The Courts was an area of slum houses, no different from the slums in any big city, Catherine supposed. And she’d seen plenty of those in London. The row of terraced houses where she’d grown up, and where she and Christopher had made their home, was perfectly respectable, and their neighbours had jobs and steady incomes, but she’d gone to a school a few streets away that was surrounded by run-down housing and she was used to seeing children without shoes and men and women struggling with poverty.
So when Della led Catherine and Frances through an archway and they found that they were in a large, square courtyard closely surrounded by tall, grimy houses, the area was not a surprise, or in the least bit alarming to Catherine. Frances, used to farm cottages with dirt floors and where the smell of animals pervaded the air, wasn’t shocked either. It was a different type of poverty, that was all.
Water leaked from a hydrant erected on the cobbles at the centre of the courtyard, and puddles trickled slowly away in dirty little streams. An elderly woman was filling a big enamel jug from the tap, and a couple of young girls, dressed in ragged dresses and wellington boots, kicked through the puddles, sending sprays of mud all about the square. They were giggling and having a wonderful time, and Catherine and Frances smiled at them, but when a spurt of dirty water landed close to Della’s white shoes, she didn’t find it in any way charming.
‘You little devils,’ she shouted at them. ‘I’ll tell yer mam and you’ll get in trouble.’
‘You don’t know who our mam is,’ said one of the girls, with a cheeky laugh.
‘That’s what you think,’ Della growled, as the children, still laughing, skipped away through the archway that led to the next court. The old woman with the enamel jug stared at her, her head on one side, obviously trying to place her.
‘Do you know those children?’ asked Frances.
‘No, of course I don’t,’ Della snorted, stepping carefully across the cobbles. ‘But it did get rid of them.’
Catherine and Frances looked at each other and smiled.
‘Ma lives in that house,’ Della said, pointing to a building across the square. It looked in better condition than the rest: the windows were cleaner, and the front door appeared to have been recently painted. Catherine recognised the colour as ‘battleship grey’ and guessed that it was the actual paint that the navy used for ships and was probably pinched from the dockyard. That grey door was open, and as the three girls walked towards it, a young man came out, his cap perched on the back of his head and his lips pursed as he whistled a tune.
‘Paddy!’ Della called. ‘Why aren’t you at school?’ She looked back to her friends. ‘He’s my brother,’ she said.
The boy stopped and then grinned and ran over. He gave Della a clumsy hug. ‘Delia,’ he said joyfully. ‘Where the hell have you come from? Does Ma know?’
‘London, and no,’ Della said. ‘And you haven’t answered my question. Why aren’t you at school, you little beggar? You’ll end up a dunce if you don’t go.’
‘I’ve left,’ Paddy protested. ‘I’m working now.’
‘But you’re only thirteen.’
‘Fourteen,’ he corrected. ‘I left at Easter and Jerry Costigan gave me a job.’
‘Doing what?’ Catherine noticed that Della was frowning.
‘I run errands for him,’ Paddy said defensively, but he wouldn’t meet her eye.
‘I’ll see about that,’ said Della angrily, and walked across the cobbles and through the door, yelling, ‘Ma? Ma, where are you?’
Paddy followed her in.
Frances and Catherine waited outside, nervous in case there was going to be a family row and not wanting to be involved. ‘Have you noticed that people call her “Delia” round here, not “Della”?’ asked Frances. ‘And that her mother is “Mrs Flanagan”, not “Mrs Stafford”?’
‘I have,’ Catherine nodded. ‘“Della” will be her stage name.’
‘And “Stafford”?’
Catherine shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
Suddenly a large, handsome woman strode out of the door, followed by Della. ‘Will you ever come inside?’ she roared, holding out her hands. ‘Is me house not good enough for you?’
‘This is my mother,’ Della muttered, unnecessarily, for although Ma Flanagan had grey-streaked dark red hair and was much heavier, the two women had exactly the same striking face and blue eyes. ‘And this is Catherine Fletcher’ – Della pushed Catherine forward – ‘and’ – she nodded to Frances – ‘Frances Parnell.’
