Sing as We Go (34 page)

‘Sorry, love, but I’ll keep it safe for you, if you like.’

The minor irritations of the unusual regulations were all forgotten when the performers heard the clapping and cheering and stamping feet of the enthusiastic audience.

‘We don’t often get concert parties coming to us,’ the manager of the factory told them, ‘so we really appreciate you coming here. You’ve really lifted all our spirits.’

The members of the company felt a warm glow on hearing his words. It made all the travelling on draughty trains and sleeping in hard, lumpy beds worthwhile.

‘So, where are we off to now, Ron?’ Rosie asked as they all boarded a train out of Manchester.

‘Liverpool. We’re to play to the lads awaiting embarkation. There’s a ship leaving on the twenty-eighth.’ He glanced round the carriage to make sure that there were no servicemen overhearing what he was about to say. ‘It’ll not be easy. They’re just going to war. Young lads, most of them. Probably away from their homes and families for the first time. And a lot of them . . .’ he paused before adding softly, ‘might never come back.’

‘Liverpool was blitzed earlier in the year. May, I think it was, when London got it so bad.’

There was silence now in the carriage, each member of the party lost in their own thoughts and quietly vowing to give the boys as good a send-off as they possibly could, despite the dangers. Nothing was going to stop them. Not even Adolf and his bombs.

Kathy chose her programme of songs very carefully. ‘Should I keep it all bright and cheerful?’ she asked Ron.

To her surprise, he shook his head. ‘No, love. It might bring a tear or two to their eyes, but they like the odd sentimental ballad, you know. One or two that were popular in the last war might be appropriate. ‘Pack up Your Troubles’ . . . and ‘Tipperary’ . . . but also songs like ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’ – that sort of thing.’

Ron was quite right. As Kathy stood on the draughty dockside, the soldiers gathered around her, lifting her bodily onto the makeshift stage that Martin had built. Within minutes, they were joining in the rousing songs, but the ballads were just as warmly received, sung softly and with feeling.

The cheers for Kathy were always the loudest, but no one in the company seemed to begrudge her the affection from the ‘boys’.

‘You’re our “sweetheart”,’ one shouted from the front row as she began her final song. For a moment she thought she wasn’t going to be able to sing for the lump in her throat. But she had to; this time ‘Wish Me Luck’ held a very special meaning for each and every one of them.

Kathy rested her aching head against the cool glass of the carriage window. It had been a late night, and maybe the hospitality of the NAAFI on the army camp where they’d played to an enthusiastic audience who’d whistled and stamped their feet had been just a little bit too much. But she could sleep on the train, she’d promised herself as she’d dragged herself out of bed to finish her packing before it was even light. She’d glanced at the other bed, which had not been slept in. Rosie was missing again. Kathy had sighed. She’d seen the romance blossoming between the young girl and Martin and now it seemed it had taken a more serious turn. She just hoped Rosie wasn’t going to get herself into trouble like she had. It wouldn’t be many weeks now before Martin received his call-up papers, and despite Ron’s belief that he would be able to get deferment for the young man, Kathy very much doubted it. She would have liked to warn the young girl, but Rose was a chatterbox. Even if she confided in her, Kathy didn’t believe she was capable of keeping a secret. And although Ron Spencer knew what had happened on her wedding day, he knew nothing about her baby. All he thought was that she had gone away to get over her broken romance with Tony Kendall.

She felt someone ease themselves into the empty seat beside her. To her surprise it was not Rosie, but Ron, who said, ‘Do you know where we’re going now, Kathy?’

‘Mm,’ she murmured sleepily. ‘Not really. I just get up in a morning, catch the train, sing, act a little, and then go to bed. Next day, I do it all again. I’ve lost track of where we are or even what day it is.’

She’d been with the concert party for over five months and already the weather had a definite autumnal feel about it. Though her heart was still in Saltershaven, she had not regretted her decision to join Ron’s troupe for a moment. The travelling and the performing and then more travelling were very tiring, but it kept her busy and her mind occupied.

Ron chuckled. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. We’re going home.’

Kathy’s head shot up. She was wide awake now. ‘To Lincoln? You mean we’re going to Lincoln?’

‘That’s right. We’ll be there by mid-afternoon. We’ve got four days off and we all meet up again on Wednesday. Now, how about that?’

Kathy wasn’t sure. She fingered the key she always carried in her coat pocket. The key that Jemima had pressed on her when she’d left.

