Authors: Eileen Haworth
Wilf’s face appeared alongside hers in the mirror. It was barely 9 O’ clock and unusual for him to come home at all on a Saturday night never mind as early as
this.
‘Oh Wilf, you frightened me to death.’ She brushed past him and reached for her coat. ‘I’m off now. I’ll just have time for a gill or two with Joe before “
last orders
”. Keep an eye on the kids, will you? I’ve just got them all to bed, so don’t make a noise.’
He caught her arms and held them behind her back, his stale whisky breath on her neck. ‘You’re not going
any
where, duckie.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘Let go of me for Christ’s sake and behave yourself, you daft sod. Joe’ll be back in a minute to see where I am.’
His rough wet kisses dribbled spittle into her mouth. She twisted her head this way and that, her newly applied lipstick travelling in a broad blurred band of rose-pink across her powdery cheeks as he forced her into the parlour and down on to the rug.
‘For the love of God, leave me alone,’ she whispered, ‘or I’ll…I’ll tell Joe.’
‘No dearie, you won’t do that, or I’ll tell him it was all your fault for encouraging me.’
Encouraging him? She hated the bloody sight of him! She lay immobilized with terror, eyes shut tight, as this creature, this wild animal with clammy paws and no mercy for its helpless prey, pulled at her clothes and scratched at her body.
Please…God…please…make…him…stop. The words pounded inside her head repeating themselves over and over like the incessant beating of a drum. All at once her tormentor was jerked away, hurled against the piano, then dragged to his feet again. After flooring him a second time Joe kicked him first with one foot and then the other.
‘What the bloody hell d’ya think you’re doing with
my
wife?’
The blobs of blood from Wilf’s nostrils became a single stream, running off his chin on to his crisp white shirt, the shirt that Florrie had painstakingly ironed just an hour or two before. He struggled to his feet wincing with pain and when he opened his mouth to speak only a pool of pink spit rolled off his tongue.
‘Get your stuff and piss off out of my house right now, you bloody spiv,’ Joe snarled. He turned to the four terrified children, his and Wilf’s, clinging to each other at the parlour door, ‘and take your kids with ya. An’ if I ever set eyes on you again, … I swear to God Almighty…I’ll swing for ya.’
Wilf dragged his daughters from Ellen’s arms, threw their coats over their nightdresses and fled the house. His suitcase, always in a state of readiness on the half-chance that he found somewhere 'cheaper 'and more comfortable was thrown out into the street after him.
Ellen and Billy retreated to their bedroom, sobbing loudly while their mother bent her face over the sink, swilling away all traces of Wilf Grogan. Joe, wrestling with his rage and jealousy, surveyed his battered knuckles then gently took her in his arms and crushed her protectively to his chest,
‘I’ll kill the next fella that lays his filthy hands on ya, Florrie … I’ll swing for him, or any other bugger that tries it. You’re
mine
Florrie… y'hear me?
Mine
.’ She heard him all right.
Sleep deserted her that night. She clung to him, listening to the pitiful wailing of Ellen and Billy until their crying became a soft murmur then an occasional sob until eventually exhaustion overcame them.
Florrie was inconsolable at the loss of her babies, as she called them. With no mother, and a father like Wilf, what would happen to them now? She packed their few belongings into three brown paper carrier bags, loaded them on to Billy’s pram and sent Ellen off with it to their new lodgings on Randal Street.
Ellen wasn’t invited in. A stout stern-faced woman brought the children to the door. Jean was sullen, resentful, finding the upheaval and rejection too much to bear. Joyce screamed and clung round Ellen’s neck, ‘Mammy, mammy, Joycie want her mammy.’
‘I’ll come next week, I’ll come and see you
every
week,’ Ellen promised tearfully.
The woman folded her brawny arms determinedly across her chest. ‘No you won’t.’ And with that, she grabbed Jean and Joyce one in each hand, and forced them inside.
The following Saturday she curtly informed Ellen that their father had moved his children earlier in the week and no, he hadn’t said where they were going. Ellen held back the tears till she reached home where she threw herself at her father.
‘Why did you make them go, dad? Why couldn’t they stay till after Christmas? I’ve got no sisters left now… first Betty went away… and now Jean and Joyce.’
Joe desperately missed the children he’d grown to love. Normally he was ready to blame anyone but himself for the disturbances or mayhem that befell his family but he took one look at his weeping wife and daughter and decided that this time it must be his fault.
‘I’m sorry cock,’ he said quietly, ‘but they’d still be here with us if it weren’t for that bugger messing around with your mam.’
Finding Florrie with Grogan like that had brought out not only Joe’s wild, uncontrollable anger, but also the sensitive, protective side of his nature. He saw his wife in a new light, someone fragile to be cherished, to be shielded from shit-houses like Grogan. He turned over a new leaf, fussing over her, making her rest more and taking her to the pub with him more often. He even bit his lip and counted to ten the next time he pulled on a clean pair of socks and his toes went straight through the useless, newly darned cobwebs that were Florrie’s best effort.
*
Betty and Isobel, the only ‘Starlights’ under the age of 14, had to continue their education, week after week a different school in a different town and a succession of teachers who saw no point in involving them in lessons. Inevitably, their days were spent cleaning cupboards and running messages from one classroom to another.
School was out of the question when they reached Dover where enemy shelling from positions across The English Channel were causing plenty of blast damage. Schools were closed until further notice, as was The Hippodrome Theatre. Yet, somehow, this coastal town under bombardment seemed safer than London, where most of their performances at Collins Music Hall had been cancelled, thanks to thanks to Hitler’s V1 flying bombs.
