seated on an upturned box with another positioned between them and employed as a rough table. On its wonky top were scattered a pack of dog-eared playing cards, a depleted bottle of whisky and Rufus’s tin of Old Holborn.

During the daytime, when bombing raids weren’t expected, and ordinary folk went about their business, the shelters were mostly empty, but for rolls of bedding and makeshift bunks lining the walls. Midge saw the opportunity to be had, as did others. Tramps and deserters, looking for a hidey-hole, thought the vacant shelters a godsend. Petty thieves also passed through hoping to find abandoned possessions they could make a bob out of before the owners returned at night to find their stuff missing.

Midge wrinkled his nose against the odour of latrines pervading the air. Idly he began playing solitaire. ‘’Course there’s those two women who got a look at us when we did the outfitter’s,’ he said, the roll-up wagging in his mouth. ‘But I ain’t too concerned over that ’cos doubt we’ll run into them again.’ He chuckled gruffly. ‘Nice-looking pair of girls … wouldn’t have minded getting down to business with either of ’em under different circumstances.’ Midge carried on laying down cards on the box top. ‘Funny thing is, Roof, I thought the older gel seemed familiar; ain’t sure why though …’

Grimes shifted on his seat. He’d not owned up to any of the other members of the gang that he’d bumped into Dawn Nightingale, and worse than that she was his wife’s friend and workmate. And he knew, even if Midge didn’t, why the little man thought he knew Dawn: Midge had been to the shows at the theatre and had probably clocked her on stage.

Rufus had no interest in sophisticated entertainment, or classy women, so had never seen a revue himself. He’d no time for striptease; a good drink, a rough shag then home to bed was all he was after, when his wife made herself unavailable. In his own way he loved Gertie very much. It was just the constant itch in his balls that made him unfaithful.

Midge held out the bottle of whisky, swaying it by its neck. ‘Want a swig?’

‘Nah … better get back, me shift ain’t finished yet.’ Grimes got to his feet. Half an hour ago he’d been road sweeping and had taken an unofficial break, thinking he might find Midge sneaking about in the shelter. He’d fancied a game of cards, feeling his luck was in, but he’d lost five bob and that wouldn’t go down well with Gertie if she found out.

He’d fancied a tot too, but he knew if his boss smelled booze on his breath he’d be for the high jump. Not that he liked shovelling up shit for a living … but Gertie would kill him if he lost his regular pay packet. Tonight he was too skint for a prossie, so he hurried up towards the exit, hoping to keep in his wife’s good books at least till bedtime.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘Come on, you’ll enjoy an outing, Mum.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Dawn … the sky’s overcast. It’s bound to rain and the damp affects me knees.’ Eliza Nightingale continued sitting obstinately at the parlour table, frowning at her clasped hands.

‘We’ll take an umbrella then, just in case,’ Dawn persisted.

Dawn had a free afternoon and had got complimentary tickets for the variety matinee at the Windmill Theatre as they’d not sold out. Her mother had got herself ready, dressing in her best frock, but as usual Eliza was attempting to cry off at the last moment so she could stay at home close to the gin bottle.

‘I’m not wasting these tickets!’ Dawn forced her mother to her feet and into her coat. ‘Come on, let’s go. We don’t want to miss the start of the show when the clown and juggler do a double act.’

Dawn began ushering her mother and brother towards the front door before one of them tried to duck out of the trip. Walking towards the bus stop she wondered why she went to the trouble of trying to arrange outings for her family when they acted as though they were doing her a favour in accepting a treat.

‘Can’t we go to the pictures instead?’ George moaned as they joined the back of the bus queue. ‘Captain Blood’s back on at the Gaumont. Errol Flynn’s me favourite.’

‘No, we can’t,’ Dawn said on a sigh. ‘You’ll like the show; it’s rather comical … and the mermaid costumes are nice …’

‘Any nude girls in it?’ George asked cheekily.

Eliza glanced, horrified, at her son. ‘That’s quite enough of that talk, young man,’ she whispered, glancing about to see if anybody in the queue had heard his cheeky remark.

‘Do you stand about with no clothes on?’ George deliberately taunted his sister, and got an immediate clip round the ear from his pursed-lipped mother.

