buttoned.
They went out onto the stage – the curtains were still closed – and positioned themselves behind the big frames, ready to hold their poses, ready to be lit, to be admired. As Vi scampered by wearing a long blonde wig she hissed to Ruby: ‘Got to talk to you after.’
Ruby shot her a questioning look. ‘What . . . ?’
‘After,’ said Vi firmly, and dropped her peignoir and took up her pose: an alabaster-skinned Apache maid posing on a rocky desert outcrop to lure Red Indian warriors.
‘Go on then, tell me,’ said Ruby.
Vi took a long pull on her cigarette and said, ‘How do you feel about a private party?’
‘A what?’
‘Private party. I’ve been approached by a gentleman – very respectable – with a request that two of us should perform privately, for a select group. What do you think?’
Ruby thought she wasn’t very keen on the idea. There were always crowds of men, soldiers on leave, civilians, outside the stage door, waiting to see this or that girl, to get their programme signed by these mortal goddesses they saw in the glittering, unreal setting of the vividly lit stage. Usually Ruby hustled past them, ignoring the outstretched hands, the pleading eyes. They made her feel uncomfortable. But Vi always accepted their worship as if it was her due.
‘What, one of the stage-door johnnies?’ she asked.
Vi was watching her assessingly. She shook her head and blew out a plume of smoke.
‘Nah. Not one of them. This one’s a gent. A real toff.’
‘Where then? Here? In the Windy?’ There was a small room they used for staff parties.
‘Not here, dopey. At a proper gentlemen’s club in the City. All fares paid, all expenses covered.’
‘I don’t know.’
A quick look of irritation crossed Vi’s face. ‘Cash in hand,’ she added with a sigh.
That was the thing Ruby would remember later, that moment when Vi looked annoyed with her and said cash in hand. She knew Vi thought she was limp. That she had no spirit.
But hadn’t she already proved her wrong? She’d lied to get here. God hadn’t yet struck her dead for her audacity. Dad hadn’t raised so much as a murmur. He really believed she was working day in, day out at the salvage depot. And Betsy was covering the lie, standing in sometimes at the shop. Everything – to Ruby’s amazement – seemed to be working out. She was gaining in confidence, pushing the boundaries.
‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Good girl!’ said Vi with a smile.
Ruby felt sure her mum would have been proud of her.
Wouldn’t she?
15
1922
Leroy was outside the shop again when Alicia opened up the following morning, leaning against the doorway.
‘Was that you?’ asked Alicia.
‘Huh?’ He was smiling at her, thinking that she was beautiful.
‘Last night. We heard someone playing the trumpet.’
‘Yeah. That was me.’
‘You play so well.’Alicia paused. ‘I’m sorry about Ted shouting like that,’ she said, getting the key out and flushing with embarrassment at the memory of Ted’s crassness.
She was sure that Ted would be over there, complaining to Leroy’s landlord today. And then probably Leroy and his friends would be thrown out, and she would never hear that bewitching, sultry sound again.
‘He the man? The one that shouted? That your husband?’
‘You heard him?’ Alicia felt hot with shame.
‘He don’t like music?’
Alicia opened the door and paused to remove the key. She didn’t know what to say. Ted would tolerate Ivor Novello or Caruso. But what he called nigger music, he hated. And she couldn’t tell Leroy that.
‘He don’t like it very much,’ she said.
‘You do, though?’ Leroy was staring into her eyes.
‘Yes, I like it,’ she said, flustered by the intensity of his gaze.
‘You want to come to my room sometime?’ he asked softly. ‘Hear me play?’
‘No,’ she said, feeling a distant, warm clenching of excitement in the pit of her stomach. ‘No, I
They went out onto the stage – the curtains were still closed – and positioned themselves behind the big frames, ready to hold their poses, ready to be lit, to be admired. As Vi scampered by wearing a long blonde wig she hissed to Ruby: ‘Got to talk to you after.’
Ruby shot her a questioning look. ‘What . . . ?’
‘After,’ said Vi firmly, and dropped her peignoir and took up her pose: an alabaster-skinned Apache maid posing on a rocky desert outcrop to lure Red Indian warriors.
‘Go on then, tell me,’ said Ruby.
Vi took a long pull on her cigarette and said, ‘How do you feel about a private party?’
‘A what?’
‘Private party. I’ve been approached by a gentleman – very respectable – with a request that two of us should perform privately, for a select group. What do you think?’
Ruby thought she wasn’t very keen on the idea. There were always crowds of men, soldiers on leave, civilians, outside the stage door, waiting to see this or that girl, to get their programme signed by these mortal goddesses they saw in the glittering, unreal setting of the vividly lit stage. Usually Ruby hustled past them, ignoring the outstretched hands, the pleading eyes. They made her feel uncomfortable. But Vi always accepted their worship as if it was her due.
‘What, one of the stage-door johnnies?’ she asked.
Vi was watching her assessingly. She shook her head and blew out a plume of smoke.
‘Nah. Not one of them. This one’s a gent. A real toff.’
‘Where then? Here? In the Windy?’ There was a small room they used for staff parties.
‘Not here, dopey. At a proper gentlemen’s club in the City. All fares paid, all expenses covered.’
‘I don’t know.’
A quick look of irritation crossed Vi’s face. ‘Cash in hand,’ she added with a sigh.
That was the thing Ruby would remember later, that moment when Vi looked annoyed with her and said cash in hand. She knew Vi thought she was limp. That she had no spirit.
But hadn’t she already proved her wrong? She’d lied to get here. God hadn’t yet struck her dead for her audacity. Dad hadn’t raised so much as a murmur. He really believed she was working day in, day out at the salvage depot. And Betsy was covering the lie, standing in sometimes at the shop. Everything – to Ruby’s amazement – seemed to be working out. She was gaining in confidence, pushing the boundaries.
‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Good girl!’ said Vi with a smile.
Ruby felt sure her mum would have been proud of her.
Wouldn’t she?
15
1922
Leroy was outside the shop again when Alicia opened up the following morning, leaning against the doorway.
‘Was that you?’ asked Alicia.
‘Huh?’ He was smiling at her, thinking that she was beautiful.
‘Last night. We heard someone playing the trumpet.’
‘Yeah. That was me.’
‘You play so well.’Alicia paused. ‘I’m sorry about Ted shouting like that,’ she said, getting the key out and flushing with embarrassment at the memory of Ted’s crassness.
She was sure that Ted would be over there, complaining to Leroy’s landlord today. And then probably Leroy and his friends would be thrown out, and she would never hear that bewitching, sultry sound again.
‘He the man? The one that shouted? That your husband?’
‘You heard him?’ Alicia felt hot with shame.
‘He don’t like music?’
Alicia opened the door and paused to remove the key. She didn’t know what to say. Ted would tolerate Ivor Novello or Caruso. But what he called nigger music, he hated. And she couldn’t tell Leroy that.
‘He don’t like it very much,’ she said.
‘You do, though?’ Leroy was staring into her eyes.
‘Yes, I like it,’ she said, flustered by the intensity of his gaze.
‘You want to come to my room sometime?’ he asked softly. ‘Hear me play?’
‘No,’ she said, feeling a distant, warm clenching of excitement in the pit of her stomach. ‘No, I
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