Читать книгу The Pearl Locket: A page-turning saga that will have you hooked - Kathleen McGurl, Kathleen McGurl - Страница 11

Chapter Two

January 1944

There was no jam for tea. No cake, either. Just plain bread and margarine, and one rich tea biscuit each. Joan craved something sweet, anything sweet. She poured herself a cup of tea, dipped her teaspoon in the sugar bowl and tried to heap it up as much as possible without being noticed.

‘Put that sugar back at once! No more than a quarter teaspoon per cup of tea. You know the family rules.’ Father glared at her from the other end of the table. Joan shook the spoon so that most of the sugar fell back into the bowl, and meekly stirred in the remaining quarter. She tasted her tea and grimaced. Her sister Mags, who was sitting next to her, winked in sympathy, and whispered, ‘You’re sweet enough already.’ They were sitting in the dining room, the second-best lace tablecloth spread over the table. War or no war, Father insisted on sticking to traditions and doing things ‘properly’, as he put it. They were firmly in the middle class, and he refused to let standards slip. Joan thought it all a complete waste of time and effort. Why couldn’t they just eat their tea at the kitchen table? So much less fuss and work!

‘Mother, when do you think rationing will end?’ she asked. Her mother smiled weakly and looked at Father. Just like Mother. She wouldn’t dare answer a question like that herself. She would always defer to the head of the household. That was why Joan had directed the question to her mother—just to stir things up a bit.

‘Not until this war’s over. We all have to put up with it until then, so stop making such a fuss. You’re not a baby any more.’ Father gave her a stern look, and tapped the side of his cup with his teaspoon. Joan sighed as her mother immediately leapt into action, pouring her husband a second cup of tea. Why was she such a doormat? If Joan ever married she liked to think she and her husband would be on a much more equal footing than her parents were.

‘Would you like more bread and margarine, Father?’ asked her other sister Elizabeth, pushing the serving plate towards his end of the table.

‘Thank you, Betty,’ he said. Stuck up Elizabeth, sucking up to Father as always, thought Joan. Another doormat. Well, it was now or never. She knew what the answer would be, but she had to ask anyway. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as Mags would say.

‘Father, may I ask a question?’

‘Not if it’s anything more about rationing, child.’

‘No, it’s something else. The thing is, there is a dance on at the Pavilion tomorrow evening, to celebrate the New Year, and I would rather like to go.’

Father put down his teacup and stared at her over the top of his horn-rimmed spectacles. Joan forced herself to keep her eyes on his. If she looked away she’d lose her nerve.

‘You? But you’re far too young to be attending dances. You’re only sixteen.’

‘I had my birthday yesterday. I’m seventeen, Father.’

‘Don’t contradict me! You’re too young. I forbid you to go.’

‘But Father, Elizabeth and Margaret went to their first dances when they were seventeen.’

‘Are you arguing with me? I’ve said no, and that’s that.’

‘Mother, Mags is going and she said she’d look after me. Please, may I?’ What was the point? Her mother just shook her head gently and looked again at Father. Of course she would never go against anything he said.

‘Mother agrees with me. You are not to go. And Margaret, you will be home by ten o’clock. There’s an end to it.’ He picked up his newspaper and flicked it open, signifying that the topic was closed.

‘Please may I leave the table?’ Joan asked. Not waiting for an answer, she pushed her chair back and began gathering up plates and cups for washing up. Mags quickly joined her, and the two girls took the dirty crockery through to the kitchen.

‘It’s so unfair. Why can’t I go? He’s always stricter with me than he ever was with you or Betty.’ Joan turned the tap on full blast, spraying water everywhere.

‘Watch out, you’re making me wet!’ yelped Mags, as she jumped out of the way, brushing droplets off her skirt and blouse. Joan turned off the tap and clattered some plates into the sink. ‘And now you’re going to chip those plates. Let me do it. You’re too cross.’

Joan stood aside and let Mags take her place. Mags was right; she was cross.

‘Elizabeth’s not going, is she?’ she asked.