Eliza dragged her son to one side as a woman turned around to glare at them. ‘Now you listen to me, young man. Any more of that and you’ll go straight home.’

‘Good,’ George mumbled, although he knew he’d overstepped the mark. He’d been bored all morning and had been looking forward to getting out of the house on a Saturday afternoon. But he was reluctant to let on to his mother and sister how excited he was to be going to the theatre with them.

‘No, I don’t stand about with no clothes on. I’m a chorus dancer, as you know,’ Dawn finally answered her brother in a steely tone.

‘How do you know about nudes and so on at the Windmill Theatre?’ Eliza muttered, glaring at Dawn as though it was all her fault George was talking dirty.

‘One of the boys at school told me about it. He had a picture of the girls doing their gas-mask practice. They only had on their vests and drawers.’

‘Well they weren’t in the nude then,’ Dawn retorted. ‘And everybody does gas-mask training, even you kids at school.’ She dragged her brother forward by an elbow as a bus wheezed to a halt at the kerb. ‘Now behave yourself, George, or you’ll ruin our trip out.’ Dawn cast her eyes heavenwards. It wasn’t an auspicious start to what she’d hoped would be a relaxing afternoon.

‘Stop fidgeting, George.’

‘Seats are itchy …’ George shifted again on the brown velour seat but he soon forgot about his discomfort. He howled with laughter as the clown’s red nose fell off for the second time and the juggler trod on it, causing him to lose concentration and drop his skittles. ‘Need some glue for that conk?’ George called, and earned himself a slap on the arm from his mother.

But Eliza was laughing too, and dabbed her streaming eyes with a hanky. The clown and juggler had reappeared to bring the show to a close with apparently farcical consequences. Probably nobody in the audience, apart from Dawn, knew that the performers’ calamity was a well-rehearsed trick that always had the customers rolling in the aisles.

‘Did you enjoy the show?’ Dawn asked as the heavy curtain descended, although she already knew the answer to that. She had been gladdened to see her mother and brother hooting and clapping as the cast took a bow. The light-heartedness between them reminded her of days long ago, when George had been small and their mother drank in moderation. Standing up, Dawn waited patiently for the crowd of people in front of her to file towards the exit. She was pleased to see that Olive had sold more tickets during the afternoon. It was by no means a packed house but more than half-full. It was a good sign that many opening nights were still to come for Dawn and her colleagues at the Windmill, despite the opposition from rivals.

The Windmill might have been the trailblazer where nudes on stage were concerned, but many other venues had since jumped on the bandwagon, taking custom away from the original show. The management insisted the Windmill remain better than its imitators; all the cast and crew knew they must do their best to keep the queue of punters snaking along Great Windmill Street.

Once out in the foyer, Dawn told her mum she was just off to say a quick hello to the girls in the dressing room. Eliza, seeing Olive Roberts in the kiosk, diverted to speak to her.

‘You’re Olive, I remember you from last time I came over to a matinee with Dawn.’ Eliza struck up a conversation while George read the colourful billboards advertising current and future shows.

‘How are you keeping, Mrs Nightingale?’

‘Oh, I’m bearing up, thanks, love. How’re your kids doing?’ she asked. ‘You’ve got two boys, haven’t you?’

‘They’re nice and settled down in Brighton … sea air and veg straight from the farm; so they’re doing alright.’

‘’Spect they miss you though.’ Eliza gave the woman a sympathetic smile. ‘You off on a visit soon, are you?’

Olive gave a customer his change. ‘I’m busy with my WVS duties so can’t fit in too many trips away. But I do the journey from time to time to check up on things.’

‘I went to a WVS meeting once,’ Eliza said. ‘A girl younger than me daughter was trying to tell us how to make jam. I said, listen here, love, I’ve been making jam since before you was a glint in yer father’s eye.’

‘I drive the mobile tea wagon and know first aid so turn up to help the poor souls after a raid. The servicemen are always grateful to have someone to talk to.’ Olive pulled from her pocket a WVS badge. ‘This goes on all the time after I’ve finished work here.’

‘I’ve been fire-fighting with me neighbour,’ Eliza said, feeling a bit left out.

‘Victory’s not far off, I know it,’ Olive said serenely. ‘My work then will be done and I can go home and put my feet up.’

