Read sample Promise of the Dorset Girls

Chapter One

Kate leaned against the baby grand piano, smiling as applause rippled around the nightclub. She sipped a weak gin. “Medicinal purposes,” she grinned, toasting Roberto, the pianist. He winked.

I'll Be with You in Apple Blossom Time always went down well, especially with the few newly arrived American GIs, who seemed to have time to spend in London. A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square was probably the second favourite. Kate had opened with it this evening and, to signal the end of the first half of her act, she would perform Begin the Beguine, a song that, without fail, brought the Blue Cockatoo's audience to its feet.

Roberto warned her with his look, and began the introduction to A Foggy Day in London Town. She replaced her glass on the piano top and straightened, picking up the microphone. The GIs wouldn't know what fog was, but they'd find out pretty soon, when autumn arrived. There was also no blossom in London, nor any nightingales—only a great many gap-toothed buildings, along equally bomb-damaged streets.

Roberto, head bent down over the keys, was into his twiddly bits, and she knew better than even to clear her throat until he'd finished. She glanced to the left of the stage, where Stan on saxophone and Elliot on bass were, as she expected, grinning as Roberto milked his moment of glory.

Stan lifted his glass of Scotch to her. Kate half laughed. How on earth had he wheedled that out of Graham? She glanced towards the bar, where patrons sat on high stools. Ah, no wonder; it was dear old Frankie serving the cocktails and he was a sucker for the entertainers, bless him. He'd lost his Gertie in the bombing and took refuge working here whenever his Air Raid Precautions duties allowed. “It helps,” he always said, “to be amongst other people who are trying to forget whatever it is they don't want to remember.”

Offstage to her right, Brucie, the owner, was imitating winding a crank handle and stabbing his finger at her. She ignored him and let Roberto play on, stepping away from the piano in her tight strapless, scarlet evening dress slit to the knee, her blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders. She slipped the microphone into its stand. Around the dance floor the patrons were sitting at what seemed like elegant little tables, but in this dim light everything looked better than it was, even the entertainers.

She tapped the microphone. “Listen closely, you lovely people, the fog of winter has gone, the bombers have not returned—and perhaps won't. But, as always, the party doesn't stop, even if they do. We will continue to play for you, while you dance till dawn.”

The audience laughed, but one or two hunched their shoulders, looking nervously at the ceiling. Maybe she shouldn't have used the word “perhaps', but you never knew. The London Blitz was over, but the poor old provinces were getting a bashing even as she spoke. She hurried on, over the rising chatter, hearing Roberto still tinkering behind her. “I was just thinking that although the winter is over, and spring too, Soho has no apple blossom.”

Kate waited for just a few seconds until they fell silent. She nodded towards the bar, where Teresa was stubbing out a cigarette beneath one of her high heels, ready to circulate with her tray of single roses.

“But, gentlemen, though there may not be blossom out there, inside in the Blue Cockatoo we have a rose for your lovely partner. It's summer, after all, and Teresa is most ready to oblige.”

She waited for the expected laughter. It came, along with whistles and hoots. A deep voice called, “Come to me, darling. I have money in my pocket, and a heart and soul that need obliging.”

Brucie nodded, pleased with Kate, as Teresa sashayed her way to the soldier, her suspenders just about hidden by her short black skirt, and her breasts by the strapless top. She winked at Kate as she passed. For every rose she sold, Brucie gave her a commission. Not a lot, but enough.

Roberto was now playing her in, Stan put his glass down and Elliot eased his shoulders. Kate held the stand of the microphone, closed her eyes and began to sing, feeling the timbre of the words, because she too had been a stranger in the city, just as the song said, and hadn't known what to do. She reached that line, paused, looked up and waved the audience to join in.

For a moment the patrons of the Blue Cockatoo joined together in the face of their uncertainty, and perhaps it was a comfort, much like the cocktails, for which they paid over the odds. But nothing really touched the coiling fear inside them all, and the unanswered questions: what the hell was going to happen, and when would the tide really turn?

Kate sang on, reaching the chorus. Again she waved the audience in, and together they sang. Teresa was still circulating, and the roses were going as though there was no need for money tomorrow. As Kate sang she swayed with the music, seeing movement from her left. She stood away from the microphone as Stan took her place, playing his saxophone solo. She moved to her position at the piano again, lifting her glass, swirling the drink around. It was mostly water, with no lemon of course. There was a war on. She smiled wryly.