Ma Flanagan took hold of Catherine and Frances’s hands and gave them a hearty shake. ‘Friends of Delia, would you be? At the theatre? Well, you’re most kindly welcome. Come in, do,’ and she drew them towards the door. There, she paused and looked over Catherine’s shoulder to the old woman with the enamel jug.
‘Good day to you, Mrs Button,’ she called. ‘I’ll be round later with your tonic.’
There was a cackling laugh in response, but Catherine didn’t have time to look back, because Ma Flanagan had ushered them into a dark, over-furnished room, where a red velvet-covered sofa vied for space with two matching armchairs and a large mahogany table. Six velvet-seated chairs were arranged round the table, and Frances noticed that the glass vase that sat in the centre of it was a match to the Waterford set that they had at home. And, to her astonishment, she saw other nice pieces on a shelf and on the windowsill that would have certainly graced the formal dining room at Parnell Hall.
Della sighed. ‘Ma, I told you – I’m not at the theatre now. I’ve joined this company where we entertain the troops and factory workers. We’ve just come from the engineering works round the corner. We put on quite a show.’
‘Did you, indeed?’ her mother said. ‘And why didn’t you let me know so I could come to see you? That would have been grand.’
Della shrugged. ‘I dare say you’ll be told about it: I recognised lots of the workers.’
Her mother nodded. ‘Oh yes, many of the women from the Courts work there. Rather them than me.’ She crossed herself. ‘Mary, Mother of God but the work is dangerous.’
Catherine and Frances looked at each other and then at Della. She was giving her mother a puzzled look.
‘What the hell are they making?’ she asked.
‘Munitions, of course. Filling shells with TNT or something. Sure and I wouldn’t know what, and neither do those poor women.’
‘Goodness,’ laughed Frances, looking at Della. ‘And there was you dancing up and down the aisle. You could have blown us to kingdom come. No wonder that Mr Jones was sweating.’
‘Him?’ Ma Flanagan snorted. ‘He’s always sweating. Too much exercise in the trouser department with the girls at the factory.’ A glimmer of a smile crossed her face. ‘The old eejit will peg out soon.’
Paddy was leaning against the door, jiggling the coins in his pocket. He was a good-looking boy, with the same strong features as his mother and sister.
Della scowled at him and then at her mother. ‘Why is he working for Jerry Costigan?’ she asked. ‘Your man’s nothing but a crook.’ Catherine noticed that Della had fallen into the same Irish accent as her mother.
Ma Flanagan grimaced. ‘Don’t I know that? But, Jesus and Mary, wasn’t I exhausted trying to keep the boy at school? And besides, I’ve had words with Mr Costigan. He’ll keep him out of trouble. He knows there’ll be hell to pay if he don’t.’
Paddy straightened up. ‘See?’ he said with a cocky grin, and then, ‘I’ve got a message to run, Ma. See you later,’ and he disappeared through the door.
Ma Flanagan shook her head, rather indulgently Catherine thought, and then said, ‘Now, you girls sit down and I’ll fetch the tea. But first, I’m going to bring Maria down. She’ll be thrilled to see you.’
‘I’ll get her,’ said Della, and, turning to Catherine and Frances, said, ‘Won’t be a sec.’
They sat, not talking but looking around, waiting to see what would happen next. Ma Flanagan had gone through a door into the next room, but soon reappeared with a tray of cups and saucers, and a big fruit cake on a heavily decorated plate. Catherine wondered where she’d found the sugar and the dried fruit to make such a huge cake, and said so.
Ma Flanagan tapped her nose and grinned. ‘There are ways,’ she said, ‘if you can find the money.’
Frances was looking at the plate. She recognised the china pattern: they had pieces of that at home, in a cabinet in the long gallery.
