Secrets of the Singer Girls (8 page)

Poppy spotted Vera approaching out of the corner of her eye and swiftly went back to her sewing.

‘You out again, Daisy?’ Vera asked. ‘I thought after last night you might stop in. There are chores to be done, and once we’d done the washing, I thought I’d treat
us. I’ve saved up my coupons and was going to pick us up some pie and mash. There’s
Dancing Club
on the wireless too. You used to love that, remember?’

Poppy listened sadly as Vera’s peace offering was shot down. She knew enough of Vera’s home life already to realize that she quite clearly didn’t want to be left on her own
with Frank.

‘No offence, Vera,’ Daisy replied airily, ‘but why would I stop in with you and a stale pie when I could be out meeting the man of my dreams? I’ll do my chores tomorrow
night, I promise. The washing can wait. This could be my shot at true love.’ With one final look in her compact mirror, she snapped it shut and picked up her handbag. ‘Don’t wait
up.’ The remark was tossed in her sister’s direction as the door slammed shut behind her.

An awkward silence hung between Vera and Poppy, who grappled to say something that would ease Vera’s torment. She was about to tell her to ignore her younger sister’s exasperating
behaviour when the forelady suddenly dashed to the window. Poppy realized that in Daisy’s haste to escape, she had forgotten her coat.

‘Your coat!’ shouted Vera, flinging open the window. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold.’

But Poppy could see that Daisy was already too far out of earshot, tripping down the road, her arm linked through Sal’s, their faces lit up with mischief.

‘When will she learn, Poppy?’ Vera sighed. ‘She’s always leaving it behind, the little madam. I spent weeks sewing that coat. It’s not fashionable, I’ll grant
you, but I used up fourteen clothing coupons buying the softest wool from Brick Lane.’

Sniffing, Vera tugged on her scratchy old coat and muttered half to herself, ‘It’s practical and serves its purpose – what more do you need?’ A little like Vera herself,
Poppy thought.

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Shadwell,’ she smiled, patting her on the arm reassuringly. ‘She’ll come home when she gets cold enough.’

The older woman smiled back at her and shook her head as if she were seeing her for the first time. ‘Such a level head for one so young.’ And with that, she slipped her arm through
Poppy’s. ‘Come on, then. Let’s find your new lodgings.’

Grateful for the help, Poppy took her arm and together she and Vera picked their way down the darkened stairwell.

As they walked, Poppy sensed Vera had a question on the tip of her tongue.

‘You said you couldn’t go to the dance earlier. Why?’ The directness of the question took Poppy by surprise.

‘Not can’t. I meant won’t,’ she replied, flustered. ‘I’m far too tired.’

Poppy knew the stairwell was too dark for Vera to be able to read her expression, but her cheeks coloured immediately.

When they reached the factory doors, Vera turned to her. ‘Not all secrets are best kept to yourself, Poppy,’ she said softly, and then, with a catch in her voice, ‘Take it from
one who knows.’ In the gloom Poppy felt Vera’s hand reach out and squeeze hers. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’

Poppy went to reply but faltered at the last moment, pressing her lips together. ‘Come on.’ She shivered. ‘It’s getting dark. I don’t really want to be out again
like last night.’

As they turned into the street, the wind became fierce, and rain started to pour relentlessly from a blackening sky.

‘Out there in this weather and no warm coat,’ muttered Vera to herself. ‘Daft little article.’

Number 42 Burnham Street was a fine, strong house that had remained unscathed from the Nazi onslaught. In fact, it looked like it might just remain standing forever. The same
couldn’t be said for its landlady, a woman with fingernails as black as her teeth and a full head of greasy grey hair. Poppy smiled at her nervously.

‘My name’s Mrs Brown,’ the landlady rasped. ‘I was expecting yer last night. Follow me.’

Poppy shot a nervous look at Vera before stepping inside the house. Mrs Brown staggered slightly as she walked down a long, dark hallway, then stopped in front of a door. Poppy sniffed and
immediately wished she had a handkerchief. The hall smelt of cabbages and mothballs.

‘This is yer room. Yer board’s five shillings a week, and make sure yer keep the place nice and tidy. And no male visitors. I got a reputation to keep and standards to uphold.’
With that she absent-mindedly scratched her left armpit.

Anyways,’ she grinned, turning the key in the lock,

‘toilet’s out back in the yard, but I think yer’ll find it’s got all yer need, lovey.’