But war was good for some. She was thinking of the spivs who did their business in the club, night after night, day after day. It must have cost Brucie a fortune. He also made one, of course, but how many lives were lost bringing the goods to their shores? It was best not to think about it. She gulped her drink. She was as bad; if she had any morality, she would only have water.

Stan was drawing to a close and tapped his foot. It was code for “Any minute now, come and join me.” She did, draping her arm around his shoulders. They had known one another for more than four years; she was twenty-three, he fifty-three, and they were close friends, after working night after night in the club, whatever raids were in progress.

The ARP wardens called all the workers at the club an “essential war service', manned by people as brave as lions. Mark you, they were biased, because of the nip of gin Brucie would give them when they stuck their heads round the doors, complaining that they were showing a light. But they were quite right, for even a sliver was too much.

She sang slowly, loving the last line, because it lifted all hearts to think that the sun was shining everywhere.

The applause was warm, and roses were thrown towards her, most of which she caught. The scent was nothing like that of the roses that grew in the gardens of her dim and distant village, but it did bring the softness of the long-ago summers into the club. She bowed in thanks and placed the roses alongside her glass. After her shift, they'd be collected and resold. She always kept one, though, and frequently wondered why she did that to herself, for Little Worthy, her village, equalled self-flagellation.

Was it still the same? Was her father still the same? She stopped: that was enough; think of the next song, the next cigarette, and perhaps another gin. Brucie wouldn't like it, but what the hell.

She always ended her shift with We'll Meet Again, but it wasn't nearly time for that. Yes, she had sung two sessions, but it had to be three, if you were top of the bill. Roberto left the stage and she sang, to Stan's saxophone, the opening line to The Way You Look Tonight: 'Some day, when I'm awfully low…'

The patrons were clinging together on the dance floor waltzing, eyes closed, the men resting their heads on the women's heads. Her voice wavered; would anyone ever close their eyes and think of her with real love?

She wondered if the cheeks of the women were as soft as those she sang about, and did their partners feel there was nothing for them to do but love them? She did hope so. As she breathed the words out into the ether, she too closed her eyes. Did they hope their love would never change, and that they'd keep their soft, nightclub-induced charm? She held the last note, stepping back, making room for Stan again. She smiled around the room, wondering if Brucie had remembered that she must leave at dead-on one forty-five. Mark you, best not to say 'dead', in this day and age.

She saw that Tony, the doorman, had left his post outside the street door and was instead standing in the darkness at the back, by the curtain that hung between the corridor and the club. He waved to attract her attention. She strained to see him in the shadowy gloom. He was pointing to someone standing at his side, someone who stepped forward into the low light. It was a woman, wearing a felt cloche hat and day-clothes: a short jacket, a flowered dress and flat shoes. The light was insufficient to make out the colours.

Kate shrugged, turning and looking at Elliot, who was the only one standing behind her. Did Tony mean him? She gestured towards the woman. Elliot shook his head. She moved back to Stan, draping her arm over his shoulder again, singing the last refrain. Now the dancers turned and swayed on the spot as they joined in.

The applause was almost sleepy, as though a great calmness had fallen over the dance floor. Stan kissed her cheek. “Well sung, darling Miss Watson. But who is that woman over there, looking as though she's found herself amongst sinners in a den of iniquity and has a stare that could pierce an armoured car?”

Kate had forgotten about Tony, and now she looked again as the woman turned to him, waving her hand towards Kate, pushing her head forward to make herself heard against the noise. Kate slipped from Stan, feeling shock in every sinew, though all she said was, “Ready for Begin the Beguine?” Roberto had made his way back to the piano. They began, and all the time Kate watched Sarah edge further into the light. Her older sister had changed in eight years. Well, hadn't they all? For that's what time did to people.

As Kate sang, she acknowledged Sarah. That was all. If Sarah wanted to talk to Kate, she'd have to wait amongst the company her younger sister kept, which was a far cry from the rectitude of Melbury Cottage, High Street, Little Worthy. But was she even still living there?

As she sang, Kate blessed, as she always did, the deadness, not of desire, but of memory. It had taken a while, but in the end had faded into something manageable. She sang of love, of the heaven they were in, and therefore at last able to begin the beguine.

She couldn't hold the final note, she had to breathe, and then again, but it must never be a sob. Never. Stan covered for her, his notes soaring and swooping, but his eyes were fixed on her, checking that all was well. She nodded and swayed to the music, shimmying across the stage, spinning slowly and looking over her shoulder, smiling at a familiar lieutenant sitting close to the stage with three of his friends, all from the same frontline regiment, all on embarkation leave. A bottle of champagne rested in an ice bucket. He had been coming for the past week, and he was nice.