‘Home? Thought you were a Londoner, Olive.’

‘I was born in Crouch End, but I’ve attachments elsewhere.’

‘Where’s that then?’

‘Your lad back on a visit, is he?’ It was a sly enquiry; Olive knew very well that Dawn’s brother had never been evacuated and regularly sought shelter from the Blitz with his mother out the back of their house, in an Anderson shelter.

‘George is home with me ’cos he’s out to work soon.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Twelve … going on thirteen …’ Eliza added defensively.

‘He’s not old enough yet to get a job. I could help you get him placed somewhere safe, you know, Eliza. I wouldn’t like to see him hurt. The WVS has played a big part in the evacuation programme …’

‘Very good of them. But no thanks,’ Eliza abruptly interrupted.

‘It’s a shame England involved itself in this war.’

‘It’s a shame I can’t get a thing I need from the shops,’ Eliza countered.

‘We need to have peace.’

‘We’ll have to win the bloody war first to get peace.’ Eliza grimaced.

‘The Nazis are a powerful force to reckon with. Perhaps too powerful for this small nation.’

‘Not sure I agree with you on that,’ Eliza retorted.

Olive sniffed and slammed shut the till drawer as Eliza stalked off to stand with her son and wait for Dawn to return.

‘She might be young but she’s got a dirty mouth on her.’ Lorna Danvers smeared rouge off her cheek then lobbed the dirty cotton wool onto the dressing table. Picking up the cigarette that had been smouldering on a tea-stained saucer, she took a long drag. ‘If she won’t stop flirting with every man she claps eyes on she’ll be getting herself and the Windmill a very bad reputation.’

‘She’s a mite too friendly with Gordon as well, if you ask me.’ Sal Fiske added her two penn’orth to La-di-da Lorna’s criticism. ‘And he’s old enough to be her father.’

‘Nobody did ask you, so button it.’ Dawn had come into the dressing room on the tail end of the bitching, but she knew who they were talking about. She’d only popped in to say hello on her day off; now she wished she’d not bothered. She’d grown tired of listening to her colleagues ripping Rosie Gardiner to bits; it had been going on all week.

‘What’s up with you?’ Lorna demanded, stubbing out her cigarette. ‘Are you bosom pals with Rosie?’

‘Just don’t see that there’s a need to talk behind her back.’ Dawn shrugged. ‘If you think she’s doing what she shouldn’t, tell her to her face.’

‘Ain’t saying a word to her!’ Sal stated bluntly. ‘Not my task, is it, to teach her her manners. That’s her mother’s job.’

‘Me mum’s dead.’ Rosie had just turned up to get ready for the evening show but had stopped outside the door, listening, before bursting in. She gave Dawn an exaggerated smile as thanks for championing her, but Rosie’s bravado didn’t disguise the fact that the gossip had upset her.

After an awkward silence Lorna took up the cudgels again. ‘Well, sorry to hear about your mother, Rosie. But perhaps it explains a lot about the way you behave if you’ve not had her to guide you. The trouble is,’ she warned with a finger wag, ‘if you keep on acting like a trollop you’ll get us all tarred with the same brush, and I for one am not having that.’ Lorna surged out of her chair at the dressing table. ‘We chorus girls might wear skimpy costumes but we go on stage with our modesty covered. You go out flashing your tits … and more.’ Lorna’s posh accent seemed more pronounced the angrier she got. ‘I know it’s your job to stand about starkers, but there’s a right and a wrong way, just as there’s a right and a wrong way for a girl to behave.’

‘I’ll wait for Phyllis to tell me I’m getting it all wrong, thanks all the same,’ Rosie spat sarcastically. ‘But I don’t reckon she ever will, seeing as I’m the one all the fellows come to see.’

‘You conceited little madam!’ Sal spluttered indignantly.

‘Now you listen to me, Rosie Gardiner,’ Lorna said bossily. ‘This is a theatre, not a knocking shop.’ Having said her piece Lorna sashayed regally out of the dressing room, slamming the door behind her.

