The pungent smell of fresh fish and meat seared Violet Millington’s nostrils as she weaved her way through the throng of stalls. This was Bradmore Lane market at its finest, thriving with life as Hammersmith turned out in full force to buy that week’s rations. She stopped for a moment and marvelled at the queue for Thick Mick’s butchers, so called because of his cuts of meat, not his intelligence. It was so long this week it snaked past the ironmonger’s, milliner’s and greengrocer stalls, eventually disappearing around the corner. There was only one reason for a queue that long, and Violet was sure it wasn’t down to the size of his chops. No, he had to be giving away a little something extra with that week’s rations. Tinned peaches most likely. Tinned anything in fact went down well in these parts, Violet thought. She smiled grimly. On any other day her mother Betty would be at the front of that queue. But not this morning. Instead her mother had been more concerned about where her daughters were now working and how within a few weeks they would end up with the morals of an alley cat. Remembering their earlier row Violet shuddered. As Betty began her usual lecture on how working at a dance hall was tantamount to dancing with the devil, Violet had nudged her younger sister Maisie and together they had each grabbed their slices of toast and fled from the house, Betty hot on their heels shouting all the way down the road how they were breaking her heart.
Maisie, on Violet’s instruction, had run on ahead while Violet paused to reason with their mother. But taking in Betty’s stony expression and red face, Violet quickly regretted her decision. Betty didn’t want to listen and so Violet had started running again. What she hadn’t expected was for Betty to chase her down to the market with the neighbours gawping at yet another family row playing out on the street. But that was Betty Millington for you, Violet thought knowingly, she always did like the last word.
Now, she peered through the crowds hoping she had finally given her old ma the slip. Only spotting a familiar floral housecoat yards away from her at the ironmonger stall, Violet cursed inwardly.
‘Violet,’ Betty began shouting with all the grace of a fishwife. ‘Violet. I know you’re ’ere.’
Without a backward glance, Violet hurried through the market and up to the top of the road. Her raven hair fell loose from the elegant chignon she had arranged that morning, but she didn’t stop.
Fifteen minutes later she rounded the corner, beads of sweat trickling down her forehead. Turning onto Brook Green Road, she only stopped running when she saw the white classical building just yards away. Pausing for a moment to catch her breath, Violet felt a burst of pleasure as she drank in the words above the arched doorway – Hammersmith Palais de Danse. This was it – her fresh start.
As the sun chose that particular moment to push through the clouds and beam down on Violet, she allowed herself to enjoy this moment of pleasure. All her life, the Palais just a few streets from her home had been the stuff of legend. It was the most glamorous dance hall in England – no, Europe – with film, sports stars and even royalty regularly dancing at the Palais. Violet’s grandmother, Queenie, had filled her head with what she suspected were tall tales of dancing with such stars when the Palais had first opened in 1919. Queenie would spend hours waxing lyrical about the elegance and beauty of the Chinese-themed Palais that was the perfect backdrop for the waltz or quickstep. Later, when Violet and her twin brother Roy had started going to the Palais on Saturday nights, she too had marvelled at the glamour of the dance hall and gasped with delight as film stars Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks Junior danced amongst them. If anything, Violet had begun to realise that Queenie had been downplaying the grandeur.
Hammersmith Palais de Danse prided itself on offering unbridled luxury at a price all could afford. Violet hadn’t really been sure what that meant until Queenie took her aside and explained that only the dancers wore ballgowns, and even then not all the time. The real people, she told her, wore the best clothes they had which was usually a simple skirt and blouse they had run up themselves.
Later, when their younger sister Maisie was older, she had come along with her and Roy. The three of them had cut quite a sight on the dance floor, taking it in turns to two-step and tango. There may not have always been film stars at the Palais but to Violet the place was always awash with glamour.
Today she and Maisie would begin work at the Palais and Violet wondered what Roy would say. At the thought of her twin Violet felt the familiar sting of tears. It had been more than a month since his death and she still couldn’t bring herself to think of him without breaking down. For twenty-one years Roy had been her world, they had finished each other’s sentences and known what the other was thinking without having to say a word. They had never needed anyone else. Whenever the other had gone courting, the other had always gone along as well, just to make sure they were good enough, Roy always teased. It was no surprise any potential sweetheart hadn’t lasted long.