‘This is your home, Kathy. You’re welcome back any time you want to come. You hear me. I’ll keep the spare room bed aired and you’re to regard it as your room.’

A sudden longing to see the brisk, no-nonsense woman again was overwhelming.

After all this time away, she hoped Jemima Robinson’s promise still held good.

Ron suggested taking a taxi from the station. ‘We’ll treat ourselves. We’re not dragging these heavy cases another inch. Let’s arrive home in style.’

Kathy insisted on paying half the fare and, when the vehicle drew up in the street, the driver carried her case right to the front door of Jemima’s house.

‘Don’t I get a hand?’ Ron asked in a mock plaintive tone.

‘You’re not as pretty as her, sir.’

Ron laughed. ‘Well, I have to agree with you there.’

Ron and Kathy waved to each other. ‘See you Wednesday morning, lass. Don’t be late. Train goes at eight thirty.’

‘Want picking up?’ the cheeky taxi driver asked.

‘Good idea,’ Ron said. ‘Eight fifteen all right?’

‘I’ll get you there in time for the train, sir.’

With a saucy wink at Kathy, he walked back to his taxi. ‘Though I wouldn’t mind makin’ that ’un miss the train.’ He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder towards Kathy. ‘I’d like to tek her home wi’ me. Mind you,’ he sniffed. ‘I don’t know what the missis’d say if I did.’

The three of them laughed and then, as the taxi was driven away, Ron and Kathy went into their homes.

As Kathy inserted the key into the lock and pushed open the back door, the familiar warm furry body wound itself around her legs and miaowed a welcome.

‘Darling Taffy,’ Kathy murmured as she bent to stroke him. He rubbed his face against her hand and purred ecstatically.

She carried her suitcase upstairs, the cat bounding ahead of her as if showing her the way. As soon as she opened the bedroom door, Taffy pushed his way into the room and took a flying leap into the middle of the bed, where he turned round three times, kneading the cover.

‘Not on Aunt Jemima’s second best eiderdown,’ Kathy laughed, picking up the cat. She flung back the satin eiderdown and set the cat on the blanket underneath. ‘You shouldn’t really be on the bed at all,’ she scolded him lovingly. ‘But I’m so pleased to see you, you can stay while I unpack my clothes.’

The cat closed his eyes to satisfied slits and purred even louder.

A little later, Kathy scooped Taffy up from the bed and carried him down the stairs, stroking him and talking to him as she went.

‘Now, let’s see what’s for your tea and then I’ll find something to cook for your mistress when she comes home. Won’t that be a nice surprise?’

The meal was cooked and sitting in a warm oven by the time Jemima was due. The cat was fed and sitting sleepily on Kathy’s knee as she sat in the chair in the corner in the darkness, with only the light of the fire she had lit in the grate for company. She dozed, waiting for Jemima to come home, the warm weight of the cat on her knee a familiar comfort she had so missed since she had been away.

She didn’t hear the back door open and so Jemima’s cry of surprise as she turned on the light woke both her and Taffy. The cat dug his claws into her leg in fright and then jumped down and fled towards the door and out into the night.

‘Oh my, you gave me such a fright,’ Jemima said, recovering a little and laughing. Kathy jumped up and the two women moved towards each other, arms outstretched. ‘But how lovely to see you, my dear.’ Jemima hugged her and then stood back, still holding Kathy by her shoulders. ‘Let me look at you.’ She paused and then added, ‘You look tired. I expect Ron’s been working you far too hard.’

Of course, Jemima knew all about her touring with the concert party. Kathy had written to tell her and, besides, Ron’s wife would be keeping her well informed too.

‘It’s okay,’ Kathy smiled tremulously. She was surprised how emotional she felt at seeing Jemima. She had told her nothing in her letters about her traumatic time at Willow House, the birth of her little boy and all that had happened since.

Time enough for that in the evening when they had eaten and were sitting together in the firelight.

Then she would tell Jemima everything that had happened to her.

‘So,’ Kathy began when they had washed up the pots together and were sitting close to the fire, Jemima in her chair, Kathy on the rug at her feet. The late September evening was surprising chilly and Jemima had insisted on lighting a fire in the front room. ‘How is everyone? Uncle Ted and Auntie Betty and Morry? And have you heard from Amy?’