Dawn rolled her eyes. She’d worked in the theatre for over a year now and colleagues had come and gone; she’d been on stage with cockney girls, northern lasses and performers from overseas. But wherever the women hailed from there’d always been tension and rivalry between the nudes and the chorus. As far as Dawn was concerned she didn’t give a monkey’s if a girl removed her clothes to earn a living. What was the point in being jealous or spiteful when every day corpses of men, women and children were being dug out of their wrecked homes?

Dawn couldn’t deny though that Rosie was overstepping the mark, and if the girl thought the management would overlook serious indiscretions, she had a rude awakening in front of her. The senior stagehand was a widower and though Gordon had an unrequited yen for Lorna he seemed flattered by Rosie’s winks and pouts. And of course Rosie wasn’t really interested in him; she was being a silly little tease, and that was unkind. Apart from that Dawn knew that Rosie would run a mile from a fellow who demanded more than a kiss and cuddle.

‘Lorna’s right, you know.’ Sal tapped a Sobranie from its packet and lit it, then eyed Rosie over tobacco smoke. ‘I saw you outside the stage door last night with half a dozen army fellows. You was flirting with all of them and it looked like things might turn nasty ’cos you were playing ’em off one against the other.’

Rosie’s cheeks flooded with guilty colour at that reminder. In fact a scuffle had broken out between a private and a sergeant when she’d said she’d meet the senior of the two for a drink later in the week. She pursed her lips, sitting in the chair vacated by Lorna. ‘You’re all just jealous because I get more attention from the men than the rest of you put together.’

‘That’s what you reckon, is it?’ Sal had had enough of the younger woman’s boasting. She shot to her feet, sticking her hands on her hips. Her loose silk wrap fell open, displaying her naked belly beneath.

‘Yeah, it is what I think.’ Rosie jumped up too, barging to confront her. ‘I’m young and pretty and I’ve got a gorgeous figure, that’s why I got taken on as a nude. You’re getting fat and couldn’t get a job with no clothes on even if you wanted to. Who’d want to look at your saggy tits?’ she scoffed. ‘And you’re the wrong side of thirty, if you’re a day …’

Sal leapt forward to slap Rosie’s cheek. ‘Wrong side of thirty?’ she yelled, outraged. ‘I’m twenty-six, you cheeky bitch. And I get more flowers sent in than you do.’

‘Flowers? Who wants fuckin’ flowers?’ Rosie had stumbled from the unexpected blow but quickly got her balance. Swinging a fist in retaliation she caught Dawn on the side of the head as she moved to separate her warring colleagues.

‘Sorry … sorry, Dawn … didn’t mean to hit you.’ Rosie wailed, mortified.

‘For God’s sake shut up, both of you,’ Dawn thundered, rubbing her scalp. She’d thought her mother and brother might get on her nerves this afternoon; she’d not counted on her workmates being the problem instead.

‘What’s all the shouting about?’ Marlene Brown had just arrived for the evening shows to find the three women glaring at one another. The atmosphere was icy despite the electric heater being fully on.

‘You watch out!’ Sal pointed a threatening finger at Rosie. ‘Or I’m gonna rat on you to Phyllis, you trouble-making cow.’ Grabbing her clothes off the chair Sal stormed towards the door.

‘Didn’t mean to get you, Dawn, it was an accident.’ Rosie put an arm around Dawn in an attempt to apologise for whacking her. ‘You’re much prettier than me … it’s just those two are always bitching, so I had to say something to shut them up.’

Dawn impatiently shrugged the younger woman off. She hadn’t liked to hear her fellow dancers running Rosie down, but the truth was that Rosie was flirting too much and if she carried on she was likely to cause aggravation all round. Brawls in the theatre didn’t happen that often, but when they did the management went mad, especially if one of their girls had sparked it.

‘Anyone going to tell me what the commotion was all about?’ Marlene shook the teapot that was on the table, grimacing in disappointment on finding it almost empty.

‘Those two old hags are jealous of me.’ Rosie scrubbed at her face. ‘They was saying I act like a tart but Dawn stuck up for me, didn’t you, Dawn?’

‘I told them to stop talking about you behind your back. I didn’t say they were telling lies,’ Dawn retorted. Her blunt answer brought a forlorn look to Rosie’s face. ‘You know, don’t you, what they mean?’ she said with a significant nod. ‘So think what you’re doing, Rosie.’ Rather than rub it in Dawn knew that it would be best to leave the younger woman to stew in her own juice. She said a brief goodbye, glad to be going back to her mum and brother.

