While We're Apart (29 page)

‘Well, there ain't no time like the present,' said Ivy as she finished brushing out her hair, smeared on lipstick and dabbed her nose with a bit of powder. Clipping on a pair of very sparkly earrings, she checked her reflection in the mirror. ‘Come on, get yer coat.'

Mary couldn't resist this force of energy and did as she was told, but although she was excited by the thought of doing something so outrageous, the years of her strict upbringing meant she still harboured grave doubts as to the wisdom of it. ‘Will we be meeting other girls there?' she asked nervously as she picked up her bag and gas-mask box.

Ivy nodded and then opened the bedroom door. ‘Now, you gotta be quiet going down the stairs and out the front door. With any luck the old bat won't hear us over 'er wireless.'

‘But what about making her coffee?' hissed Mary.

‘She can stuff it up 'er jumper,' Ivy hissed back.

Mary had to stifle a giggle as they silently went down the stairs, which thankfully didn't creak. They tiptoed into the hall, opened the door and stepped out into the night as the sound of the music recital drifted from the drawing room. Ivy turned the key so the latch didn't make any noise when she shut the door behind her.

The gravel sounded very loud as it crunched beneath their shoes and they ran across it hand in hand, giggling like schoolgirls. They slowed down once they'd reached the corner and linked arms. Mary's pulse was racing, and the cold night air was stinging her face, but for the first time in ages she felt young and carefree. She was ready to enjoy her first proper evening out.

They walked arm in arm down Camden Road, past the fire station, the tearooms and hospital and the shuttered shops. As they drew near to the Anchor, Mary could see the battered sign hanging over the heavy oak door, and the way the old walls sort of leaned out towards the pavement beneath the low, uneven roof. Not a chink of light penetrated the blackout curtains behind the lead-paned windows, but the sound of voices and laughter could clearly be heard from inside.

Ivy opened the door and they were met by a wall of noise, the smell of beer, and a thick cloud of cigarette smoke.

Mary hesitated, suddenly feeling horribly shy and out of place. The pub seemed to be full of men – of all ages, and in the uniforms of every allied service.

Ivy had no such inhibitions and grabbed her hand. ‘Come on. I can see me mates over by the bar.'

Mary found herself being pulled through the press of people, and blushed furiously as she was greeted and winked at by every man she was forced to squeeze past.

‘This 'ere's Dot, Mabel, Glad and Freda,' shouted Ivy above the racket. ‘This is Mary,' she continued to yell.

Mary greeted the other girls shyly, noting that they'd dressed up for the occasion, with shining hair and full make-up – and that they were surrounded by young RAF officers.

Ivy turned to one of them and grinned. ‘Wotcha, Charlie. Gunna buy me and me mate a drink then, or what?'

‘I'd be delighted, my sweet Ivy,' he replied as he smoothed his flowing moustache. His amused hazel eyes rested on Mary. ‘And what can I get you, young lady?'

‘I'll just have lemonade,' stammered Mary.

Ivy's brows rose. ‘Blimey, you ain't 'alf gotta lot to learn, Mary,' she muttered. ‘I'll have me usual beer,' she said to the young and rather dashing Charlie.

Mary stood in an agony of shyness as everyone plied her with questions, and reassured her that working on the factory estate wasn't too bad because the wages were good, the girls were a jolly bunch, and the food in the canteen wasn't half bad either.

Armed with her beer, Ivy handed Mary the glass of lemonade. ‘Mary can play the piano,' she told everyone with pride.

There was a chorus of surprise and delight, and before Mary could protest she was being enthusiastically bustled through the mass of people to the other side of the room. ‘Make way,' boomed Charlie. ‘This lady's about to play us a song or two.'

Mary gripped Ivy's hand as the crowd parted and she caught her first sight of the battered upright piano.

‘It's a bit old,' shouted Ivy. ‘But the landlady keeps it in good nick, so you shouldn't have no problems.'

‘I can't,' protested Mary in terror. ‘Not in front of all these people.'

‘Course you can,' said Ivy as she peeled Mary's coat from her shoulders. ‘We ain't had no one decent playing the thing for ages, and we've been missing our sing-songs, ain't we, boys?' She dimpled up at the circling men.

