Kathleen, April 1939
The imposing white entrance of the Whitehall Theatre seemed to loom over her.
Kathleen fumbled with her dance shoes as she stood on the steps. Was she supposed to go in the front door or around the back somewhere?
Her dance teacher, Miss Fawcett, hadn’t explained that bit and now, with her nerves getting the better of her, Kathleen began to wonder whether the audition was a good idea, after all.
And that was before she got on to Albert’s reaction to her trying out for a job in the chorus line. She’d thought he’d be happy, encouraging maybe, but he was downright angry about it.
‘I don’t want my girl wearing next to nothing, kicking her legs up and flashing her knickers for blokes paying ninepence a go!’ he shouted. ‘You’ll be in one of those girlie shows up at the Windmill next, appearing starkers. I won’t have it’
‘But you know I love dancing, and the Whitehall is a decent theatre. Miss Fawcett only sends girls from her dance academy to good places, Albert,’ said Kathleen. ‘There has got to be more to life than bottling jam!’
He held her face in his hands and looked deep into her eyes. ‘There is more, Kathy, there is more for us, together, when we are married.’
She nodded her agreement and he’d thought that was that. But when Saturday afternoon came around, she made her way to the theatre over the water, driven as if by some unseen force. If she got the job, he’d be happy because it would be the first step up to her becoming famous. Then if she got rich, he’d soon change his tune. All her life, she’d loved performing and this was her big chance, she could feel it, and yet . . . what would Albert say?
As she dithered on the front steps, a door opened and a heavily made-up girl wearing a fur coat emerged. She lit a cigarette and then made her way towards Kathleen.
‘You lost, dearie?’
‘I’m here for the audition,’ Kathleen mumbled, almost apologetically.
‘Well, you’d better get inside then because Mr Baker is waiting and he don’t like to be kept waiting!’ She gesticulated as she spoke and her coat fell open, to reveal a pair of satin shorts which barely covered her modesty, and a sequinned top.
The girl, who couldn’t have been much older than Eva, shouted, ‘Break a leg!’ as Kathleen scampered up the stairs and into the foyer.
She pushed through some heavy doors and into the auditorium, which seemed so modern, all black and silver, compared to the soft, plush, rose and gold of the Trocadero down at the Elephant. The empty hall seemed cavernous, with a balcony extending around the edge upstairs, in a kind of horseshoe shape.
A grand piano stood upon the stage and a pianist, a young, thin bloke with a little pencil moustache was sitting there, picking at his nails.
A voice boomed at her from the stalls, almost making her jump out of her skin. ‘You’re five minutes late! Get a move on! Time is money.’
She scarpered down the aisle and climbed the steps at the side of the stage. A spotlight fell on her, making her squint.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Kathleen,’ she said. Her voice was quavering.
‘Well, Kathleen, take off your coat and let’s have a look at you.’
The owner of the voice, from what she could see, was a short, squat little fella, sitting in the tenth row, in his shirt-sleeves, brandishing a clipboard.
She took off her coat, folded it and placed it at the side of the stage. And then she stood, just as Miss Fawcett had told her to, with her hands lightly clasped in front of her. She smiled, remembering to breathe deeply.
‘Very nice,’ said the man. ‘Now, lift your skirt up a bit.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Show me your legs. I haven’t got all day!’ he commanded.
Kathleen swallowed hard and raised the hem of her skirt an inch or two, until it was just grazing her thighs.
‘Lovely pair of pins you’ve got there!’ he boomed. ‘Now, show me some dance steps. Maisie, can you come and help out?’
A girl dressed identically to the one she had seen on the front steps appeared from the wings and took her place a few paces in front of Kathleen. Glancing over to the side of the stage, Kathleen realized that there was someone else standing there watching her, closely. He was a tall man, with slicked-back dark hair and he carried a ventriloquist’s dummy, dressed identically, in black slacks and a gaudily striped blazer. She could see the ventriloquist’s lips moving as the dummy turned to him and said, ‘Ooh, I fancy her!’ She felt a blush creep up her collarbone and a horrible sick feeling started in the pit of her stomach.
Before she had time to think, the piano struck up a few chords and the girl in front of her started to dance her way across the stage. Step, step, step, shuffle, change, step, shuffle, tap.
It should have been so easy. Kathleen could do better than that with her eyes closed but her legs felt like lead and her heart was hammering in her chest. She started out – step, step, step – but faltered on the shuffle.
‘Try it again. Don’t be nervous, Kathleen,’ came the voice from the stalls.
The ventriloquist leered at her from the wings, running his tongue over his lips, as the dummy opened and closed its mouth.