The door swung open to reveal the most miserable fleapit Poppy had ever seen. A damp brown stain of water was creeping down the peeling walls, and a deep stench of decay emanated from the
rotting floorboards. Tatty, torn grey net curtains hung forlornly from the window, and a small gas stove sat in the corner.

‘Make yerself at home,’ gestured Mrs Brown, handing her the key.

‘It’s lovely,’ smiled Poppy weakly.

‘It’s a disgrace,’ snapped Vera from behind. ‘Fetch me a pan of boiling water and a scrubbing brush immediately.’

Mrs Brown was clearly affronted. “Ow dare you,’ she shrieked, raising a hand to her stained housecoat. Despite her dressing-down, she sloped off along the hallway to fetch some
water.

‘I’m sure she’s very nice really,’ remarked Poppy generously, once her new landlady was out of earshot.

‘She’s the most slovenly woman I’ve ever come across. An affront to decent East End women,’ snapped Vera. And then, more brightly, ‘But don’t worry, love.
We’ll get this place spick and span in no time.’

After the hot water had been delivered, Poppy and Vera set to work. They cleared what furniture the room contained to one side and set about sweeping the place clean before scrubbing it with
steaming-hot water. Before long their faces were coloured with heat and grime. They worked with quiet determination, feeding off one another’s energy.

‘By, scrubbing like this makes me feel like I’m a scullery maid again,’ chuckled Poppy, sitting back on her haunches and wiping a tendril from her pretty face. ‘I’m
sopping.’

‘Me and all,’ laughed Vera. ‘But there’s no work quite like hard work, is there? Nourishes the soul, I say.’

Poppy didn’t know about that, but the effort of all the physical work felt good, and for an hour at least, her troubles ceased to haunt her. They dissolved and melted to nothing in the
soapy suds.

When at last the floor was swabbed, Vera popped down to the corner shop and came back brandishing a mop, a brown paper bag of borax soap flakes, some dusters and a tub of Mansion Polish.

‘We’ll have this place looking like home soon,’ she smiled, setting down her purchases on the bed.

‘Oh, Mrs Shadwell, you shouldn’t have. I thought you were saving your coupons for a special tea?’

‘Don’t worry, love,’ she soothed. ‘It’s nice to help someone who I know appreciates my efforts.’

‘And I do.’ The gesture put fire in Poppy’s belly and she set about the place with fresh determination. As she polished the glass with newspaper and vinegar, Vera ripped the
old nets from the window and scrubbed down the walls.

After three hours of polishing, scrubbing and mopping, Poppy was exhausted, but she had to admit their hard work had made a difference. The old place gleamed like a new penny. Poppy noticed Vera
had even managed to polish away the grime on the old iron bedstead to reveal pretty ceramic knobs atop each post.

‘See, there’s always something good to be found in the grimmest of places,’ Poppy said thoughtfully, gazing at her new friend.

When they were finally finished, Vera swept out the hearth and lit a small fire, and the two women sat down to rest in front of it with a steaming mug of Bournvita each.

‘A job well done,’ Vera grinned, bumping her mug against Poppy’s.

‘Thank you, for everything you’ve done for me,’ Poppy said in a soft voice. ‘I’m so lucky to have found you, and the other girls too, of course.’ She watched
as a weary but satisfied smile chased over Vera’s face as she stared into the crackling flames.

‘I don’t know about that, Poppy,’ she said. ‘But us girls have got to stick together.’

The warmth of the fire seeped deep into Poppy’s bones and for the first time since her arrival she felt a glimmer of hope for her future. What serendipity to have found Sal, Daisy and
especially Vera. Vera, for whom life was so full of troubles, but who still found the time to help her and show concern. Taking a sip of her milky drink, Poppy closed her eyes and sighed
contentedly. Perhaps, just perhaps she had made a friend for life, someone with whom she could share her dark past. Not tonight, but maybe in the foreseeable future. Over the soap flakes and elbow
grease, Poppy knew she had made a friendship to treasure.

Opening her eyes, she glanced down at her watch. ‘Good grief, look at the time,’ she said with a start. ‘Here’s me yattering away. I’m keeping you from a warm
bed.’

Vera yawned and slowly got to her feet. ‘You’re a terror, Poppy Percival,’ she teased. ‘Keeping me up talking half the night – I don’t know.’ Smiling,
she stifled another yawn. ‘It’s nice to have some company, though. I’m glad of it. Just don’t be shocked if I’m not so familiar with you on the factory floor.
Don’t want the other girls accusing me of playing favourites.’

