Secrets of the Singer Girls (4 page)

Her confidence was unshakeable.

‘Soon as the war’s over, I’m leaving. I don’t want to grow old in Bethnal Green,’ she said, laughing again and tossing a casual glance at her older sister. But this
time, the laughter was mocking. ‘Anything to get away from this dump,’ she added.

Vera looked as if she were about to implode with rage.

The slow, wretched wail was haunting, rising up from the very bowels of the factory, its droning sound deafening everything like a scream. For a second Poppy was confused. Was it Vera? But no,
she was rooted to the spot, still staring at her younger sister, her face a ghostly white. No sound came from her thin lips.

Mr Gladstone burst out of his office. ‘All right, ladies!’ he shouted. ‘Evacuate.’

The penny dropped. ‘An air-raid siren?’ gasped Poppy.

‘You come with me, sweetheart,’ Daisy said. ‘Something tells me you won’t last two minutes out there without me.’

‘I-I’ve never heard one before. They don’t go off where I come from,’ Poppy stuttered.

‘Thought not,’ grinned Daisy. ‘Looks like the war’s finally found you, Poppy. What did you say your surname was?’

‘P-Percival,’ Poppy stammered over the siren.

‘Well, Poppy Percival, Sal’s got a mate with a pub – we can shelter in the cellar. Everyone else usually goes down the church crypts or Bethnal Green Tube.’ She sniffed
in disdain. ‘All crammed in like sardines, they are, thousands of them. No, darling, you stick with us.’

Poppy knew better than to argue with this assertive young lady and stuck close behind her as, together, they joined the tidal wave of workers clattering down the stairwell and out into the
unknown.

Outside on the streets, the air hummed with nervous tension as people scurried to the nearest shelter, clutching bundles of bedding and sleepy children to their chests. Bodies
jostled and bumped in the sticky evening air, and all the while the dreaded siren sounded. Its sickening drone ran through Poppy’s brain on a loop, disorientating her.

Poppy had never known an evening like it. If there was even a single shaft of moonlight, it would have helped, but the sky was thick with clouds and brick dust; she could taste it in her
mouth.

‘Where’s Mrs Shadwell?’ Poppy asked suddenly.

‘Oh, don’t worry about Vera,’ drifted back the voice of Daisy. ‘What you need to know about my sister is, she’s a bit peculiar. She never comes down to the
shelters. She was the same all through the Blitz. Reckons she suffers from claustrophobia. More like she can’t bear to leave her good room. We got precious little space in our house as it is
and she treats our front parlour like a shrine.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Poppy.

‘Well, we’re only allowed in there on Christmas or birthdays, but she scrubs it most days. It’s only got an old chaise longue, which she covers with a dust sheet, and a poxy
aspidistra, yet the way she carries on, you’d think it was Buckingham Palace. What a joke.’ Poppy heard a tinge of bitterness creep into Daisy’s voice.

Poppy heard Sal call back to them, ‘To give her credit, though, Dais, she does have the cleanest nets on the street.’

‘What good is having pearly-white nets when you’ve got half the German Army trying to kill you?’ Daisy snorted.

Poppy could just make out Sal’s muffled laughter from somewhere up ahead.

In the dark, Poppy could feel Daisy’s shoulders stiffen and faintly heard an angry sigh. Poppy didn’t know yet what history lay between the warring sisters, what had happened in
their past to shape them into the two very different women they were today, but she felt sure that Vera’s scarred chest held the answer. For now, though, she let the matter lie, and followed
in her new friend’s footsteps as she led her to shelter.

Two minutes later, they arrived at the Dog and Duck. The East End was filled with pubs. Poppy must have seen the shadow of one on every street corner, at least, but Sal assured her this one was
special.

‘I know the landlord, Alfie Bow,’ she winked, rapping on the door.

The door opened and Poppy found herself descending a narrow staircase.

‘Make yourselves at home,’ a gruff voice called out after them.

Inside the cellar, it was cold and dank, and the stench of beer was suffocating. Even the heavy odour of Daisy’s Evening in Paris perfume did little to disguise the smell. Poppy had never
set foot in a pub in her life, but she kept that to herself.

Shivering, she sat down on a small wooden stool. Daisy pulled a stack of warm blankets from behind a barrel and gently placed one over Poppy’s knees.

‘You must think me a sorry creature,’ Poppy said between chattering teeth.

‘Don’t worry, darlin’.’ Daisy smiled. ‘It’s the shock of hearing the siren.’

Sal lit some candles and soon the gloomy basement was filled with a soft, comforting glow.

