it?’
‘Hm?’
‘That the Luftwaffe got him. Bomb blast took his head clean off his shoulders. Of course, there are other tales . . .’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you wanted to take over his pitch and you did it and made it look like just another wartime casualty.’
Their eyes locked. Hers were steady and questioning. Charlie’s were blank, devoid of guilt.
‘And if it was . . . ?’ he asked.
‘Then I’d have to say . . .’ she started to smile ‘. . . what do I care? He’s dead. But don’t think I can’t read between the lines, Mr Darke, because, as I’ve told you before, I can. More tea?’
Charlie smiled and nodded.
She might be a bit of a dog, but he liked Mrs Tranter.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, as she poured.
‘What?’
‘Your name. You know. Mine’s Charlie.’
She sat down and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I know that. And Mrs Tranter will do for now,’ she said.
He looked at her. The cheeky mare had some front, talking to him , Charlie Darke, like that.
He stood up. ‘You know, I don’t have to act the gent with you. I could do anything I damned well like here. You do know that, don’t you?’
Her eyes held his. She didn’t flinch and she didn’t look afraid. She had balls, this one.
‘I know,’ she said. Not a tremor in her voice.
Balls and class. Shame she was such a plain Jane.
‘Only you act like you don’t.’
A thin smile twisted her lips. ‘Mr Darke, I’ve had everything done to me already. You want to try and shock me? Go ahead. Be my guest.’
Charlie shook his head, smiling, amazed at her audacity. He picked up his hat and went to the door. Paused there. ‘This ain’t over,’ he said, looking back at her.
She shrugged, and turned away.
14
‘Seashells,’ said Mr Van Damm. ‘Conch, starfish, coral, fish, eels, the lot. And you girls as mermaids. I can picture it now. We’ll get new costumes made. It’s going to be wonderful.’
Ruby exchanged a look with Vi, who raised a wry eyebrow in return. They were backstage in the big communal dressing room all the girls used between performances to rest, dress, relax, gossip, and knit mufflers for the troops.
Ruby had been in the employ of the Windmill Theatre for three months and already she had portrayed in tableaux an Egyptian queen, a cowgirl and a pirate. It was like dressing-up for adults, all powered along by Vivian Van Damm’s manic enthusiasm. He was a funny little man, quick-moving and with beady eyes under huge dense eyebrows. You could hear him coming a mile off; he jingled the change in his pockets all the time – he was full of restless energy.
Ruby was actually beginning to enjoy herself. Of course, the first time had been awful. Vi had told her it would be; it always was.
‘But it’s like swimming or riding a bike. Once you get the knack, you’re off.’
And she was right. That first night, Ruby had stood there in the darkness, frozen in fear, and then the lights had flashed on and the crowd had roared. So many people, all staring at her standing there dressed like Cleopatra in black wig, filmy long harem pants and a heavy gold necklace – nothing else. Then the other tableaux had one by one been revealed, and the crowd cheered and clapped and stamped and the attention was now focused on the other girls too, which made her feel a little less . . . conspicuous.
‘All right there, sweetheart?’ Mr Van Damm asked her as he went to leave the room. ‘Settling in?’
‘Yes. Thanks,’ she said.
‘She’s a real trooper,’ said Deena, a stunning blonde, putting an arm round Ruby’s shoulders in happy camaraderie.
They were on in ten minutes, her and Vi, Deena and Joan, and now they were all scrabbling to put the finishing touches to their Red Indian squaw outfits, checking their headbands and feathers were straight, their tiny tasselled waistcoats (very tiny) were pushed well back from their breasts, their long fringed fake buckskin skirts were decently
‘Hm?’
‘That the Luftwaffe got him. Bomb blast took his head clean off his shoulders. Of course, there are other tales . . .’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you wanted to take over his pitch and you did it and made it look like just another wartime casualty.’
Their eyes locked. Hers were steady and questioning. Charlie’s were blank, devoid of guilt.
‘And if it was . . . ?’ he asked.
‘Then I’d have to say . . .’ she started to smile ‘. . . what do I care? He’s dead. But don’t think I can’t read between the lines, Mr Darke, because, as I’ve told you before, I can. More tea?’
Charlie smiled and nodded.
She might be a bit of a dog, but he liked Mrs Tranter.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, as she poured.
‘What?’
‘Your name. You know. Mine’s Charlie.’
She sat down and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I know that. And Mrs Tranter will do for now,’ she said.
He looked at her. The cheeky mare had some front, talking to him , Charlie Darke, like that.
He stood up. ‘You know, I don’t have to act the gent with you. I could do anything I damned well like here. You do know that, don’t you?’
Her eyes held his. She didn’t flinch and she didn’t look afraid. She had balls, this one.
‘I know,’ she said. Not a tremor in her voice.
Balls and class. Shame she was such a plain Jane.
‘Only you act like you don’t.’
A thin smile twisted her lips. ‘Mr Darke, I’ve had everything done to me already. You want to try and shock me? Go ahead. Be my guest.’
Charlie shook his head, smiling, amazed at her audacity. He picked up his hat and went to the door. Paused there. ‘This ain’t over,’ he said, looking back at her.
She shrugged, and turned away.
14
‘Seashells,’ said Mr Van Damm. ‘Conch, starfish, coral, fish, eels, the lot. And you girls as mermaids. I can picture it now. We’ll get new costumes made. It’s going to be wonderful.’
Ruby exchanged a look with Vi, who raised a wry eyebrow in return. They were backstage in the big communal dressing room all the girls used between performances to rest, dress, relax, gossip, and knit mufflers for the troops.
Ruby had been in the employ of the Windmill Theatre for three months and already she had portrayed in tableaux an Egyptian queen, a cowgirl and a pirate. It was like dressing-up for adults, all powered along by Vivian Van Damm’s manic enthusiasm. He was a funny little man, quick-moving and with beady eyes under huge dense eyebrows. You could hear him coming a mile off; he jingled the change in his pockets all the time – he was full of restless energy.
Ruby was actually beginning to enjoy herself. Of course, the first time had been awful. Vi had told her it would be; it always was.
‘But it’s like swimming or riding a bike. Once you get the knack, you’re off.’
And she was right. That first night, Ruby had stood there in the darkness, frozen in fear, and then the lights had flashed on and the crowd had roared. So many people, all staring at her standing there dressed like Cleopatra in black wig, filmy long harem pants and a heavy gold necklace – nothing else. Then the other tableaux had one by one been revealed, and the crowd cheered and clapped and stamped and the attention was now focused on the other girls too, which made her feel a little less . . . conspicuous.
‘All right there, sweetheart?’ Mr Van Damm asked her as he went to leave the room. ‘Settling in?’
‘Yes. Thanks,’ she said.
‘She’s a real trooper,’ said Deena, a stunning blonde, putting an arm round Ruby’s shoulders in happy camaraderie.
They were on in ten minutes, her and Vi, Deena and Joan, and now they were all scrabbling to put the finishing touches to their Red Indian squaw outfits, checking their headbands and feathers were straight, their tiny tasselled waistcoats (very tiny) were pushed well back from their breasts, their long fringed fake buckskin skirts were decently
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