The Girls in Blue (11 page)

‘You wouldn’t?’

‘Of course not, silly. Just because I come from the East End don’t mean that I was born with a jemmy in me hand.’ She chortled with laughter. ‘You should see your face, Miss Prim and Proper. Don’t worry, love. I’m a good girl, most of the time.’ Rita slipped on the dress and shoes, primping in the mirror. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a bag to go with this, have you, Manda, old girl?’

Raif was just about to kiss her when Miranda woke up. It had seemed so real that she could hardly believe that she had been dreaming. She opened her eyes, staring into the darkness, and her heart was thudding against her ribs. There it was again, the clatter of something hitting the windowpanes. It did not sound like rain and it was the middle of summer, too warm for hailstones. She sat up and slid her legs over the edge of the bed, cocking her head on one side and listening. Perhaps it was her imagination, but then it happened again and she was on her feet, padding over to the window to draw the blackout curtains. It was not quite a full moon but the garden, cliff top and sea were bathed in silvery light making the shadows seem even darker and deeper. Another miniature fusillade hit the windowpane level with her head and she threw up the sash.

‘Oy. It’s me.’ Rita was standing on the path
below
, waving her arms above her head. ‘Let me in.’

Miranda leaned out, holding her finger to her lips. ‘Shh. You’ll wake the whole house.’

‘Open the bloody door.’

‘I’m coming.’ Pulling down the sash, Miranda left the curtains drawn so that she could find her way out of the room without tripping over Rita’s camp bed. She tiptoed downstairs hoping that no one could hear the occasional creak of a floorboard as she crept through the dark hall and entered the drawing room. She barked her shin on an occasional table, stifling a cry of pain, but it was pitch dark and she had to feel her way towards the French windows. She turned the key in the lock and opened the door. ‘Rita,’ she said in a stage whisper. ‘Where are you?’

Rita sprang from the shadows. ‘You took your time.’

‘It’s two in the morning,’ Miranda said, peering at her watch in a shaft of moonlight. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Mind your own beeswax.’ Rita made a tipsy grab for the door handle. ‘I brought someone home with me. He needs a bed for the night.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Come in, you twerp. She won’t bite.’

‘Who’s out there?’ Miranda demanded anxiously. ‘You can’t just bring anyone into the house.’

‘It’s not just anyone.’ Rita pushed her out of the
way
. ‘Come in, Tommy. It’s okay. Miranda says you can doss down on the sofa.’

Tommy Toop sidled through the door, dragging off his pork-pie hat. ‘Is that all right with you, miss?’

‘What’s he doing here?’ Miranda closed the door quickly, just in case Rita had any more waifs and strays waiting outside.

‘He was being a gent and he walked me home,’ Rita said with a drunken grin. ‘We ain’t half had a good time tonight. Or is it tomorrow? I lost track.’

Tommy stood by the door clutching his battered trilby in both hands. ‘I should be going now.’

‘Yes, I think you should.’ Miranda was suddenly overcome with embarrassment as she realised that she was stark naked beneath her thin cotton nightgown. ‘It was good of you to bring Rita home, but I don’t think my grandparents would be too pleased to find that you’d slept here, Tommy.’

‘I’ll be off then.’ He opened the door and stepped outside, pausing only to ram his hat on his head before sauntering down the steps.

Miranda locked the door. ‘You’d better go to bed and sleep it off, but for goodness’ sake be quiet about it. God only knows what my grandparents would say if they found you in this state.’

‘Hoorah for Rita Platt. That’s what they’d say. It’s good to see the girl enjoying herself.’ She staggered and would have tripped over a footstool if Miranda had not supported her.

‘You’re completely sozzled,’ Miranda said crossly. ‘What were you drinking?’

‘I dunno.’ Rita leaned against her, giggling helplessly. ‘There were some lovely chaps at the dance. They bought me drinks.’

‘You don’t say. Come on, Rita, let’s get you upstairs.’

‘They offered me a job.’

‘That’s nice. Can you walk if I help you?’

Rita took a step and stumbled onto the sofa. ‘I’ll just sleep here, if you don’t mind. They want me to work with them, Manda. I’m going to be very rich …’ She closed her eyes with a sigh and fell instantly asleep.