She shimmied to Stan's side, bringing the song to a close.

She hung her head, and bowed as applause burst from the patrons, accompanied by hoots and whistles. What a bloody idiot she was to think she'd really deadened the memories. She lifted her head, knowing that her eyes were full. She must not blink. She bowed again, and let the tears drop to the stage, unseen, then stood straight, smiling around at the audience, who were on their feet, cheering and laughing. “Encore!”

She stepped away, gesturing to Stan, who took a bow, taking her hand, squeezing it. “All right, lovely girl?” He looked puzzled.

She nodded. “Just a face from the past—family.”

He nodded and twirled her beneath his arm. They both bowed. He murmured, “Time for a drink, methinks. Get one for the tank-piercer, it might blunt her thrust.”

Kate stared at her sister, who was not applauding, just standing quite still. Their eyes met.

I'm a star, in spite of you and Father, Kate wanted to say. I can sing, and audiences like me. I can dance. I have friends who do the things I love, all the things I wanted to do, and which you all thought so wrong. Yes, here I am. I have begun the beguine, O sister of mine. Do you even know what a beguine is? It's a dance, a sort of rumba—a dance of joy, I like to think. But you don't dance. You're proper, whereas I am not. I am a polluter, Father said, not suitable…She stopped.

Sarah was looking around the club, her distaste visible. Kate kept her head up, her smile in place, saying into the microphone, “Well, time for a break, everyone, maybe for more drinks, perhaps some food. Manuel will be here to provide a few wonderful tunes, if you are still in the mood for dancing. You see, we cover your every need. The girls will be moving amongst you, and we'll start again in twenty minutes.”

A man waited to steady her down the three steps.

He kissed her hand. “Dance with me?”

“Of course, but later,” she smiled.

Kate weaved her way through those who crowded around her. Onstage the interval musicians played. At the back, by the curtain, Tony nodded to her and disappeared to his post, leaving her sister standing on her own; a square peg in a round hole, just for once. Kate allowed herself a sense of grim satisfaction.

A young woman came up to her. “You were wonderful, Miss Watson, but then you always are.”

“You're very kind. Thank you.”

Her partner, pristine in his dinner jacket, said, “We listened to you in the bandstand show, on the wireless. You sound much better in real life.”

“Thank you, that's so kind. I do hope you're having fun. I see you have one of Teresa's roses. You can always press it, you know, and have something to remind you of the evening. But forgive me. I must see someone who's waiting for me. Enjoy your evening.”

The bandstand show had been a lucky break: the booked singer was sick, and Brucie moved heaven and earth to make sure Kate was available. At last Kate was getting noticed, and soon a scout had promised he'd call in. He needed people for America.

She reached the lieutenant's table. “Enjoying yourselves?” she asked these four friends, all so smart in their uniforms, all so terribly young. Lieutenant Bill Secker rose. “One last dance, Kate, because I'm off tomorrow. Can you manage a tango?” He was twenty-two, and looked twelve. He could die soon. She knew that, he knew that. So many already had, so how could she possibly say no, but she wished his request had been for a waltz, as it had been last night.

“I'd be disappointed if we didn't, as it's your favourite,” she grinned. “But after that I must leave you, to see someone who has just called in to have a chat.”

“One dance is enough,” he said, leading her onto the floor.

She signed a T to Manuel. “Let's do this. It's time to put the waltz into storage and move on. In life it's so very important to move on, isn't it.” It wasn't a question. For a moment Bill Secker looked confused. She said, “Oh, don't mind me, I'm thinking aloud. Come on, time to tango—it's a dance I love too, and it's been so long.”

The floor was almost clear of dancers, many of whom were clustered around the bar or visiting other tables. She knew they would fall silent and watch the moment the dance began, because this young man was born to dance.

Manuel, who was really Ron from Poplar, slid his trio into Jealousy, one of her favourites. Bill smiled and swept her onto the floor and for a moment they felt the music. His breathing was deep and slow, his eyes brown and content, and Kate made hers the same, even though she feared the pain the next few minutes would bring. Safe in his arms, she moved in a closed promenade. She smiled then, really smiled, because this was heaven: this passion, this moving as one, as Bill led her into the music, their steps gliding, striding; and now it was just the two of them, in some other world.