Mary could feel the perspiration trickling down her back, and her hands were clammy and not at all steady as she looked round at the others. ‘I can't, really I can't,' she stammered, desperate to escape all the attention – to push her way through this stifling mass of people and escape to the cold and the calm beyond these walls.

‘Come on, honey, give us a tune. Don't be frightened. We won't eat you.'

Mary looked up into the smiling face of an American soldier, saw she was surrounded with not the slightest chance of escape, and gave in. Gathering her courage, she put her bag and gas-mask box on top of the piano, sat down and opened the lid.

The ivory keys were yellow with age and the pedals were stiff, so it was probably out of tune and perhaps a bit tinny. But Ivy had put her in this very awkward position, so she had no option but to make the best of things.

Her mind raced, for although she knew most of the popular songs and had practised them in secret on the school piano, she was so nervous that she doubted she'd be able to play anything properly.

‘Take a deep breath, mate,' said an Australian soldier in her ear. ‘You'll be right. No worries.' He turned to the others. ‘Give the lady a bit of air, you blokes,' he drawled. ‘She can't play with you lot breathing down her neck like a bunch of galahs.'

Mary smiled up at him, placed her fingers on the keys and executed a quick practice run of scales which told her that the tone was a little tinny, but not as bad as she'd expected. A profound silence fell, and she could almost feel the anticipation as she took the deep breath the Australian had advised, relaxed her shoulders and began to play ‘I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas'.

As the Australian's rich baritone was joined by the rest of the crowd, she relaxed further, forgot she was the centre of attention, and actually began to enjoy herself.

Peggy had finished her cigarette and was stubbing it out in the ashtray when her hand stilled. There was a hush downstairs, and then someone started to play the piano quite beautifully. She recognised the tune immediately, for Bing Crosby's Christmas song was one of the most popular at the moment, and the girls had been playing the record endlessly at home.

‘Goodness me,' she muttered. ‘They've found someone at last who can actually play the thing.'

She left the couch and quietly went down the stairs as the customers sang along, their voices soft and dreamy at the thought of Christmas, snow and their families at home.

Easing through the gathering, Peggy came to stand beside Rosie. Slipping her arm round her waist, she found she was too short to see over all the heads, so swayed in time with her as they sang along.

When the last chord faded there was an explosion of cheers and clapping, and shouts for more. ‘I'd better get the girl a drink,' said Rosie as even more people began to cram through the front door and into the bar. ‘She's certainly earned it.'

There was an immediate response from the men standing nearby who insisted upon paying for Mary's drink, and Rosie charged them each a couple of bob and put the money in an empty jar under the bar.

‘I doubt she'll drink that much,' she confided quietly to Peggy as the girl started to play ‘Little Brown Jug'. ‘She's actually only on lemonade, but I'm sure she'll appreciate the money.'

‘Who is it?' asked Peggy as Rosie poured lemonade into a clean glass.

‘I've never seen her before,' said Rosie. ‘But she came in with Ivy, so I'm guessing she's your sister's new lodger.'

Her eyes were thoughtful as she regarded her latest influx of customers, who'd been drawn in by the music and were clamouring to be served. The Anchor was the only pub in Cliffehaven which had a piano, and there was nothing the boys liked more than to have a good sing-song. ‘I wonder if she'd come in at the weekends and play. I'd pay her of course and she'd have tips and such – but once word gets round, this place will get busier than ever.'

‘Then ask her,' said Peggy. ‘She can only say no.' She reached for the glass. ‘I'll take this over as you're so busy.'

She weaved her way through the massed gathering to the piano, where a girl with long dark hair and nimble fingers was leading the singers through the popular song. Peggy watched as she came to the end and rather shyly acknowledged the shouts of encouragement. She was a young, pretty girl, with lovely cornflower blue eyes and a sweet smile, and was clearly thoroughly enjoying herself.

‘This is on the house,' said Peggy as she handed her the lemonade.

‘Oh, that is kind,' the girl replied and took a long, grateful drink.

‘You've certainly earned it,' said Peggy. ‘I've never heard that old thing being played so well before.'

