Secrets of the Singer Girls (25 page)

‘I have no doubt you will,’ replied Vera sadly. ‘But the fact remains you will have to give this baby up. I will help you, of course. Together we will come up with a
plan.’

‘Give the baby up? I can’t do that. Please don’t make me,’ Daisy begged. ‘I could never survive that.’

‘You can and you will,’ Vera said softly but firmly. ‘It’s the right thing to do. In time you will come to see that.’

Daisy retorted angrily, ‘You have no idea how wretched I’m feeling. What can you possibly know about my heartache?’

‘Much more than you think,’ Vera replied. ‘I was pregnant once, you see. My baby was taken from me.’

Daisy gasped and her hand flew to her mouth.

Vera reached for the glass of water by Daisy’s bed and took a shaky sip before going on.

‘I was sixteen. It was after Mum died in the fire. I was a confused, vulnerable girl, recovering on the wards at the hospital.’

‘What, the one where we perform?’

‘That’s the one.’ Vera nodded. ‘I was in there because I was so badly burned in the fire trying to get Mum out. Dad had gone to get help, he said. Done a runner more
like. Leaving us in the fire. To this day, I can’t remember much about it. Just the heat of the flames and Mum’s screams. When I came to, I was in a hospital ward. My burns were so bad
I had to stay there for a whole year. Matron took me under her wing, became like a mother to me, easing my grief, helping to fill the void Mum’s death left in my life. I missed her so much
the pain of that was far worse than the burns. I was convinced Mum was magic, you see. She could produce anything out of that tiny kitchen downstairs.’ Vera felt herself smiling in spite of
the trauma of reliving the terrible blaze. ‘Toffee apples, pies and roast dinners to die for, all made with love. I used to sit on the step and wait for the Sunday-roast bone to chew on or
the custard pot to lick. I couldn’t pass her by without her reaching out and folding me into her pinny for a cuddle.’

Vera chuckled and shook her head as Daisy sat spellbound. ‘Mum could never get enough of giving kisses and cuddles. I used to pull faces and wriggle away. Looking back, I wish I’d
stuck around more, but hindsight is a wonderful thing.’

She turned to Daisy, imploring her to understand what she was about to say next. ‘But despite Matron’s close care of me, I was still vulnerable, which is why I think I fell prey to
what happened next.’

Daisy took a long, steady breath as she tried to digest the first memories of their mother that Vera had ever shared with her. ‘And what exactly did happen?’ she asked
cautiously.

‘I fell in love with a young married doctor. Dr Charles Henderson. He worked at the hospital and we became friendly. I think he took pity on me at first, but as my burns began to heal, he
took me out on his daily rounds. Sitting next to him on a dicky seat on his pony and trap, I felt ten foot tall.’ Vera felt herself straighten up as she recalled the memory.

‘Oh, but he was handsome and so kind,’ she murmured, her eyes misting over. ‘And clever too. He taught me poetry, how to speak properly, how to pronounce my words, and he read
me books. I was sixteen, you see, not that much younger than you are today. My brain was hungry for education. Even fancied myself as a typist up West. I was desperate to broaden my horizons. Sound
familiar?’

Daisy nodded and hung her head.

‘I fell in love with him. I was totally entranced. I felt as if he’d saved me somehow, or rather, I hoped he would save me. Between visits we used to go out to a daisy meadow in
Chingford, have our dinner in the fields. He saw past my scars and my rough accent. He really saw
me,
the person I was on the threshold of becoming, the promise within.

Which I suppose is why I gave him my virginity. I never knew such happiness as those months with that man; I would have given him anything I was that grateful to him.’

‘So what happened?’ begged Daisy impatiently. ‘Where did it go wrong? Did Matron not disapprove of your relationship? He was married, after all.’

‘She never knew.’ Vera shrugged. ‘Until I realized I was pregnant, that is, and I had to tell her. I was sixteen, pregnant by a married twenty-eight-year-old doctor. The
scandal would have been huge. She had no choice but to call Dad and have me discharged. I was nearly recovered from my injuries anyway, and so he came to fetch me.’

Vera’s voice took on a brittle edge. ‘I was forced to accept the reality of my situation. Someone had to take care of the family now that Mum was dead – someone had to do the
cooking and the cleaning and look after him, and so I returned with a better vocabulary and a head full of dreams. All those fanciful notions of becoming a typist just crumbled to dust.’