‘What’s your poison?’ asked Sal, as she rummaged around inside a wooden crate for some glasses. ‘Good old Alfie always leaves us out a little tipple, doesn’t he,
Dais?’

‘Golly, I should say,’ she smiled, kicking her long legs out in front of her.

‘Oh, I don’t drink,’ muttered Poppy. ‘My mother doesn’t approve.’

‘Your mother isn’t here now, is she?’ insisted Sal, placing a small glass of honey-coloured liquid in Poppy’s hands. ‘Come on, girl – wet your whistle.
It’ll do you good.’

‘May as well enjoy it,’ agreed Daisy. ‘Goodness knows how long we’ll be down here for.’

Poppy took a sip and a second later, her cheeks were flushed with heat. ‘Cor, blast me,’ she spluttered, clutching her chest and coughing. ‘What is this?’

‘It’s whisky,’ laughed Sal, tossing her tumbler back in a mouthful and reaching for the bottle to refill their glasses. ‘Warms the cockles like nothing else I
know.’

Overcome with tiredness, Poppy leaned back against the dank brick cellar wall and took another, bigger sip. The red-hot liquid slowly trickled down the back of her throat, warming her, numbing
her emotions.

Cast in the flickering candlelight, Poppy got the chance to observe Sal Fowler close up for the first time. She was not as pretty as porcelain doll-like Daisy, but she was handsome all right. A
cloud of fiery red hair was pulled back from her face with a jade-green headscarf, and every feature seemed exaggerated, from her strong jawline to her full, sensuous ruby-red lips. As she talked,
Poppy was transfixed by the chip in her front left tooth.

Admiring my war wounds, are you, Poppy?’ Sal smiled, pouring more whisky into Poppy’s glass.

‘I really shouldn’t,’ Poppy murmured.

Sal blithely ignored her protestations and carried on chatting as she poured. ‘Got hit by a bit of flying debris during the bombings. We were running to a shelter when it just nicked my
mouth.’

‘Were the Germans really dropping bombs here?’ Poppy gulped, wide-eyed, noticing a strange glowing feeling starting in her stomach.

Daisy and Sal stared at her with undisguised shock.

‘Well, they weren’t dropping pineapples,’ snorted Sal. ‘Blimey, you’re green, aincha? My home was flattened to the ground during the Blitz. It was a tenement flat
in the old Peabody building. Took a direct hit from the Luftwaffe when I was at work – thank God for that at least. Good riddance, mind you – it was a dump. One way to deal with the
lice, I suppose. In fact, half of Bethnal Green’s gone. Best thing Hitler ever did was to bomb the slums. He did us a favour. Now I’ve got myself a brand-new Nissen hut, and best of
all, my good-for-nothing husband has no idea where it is. He’s fighting abroad, and long may that continue.’

Daisy bumped her glass against Sal’s. ‘Hear, hear,’ she murmured.

‘How long has your husband been away?’ asked Poppy.

‘Let’s not ruin the night by talking about Reggie,’ Sal replied. Her mouth tightened, and as she lit a cigarette, Poppy got the distinct impression that subject was firmly off
limits.

Sal blew out a long stream of blue smoke, then suddenly smiled and flicked an impish look at Daisy. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Dais?’ she asked.

‘I should say,’ Daisy replied, with a wink. ‘Now, then, sweet Poppy,’ she gushed, as she fished around inside her bag. ‘While we’re all stuck down here, why
don’t we do you up a little? Just a touch of rouge.’

Before she knew it, Daisy and Sal were unscrewing pots of rouge and powder. Poppy had protested. She really had. Along with drinking alcohol, wearing make-up had been banned for servants at
Framshalton Hall.

‘Oh no, I couldn’t,’ she said vigorously. ‘I’m not allowed. Make-up is forbidden below stairs.’

Daisy and Sal exchanged a wicked laugh.

‘Nah, you put it on your face, Poppy,’ Sal quipped. ‘Besides, got to stay lovely. There’s a war on, after all.’

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Daisy enthusiastically. ‘We’re gonna make you look so pretty, Poppy Percival, your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.’

Poppy smiled sadly. ‘Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.’ The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop herself.

Daisy cocked her head. ‘Now why ever would you say such a thing, Poppy?’

‘She’s ashamed of me,’ replied Poppy miserably. ‘She couldn’t wait to get rid of me.’

‘Whatever did you do?’ gasped Sal and Daisy as one.

Poppy clammed up. ‘Oh, nothing of any consequence,’ she lied. ‘You know what mothers are like – nothing’s ever good enough. Now then, I thought you were going to
make me look like a film star.’