He swished her into a fall-away whisk, which was so sudden, and so strong. There was no time to draw breath, because now he was holding her tight again and walking her backwards, and they were into the music's rhythm and her head was somewhere other than her body. The music swept them on and on, until quite suddenly the climax was reached, only to fall away as the music sliced to a stop and they ceased to move. They stayed, body to body, heaving breath to heaving breath. For a moment there was silence, then the room erupted into extraordinary applause.

Lieutenant Bill Secker smiled at her. “I will remember this moment for ever. If I return, will you tango with me?”

She rested her hand against his cheek. “I said, young Bill, that I would do so with my own true love, whoever that might be. If you haven't met yours yet, one day you will.”

He covered her hand with his own, disappointment and sadness in the gesture.

She said softly, “You will survive, because I insist that you do; and you will come and find me when this mess is over, and tell me all about her. You will always find me through the Blue Cockatoo. Now I must go. God speed, Bill Secker. God speed to you all, and keep you safe.”

He kissed her palm. “I will think of you so often and, most of all, of this last dance.”

“This last dance, for now,” she said. Bill turned from her and sat with his friends. She had said that to so many since the war, and so many had not returned, and would not.

Stan slipped to her side, thrusting a gin into her hand. “Gin from Frankie. He says you'll need it, after that fantastic tango. I'm surprised you didn't set your back off again. It's only a bit more than a year since it was hurt in the raid, isn't it?”

She smiled. “You can stop nagging. These young men only have this moment in time. Now, I'm off to see a sister, about whatever it is that's bothering her.”

As she approached Sarah, she knew she'd rather be flung into a million wrenching fall away whisks , than take those few steps towards a world she thought would never come to find her.

Chapter Two

Kate passed between the tables, smiling at those who called to her and stopping to sign one young woman's autograph book. Sarah had retreated into the shadowy gloom, standing in front of the rear wall as upright as a guardsman. The curtain hanging in the doorway billowed as the front door opened. Kate heard Tony say, “Sorry, chum, we're full.” It must have been someone without a tie. The door clicked shut.

Kate reached Sarah, who said nothing, her face expressionless. As she grew accustomed to the shadows, Kate saw that her sister was thin and drawn. Well, weren't they all? It was wartime. But in Little Worthy they were out of the bombing zone, and grew their own vegetables and fruit. The farmers no doubt helped circumvent the ration cards, as happened in many villages, so Sarah shouldn't have lost this much weight. Kate shrugged. What did she know, and why should she even care?

Kate looked back at the dance floor. This was her world now, and she need never think of what once was. She smiled as the chatter and laughter rose, almost, but not quite, drowning Manuel's trio; Teresa was still selling roses, Frankie served drinks, Stan, Elliot and Roberto sat on bar stools, smoking. She nodded at it all. She was safe. She turned back to Sarah and broke their pool of silence. “Hello, Sarah, this is a surprise.”

Sarah almost shook her head, as though she'd been brought back into the present. She said, “Oh yes. Yes.” She stared at her feet, appearing to brace herself. She raised her head. “I needed to see you, Kate.” Or that's what Kate thought she said, because Manuel had raised the music to another level.

She sipped her gin and shouted, “Sarah, you'll have to speak up, or come to the dressing room where we can talk.”

At that moment she felt an arm slip around her waist and Brucie pulled her to him. “Aren't you going to introduce me, sweetie?”

Kate smiled. “This is my sister Sarah, Brucie. While you're here, have you remembered I'm off-shift at one forty-five tonight?”

“How could I forget, darlin'? It's in the diary, as my old ma would say, or she wouldn't actually, cos we didn't 'ave one.” He slapped her backside. “You're on again in fifteen minutes, don't forget.” He nodded at Sarah. “Nice to see you, love. Always a job for you at the Blue Cockatoo, if you've half the talent of this lovely young lady. Drink up, darlin', and I'll take your glass.”

He slapped Kate's backside again, and though he grinned, he would be ticking off the seconds until she was back onstage. She finished her drink, he took her glass and sidled away, his cigarette smoke adding to the layer of fug hanging over the club.

Sarah waved her hand in front of her face, raising her voice against the background noise. “How can you work here—it's so unhealthy and louche—and who is that person?”