The piano started up again and the girl performed her steps perfectly, almost gliding across the stage. Kathleen tried again but all she could think of was the bloke staring at her from the wings with his stupid dummy. She heard Albert’s voice, ringing in her ears: ‘You’ll be in one of those girlie shows up at the Windmill next . . .’ Tears started to well in her eyes. Step, step, step. She tripped over her feet and fell to her knees and started to cry.
‘All right, I’ve seen enough,’ came the voice. ‘Thank you, Kathleen. Next!’
Her head hanging in shame, she gathered her coat and ran the length of the aisle, out of the theatre, leaving her dream of a career in the West End behind her.
In the months following her failed audition, Kathleen did everything she could to be a perfect homemaker at Howley Terrace, seeing as Peggy was no longer there to rule the roost. And her efforts paid off because that June, Dad finally agreed to let Albert marry her. They would have to wait a while longer, until the autumn, he said, but Kathleen was just over the moon to have his permission at last.
As a special treat, Albert was planning to take her for dinner and dancing up West at the Café de Paris, with Nancy and her boyfriend. She had not one, but two, beautiful dresses to wear and Eva had pinched her a pair of perfect little satin shoes to go dancing in.
The legendary band leader Bert Firman was on. Nancy had seen him perform before, and she said it was the best night of her life, with so many posh people done up to the nines, crowding onto the little dance floor. Kathleen just had to get through the next shift at the jam factory and then it was home to get changed before heading out for the evening.
Dad had been really kind to her lately, paying for her to have the wedding dress she really wanted, using some money he had put by after selling an old gold watch. He had hidden that watch for years under the floorboards in the front room and nobody knew about it. That didn’t seem right to Kathleen, after all the times they had struggled for cash, but she was delighted that he had chosen to give it to her to help make her big day as perfect as it could be. She was going down to a special little dress shop in Camberwell Green to have it made up and fitted.
Not one to be bested, Mum had bought her a satin evening gown for dancing, which clung to every curve and had a little bunch of silk flowers on the shoulder. She swished about in it, like a movie star. Her mum was even going to lend her a fur coat tonight, so she wouldn’t get cold, and – more importantly – so she would look every bit as good as those women from Mayfair who didn’t have to work for a living.
Kathleen only hoped her face wouldn’t be too flustered from the heat of the boiling jam. Miss Bainbridge had put her and Nancy in charge of cooking up one of the vats of strawberry jam. The whole factory was packed to bursting with strawberries. It was one of Kathleen’s favourite times of year because it marked the start of summer and the warmer weather to come.
‘What are you going to wear tonight, then?’ she shouted across the factory floor to her friend, knowing full well that Nancy had nothing as good as she did in her wardrobe.
‘Haven’t decided yet,’ said Nancy, with a little pout. ‘Maybe that black dress with a fishtail frill on the bottom of it.’
‘Didn’t you wear that last time you went there, though?’ said Kathleen, smiling to herself. She just couldn’t resist teasing Nancy a bit.
Nancy muttered, ‘Yes, I suppose I did’ under her breath. She turned her back on Kathleen and picked up a huge bag of sugar and chucked the contents into the vat.
‘Oh, you dozy lump!’ shouted Kathleen. ‘I already put the sugar in five minutes ago!’
‘You should have told me!’ wailed Nancy.
They both stared into the boiling pot of red liquid.
‘What’s going on here?’ It was Miss Bainbridge, who had a horrid knack of turning up when she was least wanted.
Kathleen looked at the floor and Nancy shuffled her feet about and said nothing.
‘You’d better tell me what is going on,’ said Miss Bainbridge, folding her arms and giving them her hardest stare. That look was enough to freeze water.
Kathleen’s mind was racing.
‘It was my fault, miss,’ she said. ‘I poured a whole load of sugar into the pot because I didn’t realize Nancy had already done it.’
Miss Bainbridge clapped her hand to her forehead. ‘Oh, you silly girl! That is all we need. A whole vat wasted. I will have to tell Miss Kendrick about this!’ And she marched off to report to management on the third floor.
Nancy clasped her friend’s arm. ‘What did you go and say that for? You know it was my fault . . .’
Kathleen looked at her friend, who had tears in her eyes. ‘It don’t matter, Nancy. You know I’m leaving next month anyway. I have got Albert to look after me now. It’s just not worth the bother, you getting into trouble.’
At the end of her shift, Kathleen was called into Miss Bainbridge’s office and handed her cards. Just like that, after five years of hard graft. She was going to miss out on the works’ annual beano to Margate on the charabanc, too, which made it harder to bear.
