The Windmill Girls

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.’