A Step In Time (17 page)

I gave her a sassy sideways glance.

‘Don’t change the subject, sister,’ I said. ‘Spill. What was that all about?’

Cora took a breath.

‘When I was nineteen,’ she said, ‘all I wanted to do was be a film star like Ginger Rogers. The war was just coming to an end and I danced every night for the troops. I was part of the ENSA – do you know what that was?’

I shook my head as I poured the tea.

‘We were in uniform,’ Cora explained, a faraway expression on her face. ‘We used to sing and dance and do comedy sketches all over the world – though I was too young to sign up until the war was almost at an end, so I mostly stayed in England. Dancing was my life. And I loved going to the pictures and watching my idols dance in the films. I planned to go to Hollywood, when the fighting was over. I wanted to be discovered. I wanted to be England’s answer to Ginger Rogers.’

I frowned.

‘But you didn’t go?’ I said. ‘What happened?’

Cora lifted her chin.

‘Donnie happened.’

‘Oh, there’s always a man involved,’ I said, helping myself to cake. ‘Did he break your heart?’

‘He broke my heart and my spirit,’ Cora said, looking so desolate that I felt tears pricking my own eyelids. ‘He took my trust and he let me down and left me with nothing.’

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t speak.

‘So I didn’t go to Hollywood,’ she said. ‘Because I was broken-hearted when the war ended. Broken-hearted and alone.’

I got up and put my arm round Cora’s shoulders.

‘What did he do, this Donnie?’ I asked.

‘He left me at the altar,’ Cora said. ‘Wearing a dress just like the one Ginger Rogers wears in
Swing Time
.’

I gasped in horror.

‘No way,’ I said. ‘That’s so cruel. Did he ever give you an explanation?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘He went AWOL according to his commanding officer. I guessed he used the excuse of our wedding to disappear, but I never found out where he went.’

‘Didn’t you want to?’ I said, aghast at the idea.

Cora shook her head.

‘You have to understand what it was like at the end of the war,’ she said. ‘People were in the wrong places all over Europe. There were people looking for loved ones, parents searching for their children or children needing homes; there were soldiers returning as broken men – physically and mentally. It was chaos. And there were lots of women who’d been widowed, or abandoned. I wasn’t so special.’

‘So you gave up on your dreams?’ I said, wiping away a tear.

Cora reached up and patted my arm.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t give up on my dreams. I just got some new ones.’

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Cora

1945

31 January, 1945

Dear Mum

I am writing to tell you some wonderful news. I am married! It all happened in a whirl because Jack – that’s my husband’s name – had to leave England in a hurry to go to France. I am sorry we didn’t have time to tell you we were getting married. It was a lovely ceremony and I will tell you all about it when I next see you

I hope you are keeping well. Your affectionate daughter
,

Cora

***

10 April, 1945

Dear Mum

Sorry not to have told you my new name. I realised I’d not told you Jack’s surname as soon as I’d posted the letter, but by then it was too late! It’s Devonshire. I’m Mrs Cora Devonshire – doesn’t that sound grown-up?

I am very forgetful at the moment. Can you guess why? It’s because I am expecting a baby. I have told Jack and he is delighted, as I’m hoping you will be, too. I hope to come down to Worthing to see you soon

Yours
,

Cora Devonshire

***

I chewed the end of my pen, going over what I was going to write in my head. It was important to get it right and I only had one chance.

It was the end of April – a month after my disastrous wedding day – and I’d decided the time had come to tell my mother what had happened. Or at least, tell her a whole pile of lies that I thought would help her come to terms with having a daughter who’d been left pregnant and alone.

I’d laid the groundwork carefully, writing a backdated letter first (I hoped she’d assume it had been held up in the Post Office – after all, things like that happened in wartime) to tell her I’d got married to a fictional man named Jack – I took inspiration from Donnie’s surname, which was Jackson. Fat Joan, who was a skilled and brilliant liar, had told me to stick to the truth as much as possible.

‘Means there’s less to remember,’ she’d said, chewing slowly on a piece of gum she’d found in my sock drawer. ‘So it takes the pressure off you. You’re less likely to slip up.’