‘I love that plate,’ she said, pointing to it.
‘Do you, darlin’?’ Ma Flanagan smiled. ‘’Tis Royal Worcester.’
‘Mm,’ Frances nodded. ‘I know. My parents have some plates like that.’
Ma gave her an inquisitive stare. ‘Delia said your name is Parnell?’
Frances nodded.
‘D’you come from the old country?’
‘No,’ Frances smiled. ‘But I think my father’s family had land in Ireland once. It’s long gone now, though.’
Ma sighed. ‘Isn’t that always the way.’ She turned her attention to Catherine. ‘And you, darlin’, do I catch a bit of an accent in your voice?’
‘I’m half French,’ said Catherine. ‘My mother comes from Amiens. I spent my holidays at my French grandparents’ farm.’
‘And now the Germans are there, I suppose,’ Ma sighed. ‘And you’ve not heard from them?’
Catherine shook her head. ‘No, nothing, and my mother is dreadfully worried. We’d do anything to find out how they are.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realised that what she’d just said was a lie. Robert Lennox had asked her to go beyond the Allied lines in France and she’d refused. I used Christopher and Lili as an excuse, she thought, but could it be that I’m simply a coward? She could feel her cheeks flushing.
There was a noise at the door and Della walked in carrying a girl who looked about ten years old. She was thin, with long white legs dangling from beneath a blue nightgown. Catherine and Frances stood up and moved forward almost instinctively to help as Della gently laid the girl on the velvet sofa.
‘Hello!’ cried the girl elatedly.
‘This is my sister, Maria,’ Della smiled. ‘And these are my friends, Catherine and Frances.’
Frances was the first to put out her hand. ‘Hello, Maria,’ she said. ‘How lovely to meet you. I’m Frances.’
‘And I am Catherine.’ She gave the girl a smile.
‘This is wonderful, isn’t it, Ma?’ said Maria, her face bright with excitement as she grasped first Frances’s hand and then Catherine’s. ‘I love to meet new people.’
Ma Flanagan planted a big kiss on Maria’s cheek and dragged a shawl from the back of the sofa to wrap round the girl’s wasted legs. Della put cushions behind her head and soon Maria was sitting upright and regarding the girls with pleasure as they retook their seats at the table.
Just as Ma was about to pour the tea, there was a knock on the door and a quavering voice called, ‘Mrs Flanagan? Are you there?’
‘Tch!’ Ma put down the teapot. ‘’Tis Mrs Button. She can’t wait.’
‘I’ll get it.’ Della stood up. ‘Is it in the cellar?’
‘It is,’ said Ma, and Maria, from the sofa, called after her, ‘Make sure you get the money. A shilling.’
Della opened a different door from the one to the kitchen and a blast of cool air came into the room. The girls heard her white shoes tapping down stone steps, and in a minute she was back, carrying a small brown ribbed bottle. It must be the tonic Ma had promised earlier, Catherine thought, and wondered what was in it.
When Della came back to the table, she put down a shilling piece beside the tray. ‘Put it in the tin,’ demanded Maria, ‘and hand me the account book, please.’ She smiled as Della put the shilling in an old Lipton tea canister that sat on a shelf beside the small fireplace and handed her the book that lay beneath it. ‘I’m the bookkeeper,’ she said proudly, and opening the ledger, took the pencil that was lying between the pages and wrote down the transaction.
Three times there was a knock at the door during the tea party, and three times Della went down to the cellar.
‘Your tonic is very popular,’ said Catherine, sipping her tea.
Ma grinned. ‘It is, darlin’. Everyone seems to find that a swig cheers them up.’
‘You buy it from the chemist?’
‘Chemist?’ Ma laughed. ‘Jesus, no. I make it. ’Tis an old family recipe. Me da showed it me when I was child, and didn’t I bring it from home all those years ago?’
Frances gave a brief glance towards Della and smiled when she saw that her friend was looking embarrassed. You didn’t have to be a genius to guess what was in it.