In no time at all Sal and Daisy were dolling her up like a shop mannequin, Daisy’s radiant smile dispelling Poppy’s fears. Somehow she had found herself unable to say no to Sal and
Daisy, and maybe, she reflected, allowing a little guilty thought to slip unbidden into her mind, she hadn’t wanted to. Saying no wasn’t something she was terribly good at, after all.
Soon the dark cellar was filled with giggles. By the time the all-clear sounded, she no longer resembled the girl who had nervously ventured up the factory stairs. Her soft brown curls were now
styled into elegant finger rolls. Her flawless creamy skin had been accentuated with rouge, and a liberal coating of panstick completely disguised her dusting of freckles. Only Poppy’s wide
blue eyes remained the same. A little glazed from the alcohol that was coursing through her veins, but otherwise bright and beautiful.

The girls led Poppy back up the cellar stairs and she emerged blinking into the brightly lit saloon bar of the Dog and Duck, which Poppy was surprised to see was already fast filling up. A glass
of port and lemon was pressed into her hand as the girls chatted and waved cheerily to people on other tables. They seemed to know most of the drinkers in the pub and bantered back and forth
good-naturedly with the landlord.

They had been there no time at all before Poppy spotted a familiar face weaving her way through the tables towards them.

‘There you are, Poppy,’ sighed Vera, visibly relieved. ‘I came as fast as I could. I promised Mr Gladstone I’d keep my eye on you.’ She paused as she took in
Poppy’s new appearance. ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing.

‘Hello, Mrs Shadwell,’ mumbled Poppy. ‘Sal and Daisy have been looking after me. We’ve been having a gay old time.’

With that, she hiccupped and leaned back against the bar. Frantically, she fought to stay upright, but with a couple of glasses of whisky inside her, it was like trying to balance on two pins.
Instead, she slithered slowly down to the floor.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Daisy and Sal,’ snapped Vera, grabbing Poppy before she crumpled into a heap at her feet. She wrenched the glass of port from Poppy’s hand and
whistled to the landlord. ‘Bitter lemon over here when you’re ready.’ Then she whirled on Daisy. ‘She’s nothing but an innocent up from the countryside. How could you
corrupt her like this?’

‘Sssnot an innocent,’ protested Poppy, though no one was listening.

Vera was glaring with ill-disguised disgust at her younger sister, but Daisy met her gaze with a challenging look, her proud chin thrust defiantly in the air.

‘Mr Gladstone entrusted me to look after her, and what do you two do?’ Vera said angrily.

‘Oh, do calm down, won’t you, Vera,’ sighed Daisy. ‘It’s just a bit of make-up. You wanna try it yourself.’

‘But look at her, for pity’s sake,’ said Vera, ignoring Daisy’s cruel jibe about her looks. ‘She looks like she should be working the docks.’

‘Steady on,’ said Sal.

‘Don’t waste your breath, Sal,’ tutted Daisy. ‘I reckon our young friend here would sooner be bombed out than look like my old sister.’

‘That’s enough of your sauce, my girl,’ Vera snapped.

Mercifully the conversation was brought to an abrupt halt when in the corner of the smoky room, someone struck up a song on the piano. In no time at all half the pub was swaying and singing
along to the lively tune, the voices drowning out the bickering sisters.

‘Oh good, I love a sing-song,’ enthused Sal, relieved at the interruption. ‘Come on. Let’s grab a table before it gets too rammed. I reckon young Poppy here could do with
a sit-down.’ She winked at Poppy and gently guided her to the nearest table.

As Poppy sat and sipped her bitter lemon, attempting to gather her wits, she took in the pub’s customers. Men and women of all ages, relieved to have escaped unharmed from their shelters,
were pouring into the warmth and safety of the Dog and Duck, ordering drinks, laughing and telling jokes. The tiny room was packed, the blacked-out windows steamed up, and the air was alive with
the babble of cockney voices competing for airspace.

Poppy soon lost count of how many people she was introduced to.

‘Gracious,’ she smiled, ‘you girls are popular.’

‘You better believe it,’ grinned Sal, waving at Pat, Ivy and Doris from Trout’s as they walked in.

‘Budge up, Poppy, there’s a good gal,’ cackled Ivy, when she reached their table.

‘Yeah, that’s the way, sweetheart,’ piped up Pat, easing her gigantic bosom round the pub table until she was rammed in on the other side. Hapless Poppy found herself wedged in
between the layers of a human sandwich.

‘Don’t look so worried, Poppy,’ whispered Sal from across the table. ‘Everyone likes you, I can tell. All you need to know about the East End is if people like you,
you’re all right, but if you cross ‘em . . .’ she paused to exhale her cigarette in perfect smoke rings, ‘forget about it – your life will be a misery.’