‘So what did Dad do when he discovered you were pregnant?’

‘He was furious, of course,’ Vera replied. ‘But you know, I think he was actually angrier that I no longer spoke like him. I suppose I made him feel stupid in his own home. He
said, “Fancy yourself well spoken, do you, my girl?’” Vera snorted. ‘The only language that man understands is violence. I told him the doctor was more of a man than
he’d ever be.’

‘And?’ asked Daisy fearfully.

Vera started to sob. ‘He kicked the life out of me. Kicked me to a pulp in his steel-capped boots. Retribution, he called it, but it was murder. The baby didn’t survive. How on earth
could it, poor mite? When he finished, he told me he ought to throw me on the fire, watch me burn to death like our mother had.’

The tears were streaming down her cheeks by now, but she had neither the energy nor inclination to wipe them away. The effort of recounting her story had taken what little strength she had
left.

‘So you see, Daisy,’ said Vera shakily, ‘I think I do understand a little of how you’re feeling. I want you to have the gift of motherhood that I never got the chance to
experience, but I fear for you, and for what the future holds.’

Daisy sank back against the pillows. ‘Please, Vera, will you hold me?’ she whispered. ‘I’m scared. What if Dad finds out about me and does the same?’

Without saying a word, Vera lay back against the tiny bed and gathered her little sister into her arms. They lay that way for a long time without moving, drawing comfort from the warmth of each
other’s embrace and the feeling of solidarity in the half-light, both women content to stay lost in their own thoughts. By the time darkness had sneaked in over the chimney pots of Bethnal
Green, Vera was no closer to working out what to do. She thought of the little life unfurling just inches away in her sister’s stomach and of the fate that awaited the poor child.

Daisy was right to be scared of Frank’s reaction. She would need the entire British Army at her disposal to fend him off. And he wasn’t the only one Daisy need fear. The street, the
factory, the East End, the whole of society would frown upon this innocent little life.

Daisy had committed a cardinal sin and her future was now in jeopardy. And then there was Vera’s position in all this. If this got out, she knew what would be expected of her. Half the
women in Trout’s would have no compunction at all about casting a family member out into the cold if they discovered she was pregnant out of wedlock. And though Vera would never confess such
a thought to Daisy, a part of her simply could not fathom how her sister could risk bringing such a scandal on the family. Vera was a pillar of the community, a forelady, for goodness’ sake,
with a reputation to uphold. Her standing would suffer a terrible blow if news of Daisy’s pregnancy were ever to leak out.

But the time for judgement had passed, Vera reasoned. What her little sister needed now was not condemnation but love. As for their father, all she could do was pray for divine intervention.

It was the Monday morning after Daisy’s collapse and Vera hadn’t slept so much as a wink. She had been terrified her father would return, so had dragged the easy
chair upstairs and placed it outside Daisy’s bedroom, where she had sat like a centurion on guard.

Daisy had fallen into an exhausted, fitful sleep, and Vera had been filled with mixed emotions. If, and it was a big if, Daisy’s baby survived the botched procedure, there were still a
thousand unanswered questions to tend to. The biggest of which was what on earth was Daisy to do? Vera knew that there was only one possible option open to her if her younger sister wanted to
retain her reputation, but telling her that she would have to give up her precious baby had still broken Vera’s heart.

A sharp knock on the door startled her. It was early. Who on earth could be calling at such an hour?

Vera flung open the door to find the same two police constables she had previously talked to about Frank. One looked to be well into his fifties, with silver-streaked hair and the look of a man
for whom delivering bad news was second nature; the other constable was not much older than she was. She shifted warily and cast a sideways glance up and down the street. Fear drummed in her
chest.

‘Yes. How may I help you?’ she asked politely.

‘It’s about your father, Miss Shadwell. May we come in?’

‘By all means,’ she said, feeling a dark cloud descend as she ushered them over the threshold and into the kitchen.

‘Your father, among others, was wanted for questioning in connection with a spate of thefts,’ the older officer said gravely.

Vera sank down heavily into a kitchen chair. ‘I think you better sit down,’ she said, gesturing to the chairs opposite her.