It was cosy in that dark room, where barely any light came in from the small window, and Ma had to turn up the flame on the gas mantle. They talked about the newly formed troupe and what they all did.
Frances explained that she didn’t do a turn, but was Beau’s assistant. ‘I’ve known him for years,’ she said. ‘My father is friendly with his, and of course, he went to school with my brother.’
‘Is your brother in the forces?’ asked Paddy. He’d come in from running his message and cut himself a large slice of cake before gently pushing Maria’s legs aside, to sit on the couch next to her.
After a moment, Frances cleared her throat and said, ‘Well, yes, but he’s a prisoner of war. In the Far East. I think he’s alright, but … we haven’t heard from him for about nine months.’ This last came out in a rush and Catherine saw that there were tears in Frances’s eyes. She reached over and gave her friend’s hand a squeeze.
‘Isn’t that dreadful?’ Ma Flanagan murmured. ‘But don’t you worry, darlin’ – you know where he is and he’ll come home.’
Catherine felt a lump of ice settling in her stomach. Ma Flanagan’s kind words to Frances had somehow made her loss worse. It had been a month since she’d had the telegram about Christopher, and every day that passed made his absence greater. She put down her piece of cake, unable now to eat another morsel.
‘Catherine’s husband is missing in action.’ It was Della, up again from the cellar with another bottle of tonic. The woman waiting for it had walked into the room and had put her shilling on the table. She was the factory worker who’d shouted out during the performance and seemed to be a special friend of Ma Flanagan. Now she shook her head sadly.
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘And you with the voice of an angel.’ She turned to Ma Flanagan. ‘Your Delia puts on a show that you’d walk a couple of miles to see, but that girl sings like a bird. A bluebird. She had me and quite a few others in tears.’
Ma Flanagan got up from her chair and, squeezing past Frances, put her ample arms about Catherine and gave her a hug. ‘Keep your chin up, darlin’. Strange things happen in war.’
‘They do,’ said the factory worker. ‘D’you remember Jessie Kearney’s husband? Declared drowned, he was, when his ship went down, but he was found in a life raft, ten days after she was told he was gone.’ She paused, then mused, ‘Mind you, by the end of the first week, she’d sold his clothes and was already going tally with Cyril Stevens. Gave her quite a turn when she got the telegram to say that he was rescued.’
An awkward silence filled the room after that remark, and Catherine felt Ma Flanagan’s arms stiffen around her body. She was plainly horrified that someone could have been embarrassed in her house, but then there was a little bubbling sound from Della, and looking past Ma’s large body, she saw that her friend was endeavouring not to giggle, but failing.
‘Oh God,’ said Della, ‘sorry,’ and then burst into gales of laughter, followed swiftly by her brother and then Frances.
‘Delia!’ Ma Flanagan was scandalised, but Catherine could see how funny it was and started to laugh too. Eventually everyone was grinning, even Ma, and although she reached over and gave Della a reproving tap on the hand, the situation was saved and more tea was poured.
‘I’d have loved to have heard you sing,’ said Maria, when everyone had calmed down. ‘I miss everything.’
‘You don’t,’ Ma Flanagan insisted. ‘I take you out in the chair when I go to the shops and you talk to everyone. And Paddy sometimes wheels you down to the docks.’
‘Huh!’ the girl grumbled. ‘We get there, he parks my chair, and he goes to do some dodgy deal. He’s a right scally!’
‘I’m not,’ Paddy said, his face reddening. ‘I might see a few of my pals, that’s all. Anyway, I took you to the fairground last Christmas. I didn’t hear you complain then.’
‘I will sing for you, if you’d like me to,’ said Catherine. ‘I’ll do the one I sang in the factory – then you won’t have missed anything.’
‘Isn’t she the darlin?’ Ma enthused, grinning widely.
‘And I’ll do my number as well,’ Della added, ‘but there isn’t room in here to do my dance.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Ma said. ‘Let’s go outside and you can do your turn there.’
