The Windmill Girls. Kay Brellend
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face. ‘Did it, did yer?’
‘Did what?’ Midge drawled.
‘They’ve got you down for a murder.’
‘Don’t know nuthin’ about that,’ Midge lied and took a nonchalant swig of whisky from the bottle balanced on his knee.
Midge wished he’d hopped it to a remote spot rather than getting himself enlisted when war broke out. But when a group of bombastic pals had gone along to the Navy recruitment centre, Midge had tagged along, caught up in the moment. Following the Battle of the River Plate Midge had had enough of fighting for king and country. He’d no intention of ending up with his legs blown off, as his fellow stoker had when their frigate got torpedoed.
‘Should’ve left Hitler to it out in Europe,’ Midge muttered. ‘Weren’t nothing to do with us what he was getting up to.’
‘Fuckin’ is now though.’ Rufus was used to Midge sounding off to try and conceal his cowardice. But as Rufus had so far managed to avoid joining up, he knew not to have too much to say on the subject. Besides, he wished he’d kept quiet about the sailor who’d been found knifed in the back and dumped in a lifeboat about the same time as Midge jumped ship. Rufus reckoned the man opposite was a vicious git as well as being crafty, and he wouldn’t put anything past him.
‘Way I see it, I could’ve been blown to smithereens in the East End on the weekend I went missing.’ Midge crossed his arms over his chest, looking quite smug. ‘Bad raids fer days as I recall …’
‘So how you gonna square it when you eventually turn up bright as a lark?’ Having rolled himself a smoke Grimes generously held out his tin.
Midge started separating strands of tobacco, watching his stained fingers. ‘War ain’t over yet … I still could come a cropper,’ he replied philosophically. ‘Anyhow, cross them bridges when I come to ’em, won’t I.’
Sticking the limp cigarette in a corner of his mouth he glanced about at their murky surroundings. They were huddled in a corner of an air-raid shelter, each man seated on an upturned box with another positioned between them and employed as a rough table. On its wonky top were scattered a pack of dog-eared playing cards, a depleted bottle of whisky and Rufus’s tin of Old Holborn.
During the daytime, when bombing raids weren’t expected, and ordinary folk went about their business, the shelters were mostly empty, but for rolls of bedding and makeshift bunks lining the walls. Midge saw the opportunity to be had, as did others. Tramps and deserters, looking for a hidey-hole, thought the vacant shelters a godsend. Petty thieves also passed through hoping to find abandoned possessions they could make a bob out of before the owners returned at night to find their stuff missing.
Midge wrinkled his nose against the odour of latrines pervading the air. Idly he began playing solitaire. ‘’Course there’s those two women who got a look at us when we did the outfitter’s,’ he said, the roll-up wagging in his mouth. ‘But I ain’t too concerned over that ’cos doubt we’ll run into them again.’ He chuckled gruffly. ‘Nice-looking pair of girls … wouldn’t have minded getting down to business with either of ’em under different circumstances.’ Midge carried on laying down cards on the box top. ‘Funny thing is, Roof, I thought the older gel seemed familiar; ain’t sure why though …’
Grimes shifted on his seat. He’d not owned up to any of the other members of the gang that he’d bumped into Dawn Nightingale, and worse than that she was his wife’s friend and workmate. And he knew, even if Midge didn’t, why the little man thought he knew Dawn: Midge had been to the shows at the theatre and had probably clocked her on stage.
Rufus had no interest in sophisticated entertainment, or classy women, so had never seen a revue himself. He’d no time for striptease; a good drink, a rough shag then home to bed was all he was after, when his wife made herself unavailable. In his own way he loved Gertie very much. It was just the constant itch in his balls that made him unfaithful.
Midge held out the bottle of whisky, swaying it by its neck. ‘Want a swig?’
‘Nah … better get back, me shift ain’t finished yet.’ Grimes got to his feet. Half an hour ago he’d been road sweeping and had taken an unofficial break, thinking he might find Midge sneaking about in the shelter. He’d fancied a game of cards, feeling his luck was in, but he’d lost five bob and that wouldn’t go down well with Gertie if she found out.
He’d fancied a tot too, but he knew if his boss smelled booze on his breath he’d be for the high jump. Not that he liked shovelling up shit for a living … but Gertie would kill him if he lost his regular pay packet. Tonight he was too skint for a prossie, so he hurried up towards the exit, hoping to keep in his wife’s good books at least till bedtime.
‘Come on, you’ll enjoy an outing, Mum.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Dawn … the sky’s overcast. It’s bound to rain and the damp affects me knees.’ Eliza Nightingale continued sitting obstinately at the parlour table, frowning at her clasped hands.
‘We’ll take an umbrella then, just in case,’ Dawn persisted.
Dawn had a free afternoon and had got complimentary tickets for the variety matinee at the Windmill Theatre as they’d not sold out. Her mother had got herself ready, dressing in her best frock, but as usual Eliza was attempting to cry off at the last moment so she could stay at home close to the gin bottle.
‘I’m not wasting these tickets!’ Dawn forced her mother to her feet and into her coat. ‘Come on, let’s go. We don’t want to miss the start of the show when the clown and juggler do a double act.’
Dawn began ushering her mother and brother towards the front door before one of them tried to duck out of the trip. Walking towards the bus stop she wondered why she went to the trouble of trying to arrange outings for her family when they acted as though they were doing her a favour in accepting a treat.
‘Can’t we go to the pictures instead?’ George moaned as they joined the back of the bus queue. ‘Captain Blood’s back on at the Gaumont. Errol Flynn’s me favourite.’
‘No, we can’t,’ Dawn said on a sigh. ‘You’ll like the show; it’s rather comical … and the mermaid costumes are nice …’
‘Any nude girls in it?’ George asked cheekily.
Eliza glanced, horrified, at her son. ‘That’s quite enough of that talk, young man,’ she whispered, glancing about to see if anybody in the queue had heard his cheeky remark.
‘Do you stand about with no clothes on?’ George deliberately taunted his sister, and got an immediate clip round the ear from his pursed-lipped mother.
Eliza dragged her son to one side as a woman turned around to glare at them. ‘Now you listen to me, young man. Any more of that and you’ll go straight home.’
‘Good,’ George mumbled, although he knew he’d overstepped the mark. He’d been bored all morning and had been looking forward to getting out of the house on a Saturday afternoon. But he was reluctant to let on to his mother and sister how excited he was to be going to the theatre with them.
‘No, I don’t stand about with no clothes on. I’m a chorus dancer, as you know,’ Dawn finally answered her brother in a steely tone.
‘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.