Georgie wasn’t stupid. He knew the big boys wouldn’t be very pleased with him now that Mummy had found the bullets. He knew they’d been hard won. One boy, Leslie Hoare, had risked life and limb to collect three of them after a lone Jerry had machine-gunned the road near the station. Everybody said Leslie’s uncle Eric was a hero. He’d been on his bike on his way to work when the Jerry plane came over. His uncle had spotted the pilot turning the plane and knew what was coming. As the plane screamed towards him, Uncle Eric had dropped his bike in the road and leapt over a low wall. The gunner sprayed the street and Uncle Eric’s bike with bullets, then flew on towards the sea. Uncle Eric checked to make sure he didn’t have a puncture, then without a backward glance, got back on his bike and rode off. Leslie had rushed outside and picked up three spent bullets before his mum yelled at him to get back in. Now thanks to Georgie’s mum, the bullets were gone.
Leslie was furious when Georgie told them what had happened.
‘You idiot,’ he cried. ‘Well, he can’t be our mascot now!’
‘She didn’t find them all,’ Georgie protested. ‘I hid everything in different places.’ The other boys stared at him in amazement as Georgie tipped out an old teapot with a chipped spout and a couple of spent bullets and an army great-coat button rolled across the table. ‘I’ve still got the best bits of shrapnel,’ he told them, ‘but I couldn’t bring them without Mummy finding out.’
The next minute, everyone was slapping him on the back and ruffling his hair and calling him a good egg. It made Georgie feel very happy, and he was even more so when they decided that he could be their mascot after all.
Lillian’s sense of humour had become a trademark of their appearances on stage. Of the three women, she was the most at ease with performing in public. She was cheeky and flirtatious, and egged on by the audience, she gave as good as she got. When men heckled, she had a cheeky answer.
‘Give us a kiss, darlin’.’
‘Join the queue,’ Lillian quipped.
Lillian was the one who came home with flowers and stockings, but although she enjoyed the banter with men, she never allowed anyone to overstep the mark. That’s not to say she wasn’t tempted, and why not? Some of them were very good-looking, but so far she had never put herself in a position to follow through.
‘I had a postcard from Hitler yesterday,’ she joked. ‘He’s on holiday in the Bavarian mountains. He said he’d like to do something that would make me really happy.’ She posed in a coquettish way, with an innocent expression that made everybody laugh. ‘So I wrote back straight away and told him to take a running jump.’
It brought the house down.
Lillian’s favourite engagement was the Lancing carriage works. In the early 1930s, the carriage works had become one of three plants majoring in carriage construction owned by the railway. Just a year or two before, that number was pared down to two, the other being at Eastleigh. With the advent of war, requirements changed. There was a dramatic rise in the need for goods wagons, so the majority of their work became repairing bomb-damaged trucks. Passenger carriages were converted into mobile ambulances or military hospitals complete with operating theatres, which would be made available in the event of an invasion. In that eventuality, fighting men had to be protected at all costs.
One of the workers, Nigel, was a gifted pianist, so Stella was able to join Pip and Lillian on stage for their other routine. It made a welcome change from singing round the piano while Stella played.
Lillian couldn’t help noticing just how good-looking Nigel was. Not only that but he was the perfect gentleman. Over a cup of tea after the show, and before he had to get back to work, he told her he’d been refused in the call-up because of a weak chest. Years of infections as a child had taken their toll on his body.
‘You should think about a stage career for yourself,’ she’d told him.
‘I might be tempted if I was playing for a singer like you,’ he’d chuckled.
Lillian gave him a playful shove. ‘Behave yourself,’ she’d grinned. ‘I’m a married woman.’
By far and away her greatest problem on stage was the lecherous compère in one particular canteen. All the women complained about his wandering hands, and he wasted no time in latching on to Lillian. He was sly. As they stood together on stage taking a bow, she felt his hand on her waist. In no time at all, he was touching her bottom, and then, as they all bowed again, he ran his thumb between her buttocks. She elbowed him sharply, but it was difficult to get away from him with Pip pressed next to her on the other side. Lillian was helpless to do much about it.
As the audience drifted back to their places on the assembly line, she hissed, ‘Keep your filthy hands off me.’
He played the innocent and apologized in front of the others, but as they walked out of the dressing room (a broom cupboard again), he grinned and leaned towards her and, out of earshot of the others, whispered, ‘It’s only a bit of fun, darling, and you know you like it.’
