The Windmill Girls

‘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 is home with me ’cos he’s out to work soon.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Twelve … going on thirteen …’ Eliza added defensively.

‘He’s not old enough yet to get a job. I could help you get him placed somewhere safe, you know, Eliza. I wouldn’t like to see him hurt. The WVS has played a big part in the evacuation programme …’

‘Very good of them. But no thanks,’ Eliza abruptly interrupted.

‘It’s a shame England involved itself in this war.’

‘It’s a shame I can’t get a thing I need from the shops,’ Eliza countered.

‘We need to have peace.’

‘We’ll have to win the bloody war first to get peace.’ Eliza grimaced.

‘The Nazis are a powerful force to reckon with. Perhaps too powerful for this small nation.’

‘Not sure I agree with you on that,’ Eliza retorted.

Olive sniffed and slammed shut the till drawer as Eliza stalked off to stand with her son and wait for Dawn to return.

‘She might be young but she’s got a dirty mouth on her.’ Lorna Danvers smeared rouge off her cheek then lobbed the dirty cotton wool onto the dressing table. Picking up the cigarette that had been smouldering on a tea-stained saucer, she took a long drag. ‘If she won’t stop flirting with every man she claps eyes on she’ll be getting herself and the Windmill a very bad reputation.’

‘She’s a mite too friendly with Gordon as well, if you ask me.’ Sal Fiske added her two penn’orth to La-di-da Lorna’s criticism. ‘And he’s old enough to be her father.’

‘Nobody did ask you, so button it.’ Dawn had come into the dressing room on the tail end of the bitching, but she knew who they were talking about. She’d only popped in to say hello on her day off; now she wished she’d not bothered. She’d grown tired of listening to her colleagues ripping Rosie Gardiner to bits; it had been going on all week.

‘What’s up with you?’ Lorna demanded, stubbing out her cigarette. ‘Are you bosom pals with Rosie?’

‘Just don’t see that there’s a need to talk behind her back.’ Dawn shrugged. ‘If you think she’s doing what she shouldn’t, tell her to her face.’

‘Ain’t saying a word to her!’ Sal stated bluntly. ‘Not my task, is it, to teach her her manners. That’s her mother’s job.’

‘Me mum’s dead.’ Rosie had just turned up to get ready for the evening show but had stopped outside the door, listening, before bursting in. She gave Dawn an exaggerated smile as thanks for championing her, but Rosie’s bravado didn’t disguise the fact that the gossip had upset her.

After an awkward silence Lorna took up the cudgels again. ‘Well, sorry to hear about your mother, Rosie. But perhaps it explains a lot about the way you behave if you’ve not had her to guide you. The trouble is,’ she warned with a finger wag, ‘if you keep on acting like a trollop you’ll get us all tarred with the same brush, and I for one am not having that.’ Lorna surged out of her chair at the dressing table. ‘We chorus girls might wear skimpy costumes but we go on stage with our modesty covered. You go out flashing your tits … and more.’ Lorna’s posh accent seemed more pronounced the angrier she got. ‘I know it’s your job to stand about starkers, but there’s a right and a wrong way, just as there’s a right and a wrong way for a girl to behave.’

‘I’ll wait for Phyllis to tell me I’m getting it all wrong, thanks all the same,’ Rosie spat sarcastically. ‘But I don’t reckon she ever will, seeing as I’m the one all the fellows come to see.’

‘You conceited little madam!’ Sal spluttered indignantly.

‘Now you listen to me, Rosie Gardiner,’ Lorna said bossily. ‘This is a theatre, not a knocking shop.’ Having said her piece Lorna sashayed regally out of the dressing room, slamming the door behind her.

Dawn rolled her eyes. She’d worked in the theatre for over a year now and colleagues had come and gone; she’d been on stage with cockney girls, northern lasses and performers from overseas. But wherever the women hailed from there’d always been tension and rivalry between the nudes and the chorus. As far as Dawn was concerned she didn’t give a monkey’s if a girl removed her clothes to earn a living. What was the point in being jealous or spiteful when every day corpses of men, women and children were being dug out of their wrecked homes?

Dawn couldn’t deny though that Rosie was overstepping the mark, and if the girl thought the management would overlook serious indiscretions, she had a rude awakening in front of her. The senior stagehand was a widower and though Gordon had an unrequited yen for Lorna he seemed flattered by Rosie’s winks and pouts. And of course Rosie wasn’t really interested in him; she was being a silly little tease, and that was unkind. Apart from that Dawn knew that Rosie would run a mile from a fellow who demanded more than a kiss and cuddle.

‘Lorna’s right, you know.’ Sal tapped a Sobranie from its packet and lit it, then eyed Rosie over tobacco smoke. ‘I saw you outside the stage door last night with half a dozen army fellows. You was flirting with all of them and it looked like things might turn nasty ’cos you were playing ’em off one against the other.’

Rosie’s cheeks flooded with guilty colour at that reminder. In fact a scuffle had broken out between a private and a sergeant when she’d said she’d meet the senior of the two for a drink later in the week. She pursed her lips, sitting in the chair vacated by Lorna. ‘You’re all just jealous because I get more attention from the men than the rest of you put together.’