The Windmill Girls

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‘How do you know about nudes and so on at the Windmill Theatre?’ Eliza muttered, glaring at Dawn as though it was all her fault George was talking dirty.

‘One of the boys at school told me about it. He had a picture of the girls doing their gas-mask practice. They only had on their vests and drawers.’

‘Well they weren’t in the nude then,’ Dawn retorted. ‘And everybody does gas-mask training, even you kids at school.’ She dragged her brother forward by an elbow as a bus wheezed to a halt at the kerb. ‘Now behave yourself, George, or you’ll ruin our trip out.’ Dawn cast her eyes heavenwards. It wasn’t an auspicious start to what she’d hoped would be a relaxing afternoon.

‘Stop fidgeting, George.’

‘Seats are itchy …’ George shifted again on the brown velour seat but he soon forgot about his discomfort. He howled with laughter as the clown’s red nose fell off for the second time and the juggler trod on it, causing him to lose concentration and drop his skittles. ‘Need some glue for that conk?’ George called, and earned himself a slap on the arm from his mother.

But Eliza was laughing too, and dabbed her streaming eyes with a hanky. The clown and juggler had reappeared to bring the show to a close with apparently farcical consequences. Probably nobody in the audience, apart from Dawn, knew that the performers’ calamity was a well-rehearsed trick that always had the customers rolling in the aisles.

‘Did you enjoy the show?’ Dawn asked as the heavy curtain descended, although she already knew the answer to that. She had been gladdened to see her mother and brother hooting and clapping as the cast took a bow. The light-heartedness between them reminded her of days long ago, when George had been small and their mother drank in moderation. Standing up, Dawn waited patiently for the crowd of people in front of her to file towards the exit. She was pleased to see that Olive had sold more tickets during the afternoon. It was by no means a packed house but more than half-full. It was a good sign that many opening nights were still to come for Dawn and her colleagues at the Windmill, despite the opposition from rivals.

The Windmill might have been the trailblazer where nudes on stage were concerned, but many other venues had since jumped on the bandwagon, taking custom away from the original show. The management insisted the Windmill remain better than its imitators; all the cast and crew knew they must do their best to keep the queue of punters snaking along Great Windmill Street.

Once out in the foyer, Dawn told her mum she was just off to say a quick hello to the girls in the dressing room. Eliza, seeing Olive Roberts in the kiosk, diverted to speak to her.

‘You’re Olive, I remember you from last time I came over to a matinee with Dawn.’ Eliza struck up a conversation while George read the colourful billboards advertising current and future shows.

‘How are you keeping, Mrs Nightingale?’

‘Oh, I’m bearing up, thanks, love. How’re your kids doing?’ she asked. ‘You’ve got two boys, haven’t you?’

‘They’re nice and settled down in Brighton … sea air and veg straight from the farm; so they’re doing alright.’

‘’Spect they miss you though.’ Eliza gave the woman a sympathetic smile. ‘You off on a visit soon, are you?’

Olive gave a customer his change. ‘I’m busy with my WVS duties so can’t fit in too many trips away. But I do the journey from time to time to check up on things.’

‘I went to a WVS meeting once,’ Eliza said. ‘A girl younger than me daughter was trying to tell us how to make jam. I said, listen here, love, I’ve been making jam since before you was a glint in yer father’s eye.’

‘I drive the mobile tea wagon and know first aid so turn up to help the poor souls after a raid. The servicemen are always grateful to have someone to talk to.’ Olive pulled from her pocket a WVS badge. ‘This goes on all the time after I’ve finished work here.’

‘I’ve been fire-fighting with me neighbour,’ Eliza said, feeling a bit left out.

‘Victory’s not far off, I know it,’ Olive said serenely. ‘My work then will be done and I can go home and put my feet up.’

‘Home? Thought you were a Londoner, Olive.’

‘I was born in Crouch End, but I’ve attachments elsewhere.’

‘Where’s that then?’

‘Your lad back on a visit, is he?’ It was a sly enquiry; Olive knew very well that Dawn’s brother had never been evacuated and regularly sought shelter from the Blitz with his mother out the back of their house, in an Anderson shelter.