‘Yes. I get a letter from her most weeks.’ Jemima regarded Kathy over her spectacles. ‘She’s a better letter writer than you, Katherine Burton. You disappointed me. I had hoped you would keep in touch right from the time you left.’ She reached out and patted Kathy’s hand. ‘I do care about you, you know. I wanted to know that you were all right.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Kathy said at once. ‘It – it was difficult.’ Her face was haunted as she was forced to remember her time at Willow House.

And then, like the flood gates opening, it all came tumbling out. She told Jemima about the harsh regime at the home for unmarried women and the almost inhumane treatment meted out to her when she had been in labour. And then, worst of all, how she had been tricked into signing away her baby.

‘I never held him, never even saw him,’ she said huskily.

Jemima’s face twisted in sympathy. Her own plight all those years ago seemed as nothing compared to what Kathy had suffered.

‘But you knew it was a boy?’

‘I wouldn’t have done, but one of the other girls told me.’

‘I see. But you’ve never seen him.’

‘Well, yes, I have. Now.’ Kathy went on to explain how she had found the address of her little boy’s adoptive parents and how she had even got to know Mrs Wainwright.

‘Do you think that was wise, dear?’ Jemima said, and then added swiftly, ‘Oh I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you one bit and maybe I’m not the best judge. I’ve been lucky all these years; able to see my son and even have Maurice know who I am. But – but won’t you always be drawn back to go and see him? And I’m so worried that while his mo— Mrs Wainwright might seem friendly enough now, there might come a time when she’d rather you didn’t see him. When he becomes old enough to ask awkward questions . . .’ Jemima’s voice trailed away.

Kathy was not hurt or offended by the older woman’s words. She knew the outspoken Jemima well enough by now to know that whatever she said was spoken with good intention, even if the words were not always what one wanted to hear.

‘I know,’ Kathy said quietly, ‘and I’m ready for that happening. I’m trying to build a life without him, but, Oh, Aunt Jemima, it’s so hard.’ Suddenly, unable to hold back the tears any more, she buried her face in Jemima’s lap. The older woman stroked her hair tenderly and gazed into the fire’s flickering flames, for once quite lost for words.

A little later, when she was calmer, Kathy asked, ‘Have you heard how my mother is?’

‘She’s fine. Betty keeps an eye on her. Of course, her life is hard, we all know that and short of leaving your father, it always will be, but Betty keeps her posted about you and . . .’

Kathy drew in a sharp breath. ‘You mean – you mean she knows?’

Jemima shook her head. ‘No, not about that. We wouldn’t divulge such a thing unless you told us we could.’

‘I suppose,’ Kathy said pensively, ‘I wouldn’t mind my mother knowing, but then it puts her in a very difficult position having to keep it from my father, so it’s – it’s best she doesn’t know. Not yet, anyway. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to tell her.’

There was such a wistful longing in the girl’s tone that Jemima’s heart went out to her. Instead, she said briskly, ‘It’s best not. And she’d only worry more about you. Kinder that she doesn’t know for the time being.’

‘Have you heard how Mr and Mrs Kendall are?’

‘Not good,’ Jemima sighed. ‘Poor George is heartbroken, though he still trudges to work and looks after Beatrice.’

‘And Mrs Kendall?’

‘Much the same.’

‘I’d’ve thought it might – well – have made her worse. Much worse.’

‘Killed her, you mean?’ Jemima was as blunt as ever.

‘To be honest – yes.’

‘Mm,’ Jemima was thoughtful. ‘We’ve always thought her illness was put on, haven’t we? Now I’m sure of it. If she really had a weak heart, news of the death of her only beloved son would surely have made her very ill or worse. Instead, it was poor George who had to take a fortnight off work when they got the telegram, but it was Beatrice who just lay there on the couch as always, weeping and wailing and playing the part of the bereaved mother to perfection.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘Because I went to see them.’

‘You did?’

Now Jemima looked embarrassed. ‘To tell you the truth, Kathy, I was about to commit an unforgivable sin. I went with the intention of telling them that you had had Tony’s baby . . .’

Kathy gasped and her eyes widened in surprise. She was appalled that Jemima could even think of doing such a thing.

‘But I didn’t do it,’ Jemima went on hastily. ‘When I got there, I just couldn’t betray you in such a way. And besides, I’m not sure it wouldn’t have made matters worse. Poor George was shattered and struggling to keep going. I arranged for Beatrice to go into a nursing home for a week. Mr James paid for it, just to give poor George a rest.’