The factory worker grabbed her tonic. ‘Wait five minutes,’ she said. ‘My Joe would love to see this. I’ll go and get him.’
By the time Paddy had manoeuvred Maria’s wheelchair through the doorway and Della had carefully carried her sister outside and settled her comfortably into it, quite a crowd had assembled. Obviously, the factory worker had not only told Joe but most of the other residents of the courtyard.
Things had taken on a festive air. Residents young and old had come out of their houses, and the late-afternoon sun had pierced a hole in the grey clouds and sent a golden beam, like a spotlight, onto the cobbles. Catherine thought that the whole scene looked like a stage set.
‘This is so wonderful,’ Maria breathed, and Ma put a fond hand on her cheek, then frowned as Paddy wandered off to the other side of the square to speak to a tall, brown-haired man. He looked different from the other people gathered. He had smarter clothes and a clever face, and as he reached up to brush his hair away from his forehead, Catherine, watching the byplay, caught a glimpse of not only a gold ring on his little finger but a gold wristwatch too. She knew, instinctively, that this was Jerry Costigan.
‘What’s he doing here?’ Della grumbled to her mother.
‘Leave it,’ Ma Flanagan snapped. ‘Don’t make trouble.’
Della gave her mother a hard stare but said nothing.
Frances pushed Catherine forward. ‘You’d better get on with it,’ she whispered, looking at her watch. ‘Remember, we have a train to catch. I’ll do the introductions.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she called out. ‘We’re part of a troupe set up to entertain the military and the workers, and we hope we’re doing some good. We all know boys who are overseas, and some have been sadly lost, and we do remember them. Those of you working in the factories are doing jobs of equal importance, and we know that the government recognises your efforts. So’ – she looked down at Maria – ‘for the sake of those who missed us, we’re going to perform a couple of the numbers we did this afternoon at the factory.’
She nodded to Catherine, who stepped into the centre of the square and stood beside the water hydrant. She loved to sing, so an impromptu performance didn’t matter to her, and when she opened her mouth and sang the opening lines, the crowd fell silent. She thought of the many times she’d sung this while appearing at nightclubs and music halls with the Melody Men and how, before they’d started going out together, Christopher would sit at a table closest to the stage and watch her.
‘Your professor is here again,’ Bobby Crewe would whisper away from the microphone. ‘He can’t get enough of you. One of these days, he’ll pluck up the courage to ask you out.’
‘Why d’you call him “the professor”?’ she’d murmured back.
‘Don’t you remember? The first time he came was with some students. They were joining up and he brought them here for a leaving party. He must be deferred.’
But he wasn’t. Soon he was in uniform, and, somehow, that uniform gave him the courage to wait for her at the stage door. They married four months later, and then he went overseas.
The cheers and applause that echoed round the courtyard when she’d finished broke into Catherine’s memories and she smiled, looking around and nodding her head in thanks.
‘Oh, Catherine,’ squealed Maria, ‘that was beautiful. Will our Delia sing next?’
‘Yes, she will,’ Frances grinned. ‘And hold on to your hat.’
Della blasted out ‘I Wish I Were In Love Again’, while throwing in a couple of high kicks and some daring twirls, which drew gasps of delight. She invited the audience to sing the chorus with her, which at first they were reluctant to do, but Catherine and even Frances joined in, encouraging first Maria and then Ma to try, and soon the whole square rang to the sound of a Broadway number.
‘More!’ shouted the audience, but Frances had one eye on her watch.
‘We’ll have to go soon,’ she said.
Maria took her hand. ‘Just one more,’ she pleaded, and Frances looked at Della and Catherine.
‘Who’s going to do it?’
‘Let’s sing together,’ suggested Della. ‘You too, Frances. I heard you just now and you’ve not got a bad voice. We’ll do one of the Andrews Sisters numbers … “I’ll Be With You In Apple Blossom Time”. D’you know it?’