In the caves of the famous White Cliffs, safely ensconced with the resident bats, the artistes entertained the townsfolk with impromptu concerts in the time-honoured tradition of, “the show must go on”. Spirits were high amongst the Starlights and the times they were allowed out of the caves to stretch their legs and breathe in the cool clear air were something to be relished. From time to time large biscuits were handed out, rock-hard “dog-biscuits” but nourishing and tasty enough and certainly a cut above the bread and dripping Beryl fed them.
They didn’t get to play The Dover Hippodrome, after all; it was damaged so badly in the penultimate onslaught on September 25
th
that it would never re-open. At the end of the week the girls made their way back to the train station through waves of rubble, as if an earthquake had tossed the buildings and dropped them upside down.
*
In a state of utter panic Joe heard on the wireless about the shelling of Dover. He grabbed his jacket and ran a mile to the police station.
‘My eldest lass, Betty Pomfret, she’s there in Dover at the Hippodrome with The Dancing Starlights… I don’t know if she’s dead or alive.’
The sympathetic sergeant sat him down with a cigarette and said he would contact the Dover Police. It was another three hours before word finally came through, there had been no casualties amongst the performers.
Knowing that his wife was beside herself with worry Joe should have gone straight home to put her mind at rest. Instead, he decided that after all that buggering about he needed a pint to calm him down… and seeing as The Old Bank was right around the corner…
*
After that eventful week in Dover The Starlights moved on to Aldershot, then Basingstoke, then back to London for sporadic appearances at The Camberwell Palace. It was anybody’s guess if they would find their lodging house still in one piece after the show. More advanced V2 rockets that were launched from Holland were falling five minutes later on the city’s powerless population. There was nothing anyone could do, except wait for the whine of their rocket engines to cut out and hope and pray it wasn’t their turn.
At the beginning of the tour the girls were each promised ten shillings a week. Six months later they hadn’t seen a penny of it and Connie broached the subject on behalf of them all.
‘What do you need money for?’ Beryl was incensed. ‘Bert’s saving it for you… I say he’s saving it for you so you’ll have a lump sum at the end of the tour. So don’t be so damned ungrateful, I say…think yourselves lucky, the lot of you. As far as
I
can see, you don’t need money, me and Bert are providing you with everything you need… everything you need.’
As far as
Betty
could see they weren’t providing them with enough food for a start, it was porridge for breakfast, and beef dripping or HP Sauce spread over thick slices of bread at other times, the only variation being sausage and mashed potatoes for Sunday lunch.
The strenuous rehearsals, sleepless nights and constant travelling were taking their toll; they were hungry, underweight, pale and tired. Simple adolescent skin eruptions became boils or abscesses, swiftly but painfully dealt with by Beryl’s soap-and-sugar poultices.
On Sunday afternoons Beryl dictated the short letters they were allowed to send home to reassure their families that they were happy, healthy and safe.
Betty’s parents had no reason to suspect otherwise, although Joe worried from time to time that she might not be getting enough to eat. That was the one thing he always had to be sure of, that his kids were getting enough to eat. He decided that this year he’d bake two small Christmas cakes instead of one large one and put plenty of newly-laid eggs in them.
Florrie had been saving their food coupons to buy extra currants and raisins and he would add chopped apples, prunes, carrots and a tot of whisky as well. There’d be one cake for the family and the other for Betty; a nice rich home-made cake would do his Betty the world of good.
It was a much-needed boost to Betty's morale when the lodging house landlady handed her a neatly wrapped parcel containing the small but expertly-iced Christmas Cake. With trembling fingers she unfolded the brief note that came with it and read:
Dear Betty
Just a line hoping this finds you as safe and well as it leaves us. This year you’ve got your own cake you lucky devil. I didn’t let your mam near
it, you know what she’s like she’d have burnt it, wouldn’t she? “Queen Alfred” we used to call her, didn’t we? Think about all of us at Christmastime when you eat it. It will do you good there’s plenty of good stuff in it I made sure of that. Oh and mind you don’t break your teeth on them silver three-penny-pieces I’ve put in. We’ve all been saving our thrupenny-bits for months so keep your eye open for them. They’ll bring you good luck, unless you spend them first, ha ha. There’s about 6 of them. Haven’t you got a good dad as the kids round here used to say. Do you remember that? Well cock, they’re right aren’t they? There’ll never be another Joe like your old dad will there? Hope to see you soon.
Merry Christmas from me and your mam and Ellie and Billy.
Your ever-loving Dad
PS The evacuees had settled down well and made themselves at home in your bed, ha ha. Their dad was here as well, but not for long. A right bloody spiv he was. A scrounging bugger too. He couldn’t keep his hands to himself, so I made him go. He took his kids with him so we are on our own again now till you come home again.
‘What’s all this then? I say this is a nice surprise,’ said Beryl.
Betty straightened the single sheet of paper and blinking away her tears, re-read it.
‘My dad’s… baked me a cake for Christmas.’
‘Straighten your face for God’s sake,’ Beryl curled her lip, ‘don’t be such a big baby, I say don’t be such a baby. Trouble with you
Betty
, you’ve been molly-coddled too much.’
She grabbed the cake, cut the thinnest slice possible for Betty, helped herself to a larger piece then re-wrapped the rest and put it in the cupboard next their meagre rations.
‘Well! This is very nice Betty! Where did he learn to bake like that…I say where did he learn to bake like that?’
‘He worked in a bakery when he were a lad, that’s how he learnt what to do.’ Betty had recovered her composure. ‘He can cook too, better’n my mum can.’
‘Well, we’ll save it till Christmas Day and then share it out between us… I say
you
can share it out Betty.’
Just then came the familiar terrifying whistle overhead of a rocket. Crowded into the kitchen they stood stock-still like statues. And then the engine stopped.