Lillian was furious.
‘I can’t bear that man,’ she told Stella later. ‘He’s such a bloody creep.’
Stella seemed a bit surprised at the venom in her voice, until Lillian told her what he’d done.
‘You should complain to the management.’
‘And then what?’ cried Lillian, exasperated. ‘He’d sit there like butter wouldn’t melt and they’d tell me I imagined it.’
Stella and Pip had to agree that would be about the sum of it. He wasn’t called Sly Stan by all the women in the factory for nothing.
All alone in her cab doing her rounds, Lillian thought dark thoughts and plotted revenge. She had to find a way of making him look a fool that wouldn’t rebound on herself. It took a while to work out a plan, but at last she was satisfied. The next time they took their bows on stage, Lillian stood beside Pip and Stella, but Sly Stan pushed his way between them, and sure enough his hand gravitated to her bottom once again. This time, Lillian pushed him forward. Her movement was so sharp he almost toppled over the front of the stage. There was a small moment of silence, but the women in the audience knew exactly what was going on and began to cheer and clap. Lillian wasn’t finished yet, though. There was more to come. In a clear, ringing tone, she began a limerick.
‘I said to a man in this place, “At times, you’re an utter disgrace.”’
The clapping and catcalling grew louder. Lillian turned to face Sly Stan, and wagging her finger, she continued fearlessly, ‘“Take your hands off my rump or I’ll give you a thump and wallop you right in the face.”’
As one, all the women in the factory rose to their feet. Sly Stan kept up his pretence of innocence by giving an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders and looking slightly surprised.
With her hand on her hip, Lillian began again. ‘“Is this why they call you Sly Stan? ’Cos you touch up the girls when you can? Touch me once more and I’ll give you what for.”’ And here she made a breaking action with her hands. ‘“When I’m done, you won’t be a real man!”’
The limerick wasn’t all that good, but the hall erupted.
After several curtain calls, they reached the dressing room and closed the door before dissolving into fits of laughter.
A moment later, Stan put his head round the door.
‘Don’t you believe in knocking?’ said Stella haughtily.
‘I just wanted you to know,’ he snarled, ‘that we shan’t be wanting you bitches again.’
The door slammed behind him.
Lillian turned to the others. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ said Stella with a laugh. ‘You were amazing.’
‘But I’ve lost us the chance to come back.’
‘There’ll be other performances,’ said Pip, struggling out of her siren suit. ‘I think you did everybody a favour. The man is an absolute creep.’
‘That rhyme . . .’ Stella began.
‘It wasn’t perfect,’ Lillian admitted, ‘but I was so angry with him I had to do something.’
‘And it was brilliant,’ said Pip.
A hundred miles away, Maud Abbott sat at her workroom table and stared into space, her hand resting on the wedding photograph. She had come across it while she was looking for a number-10 crochet hook. It was a bit of a mystery how it came to be in her needlework cupboard. She didn’t even remember keeping it. She glanced down. How young she had been, how innocent. Her dress was a pale lilac, though in the black-and-white picture, it was only a grainy grey colour. It was made of silk and it draped round the gentle curves of her body as if she were a Greek goddess. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine the heady scent of the lily of the valley and violets in the corsage on her right shoulder. The day had been perfect. As the centre of attention, she had enjoyed every minute. What a pity the marriage hadn’t lived up to expectation. Her mouth set into a hard line as the memory of her wedding night with all that heavy breathing and perspiration came to mind. She’d been both horrified and revolted. She’d hated every minute and dreaded each repeat performance. She shuddered as she recalled her husband pawing at her clothes, the coarse hairs of his leg rubbing against hers and the nauseating aim of it all. When she got to heaven, she would have a serious word with God about it.
She stood up suddenly, scraping the chair back noisily on the parquet floor. The photograph had to go, the same way as he had gone. All that was a lifetime ago, and a horrible memory she refused to trigger again. She tore the picture in half again and again and again. Heading for the kitchen range, she was still struggling to get the thought of ‘it’ out of her mind. She’d pretended that her monthlies lasted for two weeks; she’d pleaded a headache or tiredness. She never once willingly gave herself to him. To give him his due, he’d never actually forced her, but he’d never stopped wanting it. As soon as she’d got pregnant, she’d had the perfect excuse. He didn’t like it, but he’d respected it, although the moment the twins were born, he’d wanted to start the whole miserable business again.