Now her anchor was gone. Roy had been killed serving his country when his ship was sunk by a German submarine off the Orkney Islands. It still didn’t feel real. There were brief moments when Violet forgot Roy was no longer by her side and then she would remember and a fresh wave of grief would rise again and it would feel as if she had just lost him all over again.
Her eyes landed on the newspaper seller across the road next to the fire station. Headlines boasting about the recent Anglo-French Supreme War Council meeting in London where members declared neither Britain nor France would make a separate peace deal with Germany still burst from the pages. She snorted in disgust. What good would it do? Hitler was hell-bent on destroying lives everywhere.
‘You forgot something,’ called a voice.
Spinning around, Violet saw her grandmother waddling towards her, a brown parcel under her arm. The spring sunshine beamed directly down on top of her thick head of grey hair giving her a sort of halo effect, making her look almost angelic. Violet suppressed a laugh. Queenie Millington was many things, but angelic she most certainly was not.
‘All right, Nan,’ she said tentatively, as Queenie approached.
‘I made you and Maisie sandwiches before you fled the house,’ she said by way of greeting, handing over the heavy wax paper parcel tied with string. ‘It’s the last of your ham rations. I think it’s all right, didn’t smell too bad anyway.’
Violet grinned. ‘You siding with Betty? Making sure we’re as popular as off milk so we get the sack on our first day?’
‘I’ve done no such thing, my girl. I think you and Maisie working up here’ll be an adventure.’ Queenie’s eyes strayed briefly to the newspaper headlines Violet had just read. ‘I think we could all do with a bit of that.’
Violet stuffed the sandwiches into the leather bag she had bought for her twenty-first birthday as Queenie continued. ‘Don’t give your mother an ’ard time. I know she’s a pain in the ’arris but she’s struggling, Vi.’
Anger flared up inside her. ‘Ain’t we all? Roy’s passing’s not easy on any of us.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Queenie replied. ‘But Betty’s your mother and for that alone she’s owed a bit of respect. How comes you ran out like that?’
‘I couldn’t listen to her maithering anymore,’ Violet said with a sigh. ‘For the last two weeks all me and Maisie have heard is how we’ve morals as loose as our knickers getting a job up the Palais. I’ve had enough of it, Nan.’
‘How d’you leave it?’
‘With her threatening to come down the dance hall and pull me and Maisie out by our hair if we so much as thought about starting work down there today.’
Queenie looked weary as she shook her head and pulled out a carton of Craven A from her handbag. Lighting a cigarette, she inhaled deeply before she spoke.
‘She’s not herself. If your brother ’adn’t been killed, she wouldn’t have been this upset about the two of you working up a dance hall. She’s clinging to God like a sailor to a capsized boat.’ Realising what she had said, Queenie made a face. ‘Sorry. Put me size nines in it again.’
Violet shrugged. At least her grandmother was honest. Betty had developed a sudden interest in all things religious since Roy died, regularly trooping back up to St Augustine’s, and it had been a lot for them all to stomach.
‘I know that,’ Violet sighed, eyeing up her grandmother’s cigarette but knowing better than to ask for one.
‘Well, you look the part. All togged up in your finest. You hoping to find a fella at this new job then?’
‘Course I ain’t,’ Violet replied with a hint of indignation. Feeling self-conscious now, she tugged at the dress she had saved up to buy specially for her first day. At the time Violet had thought the high-collared frock was fashionable, now she wondered if it was too showy.
‘My Aunt Fanny you ain’t! Where’s Maisie?’
‘We separated when we fled from the house,’ Violet admitted. ‘I told her I’d meet her at the Palais but she ain’t here yet.’
As Queenie rolled her eyes heavenwards she took another heavy drag on her cigarette before her face fell. ‘Oh my piggin’ days.’
Violet turned around to follow Queenie’s gaze and felt a flash of dread in the pit of her stomach. Marching towards them was Betty. With cheeks red and pinched, her brown eyes flashed with fury.
‘I want a word,’ she yelled across the street.
Violet felt unease wash over her. ‘I think we’ve said all what needs to be said.’
‘That’s the thing, we ain’t,’ Betty said, reaching them, her breath ragged and uneven.
Queenie took another drag of her cigarette. ‘Vi’s right, Bet. You’re making a show of yourself in public if you carry this on.’
Violet glanced across the road and looked at the Palais. People were starting to go in and out of the glass doors. What if the manager who had interviewed them the other week saw her mother screaming in the street? What would she think? Violet wanted the ground to swallow her up whole. She wanted this job more than anything else in the world and wasn’t about to let her mother ruin it.