‘George is home with me ’cos he’s out to work soon.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Twelve … going on thirteen …’ Eliza added defensively.

‘He’s not old enough yet to get a job. I could help you get him placed somewhere safe, you know, Eliza. I wouldn’t like to see him hurt. The WVS has played a big part in the evacuation programme …’

‘Very good of them. But no thanks,’ Eliza abruptly interrupted.

‘It’s a shame England involved itself in this war.’

‘It’s a shame I can’t get a thing I need from the shops,’ Eliza countered.

‘We need to have peace.’

‘We’ll have to win the bloody war first to get peace.’ Eliza grimaced.

‘The Nazis are a powerful force to reckon with. Perhaps too powerful for this small nation.’

‘Not sure I agree with you on that,’ Eliza retorted.

Olive sniffed and slammed shut the till drawer as Eliza stalked off to stand with her son and wait for Dawn to return.

‘She might be young but she’s got a dirty mouth on her.’ Lorna Danvers smeared rouge off her cheek then lobbed the dirty cotton wool onto the dressing table. Picking up the cigarette that had been smouldering on a tea-stained saucer, she took a long drag. ‘If she won’t stop flirting with every man she claps eyes on she’ll be getting herself and the Windmill a very bad reputation.’

‘She’s a mite too friendly with Gordon as well, if you ask me.’ Sal Fiske added her two penn’orth to La-di-da Lorna’s criticism. ‘And he’s old enough to be her father.’

‘Nobody did ask you, so button it.’ Dawn had come into the dressing room on the tail end of the bitching, but she knew who they were talking about. She’d only popped in to say hello on her day off; now she wished she’d not bothered. She’d grown tired of listening to her colleagues ripping Rosie Gardiner to bits; it had been going on all week.

‘What’s up with you?’ Lorna demanded, stubbing out her cigarette. ‘Are you bosom pals with Rosie?’

‘Just don’t see that there’s a need to talk behind her back.’ Dawn shrugged. ‘If you think she’s doing what she shouldn’t, tell her to her face.’

‘Ain’t saying a word to her!’ Sal stated bluntly. ‘Not my task, is it, to teach her her manners. That’s her mother’s job.’

‘Me mum’s dead.’ Rosie had just turned up to get ready for the evening show but had stopped outside the door, listening, before bursting in. She gave Dawn an exaggerated smile as thanks for championing her, but Rosie’s bravado didn’t disguise the fact that the gossip had upset her.

After an awkward silence Lorna took up the cudgels again. ‘Well, sorry to hear about your mother, Rosie. But perhaps it explains a lot about the way you behave if you’ve not had her to guide you. The trouble is,’ she warned with a finger wag, ‘if you keep on acting like a trollop you’ll get us all tarred with the same brush, and I for one am not having that.’ Lorna surged out of her chair at the dressing table. ‘We chorus girls might wear skimpy costumes but we go on stage with our modesty covered. You go out flashing your tits … and more.’ Lorna’s posh accent seemed more pronounced the angrier she got. ‘I know it’s your job to stand about starkers, but there’s a right and a wrong way, just as there’s a right and a wrong way for a girl to behave.’

‘I’ll wait for Phyllis to tell me I’m getting it all wrong, thanks all the same,’ Rosie spat sarcastically. ‘But I don’t reckon she ever will, seeing as I’m the one all the fellows come to see.’

‘You conceited little madam!’ Sal spluttered indignantly.

‘Now you listen to me, Rosie Gardiner,’ Lorna said bossily. ‘This is a theatre, not a knocking shop.’ Having said her piece Lorna sashayed regally out of the dressing room, slamming the door behind her.

Dawn rolled her eyes. She’d worked in the theatre for over a year now and colleagues had come and gone; she’d been on stage with cockney girls, northern lasses and performers from overseas. But wherever the women hailed from there’d always been tension and rivalry between the nudes and the chorus. As far as Dawn was concerned she didn’t give a monkey’s if a girl removed her clothes to earn a living. What was the point in being jealous or spiteful when every day corpses of men, women and children were being dug out of their wrecked homes?