‘I’m sorry to let you go, Kathleen,’ said Miss Bainbridge. ‘You are a hard worker. I can give you a reference if you like . . .’
Kathleen stuck her nose in the air. ‘No need, miss, I’m going to be Mrs Ives soon, so my factory days are behind me now.’ And she turned on her heel and left.
The final pay packet would have come in handy to put down as a deposit on a little flat for her and Albert but he was doing well for himself. He had left the jam factory and was working as an electrical fitter: a proper trade, as her father had told her, with some satisfaction. He was probably earning better money than George Harwood now, who had left his job on the buses and was working as a packer in a book printers up Gray’s Inn Road. He wanted to be closer to his beloved books, probably, because that was all he talked about these days.
In any case, the last thing Kathleen wanted was to have to go and live at Albert’s parents down in Vauxhall. They were nice enough. His dad was retired but his mum and sisters ran a fruit stall and wouldn’t have a word said against their Albert. It wasn’t that Kathleen ever found fault with him, but it was just the idea that Albert could do no wrong which irked her. She’d been brought up with brothers and she knew blokes could be a pain and there was no harm in saying so, was there? Albert didn’t like her teasing him either. She’d try and change that, once they were married. Married! Just mentioning the word gave her butterflies.
Kathleen imagined herself walking down the aisle at St Patrick’s Church in Cornwall Road, with the bells ringing out, the sun shining, and Albert, so tall and handsome, with his dark hair swept back and his green eyes looking into hers as they kissed. In reality, they planned to wed in the register office because Albert didn’t want the fuss of a church wedding, but she could dream, couldn’t she? A honking horn brought her back to reality as she turned in to Howley Terrace. It was the tallyman, in his new van, of which he was very proud.
He stepped out, twiddling with the ends of his little moustache. ‘I hear congratulations are in order! Could I interest you in anything for your bottom drawer?’
‘Not today,’ she said airily. ‘I have got everything I need already, so I won’t be getting anything on tick, thanks.’
The Café de Paris was every bit as impressive as Kathleen had hoped. She glided down the staircase on Albert’s arm, knowing full well that they were the best-looking couple in the place. Nancy followed with Roy, her painter boyfriend, who was always a great laugh. A waitress showed them to their table, right next to the circular dance floor, and they ordered some drinks. A huge chandelier hung above their heads and there were sumptuous drapes and gilt everywhere, which in the candlelight made it seem as if they were on a film set.
The band were already in place, in their tuxedos. As they struck up a tune, Bert Firman, dapper in his tails, looked around the room, which was already filling up, and smiled at Kathleen. ‘I think he wants us to dance, Albert.’ He didn’t need to be asked twice. In a split second, they were on their feet, making their way around the dance floor in a foxtrot, like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Another couple joined them, then another, and soon the whole place was whirling around the little dance floor.
They barely sat down all evening after that. Roy and Albert paid for all the drinks but Kathleen noticed that for every glass she drank, he had two. At the end of the night, Bert Firman addressed the room. ‘Now, I know there’s a song you’ve all been waiting for . . . Shall we do it?’
He turned to the band, who shook their heads, prompting a cheer from the crowd: ‘Come on!’
The first few bars had everyone crowding onto the dance floor, elbowing their way in to make space. Kathleen squeezed Albert’s hand and giggled, ‘Oh, I think they are playing our song!’ Everyone from the milkman to the costermongers were whistling and singing it these days and it made Kathleen happy to hear it in this posh club too. Albert smiled at her and threw his jacket back over his shoulders and linked arms with her, as people started to step out in a line behind them, singing along. ‘Any time you’re Lambeth way, any evening, any day, you’ll find us all, doin’ the Lambeth walk, Oi!’ They all slapped their knees and fell about laughing as the band played on. ‘Everything’s free and easy, do as you darn well pleasey . . .’ They twirled each other around the cramped floor.
A short fella with sticky-out ears leaned over to Kathleen. ‘Here, I reckon you’re a dead ringer for that Carmen Miranda. I have been dying to tell you all night . . .’
Kathleen laughed nervously as she caught the look in Albert’s eye. ‘Are you chatting up my girl?’ he said.
‘No, mate, no,’ the man replied. The fool was half-cut, Kathleen could tell that, from the glazed look in his eyes. He didn’t get the chance to say much else, because Albert walloped him one, right in the face. He staggered back, falling on top of a dancing couple, who screamed and protested as they were knocked into a table. Kathleen froze with horror as she watched the scene unfold around her. She was powerless to do anything. She hadn’t wanted any of this fuss, the whole thing had just got out of hand and it was beyond her control. More pushing and shoving followed and soon the management had put the lights up and some bouncers were wading into the crowd, pulling the little chap with the big ears to his feet and dragging him up the stairs, ignoring his protests, as the band played on.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ said Albert, his jaw set firmly.
