on, you’ll enjoy an outing, Mum.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Dawn … the sky’s overcast. It’s bound to rain and the damp affects me knees.’ Eliza Nightingale continued sitting obstinately at the parlour table, frowning at her clasped hands.
‘We’ll take an umbrella then, just in case,’ Dawn persisted.
Dawn had a free afternoon and had got complimentary tickets for the variety matinee at the Windmill Theatre as they’d not sold out. Her mother had got herself ready, dressing in her best frock, but as usual Eliza was attempting to cry off at the last moment so she could stay at home close to the gin bottle.
‘I’m not wasting these tickets!’ Dawn forced her mother to her feet and into her coat. ‘Come on, let’s go. We don’t want to miss the start of the show when the clown and juggler do a double act.’
Dawn began ushering her mother and brother towards the front door before one of them tried to duck out of the trip. Walking towards the bus stop she wondered why she went to the trouble of trying to arrange outings for her family when they acted as though they were doing her a favour in accepting a treat.
‘Can’t we go to the pictures instead?’ George moaned as they joined the back of the bus queue. ‘Captain Blood’s back on at the Gaumont. Errol Flynn’s me favourite.’
‘No, we can’t,’ Dawn said on a sigh. ‘You’ll like the show; it’s rather comical … and the mermaid costumes are nice …’
‘Any nude girls in it?’ George asked cheekily.
Eliza glanced, horrified, at her son. ‘That’s quite enough of that talk, young man,’ she whispered, glancing about to see if anybody in the queue had heard his cheeky remark.
‘Do you stand about with no clothes on?’ George deliberately taunted his sister, and got an immediate clip round the ear from his pursed-lipped mother.
Eliza dragged her son to one side as a woman turned around to glare at them. ‘Now you listen to me, young man. Any more of that and you’ll go straight home.’
‘Good,’ George mumbled, although he knew he’d overstepped the mark. He’d been bored all morning and had been looking forward to getting out of the house on a Saturday afternoon. But he was reluctant to let on to his mother and sister how excited he was to be going to the theatre with them.
‘No, I don’t stand about with no clothes on. I’m a chorus dancer, as you know,’ Dawn finally answered her brother in a steely tone.
‘How do you know about nudes and so on at the Windmill Theatre?’ Eliza muttered, glaring at Dawn as though it was all her fault George was talking dirty.
‘One of the boys at school told me about it. He had a picture of the girls doing their gas-mask practice. They only had on their vests and drawers.’
‘Well they weren’t in the nude then,’ Dawn retorted. ‘And everybody does gas-mask training, even you kids at school.’ She dragged her brother forward by an elbow as a bus wheezed to a halt at the kerb. ‘Now behave yourself, George, or you’ll ruin our trip out.’ Dawn cast her eyes heavenwards. It wasn’t an auspicious start to what she’d hoped would be a relaxing afternoon.
‘Stop fidgeting, George.’
‘Seats are itchy …’ George shifted again on the brown velour seat but he soon forgot about his discomfort. He howled with laughter as the clown’s red nose fell off for the second time and the juggler trod on it, causing him to lose concentration and drop his skittles. ‘Need some glue for that conk?’ George called, and earned himself a slap on the arm from his mother.
But Eliza was laughing too, and dabbed her streaming eyes with a hanky. The clown and juggler had reappeared to bring the show to a close with apparently farcical consequences. Probably nobody in the audience, apart from Dawn, knew that the performers’ calamity was a well-rehearsed trick that always had the customers rolling in the aisles.
‘Did you enjoy the show?’ Dawn asked as the heavy curtain descended, although she already knew the answer to that. She had been gladdened to see her mother and brother hooting and clapping as the cast took a bow. The light-heartedness between them reminded her of days long ago, when George had been small and their mother drank in moderation. Standing up, Dawn waited patiently for the crowd of people in front of her to file towards the exit. She was pleased to see that Olive had sold more tickets during the afternoon. It was by no means a packed house but more than half-full. It was a good sign that many opening nights were still to come for Dawn and her colleagues at the Windmill, despite the opposition from rivals.
The Windmill might have been the trailblazer where nudes on stage were concerned, but many other venues had since jumped on the bandwagon, taking custom away from the original show. The management insisted the Windmill remain better than its imitators; all the cast and crew knew they must do their best to keep the queue of punters snaking along Great Windmill Street.
Once out in the foyer, Dawn told her mum she was just off to say a quick hello to the girls in the dressing room. Eliza, seeing Olive Roberts in the kiosk, diverted to speak to her.
‘You’re Olive, I remember you from last time I came over to a matinee with Dawn.’ Eliza struck up a conversation while George read the colourful billboards advertising current and future shows.
‘How are you keeping, Mrs Nightingale?’
‘Oh, I’m bearing up, thanks, love. How’re your kids doing?’ she asked. ‘You’ve got two boys, haven’t you?’
‘They’re nice and settled down in Brighton … sea air and veg straight from the farm; so they’re doing alright.’
‘’Spect they miss you though.’ Eliza gave the woman a sympathetic smile. ‘You off on a visit soon, are you?’
Olive gave a customer his change. ‘I’m busy with my WVS duties so can’t fit in too many trips away. But I do the journey from time to time to check up on things.’
‘I went to a WVS meeting once,’ Eliza said. ‘A girl younger than me daughter was trying to tell us how to make jam. I said, listen here, love, I’ve been making jam since before you was a glint in yer father’s eye.’
‘I drive the mobile tea wagon and know first aid so turn up to help the poor souls after a raid. The servicemen are always grateful to have someone to talk to.’ Olive pulled from her pocket a WVS badge. ‘This goes on all the time after I’ve finished work here.’
‘I’ve been fire-fighting with me neighbour,’ Eliza said, feeling a bit left out.
‘Victory’s not far off, I know it,’ Olive said serenely. ‘My work then will be done and I can go home and put my feet up.’
‘Home? Thought you were a Londoner, Olive.’
‘I was born in Crouch End, but I’ve attachments elsewhere.’
‘Where’s that then?’
‘Your lad back on a visit, is he?’ It was a sly enquiry; Olive knew very well that Dawn’s brother had never been evacuated and regularly sought shelter from the Blitz with his mother out the back of their house, in an Anderson shelter.
‘George