Marlene shrugged off her dressing gown and watched Rosie thoughtfully as the girl preened in front of the mirror. Rosie reminded Marlene of herself at eighteen: eager for compliments and excited to discover that her youth and beauty wielded such power over men. Marlene was now twenty-five but because she had an enviably youthful appearance, she easily got away with giving her age as twenty-one. The younger you claimed to be in the business, the better you got on, Marlene had come to learn. Lying about her age was just one of the tricks in her repertoire, and with her boyfriend’s help, she’d certainly perfected a few.

‘You gave Lorna and Sal what for, I take it?’ Marlene said admiringly.

‘Not going to take any notice of two over-the-hill hoofers, am I?’ Rosie replied, teasing her platinum waves with a hairbrush.

‘That’s the spirit,’ Marlene said approvingly. ‘Us nudes have got to stick together.’ She gave Rosie a lewd wink. ‘Not your fault you’ve got fellows fighting over you, is it?’

‘I never asked that sergeant to start on the other bloke for me.’ Rosie was as eager to convince herself of her innocence as she was Marlene.

‘Sergeant?’ Marlene scoffed at the low rank. ‘You could have a major with your looks, Rosie.’

That compliment prompted Rosie to smile and resume styling her hair. She’d already noticed that a few older officers were regularly coming in to give her the eye. But she didn’t fancy getting involved with somebody’s husband. She didn’t want to cause that sort of trouble when she could enjoy herself with single men of her own age.

Young as she’d been at the time, she remembered her parents’ shouting matches. Her dad had caught her mum with another man and thrown her out. Her mum had been allowed back after what seemed an age but had probably only been a matter of months. In a way Rosie had wished her mother hadn’t returned. The arguments had stopped by then but the long cold silences had been even worse to bear; Rosie sometimes wondered if her mother had been glad she’d got ill and died rather than having to endure the awful atmosphere any longer.

‘So what d’you reckon, then, Rosie? Shall we find you a rich handsome man who’ll take you to posh hotels instead of treating you to a night at the flicks before he jumps on you?’

Rosie frowned at the hint that she slept with her admirers. ‘I’ve not let any of them … you know …’ she said falteringly. ‘I’m not that sort of girl.’

Marlene eyed her mockingly. ‘Honestly? You’re really still pure as the driven?’

‘’Course,’ Rosie said rather bashfully. ‘Aren’t you?’ she asked curiously.

‘’Fraid not … but you are sweet …’ Marlene murmured with a private smile. ‘And all the more reason to get you the man you deserve …’

She turned to the wardrobe cupboard, her expression very thoughtful. She earned decent money working at the Windmill but her real employer was her boyfriend, a Maltese fellow by the name of Nikola. Marlene, in common with others, called him Malt.

Malt was a heavy-set, swarthy fellow who liked to think people respected him because he’d fostered for himself a hard reputation. In fact the men he classed as his rivals saw themselves as his superiors and despised him for trying to muscle in on their territory when he’d neither the brains nor the financial clout to do so. Malt was under his uncle’s thumb and just a hireling.

But Marlene seemed enthralled by her pimp, and when he told her that he needed to run more girls if he was to be a success and earn enough for them to settle down, she’d eagerly offered to do what she could to help. She’d got a job at the Windmill Theatre at Malt’s suggestion because he’d told her he didn’t want any old slags but classy birds: young, shapely and preferably blonde had been the shopping list of requirements he’d given to his girlfriend.

Marlene turned about, holding up a hanger on which was a wispy Grecian toga. When on stage it was artfully draped about the nudes’ hips. She looked past her costume at Rosie; the younger woman had put down her hairbrush and was now outlining her mouth in different colours; first one shade then another was put on and wiped off with tissue. Marlene felt satisfied that Rosie fitted Malt’s bill. All she had to do was get Rosie away from home because the blonde seemed ripe for the picking. She’d already mentioned to Rosie that she had a spare bedroom going begging and wanted very little rent for it. Marlene had seen Rosie’s eyes light up at the thought of her own little place, away from her father’s watchful eye. Rosie was pretty and popular with the servicemen and sooner or later she’d fall for one and want to take him back for the night. So Marlene reckoned she’d need to do very little to lure Rosie into her nest.