‘No. She’s going to the cinema to see some worthy French subtitled film. So I’m going to the dance on my own. But Mary and Noreen will be there, and some of the other girls from the WVS, so I won’t be alone.’

Joan picked a plate from the draining board and began wiping it roughly with a tea towel. She liked Mary and Noreen. It would be such fun attending a proper, grown-up dance with them and Mags.

‘I wish I could go. I feel like Cinderella, having to stay home while my sisters go out and enjoy themselves.’

Mags flicked soapsuds at her. ‘Are you calling me an ugly sister, Joanie?’

‘No.’ Joan giggled. ‘Betty’s the ugly one.’

‘Just think,’ said Mags, ‘if there was any way you could come to the dance, you might just meet your own Prince Charming.’

Both girls giggled uncontrollably at this, until Mother appeared at the kitchen door and told them to shush. They were annoying Father.

Washing up completed, they went upstairs to Joan’s bedroom. It was only four-thirty but already dark, and time to close the blackout curtains. Although their coastal town hadn’t suffered many air raids, unlike London, it had still had its fair share. Besides, Joan knew Father would be angry if they didn’t draw the blackout blinds before putting on any lights. And she’d annoyed him enough already for one day.

‘Mags,’ she said, as they flopped down onto Joan’s bed, ‘do you think I could sneak out and go to the dance? Without the parents finding out?’

‘How on earth could you do that? Father would expect you to be downstairs after supper, to listen to the news on the wireless.’

‘What if he thought I was out but somewhere else? Maybe, I don’t know, volunteering at the WVS? The soup kitchen’s open tomorrow night isn’t it? I could say I’m working there…’

‘Ooh, Joanie, there’s an idea! But what if he checked up on you?’

‘He wouldn’t check. Well, at most he might ask Noreen or Mary. Do you think they would cover for me?’ Lie for me, Joan thought. It was probably a bit much to ask, but she knew the other girls sympathised with her and Mags over their draconian father.

‘I’m sure they would. You know, I think that’s a plan! I’ll see Noreen this evening anyway—I’m doing a shift at the soup kitchen from six till eight. I’ll get her to put your name down on the rota. You were about to start volunteering anyway, weren’t you? He agreed to you doing it after Christmas, and we’re already into the New Year. Won’t he be suspicious though—first you ask if you can go to the dance, then when he says no, you announce you’re starting at the WVS?’

‘I’ll mention the WVS tomorrow at teatime. He’ll have forgotten I asked about the dance by then. You know he never takes any real interest in what you or I do. Not like Elizabeth. He’ll be asking her about every detail of the film she’s going to.’ Joan clapped her hands with excitement. ‘Now then, what shall I wear?’

‘Well, you can’t pretend you’re going to the WVS if you’re in a party frock,’ Mags pointed out. ‘Unless you put your coat on over it, and don’t let him see what you’ve got on underneath. And no lipstick, until you’ve left the house. Tell you what, I’ll ask Noreen if we can meet up at her house and you could get ready there.’

‘Perfect! And shall I wear my blue frock? It’s my newest.’

‘You look lovely in that one. I’ll help you do your hair at Noreen’s,’ said Mags.

Joan hugged her. ‘You’re definitely not an ugly sister. More like a Fairy Godmother, saying, “Joanie, you shall go to the ball!” ’

‘But I wouldn’t recommend wearing glass slippers. It’s a long walk home.’

Both girls dissolved into giggles at this, and continued laughing until Elizabeth came into the room.

‘What’s so funny? Father’s really cross at you both again. He says if you can’t stop your silly giggling you’ll have no supper. And it’s rabbit stew with dumplings tonight. I made it.’

‘All right, we’ll stop laughing. No fun allowed in this house. We should have remembered,’ said Mags. Joan stifled more giggles.

‘What was so funny anyway?’ asked Elizabeth again. ‘You two always leave me out of things. It’s not fair.’

‘It’s only silly little girl jokes,’ Joan said. ‘You’re too grown-up to find them funny. Mags has almost grown out of them, too.’