Catherine nodded, and Frances said, ‘I can remember some of it, but I’ll hum what I don’t know.’
They stood together, Catherine in the middle, and after Della beat them in with a ‘One, two, three, four’, they sang in harmony. It worked well, their three voices complementing each other, and after they’d finished, they looked at each other in amazement.
‘Wow!’ laughed Della. ‘How did we do that? D’you know, with a bit of rehearsal, we could put it in the show.’ But there was no time to discuss it, for they were surrounded by people shaking their hands and patting them on the shoulder.
Frances pointed to her watch again. ‘We have to go. It’s only an hour before the train leaves.’ She grabbed Della’s arm. ‘D’you know where we can get the bus to the station?’
‘Don’t bother with the bus, love. I’ll give you a lift.’
Frances turned to see Jerry Costigan standing behind her. Close up, she could see that he was rather good-looking, with startlingly pale blue eyes in a sculptured face. In this area of obvious poverty, he looked wealthy. His black suit was made of fine, smooth material, and he wore it over a crisp white shirt and plain blue tie. If Frances hadn’t heard Della describing him as a crook, she would have imagined him a solicitor or a doctor. Respectable middle class at the least.
‘No, thanks,’ Della butted in. ‘The bus will do.’
Jerry ignored her and remained looking at Frances. ‘What time’s your train, love?’
‘Seven twenty-one.’
‘You’ll never do it.’ He glanced at his expensive watch. ‘It’s gone six thirty now, and you’ll have to get through all the traffic: the shift workers will be coming off, and the buses will be full. Look, my motor is in the street. It can take you three easy, and your bags.’
Frances looked at Della and then at Catherine. ‘What shall we do?’
‘We’ll have to accept his offer,’ Catherine said. ‘I don’t want to miss the train. Lili and Maman are waiting for me.’
They turned to Della. She was scowling and shaking her head.
‘Della,’ pleaded Catherine, and Frances raised her eyebrows nervously.
‘Oh, alright,’ Della sighed. She glared at Jerry Costigan. ‘No obligations, mind. D’you hear me?’
‘Sure,’ he grinned. ‘Whatever you say.’
The girls went to say goodbye to Ma Flanagan and Maria. ‘Bye, Ma,’ said Della, giving her mother a hug. ‘I’ll try and get up again in a few months.’ She kissed Maria and pressed some coins into her hand. ‘Buy some sweeties, darling, and be a good girl.’
‘I always am,’ said the girl with a laugh, and turned to hug first Catherine and then Frances. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll never forget this afternoon.’
Ma Flanagan hugged Catherine. ‘Try to remember that he’s only missing,’ she murmured in Catherine’s ear, ‘and there’s every chance he’ll come home to you. I’ll light a candle for him in church on Sunday.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Flanagan.’ Catherine felt tears coming to her eyes again and turned away so that Frances could have her hugs and then picked up her suitcase.
‘Ready?’ Jerry Costigan walked across the courtyard towards the archway and the girls followed, waved away by the people who were drifting back towards their houses.
‘That was fun,’ said Frances, linking arms with Della, ‘and I loved meeting your mother and your sister and brother.’ She paused for a moment and then said, ‘What’s the matter with Maria?’
‘Oh,’ Della sighed, ‘she was born like that. There’s something wrong with her spine. Ma has tried everything, and she’s seen loads of doctors, but they say there’s nothing they can do. It’s such a shame because she’s so clever and pretty.’
‘It is,’ Frances agreed. ‘But she’s a good help to your ma with the moonshine business.’
‘What?’ Della blustered, and then laughed. ‘Oh God, I thought you might have guessed. What about you, Catherine?’
But Catherine wasn’t paying attention. As they turned the corner into the main street, where Jerry Costigan’s shiny Humber limousine waited for them, she was looking across the road to where Eric Baxter loitered, pretending to look in a shop window.