The cold night air and abrupt end to her evening sobered Kathleen up instantly. Nancy and Roy didn’t seem to mind. They must have seen Albert throw the first punch, but they didn’t say anything and seemed more interested in necking each other in a doorway.
‘Why did you have to go and do that, Albert?’ she whispered.
He turned to her. ‘I can’t have other blokes messing with my property, Kathleen, you know that. It’s only because I love you.’ Kathleen thought about that in the cab on the way back across the river. He was so possessive, it was romantic, really.
Trust Hitler to go and spoil her wedding by starting a bloody war. London had changed almost overnight, from a fun place with bright lights, to a blacked-out miserable city of sandbags, with air-raid wardens running around like busybodies, yelling at everyone. Mother had taped up the windows in their Walworth Road flat and Peggy had worked overtime sewing blackout curtains for everyone with her sewing machine.
Kathleen had felt the joy being sucked out of her with every passing day as a deep gloom settled over Lambeth that September. She’d managed to find herself a little job as a football pools clerk, checking the entries collected by the agents at corner shops. It was pin money but at least it gave her something to do and took her mind off her fears about the Nazis invading. She spent her evenings glued to the wireless, listening out in case the announcer said ‘Cromwell’, which meant that the Germans had landed.
Her brother Jim had received his call-up papers within a few weeks of war being declared and they were all worried sick about him. Frankie, her younger brother, was on the wrong side of the law as a deserter after Mum threw his papers on the fire and said she couldn’t bear to lose him and so God only knew where he was. Peggy was on her own, too, because George and his brother Harry had been among the first to sign up in the area, keen to fight Fascism. That was all well and good but George had left Peggy with a bun in the oven. She had been going to be matron of honour at the wedding but she looked like the back end of a bus and was ready to pop at any moment, so she said she’d better not. She didn’t mind really. It gave Eva and Nancy a chance to shine.
Kathleen had stayed the night at the flat in Walworth Road so that her mother and Nanny Day could help her get ready on the morning of the wedding. She’d spent so long dreaming about what this day would be like that when she woke up to a grey London sky, Kathleen almost wanted to shout to the world that it wasn’t fair, but there was a war on, so she thought better of it. Everyone wanted it to be the perfect day and Albert was her Prince Charming, so she would do her best for him, and for everybody, to be his princess.
As she made her way into the kitchen to get a reviving cuppa, she could hear Nanny Day bustling about, getting Eva into her outfit.
‘Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, Eva!’ said Nanny Day. ‘Maybe you’ll be next, my girl.’
‘Not if I can help it,’ muttered Eva under her breath as Nanny buttoned up her bridesmaid’s dress.
Nancy let herself in without bothering to knock – she was as much part of the family as anyone, really. Nanny always said that Nancy could talk the hind legs off a donkey but on this occasion she could barely speak, because she had to squish herself into the bridesmaid’s frock that Kathleen had worn for Peggy’s wedding. There was no polite way of saying it: she was a bit broader around the beam nowadays.
Kathleen was surprised to find that, as she did her make-up, carefully applying some rouge and lipstick, her hands were shaking. Her mother noticed as she handed her a little posy of flowers. She kissed Kathleen’s cheek and told her, ‘Just be yourself, Kathleen, because you are beautiful just as you are.’
All her hopes for the future were tied up with this day, the day she would become Mrs Ives. She wasn’t just the girl from Howley Terrace who liked to sing and dance and play the piano. She wasn’t the girl from the jam factory; in fact, she wasn’t a girl any more. She would be a woman, a married woman whom people would tip their hat to as she went shopping down the Cut.
Albert was waiting for her at the register office, his green eyes sparkling, his wavy chestnut hair brushed back to reveal his handsome face. His mother was standing over his shoulder, like a little black cloud on the horizon. Albert beamed with pride as Kathleen walked towards him. Everyone said she looked breath-taking in a full-length white silk dress with lace sleeves and a little puddle train. Once they had said their vows and exchanged rings, they stepped outside into the weak autumn sunshine and Eva and Peggy pelted them with rice for luck, while everyone cheered. Grandad was in a wheelchair now because his leg was troubling him too much too walk but even he cracked a smile.
Just as they were making their way to the pub to enjoy a wedding breakfast of potted salmon sandwiches and a slice of cake, Albert’s mother leaned over to Kathleen and whispered in her ear, ‘You look lovely today but you’ll never be good enough for my Albert, just you remember that.’