“That's Bruce Turnbull, or Brucie. He's the owner, my manager and my lover.” Kate had also raised her voice, and watched her sister assimilate the news. Kate knew she was being deliberately vulgar to shock her sister, but she didn't care. Brucie was rough around the edges, and if Kate was honest with herself, she knew he wasn't the love of her life. But how dare Sarah come to the Blue Cockatoo unannounced and start turning her world upside-down.

“Must you be so coarse, Kate. And where is your self-respect? What would Father…?” She trailed to a halt.

Kate stepped forward and, toe-to-toe, almost shouted, “He would say what he always said, which is much the same as you, so no surprise there. Shall we move on?”

In Sarah's eyes there was no emotion. Nothing. It was as though she was half dead, and now Kate realized that her sister's voice had held no real disgust. It was as though she was merely going through the motions.

Once again, as though more than eight years had not passed, Kate felt foolish and cheap. She gripped her sister's arm. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that.”

Sarah shook herself free. “No, you shouldn't. But this seedy world, Kate…It's not enough.” She waved her arm around the room. “Don't you long for fresh air, green fields, real roses?”

“Why have you come, Sarah?” Kate stepped back. She had stopped thinking about what she longed for, because she had become good at just putting one foot in front of the other and looking to neither left nor right. What's more, the minutes were ticking away, the draught was cool, and she still didn't know why this woman was here. “Did Father send you, Sarah, and if so, why? And how are they, Father and the esteemed Dr Bates? Still golfing, are they? Still taking it in turns to be the height of respectability as captain and deputy of the golf club?

“He's dead.”

Kate heard the words, and examined them as though they were specimens dangling between herself and Sarah.

“Father or Dr Bates?” Her voice was as emotionless as Sarah's had been.

“Father.”

“So that's why you're here? There's a funeral, presumably?”

Just at this moment Lieutenant Bill Secker appeared by Kate's side. He bowed his head, kissed

Kate's hand and said, “Think of me kindly, dearest Kate.” He straightened, handed her a rose and then, before she knew it, his friends were pulling him away, laughing. Their young faces were indistinct in the gloom. They were gone, and the curtain flapped in their wake.

Sarah stared after them, lifting her chin, as though steeling herself. “Father died some years ago.”

Kate felt the air leave her body. Years ago? She made herself draw in breath, then exhale, then inhale again. Finally she said, “But you didn't think to tell me?”

“No one knew where you were and, if we had, would you have come?”

Brucie approached again. Irritation swept through Kate and she snapped, “I know precisely how much longer I have: seven and a half minutes. This won't take long.”

“Keep your 'air on, baby. I was just checkin' is all.”

He pivoted round, hurrying after a waiter who was gliding between tables in the act of pocketing a pound note.

“Sarah, Father's orders were never to return, so I would not have come, even to dance on his coffin. That leaves Dr Bates's position as captain unassailable presumably?”

Sarah shook her head, snapping in her turn, “Do stop going on about Father and the doctor—you've said more than enough in the past. Besides, Dr Bates has left the village and is practising elsewhere. Just listen to me—” Kate wasn't about to be controlled quite so easily by her older sister, so she interrupted, “If you couldn't locate me then, how could you find me now? And what's so damned important?”

“I came via the Burlesque Club. That's where you were stripping, wasn't it, when Clive Burrows was treated to the unedifying sight of you cavorting with nothing on, while wafting a fan? Father had been dead some months by then, which was a blessing.”

Kate closed her eyes. “You can see that things have changed. Back then, I had to earn a living somehow, and the little rat promised he'd keep quiet about it.”

“People lie, Kate.”

The air between them was instantly heavy with a tension so dense it seemed almost to drown Kate. She shook her head. “Not everyone; I don't and never have.”

Sarah put up both hands, as though to ward her off. “Don't start on that again. I'm here, Kate, because I need you. I really and truly do. My nanny left yesterday, without notice, just as I'm to start training for the FANYs, the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. I've tried to find another nanny, but without success. That only leaves you. I can't leave the child on her own, for goodness” sake—Lizzy is only eight, after all. Or have you completely forgotten all about my daughter while you've been so wrapped in your life?”

Kate heard her, but couldn't make sense of it for a moment. When she did, she recoiled, outraged. “Absolutely not, Sarah; have you lost your mind? Look around you. This might seem louche, or whatever your narrow-minded morality tells you it is, but it's my world; I have a scout coming, someone who is looking for entertainers for America, and I am an ARP warden. Anyway, you have a child and you have no right to leave her.” Her voice broke. She paused, gripping the rose that Bill Secker had given her, and fought for control. Finally she said, emphatically, “What the hell does Derek think of it all?”