She lifted the lid of the range and an orange flame leapt greedily towards her hand. She dropped the pieces inside and slammed down the lid.
Behind her, she heard the garden gate click. Her daughter would be here at any moment. Reaching for the kettle, Maud put it on the hob.
‘Have you seen this?’ As she walked into the kitchen, Marion threw the Sussex County Magazine across the table.
Her mother picked it up. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘I was working in the reference library this morning,’ said Marion. ‘I had to put the library stamp on the inside page and I noticed the picture.’
The magazine was folded back to reveal an article about the Sussex Sisters. Her mother frowned. ‘Why should I be interested in this?’
‘Look at the picture,’ said Marion.
Her mother squinted at the page. With an exasperated tut, her daughter went to look for her glasses, then lowered herself expectantly into a chair as her mother began to read. She didn’t have to wait long for a reaction.
‘It’s her!’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Marion, curling her lip. ‘Just look at her. All dolled up like a dog’s dinner, cocky cow.’
‘Typical,’ her mother scoffed. ‘Well, I wouldn’t give you tuppence to listen to her.’
‘You know what this means, don’t you?’
Her mother gave her a blank stare.
‘It means we can find out where she lives, Mum. The timing couldn’t be better. We’re almost twenty-five.’
The girls were slowly but surely gaining a reputation. News of Lillian’s stance against Sly Stan travelled fast, but it didn’t impress everyone. Iris seemed as prickly as ever. After a particularly trying day, Lillian stopped by the cafe for a cup of tea about fifteen minutes before closing time. There were only three customers, all of them sitting at separate tables.
‘Got any tea in that pot, Iris?’ Lillian called cheerfully. ‘My throat is as dry as a biscuit.’
A passenger was just on his way out of the cafe to catch his train as she walked in. Lillian stepped aside to let him pass.
‘You’re one of the Sussex Sisters, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Lillian with a smile.
‘You girls came into the factory where my daughter works,’ said the man, pumping her hand. ‘They’re worked to death and it was really getting her down, but after your performance that lunchtime, it bucked them up no end. Thank you – you’re doing a grand job.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Lillian, deeply touched.
‘You must put in hours of practice to be that good,’ the man went on.
Lillian nodded and glanced up at the big clock. ‘Got a practice tonight.’
The man only let go of her hand as his train rumbled into the station. Lillian gave him a mock salute as he hurried away.
‘Nice to be appreciated,’ said Lillian as she approached the counter.
Iris lifted the heavy stainless-steel teapot from the counter and placed it behind her on the draining board. ‘This tea is stewed,’ she said sniffily, ‘and I don’t have time to make a fresh pot. We close at five.’
Lillian smiled. ‘Don’t worry – that’ll do so long as it’s wet and warm.’ She took a cup and saucer from the stack next to the hot-water urn and put it at the front of the counter.
‘All the tea in this cafe has to be paid for,’ said Iris, picking up a tea towel to dry up a couple of plates. ‘I’m sure Southern Railway can’t afford to dish out free cups to all and sundry.’
Lillian relaxed her stance. ‘Come on, Iris,’ she said good-naturedly. ‘I really need reviving. It’s been one hell of a day.’
Ignoring her, Iris carried on drying up.
Lillian fished around in her pocket and pulled out two pennies. Slapping them noisily onto the counter, she said pointedly, ‘A cup of tea, please, love.’
Something flashed in Iris’s eyes. ‘Don’t you call me “love”,’ she said indignantly. ‘How dare you speak to me like that, you cheeky mare? You should have more respect.’
Now it was Lillian’s turn to see red. ‘My mother always taught me that respect,’ she spat, ‘was something you earned.’
Iris turned her back and tipped the teapot upside down in the sink. Lillian watched helplessly as the scalding-hot tea, and lots of it, disappeared down the plughole. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she demanded. ‘You’ve had it in for me ever since I got here.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ Iris retorted. ‘I’ve got better things to do.’
‘No, no,’ said Lillian. ‘It’s true and you know it. Let’s have this out once and for all.’
Behind her, Lillian could hear the few remaining customers leaving the room.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ said Iris. ‘You’re driving everybody away.’
Lillian turned towards the empty room. Another train was pulling up at the platform. When she turned back, Iris gave Lillian a triumphant glare.
‘Like you said,’ said Lillian, willing herself to stay calm, ‘you’re closing at five. Nobody else is coming in, so kindly explain exactly what I’ve done to offend you.’