The girl blushed. ‘It's a bit out of tune, but it's lovely to be appreciated.' She smiled. ‘I'm Mary Jones, by the way.'

‘And I'm Peggy Reilly.'

The blue eyes widened. ‘Goodness. Stan and Ethel told me about you earlier today,' she said. ‘It's nice to meet you.'

‘It's nice to meet you too.' Peggy found she had to shout to be heard above the noise of everyone yelling for another tune.

Mary looked rather flustered by all the noise. ‘Oh dear, I didn't realise what I'd started – or rather what Ivy started when she told everyone I could play the piano.'

‘Don't let them bully you, or you'll be at it all night,' shouted Peggy. ‘I'm sitting over there if you want to come and join us later.'

Mary nodded, and then silenced the crowd momentarily by playing a couple of rippling scales before she embarked upon ‘Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree'.

Peggy went back to her table and sat down. Mary Jones seemed to be rather a sweet, unassuming girl, and she could only hope that she would be happy living with Doris – for if her sister discovered how well she could play the piano, she would no doubt have her doing fundraising concerts quicker than you could blink.

She took a long drink and lit a cigarette, tapping her feet in time to the music as Cordelia trilled away in blissful ignorance of how out of tune she was. It was lovely to hear the old piano being played properly again, and Rosie couldn't go wrong by asking the girl to play here on a regular basis. It certainly livened up a Friday night and no mistake.

MARY HAD BEEN
playing for most of the evening, with only a couple of stops to drink her lemonade and catch her breath, so she hadn't had time to go to Mrs Reilly's table, or even get to know Ivy's friends. And yet she was enjoying herself, for this was a night of new experiences, and it was very flattering to be guarded by the large Australian who'd remained at her side all evening and become quite proprietorial as he'd kept the other men from crowding her.

She finished her third glass of lemonade, wishing she could have had water or even tea, for it was very sweet and didn't really quench her thirst. The shouts for another tune made her smile, and because the loudest request had come from an American, she began to play ‘Deep in the Heart of Texas'.

This had them stamping their feet and clapping to the chorus, and she could feel the old piano shudder from the vibrations, which made her grin. It was lovely to be an intrinsic part of a happy evening – even though she'd probably get it in the neck from Mrs Williams when she returned to the billet.

The wail of a siren penetrated the noise and there was an instant hush, and a frozen pause before everyone began to gather their things and make an orderly escape through the front door.

Mary quickly grabbed her belongings and looked for Ivy, as one of the dogs she'd seen earlier began to howl piteously.

‘No worries, love,' said the Australian. ‘Rosie's got a shelter in the cellar. Your mates are regulars so they'll be down there.' Before she could protest, he'd taken her arm and was determinedly steering her across the room against the flow of people who were hurrying outside.

Mary saw that Mrs Reilly was running up the wooden stairs as the press of people slowly made their way through the entrance to the cellar and down the stone steps. But where was Ivy? She looked round frantically as the whine of the sirens reached screaming pitch, the dog howled even louder, and everyone moved that bit quicker as a sturdy older man took charge of the two dogs and chivvied the mass along.

Mary saw the dogs cowering in a corner as she was led across the cellar towards a collection of couches and chairs. The poor things were obviously terrified, but at least they hadn't been left alone upstairs. Ivy's friends were chattering away to their pilots, but there was still no sign of Ivy.

‘The name's Bob Ashton,' said the Australian soldier as he plumped down on to a sagging couch next to her. ‘But me mates call me Smoky.'

Mary smiled at him distractedly as she continued her search for Ivy. ‘Why's that then?'

‘Ashton – ash – no smoke without fire,' he drawled. ‘You're Mary, aren't you?'

She nodded, and then felt a huge surge of relief as she saw Ivy running down the steps, swiftly followed by the dashing Charlie. ‘Ivy,' she called. ‘I'm over here.'

Ivy came over and threw herself down next to Mary. ‘Whew, I thought we'd never make it in time.' She grinned. ‘Me and Charlie decided to go for a bit of a walk on the seafront for some fresh air, if yer get me drift,' she said with a nudge and a wink. ‘And we 'ad to run like the blazes when the warden yelled at us.' Her impish brown eyes regarded the Australian. ‘Who's this then?'