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘Be reasonable, love,’ Rufus appealed with an elaborate gesture. ‘I can’t take kids with me on a job. Midge will go nuts fer a start, and Pop won’t like it.’

‘I don’t care about them! I’m sick of carting our four boys about with me.’ Gertie pulled on her gloves and wheeled the pram containing baby Harold into the hallway. Adam, who was six, grasped the handle in readiness for the off while Simon, who was just two years older than baby Harold, was swung up by Gertie and settled atop the pram’s coverlet. With a hand on his shoulder she propelled the eldest boy in her husband’s direction. ‘Joey ain’t staying here on his own in case the house gets hit while we’re out. Can’t risk it. If the Grimeses’ luck’s out, and please God it ain’t, then we all go together as a family.’

The idea of one of the boys dying alone in the house was enough to make Gertie feel faint. She was determined that at all times the kids would either be protected by her, or her husband. ‘You take Joey with you, Rufus. I’ve me job to do and old Pickering won’t like having Joey turn up after he caught him dipping in his coat pocket.’ Her eldest son got a reproving glare.

‘Best take Joey with you then; our kitty could do with a boost,’ Rufus joked, giving his son a wink.

‘Think it’s a lark, do you?’ Gertie snapped. ‘You’ll be laughing on the other side of your face if me boss turns nasty. Just as well Joey didn’t take nothing that day …’

‘I did.’ Joey was anticipating Rufus’s approval and he soon got it. He’d not owned up sooner about the theft because he’d thought he’d get a clump, but his father had delighted him a moment ago by praising him for stealing.

‘What d’you find then, son?’ Rufus asked eagerly.

‘You did what?’ Gertie squeaked, swinging a horrified look between her husband and eldest son. ‘Give it here!’ she demanded. ‘I’ll take it with me and give it back. You little sod!’ She snatched the folded pound note that Joey had withdrawn from the top of his sock where he’d had it stashed. No sooner had she appropriated the cash than her husband prised open her fingers.

‘You can’t do that, you silly cow!’ Rufus spluttered. ‘Pickering can’t be sure Joey’s had it or he’d have cut up rough at the time. ’Sides, I could do with that quid.’ He gave Joey a grin and a rewarding pat on the shoulder. ‘But I’ll give it you back, son, don’t you worry about that. You deserve to keep it for being shrewd.’

‘Deserves to keep it?’ Gertie bawled, making the baby start to cry. ‘What he deserves is a hiding!’ When her gormless husband continued smiling soppily at the miscreant Gertie gave Joey a hefty whack on the backside that shot him forward a pace. ‘That’s for lying as well as thieving.’ She felt her heart thudding. If Pickering had made Joey turn out his pockets that evening, he’d have called the police there and then, and got her arrested. She forcefully recounted her theory to her husband.

‘But he got away with it, didn’t he?’ Rufus came back at her, chuckling.

‘You wouldn’t have been so jolly if the coppers had started snooping around here, asking lots of questions about your thieving son. They might just have found out where Joey gets his ideas from. Fancy a spell in gaol, do you?’ Gertie taunted. She stuck out a hand for Rufus to put the stolen money on her palm.

Rufus closed his fist on the pound note, remaining silent, then he grabbed Joey by the hand and yanked him towards the front door. ‘I’ll take him with me then … just this once …’

Gertie sent a silent curse after him while buttoning up her children’s coats. A few evenings a week she cleaned Wilfred Pickering’s office. He was the accountant who did the Windmill’s books. She’d readily agreed to take on extra shifts when she’d heard him talking to Phyllis about contacting an agency for domestic help. The extra cash always came in handy. Gertie had only been doing Pickering’s job two months so had been mortified when the man had recently caught Joey in the office cloakroom, delving into his overcoat pockets. Gertie had managed to persuade the fellow that the similar-looking gabardine coats hanging on the pegs had confused Joey. She’d said her son thought he’d been looking in her coat pocket for a handkerchief. Gertie would have liked to believe her own tale, but in her heart she knew that Joey was out of the same mould as his father, and getting more like Rufus every day. If the accountant caught Joey at it again he’d not listen to excuses.

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