Dawn couldn’t deny though that Rosie was overstepping the mark, and if the girl thought the management would overlook serious indiscretions, she had a rude awakening in front of her. The senior stagehand was a widower and though Gordon had an unrequited yen for Lorna he seemed flattered by Rosie’s winks and pouts. And of course Rosie wasn’t really interested in him; she was being a silly little tease, and that was unkind. Apart from that Dawn knew that Rosie would run a mile from a fellow who demanded more than a kiss and cuddle.

‘Lorna’s right, you know.’ Sal tapped a Sobranie from its packet and lit it, then eyed Rosie over tobacco smoke. ‘I saw you outside the stage door last night with half a dozen army fellows. You was flirting with all of them and it looked like things might turn nasty ’cos you were playing ’em off one against the other.’

Rosie’s cheeks flooded with guilty colour at that reminder. In fact a scuffle had broken out between a private and a sergeant when she’d said she’d meet the senior of the two for a drink later in the week. She pursed her lips, sitting in the chair vacated by Lorna. ‘You’re all just jealous because I get more attention from the men than the rest of you put together.’

‘That’s what you reckon, is it?’ Sal had had enough of the younger woman’s boasting. She shot to her feet, sticking her hands on her hips. Her loose silk wrap fell open, displaying her naked belly beneath.

‘Yeah, it is what I think.’ Rosie jumped up too, barging to confront her. ‘I’m young and pretty and I’ve got a gorgeous figure, that’s why I got taken on as a nude. You’re getting fat and couldn’t get a job with no clothes on even if you wanted to. Who’d want to look at your saggy tits?’ she scoffed. ‘And you’re the wrong side of thirty, if you’re a day …’

Sal leapt forward to slap Rosie’s cheek. ‘Wrong side of thirty?’ she yelled, outraged. ‘I’m twenty-six, you cheeky bitch. And I get more flowers sent in than you do.’

‘Flowers? Who wants fuckin’ flowers?’ Rosie had stumbled from the unexpected blow but quickly got her balance. Swinging a fist in retaliation she caught Dawn on the side of the head as she moved to separate her warring colleagues.

‘Sorry … sorry, Dawn … didn’t mean to hit you.’ Rosie wailed, mortified.

‘For God’s sake shut up, both of you,’ Dawn thundered, rubbing her scalp. She’d thought her mother and brother might get on her nerves this afternoon; she’d not counted on her workmates being the problem instead.

‘What’s all the shouting about?’ Marlene Brown had just arrived for the evening shows to find the three women glaring at one another. The atmosphere was icy despite the electric heater being fully on.

‘You watch out!’ Sal pointed a threatening finger at Rosie. ‘Or I’m gonna rat on you to Phyllis, you trouble-making cow.’ Grabbing her clothes off the chair Sal stormed towards the door.

‘Didn’t mean to get you, Dawn, it was an accident.’ Rosie put an arm around Dawn in an attempt to apologise for whacking her. ‘You’re much prettier than me … it’s just those two are always bitching, so I had to say something to shut them up.’

Dawn impatiently shrugged the younger woman off. She hadn’t liked to hear her fellow dancers running Rosie down, but the truth was that Rosie was flirting too much and if she carried on she was likely to cause aggravation all round. Brawls in the theatre didn’t happen that often, but when they did the management went mad, especially if one of their girls had sparked it.

‘Anyone going to tell me what the commotion was all about?’ Marlene shook the teapot that was on the table, grimacing in disappointment on finding it almost empty.

‘Those two old hags are jealous of me.’ Rosie scrubbed at her face. ‘They was saying I act like a tart but Dawn stuck up for me, didn’t you, Dawn?’

‘I told them to stop talking about you behind your back. I didn’t say they were telling lies,’ Dawn retorted. Her blunt answer brought a forlorn look to Rosie’s face. ‘You know, don’t you, what they mean?’ she said with a significant nod. ‘So think what you’re doing, Rosie.’ Rather than rub it in Dawn knew that it would be best to leave the younger woman to stew in her own juice. She said a brief goodbye, glad to be going back to her mum and brother.