‘Hmm, well. I’ll leave you to it, then. But don’t annoy Father any further. That would be my grown-up advice.’ Elizabeth turned on her heel and left the room.

‘I hate rabbit stew,’ said Mags.

Joan had to stuff a pillow in her mouth to stop herself guffawing aloud at that comment. She felt so happy. She was going to the dance, and no one could stop her!

Everything went according to plan. At teatime on the day of the dance Joan announced Noreen had put her on the WVS soup kitchen rota, and that she would be starting that evening. Father just grunted in reply from behind his newspaper. Mother opened her mouth as if to make some comment, but after a glance at Father presumably thought better of it. Elizabeth appeared not to have heard, and chattered happily about the film she was going to see with her friend from work.

After supper, Mags and Joan washed up quickly then ran upstairs to get ready. They left the house separately, and reconvened at the corner of the street before going together to Noreen’s, and then on to the Pavilion. Joan was buzzing with excitement. Every time they saw someone else heading the same way she couldn’t help herself asking the older girls whether they knew the person, whether they were going to the dance as well.

It was a long cold walk along the seafront to the Pavilion and Joan giggled to herself as she found herself being thankful she hadn’t worn glass slippers. At last they arrived and went quickly inside out of the biting wind. Joan gazed around in awe as she handed her coat to the cloakroom attendant. There may be a war on but the Pavilion was glittering. The Christmas decorations were still up, as it was not yet Twelfth Night. Tinsel and baubles hung from the ceiling, and boughs of holly garlanded the hall above head height. Joan followed Mags to the bar and bought herself a lemonade. Young men in various uniforms stood in groups, trying to catch the eye of any girl who passed.

Mags and Noreen found their friend Mary, who immediately began to regale them with a long, funny story about her last WVS shift. Joan listened at first, but soon found her attention wandering. The band had started up—a ten-piece swing band playing Glenn Miller’s hits. She couldn’t help but jiggle around to the music; she was most definitely ‘in the mood’. There was a group of Canadian airmen standing across the room, their loud voices and raucous laughter at times almost drowning out the music. All of them were tall and handsome. One, especially, was very good-looking—with sandy hair, broad shoulders and a mischievous look in his eyes. Joan wondered whether she would manage to catch the eye of any of them. She supposed not. After all she was probably too young, and not pretty enough for them. But just imagine, if one of them asked her to dance, how exciting that would be!

As couples began to take to the dance floor, Joan noticed a shy-looking young man in civilian clothing watching her. He had dark, floppy hair and wore a pair of spectacles that had one broken arm, held together by tape. His jacket looked worn but clean. He raised his glass in her direction, but Joan gave him a small, non-committal smile. He was no Prince Charming, though he had a kind and gentle look about his eyes.

‘Hey, beautiful, why are you standing on your own?’

Joan turned to find the sandy-haired Canadian airman beside her. This was more like it! She felt her tummy flip over as she smiled encouragingly at him. ‘I was just waiting for the right person to come and sweep me off my feet,’ she replied.

‘And here I am,’ the airman said, winking at her. He took her glass out of her hand and put it on a nearby table, then scooped her into his arms and whirled her onto the dance floor. Joan laughed and gasped, trying desperately to keep up with his lightning-fast dance steps. She couldn’t believe this was happening—she was dancing with the best-looking man in the room!

‘What’s your name?’ he asked her.

‘Joan. What’s yours?’

‘Ah, Joan, Joan you’ll make me moan,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’m Freddie, and always at the ready.’

She giggled, and he pulled her in tighter. She saw Mags, Noreen and Mary dancing with a group of soldiers. Mags caught her eye and raised an eyebrow. She looked as though she disapproved of Joan’s dance partner. Well, it wasn’t up to her, was it? Joan was enjoying herself. Freddie was handsome and funny, and seemed to really like her. She was determined to make the most of her evening out.

The music ended, and Freddie let her go. ‘I’ll get you some refreshments,’ he said. ‘Don’t go away.’

A moment later he was back with an iced drink for her. She sipped it gratefully. ‘What is this?’

‘G and T,’ he said. ‘Mostly T though, so don’t worry. I’m not trying to get you drunk.’