Poppy smiled to hide her sadness. Was Vera lonely? Goodness only knows she’d felt enough of that herself after spending hour after wretched hour alone in a scullery.

‘I quite understand,’ she reassured her. ‘You’re a professional with a reputation to uphold.’

Vera nodded approvingly. ‘Very good.’ As she spoke, she touched her heart pendant necklace and pensively rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger. ‘I wonder if Daisy’s
back yet.’

Wearily, Poppy rose and took their teacups to the tiny sink.

‘Don’t worry – I’m sure they’ll be fine,’ she said as she softly set down the cups in an enamel bowl. ‘And thanks. Thanks for everything you’ve
done for me tonight. I know Mother would be worried sick if she knew I was living in a place like this,’ Poppy said, frowning. Actually, deep down she wondered whether her mother cared where
she was at all.

‘Course she would, Poppy – you’re right,’ smiled Vera reassuringly as she shrugged on her coat. ‘All any mother wants is for her daughter to be safe. That’s
all our mother worried about when she was alive. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.’ Vera paused and her smile grew wistful. ‘Or as mine and Daisy’s mother – God
rest her soul – used to say, “Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire and I’ll come up and tuck you in.’”

Poppy smiled. ‘That’s sweet. She must have loved you very much.’

‘That she did,’ Vera replied sadly.

Poppy saw her to the door and instinctively the two women moved towards each other, arms outstretched. When they had finished hugging, Vera hurried out into the night.

‘Night-night. Sweet dreams.’ Poppy’s soft voice sang out into the darkness, and yawning, she padded back to her room.

Once she heard the front door bang shut, she hastily double-locked her bedroom door, then ran to the fireside. Taking the small wooden chair beside it, she wedged it firmly up and under the
doorknob. Poppy frowned and tested the doorknob, rattling it hard to make certain she was safely barricaded in. She knew it was daft, dangerous even, to lock herself away like this. What if an
air-raid siren went off in the night and she had to escape in a rush? But even the very real threat of bombing attacks paled into comparison with the terrible haunting fear she felt in her
heart.

Climbing into bed, she quickly pulled the covers over her head and snuggled down under her eiderdown, hoping and praying that tonight would bring respite from the nightmares.

Earlier that night, four miles across town, Daisy stepped off the bus at Charing Cross Road and looked into the gloom of Leicester Square eagerly. Sal hesitated behind her, her
bum firmly placed on the bus’s slatted wooden seat.

‘Oh, do come on, slowpoke,’ Daisy urged impatiently. ‘At this rate it’ll be time to turn round.’

‘Coming,’ Sal sighed, gingerly feeling her way through the darkness and onto the pavement.

‘Where’s your arm, Dais?’ she called out. ‘I don’t want to break my neck on a crater.’

Daisy reached out to her friend, and arm in arm they teetered their way through the darkness towards the dance hall. Daisy moved at such a pace her heels clacked over the pavement in a blur.

‘Steady on, girl,’ laughed Sal. ‘Lover boy can wait. I want to get there in one piece.’

The rain came down from the sky in great sheets, cascading from the gutters, leaving the pavements slick, grey and deadly in the blackout. The West End, usually ablaze with neon light, lay under
a heavy blanket of darkness.

Daisy paused in front of a shadowy doorway in which a small group of young servicemen and civilian women were huddled.

‘This it?’ Sal sniffed impatiently. ‘Don’t look like much to me.’

A single column of pale light spilt out from the club’s entrance like a beacon in the steamy darkness. It may have been wet, but that was doing little to dull Daisy’s ardour. If
anything, the smell of damp hair and bodies bumping in the blackness was heightening her senses. Madness and magic were palpable in the air, and Daisy could feel it coursing through her veins like
electricity and setting her heart alight. After twelve hours in a stuffy factory under the watchful eye of her sister, the rain felt fresh and invigorating on her skin. It felt good to be young. It
felt good to be alive. Anything was possible on a night such as this. Could tonight be the night she would find true love, the type of love that would help her escape the East End? Maybe not, but
the excitement of the unknown felt like tiny bubbles popping inside her tummy. If nothing else, the war had shown them that no one’s fate was certain. In some ways, that unpredictability made
the war almost exciting. Not that Daisy would admit as much to Vera. She couldn’t hope to understand. In Daisy’s eyes, her big sister was ancient, her life’s path already mapped
out. But not Daisy! She was just eighteen and on the cusp of great change, ready to take a leap into the tantalizing unknown.