“Derek was lost at Dunkirk.” There it was at last, a welter of feeling in those eyes, in that voice, in the shoulders that slumped and the body that leaned back on the wall.

Kate's grip on the rose loosened. It fell to the floor. She said, “I really am sorry. I liked Derek, he was kind.”

Sarah almost launched herself at Kate. “Don't say “liked”, you stupid girl, say “like”. He's lost, not dead. He's probably a prisoner—surely you can you see that?”

Kate let herself be shaken. Her sister was in pain, which she could recognise. She said nothing until Sarah suddenly dropped her arms. Only then did she say, “I'm sure you're right. Yes, they'll notify you when they have some definite news.”

Sarah's face was suddenly alive with relief. “Yes, yes, that's what I think. I'm sure some of the French help our men. He was defending the allied retreat of Dunkirk, or so one of his company told me. But they lost contact. Derek knows the family whose children I was nanny to, south of Limoges. He could have gone there.”

Teresa strolled past with her tray of roses, her eyes questioning. Kate nodded that all was well. Teresa walked on.

Sarah was still talking. “Oh God, Kate, you must see I have to do something to help us fight this bloody war.” She hesitated. “Anyway, I've told Lizzy you will come. Please, I'm begging you.”

Manuel had stopped playing. Soon Roberto, Stan and Elliot would resume their places, and she must too. But all that seemed a million miles away. Lizzy? So Sarah had told Lizzy that she would come? Kate found her voice, though she could hardly hear her own words over her rising fury. “You told Lizzy? Well, you can just un-tell her.”

Sarah took hold of her hands. “Kate, remember how much you owe me. And don't look like that. Apart from everything else, who do you think persuaded Father to send you money to rent a flat until you found a job? Do you think he would have done so of his own volition?”

The noise of the club receded as the trap began to close on Kate. She'd often wondered at his unaccustomed generosity.

Sarah said, “You needed a roof over your head, and he agreed that it might give you some security while you trained as a secretary, or something sensible. Well, clearly not.”

Roberto was warming up her act, playing “Cheek to Cheek'. Kate thought of Little Worthy, of the villagers who would have had much to say about her upsetting her father and supposedly running away, having disgraced herself with the gypsies encamped in the woods. And she could just imagine the excited horror, at Clive's tale of the Burlesque Club.

Sarah closed her eyes and took a deep breath, just as their father had always done. “Kate, it's time we started a new page. I say again: this is war, an emergency, and it is I who need something from you, for about the first time ever.” Her voice was cold and angry.

The trouble was that in many ways Sarah was right, and Kate's mind couldn't find its way past all the remembered emotions that were tearing back, when she had worked so hard to block them all these years.

After a moment Sarah dragged aside the curtain, her voice softening. “Listen, Kate. Lizzy needs family around her, because who knows what will happen in the FANYs? Bombers are striking other cities and towns, and I will be out and about. You are part of her family, as surely I don't have to remind you?”

It was this that found a resonance with Kate, and finally she was able to murmur, “But, Sarah, this isn't fair. Last time we were together you never wanted to see me again. I was only fifteen when you made me leave.”

Sarah stopped in the archway. “Stop blaming everyone else for all that you were, and all that you did. Yes, you were fifteen, whereas now you are an adult and can hopefully understand at last the nature of responsibility. Did I say that you would only have to come for a month? That's how long the FANY training is. I will telephone the Blue Cockatoo tomorrow evening for your decision. Please, Kate, make it the right one.”

Kate latched onto “you would only have to come for a month'. She looked around the club. Well, it might only be a month, but the scout was coming, she was an ARP warden, and how could she bear to return to that village, let alone care for the child? If, on the other hand, she did what her sister wanted, then all debts would be paid. She said, “You'll still try to get a nanny, though, so I can return if she is able to start early?”

“Of course I will. So there was no need for such a fuss, was there?”

Sarah left, and it was like a prima donna departing the stage, having had the final word.

Brucie was beside Kate. “Get on the bloody stage. Leave the family out of it until you go off-shift. The show must go on, ducky. You know that.” She could hear the anger, but it didn't touch her. Instead she stooped to pick up the crushed rose, almost cradling it as she wove her way amongst the tables. Once onstage, she placed the rose on the piano. Poor thing, she would try to revive it when she finished her shift. She called to Roberto, “Let's do If I Didn't Care…”

He nodded and as she walked to the microphone, the boys began to play.