So I’d invented Jack, who was like Donnie in every way except one very important one. He’d not jilted me and run away somewhere. Even then I’d almost made a mistake when I’d not told Mum what Jack’s made-up surname was. I’d picked Devonshire at random from a poster on the wall of the cafe where I’d written the letter. I’d bought a ring from Woolworth’s at first but it turned my finger green. Audrey had come to the rescue, giving me a narrow band of gold that was polished smooth thanks to years of wear.

‘Have this,’ she said. ‘It was my Auntie Vi’s.’

I’d shaken my head.

‘It’s like a family heirloom,’ I said, pushing her hand away. ‘I can’t take that.’

‘Course you can,’ Audrey said. ‘None of us much liked Vi anyway. And she certainly didn’t like her lying pig of a husband. So it’s not like we’re all in a rush to borrow it.’

I’d slipped it onto my wedding finger.

‘From one lying pig of a husband to another,’ I’d said, hugging Audrey. ‘Thanks, Aud.’

So now I was Mrs Cora Devonshire, newly wed, mother-to-be, and – as Mum was about to discover – widow.

‘NEXT,’ the woman at the counter shouted. I jumped, startled out of my memories, and went to speak to her.

‘I need to send a telegram,’ I said.

‘Fill this in,’ she said, pushing some paper towards me. I picked up the pen and wrote ‘Jack killed in action. Coming home. Cora’.

Then I pushed it back to her.

She glanced at it, then at me – her eyes dropping to my swelling stomach – and her face softened.

‘Sixpence,’ she said.

I paid her and turned to go.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. I looked back. ‘I’m sorry about your husband. Will you be all right?’

I shrugged, feeling guilty and angry that Donnie had put me in a position where I had to lie to nice people like her.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I said.

I couldn’t face going back to the boarding house. I knew I had to start packing – everyone was moving on and for the first time I wasn’t going with them. They were all heading to North Africa and Audrey was beside herself with excitement – mind you, it looked like the war would be over soon and I wasn’t convinced their trip would happen. But nevertheless, I knew I couldn’t go. My pregnancy was becoming much more pronounced and it was time for me to accept my lot and go back to Worthing. I had no money. No support. I wouldn’t even have any friends in London once Audrey and Joan had gone. I had to swallow my pride and go back to Sussex.

I wandered along St Martin’s Lane, taking in the bomb damage that made London look like a mouth full of missing teeth. I wondered what would happen to the city when the war was over and how it would be rebuilt and I felt sad that I wouldn’t be here to see it.

‘I’ll come back,’ I said aloud. ‘One day. I’ll come back.’

By the time I reached the boarding house, Mum had already replied to my telegram.

‘Always welcome,’ she had written. ‘Send word which train you are on.’

I stood in the hall, staring at the telegram. This was not how I’d planned my life to be. I wanted to be a dancer. To dazzle audiences with my talent and to spread my love of movement. I wanted to dance on the stages of the gilded London theatres. I wanted to go to Hollywood and audition for producers – to give it my best effort, even if that effort came to nothing. I wanted Donnie. I did not want to go running home to my suffocating mother, and be tied down to a baby by the time I turned twenty.

‘Come and have a cup of tea.’ Audrey had found me. She tugged my sleeve gently. ‘Come and sit down. I’ve got a plan.’

I gave her a small smile. Audrey always had a plan, but they didn’t often come to much.

Audrey’s plan was – as far as I could tell – to give her time to come up with a plan.

‘Trust me,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a few irons in the fire.’

‘I don’t know what that means,’ I said, sipping my tea.

Audrey shrugged.

‘It means, trust me,’ she said. ‘I’m sorting it.’

‘It’s lovely of you,’ I said. ‘Really it is. But I just can’t see what else to do.’

Audrey leaned across the kitchen table and lowered her voice.

‘The war’s nearly over,’ she said.

‘So they say,’ I pointed out. ‘But it’s not up to us, is it? We’re at the mercy of bloody Hitler and Churchill and whoever else wants to make decisions on our behalf.’

Audrey ignored me.

‘It’s over, Cora,’ she said. ‘And I reckon there’s going to be a whole new world opening up for people like you and me.’

All I could imagine was hoards of damaged soldiers – like my poor dad – coming back to Britain and needing help. I couldn’t see what Audrey saw.

‘Give me a month,’ she said. ‘Go back to Worthing in a month.’