Marlene shrugged off her dressing gown and watched Rosie thoughtfully as the girl preened in front of the mirror. Rosie reminded Marlene of herself at eighteen: eager for compliments and excited to discover that her youth and beauty wielded such power over men. Marlene was now twenty-five but because she had an enviably youthful appearance, she easily got away with giving her age as twenty-one. The younger you claimed to be in the business, the better you got on, Marlene had come to learn. Lying about her age was just one of the tricks in her repertoire, and with her boyfriend’s help, she’d certainly perfected a few.

‘You gave Lorna and Sal what for, I take it?’ Marlene said admiringly.

‘Not going to take any notice of two over-the-hill hoofers, am I?’ Rosie replied, teasing her platinum waves with a hairbrush.

‘That’s the spirit,’ Marlene said approvingly. ‘Us nudes have got to stick together.’ She gave Rosie a lewd wink. ‘Not your fault you’ve got fellows fighting over you, is it?’

‘I never asked that sergeant to start on the other bloke for me.’ Rosie was as eager to convince herself of her innocence as she was Marlene.

‘Sergeant?’ Marlene scoffed at the low rank. ‘You could have a major with your looks, Rosie.’

That compliment prompted Rosie to smile and resume styling her hair. She’d already noticed that a few older officers were regularly coming in to give her the eye. But she didn’t fancy getting involved with somebody’s husband. She didn’t want to cause that sort of trouble when she could enjoy herself with single men of her own age.

Young as she’d been at the time, she remembered her parents’ shouting matches. Her dad had caught her mum with another man and thrown her out. Her mum had been allowed back after what seemed an age but had probably only been a matter of months. In a way Rosie had wished her mother hadn’t returned. The arguments had stopped by then but the long cold silences had been even worse to bear; Rosie sometimes wondered if her mother had been glad she’d got ill and died rather than having to endure the awful atmosphere any longer.

‘So what d’you reckon, then, Rosie? Shall we find you a rich handsome man who’ll take you to posh hotels instead of treating you to a night at the flicks before he jumps on you?’

Rosie frowned at the hint that she slept with her admirers. ‘I’ve not let any of them … you know …’ she said falteringly. ‘I’m not that sort of girl.’

Marlene eyed her mockingly. ‘Honestly? You’re really still pure as the driven?’

‘’Course,’ Rosie said rather bashfully. ‘Aren’t you?’ she asked curiously.

‘’Fraid not … but you are sweet …’ Marlene murmured with a private smile. ‘And all the more reason to get you the man you deserve …’

She turned to the wardrobe cupboard, her expression very thoughtful. She earned decent money working at the Windmill but her real employer was her boyfriend, a Maltese fellow by the name of Nikola. Marlene, in common with others, called him Malt.

Malt was a heavy-set, swarthy fellow who liked to think people respected him because he’d fostered for himself a hard reputation. In fact the men he classed as his rivals saw themselves as his superiors and despised him for trying to muscle in on their territory when he’d neither the brains nor the financial clout to do so. Malt was under his uncle’s thumb and just a hireling.

But Marlene seemed enthralled by her pimp, and when he told her that he needed to run more girls if he was to be a success and earn enough for them to settle down, she’d eagerly offered to do what she could to help. She’d got a job at the Windmill Theatre at Malt’s suggestion because he’d told her he didn’t want any old slags but classy birds: young, shapely and preferably blonde had been the shopping list of requirements he’d given to his girlfriend.

Marlene turned about, holding up a hanger on which was a wispy Grecian toga. When on stage it was artfully draped about the nudes’ hips. She looked past her costume at Rosie; the younger woman had put down her hairbrush and was now outlining her mouth in different colours; first one shade then another was put on and wiped off with tissue. Marlene felt satisfied that Rosie fitted Malt’s bill. All she had to do was get Rosie away from home because the blonde seemed ripe for the picking. She’d already mentioned to Rosie that she had a spare bedroom going begging and wanted very little rent for it. Marlene had seen Rosie’s eyes light up at the thought of her own little place, away from her father’s watchful eye. Rosie was pretty and popular with the servicemen and sooner or later she’d fall for one and want to take him back for the night. So Marlene reckoned she’d need to do very little to lure Rosie into her nest.