Iris carried on with her work.
‘You’re jealous,’ said Lillian. She could feel her own cheeks beginning to heat up, but she wasn’t about to let this go, not yet. ‘You didn’t like it that despite all of your criticism, I got a promotion. Or maybe it’s because of the singing group?’
The door opened and Betty Shrimpton came in with her hat and coat on. ‘Ready?’ she asked her friend, but Iris was preoccupied.
‘Jealous?’ Iris retorted with a hollow laugh. ‘Why would I be jealous of a jumped-up little tart like you? Don’t make me laugh.’
Lillian put her hand on her hip. ‘Who are you calling a tart?!’ she cried.
‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been up to, my girl,’ Iris shouted back. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’ cried Lillian. ‘Who’s been talking about me?’
‘It’s all over Worthing,’ said Iris. ‘Making up filthy rhymes about people . . . It shouldn’t be allowed. You do know you lost that poor man his job?’
For a second or two, Lillian was taken aback. What poor man? What job? And then it dawned on her. Iris must have heard about Sly Stan. ‘Well, I’m sorry if he’s lost his job,’ she conceded, ‘but that sleazebag had no right to paw me about. And he was doing it to half the girls in the factory, from what I heard.’
Iris tilted her head defiantly. ‘Stan happens to live in my road,’ she said.
‘He can live with the King and Queen for all I care,’ Lillian retorted. ‘That doesn’t give him the right to put his hand between my buttocks and feel me.’
‘Ooh, you’re disgusting,’ said Betty, curling her lip.
‘I’m disgusting?’ Lillian cried indignantly. ‘He was the one doing it.’
‘You’ve got a bloody cheek,’ said Iris, ‘getting on your high horse like that. We all know the way you flaunt yourself about.’
‘I have never flaunted myself at anyone,’ said Lillian, ‘and I’ll thank you to mind your own business and stop casting aspersions.’
‘All this from a person who had to get married?’ Iris retorted. ‘And from what I hear, you were hardly out of a gymslip.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ Lillian demanded.
A mild-mannered voice behind them said, ‘Now, now, ladies.’
Lillian turned to see that Mr Rawlings, the stationmaster, had come into the room. Outside, the platform was filling up with troops. Something must be on the move somewhere. They were already three or four deep on the platform and still coming.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Rawlings,’ said Iris, looking down her nose, ‘but I really must insist that this . . . this person be banned from the cafe. As you can see, her belligerent attitude has driven all the customers outside, and I really can’t cope with her nastiness any more.’
‘Me belligerent!’ cried Lillian. ‘All I did was ask for a cup of tea.’
‘Ladies,’ Mr Rawlings said, holding up his hands, ‘that is enough. Settle your differences outside of working hours. I will not tolerate what amounts to a staff brawl while you’re in uniform.’
‘I paid for the tea,’ said Lillian, pointing to her money on the counter, ‘but she preferred to tip it down the sink rather than pour me a cup.’
‘It was closing time,’ Iris insisted.
There was a cry as some soldier outside spotted Lillian and knocked on the glass.
Mr Rawlings lifted his hand. ‘Mrs Harris, please. Go home.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Lillian haughtily. ‘I won’t be coming back in here even if you paid me.’ She made to leave, but then turned back. Pointing a finger at Iris, she added, ‘And I won’t have you spreading vicious rumours and lies about my good reputation.’
‘You lost that, my girl,’ Iris added acidly, ‘when you were seen kissing a Canadian soldier in the Ilex Way.’
At the same time, the door opened and a couple of Canadian soldiers pushed their way into the room.
Lillian felt her face flush. She had been seen? All those months ago, someone had seen her with Woody and Iris hadn’t mentioned it until now? But who? She caught sight of Betty looking very uncomfortable and then she remembered. Betty had only just started in the ticket office, but she had been in the Ilex Way walking her dog when she and Woody had been together that day. Hot with embarrassment, Lillian turned on her heel. It took everything she had to hold her head high as she walked towards the door.
‘Hello, sweetheart,’ said the soldier, thinking she was coming over to him. ‘You’re one of the Sussex Sisters, aren’t you?’ He leaned towards her and planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘You were lovely,’ he said. ‘Lovely.’
Lillian’s step faltered as Iris called after her, ‘Kissing in broad daylight, Lillian Harris? And you a married woman with your poor husband a prisoner of war. Shame on you. Shame, I say.’