Miranda covered her with the Spanish shawl that her grandmother had insisted on draping over the baby grand piano ever since she had seen something similar in
Woman’s Journal
. ‘You’re an idiot,’ she said softly. ‘And you were lucky that Tommy brought you home. I can see you’re going to be trouble, Rita Platt.’

Rita was very unwell next day. Miranda had left her and gone back to bed but had awakened early and had somehow managed to get her troublesome new friend up the stairs to their room before anyone saw her. She dosed Rita with Andrews Liver Salts, explaining her malaise away by telling her grandmother that it was a simple bilious attack, and luckily for Rita Maggie was too busy attending to the needs
of
her house guests to worry about such a minor ailment.

There was a buzz of nervous anticipation in the air as the mothers repacked their cases and prepared to leave next day for their final destinations. Maggie spent most of the morning on the telephone confirming details of travel, and holding court in her small sitting room as the women trailed in one by one to find out where they were going to be billeted. Luckily it was fine and the children spent the morning rushing around the garden as if it were some great pleasure park designed specifically for their entertainment.

George shut himself away in his workshop and Annie remained in the kitchen, grumbling about the amount of extra work and complaining that she only had one pair of hands. Miranda listened patiently and did her best to help by peeling the vegetables she had dug from the garden, podding peas and preparing a basketful of runner beans for Sunday lunch. There was no roast meat to go with the Yorkshire puddings but Annie had been reading a Ministry of Food leaflet and was trying out a recipe for barley mince, which seemed to consist mainly of pearl barley, onion, water and beef extract.

Realising that Miranda was watching closely, Annie stopped stirring for a moment. ‘Your face will get stuck like that if the wind changes,’ she said crossly.

‘Sorry, but it doesn’t look very much like meat.’

‘I’m not a magician. I’m doing my best with what’s left in the larder. To think we used to give what was left of the Sunday roast to the dog.’

‘But we haven’t got a dog.’

‘Not now, but your granny had a beagle once. She called him Houdini with good reason; the little wretch was always running off.’

Miranda bent down to stroke Dickens, who had wandered in from the garden. ‘This old chap is the only pet I ever remember being here.’

‘It was a long time ago, before your Uncle Jack was born. Your grandfather bought the dog to keep your granny company while he was abroad.’

‘I thought she always went with him.’

‘Not so much when the children were young. Your dad went to boarding school but Miss Eileen kicked up such a fuss when she thought she was going to be sent away that your granny gave in to her, as she always did, and Eileen went to a private prep school in the town. She was a handful, I can tell you.’ Annie dipped a spoon in the simmering mixture and tasted it, pulling a face. ‘Like I said before, I’m not a magician. Have you finished shelling those peas?’

Miranda held out the brimming colander. ‘Yes, I have. So what happened to Houdini? Granny’s never mentioned him.’

‘He escaped once too often. The little blighter got run over.’

‘Oh, no.’ Miranda felt her throat constrict at the thought of an animal in pain. ‘Was he badly hurt?’

‘Broke one of his back legs. Mr Carstairs was just as upset as your granny.’

‘Carstairs?’ Miranda’s heart did a funny little flip inside her chest. ‘Was he any relation to the man who helped us out the other day?’

‘Probably, I don’t really know.’ Annie took the pan off the heat and tipped its contents into a pie dish. ‘I don’t think that’s going to look anything like meatloaf.’

Miranda tried another tack. ‘What happened then?’

‘If they’re hungry they’ll eat it.’ Annie wiped her hands on her apron. ‘What are you on about, Miranda?’

‘Mr Carstairs. You said he was terribly upset about the poor dog. Was that the start of the family feud?’

‘Questions all the time. Haven’t you got any vegetables left to peel?’

‘I’ve finished them all, but I’ll wash up for you if you tell me what you know about Mr Carstairs.’

‘It was a very long time ago.’

‘Yes, but do you know why there’s a rift between the families? It can’t be just because Mr Carstairs injured Granny’s dog, although that’s bad enough, but it was an accident after all.’

‘Stop pestering me. Ask your granny if you want answers.’ Annie flounced out of the kitchen leaving
Miranda
to wash the pots and pans with questions still buzzing around in her head.

Rita finally surfaced later in the day, looking pale and peaky but insisting that she was quite well now, and ravenous. Annie had gone home as it was her afternoon off, and it was left to Miranda to find her something to eat.