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_f0195b3b-8f87-5802-8501-d4a0dc2d37a0)

‘Be reasonable, love,’ Rufus appealed with an elaborate gesture. ‘I can’t take kids with me on a job. Midge will go nuts fer a start, and Pop won’t like it.’

‘I don’t care about them! I’m sick of carting our four boys about with me.’ Gertie pulled on her gloves and wheeled the pram containing baby Harold into the hallway. Adam, who was six, grasped the handle in readiness for the off while Simon, who was just two years older than baby Harold, was swung up by Gertie and settled atop the pram’s coverlet. With a hand on his shoulder she propelled the eldest boy in her husband’s direction. ‘Joey ain’t staying here on his own in case the house gets hit while we’re out. Can’t risk it. If the Grimeses’ luck’s out, and please God it ain’t, then we all go together as a family.’

The idea of one of the boys dying alone in the house was enough to make Gertie feel faint. She was determined that at all times the kids would either be protected by her, or her husband. ‘You take Joey with you, Rufus. I’ve me job to do and old Pickering won’t like having Joey turn up after he caught him dipping in his coat pocket.’ Her eldest son got a reproving glare.

‘Best take Joey with you then; our kitty could do with a boost,’ Rufus joked, giving his son a wink.

‘Think it’s a lark, do you?’ Gertie snapped. ‘You’ll be laughing on the other side of your face if me boss turns nasty. Just as well Joey didn’t take nothing that day …’

‘I did.’ Joey was anticipating Rufus’s approval and he soon got it. He’d not owned up sooner about the theft because he’d thought he’d get a clump, but his father had delighted him a moment ago by praising him for stealing.

‘What d’you find then, son?’ Rufus asked eagerly.

‘You did what?’ Gertie squeaked, swinging a horrified look between her husband and eldest son. ‘Give it here!’ she demanded. ‘I’ll take it with me and give it back. You little sod!’ She snatched the folded pound note that Joey had withdrawn from the top of his sock where he’d had it stashed. No sooner had she appropriated the cash than her husband prised open her fingers.

‘You can’t do that, you silly cow!’ Rufus spluttered. ‘Pickering can’t be sure Joey’s had it or he’d have cut up rough at the time. ’Sides, I could do with that quid.’ He gave Joey a grin and a rewarding pat on the shoulder. ‘But I’ll give it you back, son, don’t you worry about that. You deserve to keep it for being shrewd.’

‘Deserves to keep it?’ Gertie bawled, making the baby start to cry. ‘What he deserves is a hiding!’ When her gormless husband continued smiling soppily at the miscreant Gertie gave Joey a hefty whack on the backside that shot him forward a pace. ‘That’s for lying as well as thieving.’ She felt her heart thudding. If Pickering had made Joey turn out his pockets that evening, he’d have called the police there and then, and got her arrested. She forcefully recounted her theory to her husband.

‘But he got away with it, didn’t he?’ Rufus came back at her, chuckling.

‘You wouldn’t have been so jolly if the coppers had started snooping around here, asking lots of questions about your thieving son. They might just have found out where Joey gets his ideas from. Fancy a spell in gaol, do you?’ Gertie taunted. She stuck out a hand for Rufus to put the stolen money on her palm.

Rufus closed his fist on the pound note, remaining silent, then he grabbed Joey by the hand and yanked him towards the front door. ‘I’ll take him with me then … just this once …’

Gertie sent a silent curse after him while buttoning up her children’s coats. A few evenings a week she cleaned Wilfred Pickering’s office. He was the accountant who did the Windmill’s books. She’d readily agreed to take on extra shifts when she’d heard him talking to Phyllis about contacting an agency for domestic help. The extra cash always came in handy. Gertie had only been doing Pickering’s job two months so had been mortified when the man had recently caught Joey in the office cloakroom, delving into his overcoat pockets. Gertie had managed to persuade the fellow that the similar-looking gabardine coats hanging on the pegs had confused Joey. She’d said her son thought he’d been looking in her coat pocket for a handkerchief. Gertie would have liked to believe her own tale, but in her heart she knew that Joey was out of the same mould as his father, and getting more like Rufus every day. If the accountant caught Joey at it again he’d not listen to excuses.