‘Look, I’m sorry things were said, but this isn’t the place for it. I know you’ve been angry at me and Maisie ever since we told you we was leaving the pub last week. But how long are you gonna keep this up?’
Betty drew herself up to her full height and glared up at her daughter.
‘As long as it takes for you to get it into your head that working in the pub, doing honest cleaning is respectable. You get all sorts in that dance hall. And don’t get me started on them dancers. I don’t want you girls getting in trouble. Dance halls are places of sin, everyone knows it.’
Queenie burst out laughing. ‘Have a day off will you, Bet love? I know you Catholics like sucking the fun out of life but a dance hall’s hardly a passage to hell is it? It’s a place to let your hair down and have a good time and the Palais’s as classy as they come.’
‘And what do you know about it?’ Betty snapped rounding on Queenie.
‘I know a lot. I was in that dance hall just as you were when you and George were courting,’ Queenie said gesturing to the Palais with a jerk of her head. ‘And let’s face it, working up a dance hall’s more fun than cleaning lavvies all day. With everything we’ve all been through these past few weeks you might as well let the girls find a bit of joy where they can.’
There was silence then as all three generations thought of Roy and the pain they felt at his passing.
‘All I’m saying is it’s good news,’ Violet tried again. ‘The Palais don’t just take anyone on you know.’
But the moment the words left her lips Violet knew she had said the wrong thing as Betty’s face went from grief-stricken to annoyed.
‘Good news? You and your sister working in a knockin’ shop? Fights, gangs, girls on the game? I’ve read about it all in the papers. I’ve already lost one child, I don’t want nothing else happening to any more of my family.’
Betty said nothing and merely glared at her daughter while Queenie stubbed out her cigarette and changed the subject. ‘So what is it they’ve got you doing then?’
‘Maisie’s in the cloakroom and I’m in the dance hall selling tickets but we’ll both be working each other’s jobs too,’ Violet explained.
‘They still doing them tea dances?’
‘Every afternoon. You should come down one day, Nan.’
Queenie chuckled, the lines around her eyes crinkling in delight. ‘My dancing days are over. Still, I s’pose I could be persuaded, before the bleedin’ government set about shutting everything down again.’
Violet nodded, remembering only too well how the government had closed all the entertainment venues when war broke out in September. Thankfully, however, as people’s morale had plummeted in the face of war the government had seen sense and reopened all the theatres and the like saying they were vital to the war effort to keep people’s spirits up. Violet looked at her mother; could she convince her she was doing vital war work?
‘I might ask Winnie Adams,’ Queenie replied, interrupting Violet’s train of thought. ‘She’s always going on about her granddaughter working up the Palais. Says she can get a discount on the door. Can you do the same for me, love?’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Betty growled before Violet had a chance to reply.
Queenie laughed. ‘I have a feeling I might dare yes, Bet love,’ she said, prodding Betty in the chest before turning back to Violet. ‘Oscar Reyburn still there?’
Violet nodded, pleased to be back on familiar ground discussing bandleaders. ‘And Harry Leder. And the dancers are world class pros.’
‘Pro what though?’ Betty thundered. ‘They’re young girls what’ll go cavorting with anyone who’ll pay ’em sixpence. They ain’t earned the nickname Good Time Girls for no good reason! And it ain’t just me what says it.’
Violet shook her head. Out of the corner of her eye she had just seen Maisie arrive outside the Palais. She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and smiled tightly at her mother.
‘I’ve got to go.’
Betty sighed. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘What is it?’ Violet asked, trying her best not to encourage her mother to hurry up.
‘It’s your father,’ Betty continued. ‘I don’t know how to say this but you know your father, he’s honourable. He says he’s doing this for his son, in his memory.’
At the mention of the word ‘honourable’ Violet locked eyes with Queenie in a knowing gaze. Violet’s father could be described as many things but honourable wasn’t one of them. Thief, gambler and womaniser were more accurate terms.
‘Doing what?’ Queenie asked now, urging her daughter in-law to get to the point.
Betty lifted her chin in an act of bravery. ‘He volunteered to join up yesterday. He’s going in the army, like his boy.’
In that moment Violet felt a mix of emotions. She was about to say something but catching her grandmother’s gaze thought better of it. Instead, so she didn’t have to see her mother’s face fall, Violet turned around and squared her shoulders towards the Palais. This was her future now and nothing was getting in her way.