Rita settled down at the kitchen table and tucked into a plateful of bread, two pickled onions and a chunk of farmhouse cheese. ‘I’m starving,’ she said, helping herself to a liberal amount of margarine. ‘At least this stuff isn’t on ration. Tastes like cart grease but it’s better than nothing.’

Miranda pulled out a bentwood chair and sat down opposite her. ‘What were you babbling about last night before you passed out?’

Rita chewed and swallowed. ‘I dunno. Can’t remember.’

‘You said you’d been offered a job.’

‘Did I? Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. I was chatting to these blokes in the pub before we went to the dance hall, and they said there was a vacancy for a salesgirl in the place where they worked. They said I’d be an asset to any business and I should apply first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘So where is this shop?’

‘I can’t remember, but you’ll probably know it, Morris and something else beginning with M.’

‘Morris and Mawson. It’s the only department store in town.’

‘That’ll be it. If I could work in the perfumery and make-up department I’d be halfway to being a pin-up girl.’

‘I don’t see how.’

Rita stabbed a pickled onion with her fork. ‘Because I could learn to make meself up like a film star.’ She took a bite and gulped it down with a faraway look in her eyes. ‘I could afford to get me hair bleached by a proper hairdresser so that I didn’t look like a cheap peroxide blonde, and then I’d be ready to go back to London and begin my career. Can’t you see, Manda? It’s a start in the right direction.’

Despite Rita’s obvious flights of fancy, Miranda could see that she had a point, and the thought of being able to earn money straight away instead of doing her final exams at college and end up working in a boring office was tempting. She had never wanted to be a secretary anyway, but then she had not given much thought to career prospects. What she really wanted was to do something worthwhile, just like Maman, but her French was not good enough and anyway she was probably too young to be considered for the SOE. She had been toying with the idea of joining one of the forces, but she knew that her grandparents would never give their permission and it would be impossible unless conscription for women became compulsory. She eyed Rita thoughtfully as the idea of getting a job began to germinate in her mind. ‘I might even go with
you
,’ she said casually. ‘I know where that shop is. I’ll show you.’

‘Okay. Suit yourself.’ Rita lifted the lid of the cheese dish and found it empty. ‘Is there any more? I hope they never ration it because I love the stuff. My mum used to say I was part girl, part mouse.’ Her eyes clouded over and her lips trembled. ‘She was a bit of a wag, was my mum.’

Miranda rose hastily from the table. ‘I expect everything nice will be rationed soon, but I’m sure there’s more cheese in the larder. Wait there. I’ll go and have a look.’

‘We could always pinch a bottle of that rot-gut your grandad makes and trade it at the farmhouse,’ Rita said with a touch of her old spirit. ‘I’m not daft, Manda. I know what’s going on here. Good for Grandad George, that’s what I say.’

Miranda snatched a piece of cheddar from the marble slab and hurried back to the table. ‘Keep your voice down. It’s top secret and he’s trying to make fuel for the boiler. It’s not for consumption and he’d be horrified if he knew people were drinking it.’

‘Tell that to the marines, Manda.’ Rita winked and cut another slice. ‘But mum’s the word.’

It was time for the evacuees to go on their way. Maggie was surrounded by grateful mothers wanting to express their thanks for the brief respite in their journeys to various parts of the country,
while
Annie handed out packs of sandwiches to the older children.

Miranda stood by with a baby in each arm, giving them back to their respective mothers as they finished saying their goodbyes. Rita was rounding up the older children and shepherding them into the coach, while the driver stowed the cases in the luggage space, and eventually everyone had boarded and taken their seats. The last sight of their visitors was the children in the back seat pressing their faces against the window and waving madly.

‘I can’t say I’m sorry to see the back of those kids. Count me out next time you get all public spirited, Mrs B.’ Annie stomped back towards the house.

‘She’s got a bit too much to say for herself,’ Rita said, frowning. ‘My mum would have slapped me around the legs with a wet dishcloth if I’d been cheeky to her.’

‘Your mother was obviously a woman of good sense.’ Maggie was about to follow Annie, but she paused in the gateway. ‘What are you two girls going to do today? Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to visit Mrs Proffitt in hospital, Rita.’