Joan had never had an alcoholic drink before. It was quite pleasant, she thought. She gulped it down.

‘Nice, eh? Here, have mine as well.’ Freddie handed her his own glass.

‘Let’s dance some more,’ Joan said. ‘It’s such fun!’

‘I’ve a better idea,’ he said. ‘We’ll dance again later but for now let’s find somewhere quiet where we can sit and get to know each other better. Finish that drink quickly. I know where we can go.’ He took her hand and pulled her towards the cloakrooms. Joan giggled as she knocked back her drink and followed him. He pushed open a door that led into a narrow corridor with other doors leading off.

‘Where are we?’ she asked.

‘Backstage of the theatre. There’s nothing playing tonight. Come on, in here.’ He opened a door and pulled her into a dressing room, flicking on the light switch. ‘That’s better. We can properly get to know each other now. Come here, beautiful.’

Joan looked around her at the tatty room, with its smells of greasepaint and powder. There was a worn sofa against one wall, opposite a dressing table. Freddie sat on the sofa and pulled her gently down beside him. He put an arm around her shoulders, and with his other hand, stroked her cheek.

‘There, now. This is cosy, isn’t it?’ he said. He leaned towards her and kissed her gently.

She was being kissed! Her first time, and by such a handsome fellow! But what would Mags say? Was she being too forward? She tentatively kissed him back, and he must have taken this as encouragement because his kiss became more urgent, and his hand slid down from her face, over her neck and shoulder, and onto her breast. Suddenly he thrust her roughly back on the sofa and lay on top of her, kissing her harshly.

No, this wasn’t what she wanted! She turned her head away and tried to push him off, but he was too heavy and strong.

‘Stop it, Freddie, oh please stop it. Can’t we go back and dance now?’

‘Aw, sweetheart, I only want a kiss. That’s not too much to ask, is it? My leave finishes tomorrow then I’m back to the war. You wouldn’t deny a poor airman his last bit of fun, would you? Not when he’s putting his life on the line for you?’ He kissed her again, his mouth hard against hers, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth.

‘Stop it! I shall scream!’

‘Aw, no you won’t. Just relax; enjoy it,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

But he was hurting her. He was lying on top of her, his elbow digging into her ribs and his stubble scratching her cheeks as he continued to kiss her.

‘Get off her, you thug! Get off! Off!’ It was the boy with the broken glasses, his hair flopping over his eyes as he burst through the door, hauled Freddie off her, and landed a punch on his nose.

‘Ow, you little shit. What did you do that for? Me and my girl were just getting comfortable.’ Freddie clutched at his bleeding nose and spat on the floor.

‘She didn’t look very comfortable to me. Get out, and leave her alone.’

‘Oh yeah? Who’s going to make me?’

‘I am. Now get out before I hit you again!’ The boy squared up to Freddie. He was a little taller, but not as well built. Nevertheless there must have been something in his eyes that made Freddie think the better of taking him on, for he spat again and took a step towards the door.

‘She’s nothing but a tease. Maybe you’ll get more out of her, mate,’ he said, as he slammed the door behind him.

‘Are you all right?’ said the boy, extending a hand to pull Joan up from the sofa.

She nodded, stood and straightened her clothing. ‘Thank you. I shouldn’t have come with him.’

‘I saw him pull you out of the dance hall and thought you might be in trouble. Are you sure you’re all right? Can I get your friend for you?’

Mags. How would she tell her how stupid she’d been? She wouldn’t. Not unless she had to. If Mags hadn’t seen her leave with Freddie maybe she could get away with not saying anything.

‘She’s my sister. But it’s all right. You’ve been very kind. I’ll freshen up now and then go back to the dance hall. I hope that airman has gone home.’

The boy nodded. ‘I hope so, too. But I’ll keep an eye out, just in case.’ He held the door open for her and followed her back along the corridor towards the cloakrooms. Joan ducked into the ladies room, and when she came out, he was no longer around. She felt a pang of guilt—he’d rescued her but she hadn’t even asked him his name.