‘It is our belief that your father and his associates took advantage of our weakened police force and the chaos of the war to further their criminal activities,’ the other said.

‘I knew it,’ groaned Vera. ‘Go on.’

‘Frank and a gang of five other men kitted themselves out as ARP wardens and then smashed their way into shops and abandoned homes. Such is the power of the tin helmet that on a few
occasions innocent passers-by were sucked into their nefarious activities and even helped to load up their cars in the belief that the goods were being removed for safe keeping. In one case, some
unscrupulous villains – of whom your father is a known associate – even disguised a getaway car as an ambulance.’

Vera shook her head in disbelief. While the rest of the East End had been pulling together to help each other, her father, typically, had been helping himself.

‘Please go on,’ she sighed.

‘Broadly speaking, we believe your father and his gang have had a hand in everything from shop theft to looting, and dabbling in the black market. He even claimed £500 for the loss
of his home and goods contained within. Have you been bombed out, Miss Shadwell?’

‘No,’ she replied weakly.

‘Then there’s the black market. Your father has been selling everything from gin to nylons. Make no mistake, miss – these crimes are costing London a fortune. Men like your
father aren’t just making use of the black market. They are feeding it. Shopkeepers have lost more to this sort of crime than they ever have to German bombs.’

Vera felt her anger growing as she thought of the number of times she had queued for hours to buy what precious little goods the shops contained, and how carefully she monitored and managed her
ration book. Decent, honest and law-abiding citizens like her were fighting a war on all fronts, or so it seemed. It really was beyond the pale.

‘They want hanging, the lot of them,’ she snapped. ‘Every last spiv and drone.’

‘Well, quite,’ replied the older constable, taken aback at the force of her anger.

‘We’ve been building a case on this gang and their activities. We believe your father got wind of the investigation and has been keeping a low profile, but we were fortunate enough
to secure his arrest yesterday.’

Vera shook her head in stunned disbelief.

‘He’s due to appear before Bow Street magistrates this afternoon, where he will be expected to plead and then be committed for trial at a later date. Are you willing to stand bail
for your father?’ the younger officer asked.

‘Heavens, no,’ Vera shot back quickly. ‘Sorry, Officer, I don’t wish to sound rude, but we’re of limited means and I have neither the resources nor the inclination
to stand bail.’

‘Of course,’ said the constable, rising to his feet. ‘I believe you have a younger sister.’ He checked his notebook. ‘A Miss Daisy Shadwell. May we speak with
her?’

‘That won’t be possible, Officer,’ Vera replied as calmly as she could. ‘She’s confined to her bed and is unwell.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Shadwell. May we return if we have further questions?’

‘You may indeed, and please be sure to let me know what happens in court,’ she replied, and then, as an afterthought, added, ‘Please, sir, if I may, my sister and I are
law-abiding citizens and if what you say about my father is true, then we hold him in deep contempt.’

Vera could tell her denouncement of her father gratified both men.

‘You and every right-minded person in London.’ The older constable nodded approvingly. ‘Good day to you, Miss Shadwell.’

Vera showed the two constables to the door, before returning to the kitchen. Trembling slightly, she bustled to the stove and prepared a fresh pot of tea. Next she lit a small fire in the hearth
and lovingly prepared Daisy some bread and jam. Only when her kitchen was in order did she allow the relief to wash over her. Thank goodness her prayers had been answered and her father was, for
the moment, out of their way. At least now she could safely work out a plan for Daisy and the baby.

Vera wasted no time and on her way home from work that very evening, she paid an impromptu visit to Matron at the hospital.

Matron took one look at Vera’s face and ushered her inside her office.

‘I’m so sorry to trouble you, especially when I only visited yesterday morning,’ she began, but she couldn’t finish the sentence and broke down in helpless tears. Between
great sobs she told Matron the whole harrowing story, leaving out nothing: Daisy’s pregnancy by the GI, her botched procedure and, finally, news of her father’s arrest that very
morning.

‘What on earth am I to do?’ she cried, throwing her hands in the air in despair. ‘This transgression of hers, if it gets out . . . well, you can only imagine. How could she be
so stupid as to put herself in this predicament? What was she thinking? Robert, that’s the father, doesn’t even know yet.’