The Windmill Girls

‘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 …