‘Oh Audrey, I don’t know …’ I said. ‘I can’t wait that long.’

‘Please, Cora,’ she said.

I wavered.

‘A week,’ I said.

Audrey grinned.

‘Two?’

‘Fine. But then I have to go back to Worthing.’

I held up my left hand and showed her my wedding band.

‘Or all Auntie Vi’s troubles will have been in vain.’

Chapter Thirty

I barely saw Audrey for the next few days. She was up and out early, she was performing in the evening, and I saw her sneak out a few times clutching music and her dancing shoes and bits of paper that I thought might have been scripts. I had absolutely no idea what she was up to.

She was right about one thing, though. The war was over. Shortly after she’d got me to promise to stay in London for a while longer, Joan had burst into the kitchen.

‘Mussolini’s dead,’ she’d announced with an air of satisfaction that suggested she was personally responsible. Then, just a couple of days later, Germany admitted that Hitler was dead, too, and suddenly things looked a lot brighter.

So, it was with a buzz of excitement that we’d gathered round the wireless to hear Mr Churchill announce that Germany had surrendered.

‘Advance Britannia,’ he said. ‘Long live the cause of freedom.’

Joan reached over and switched the wireless off and we all sat for a moment in stunned silence.

‘It’s over,’ Audrey whispered. ‘It’s bloody over.’

Joan let out a sort of strangled yelp of joy. Audrey glanced at her.

‘Let it out, Joan,’ she said. ‘Go on, girl.’

Joan grinned, then she ran to the window and threw it open.

‘It’s over!’ she screamed to the street. Below her, people cheered.

‘Everyone’s outside,’ she said in excitement. ‘There are folks standing on cars. Shall we go?’

Audrey nodded but I couldn’t face crowds.

‘You go,’ I said. ‘I’m tired.’

Outside the cheers and the shouts were growing louder.

‘No,’ Audrey said. She pointed out of the window. ‘That there, that’s history happening. Right in our faces. And we’re going to go and be a part of it. Baby or no bleeding baby.’

‘Audrey,’ I protested weakly, but she wasn’t listening.

‘Mr Churchill said we were allowed a brief period of rejoicing,’ she said, mimicking the prime minister’s voice in a very funny way. She was always performing, Audrey. ‘We can’t argue with Mr Churchill.’

She handed me my shoes and obediently I put them on. Then we headed out into the streets of London to celebrate.

That first day, the parties were a bit haphazard, but by the following day people were starting to organise themselves. If there was anything we’d learned during the years of war it was how to make do with what we had. Everywhere we looked there were little children in fancy dress, people hanging bunting and throwing streamers. Folk singing and dancing, cheering, some crying. Someone dragged a piano out of a music shop in Charing Cross Road, and Audrey climbed on top and sang her heart out as Joan and I danced and the crowd around us cheered. It was bonkers and fun and I was so glad Audrey had encouraged me to be a part of it.

We wandered through the packed streets to Buckingham Palace and saw the King and Queen on the balcony with the princesses. I was the same age as Princess Elizabeth and I found myself wondering what she’d do in my position. She’d go home, I thought. If she was abandoned by a ruthless prince and left pregnant and penniless. But she’d be going home to a palace – not to a terraced house in Worthing with a mother who clung to her like a drowning man clings to a lifebelt.

Audrey looped her arm through mine.

‘Bet you’re glad you stayed, now, ain’t you?’ she said, beaming at me.

I nodded.

‘Audrey,’ I said. ‘You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.’

She nudged me.

‘Oh, don’t go all soppy on me now,’ she said. ‘I can’t be bothered with it.’

But I knew she felt the same.

In the end I never got the train to Worthing. I sent Mum word that I was staying in London after all, and Audrey put her plan into action.

What she’d been doing these past weeks was visiting theatre people. Theatrical agents. Producers. Writers. Casting directors. Showing them what she could do and making sure they all knew her name.

I was astonished by her tenacity but I knew that, without my growing baby bump, I’d have been the same. Audrey wanted to act and that’s what she was going to do.

Within about three days of Germany’s surrender she’d had a meeting with one of London’s best theatrical agents – a man called Harry Warner. She persuaded me to go with her, just so he’d know my name, too, and I grudgingly agreed.