The Windmill Girls

Picking up his bag they strolled arm in arm towards the station exit.

‘How have you been keeping?’

‘Not bad …’ Dawn smiled.

‘How about your family?’ Bill had picked up on a slight hesitation in Dawn’s reply.

‘Mum’s driving George and me bonkers. She won’t let up on the gin.’

Bill grimaced in sympathy. ‘Everything alright at the Windmill?’

‘We’ve got opening night for a variety show next week. We’ve got to dress up as ghostly wraiths. A couple of new girls have been taken on as living statues.’

‘I’ll come and take a look,’ Bill said wolfishly.

Dawn gave his arm a playful thump. ‘If you come and have a look at anybody, it’d better be me.’

‘I wish you’d get another job, Dawn,’ Bill said, growing serious. ‘I don’t like you working there with loads of blokes leering at you all the time.’

‘They don’t leer … well, some of them do, but mainly at the nudes.’ Dawn knew that wasn’t strictly true. All the showgirls, whether in the chorus line or in the artistic tableaux, received attention from fellows in the audience. Naturally, naked female flesh was fascinating to the opposite sex – especially those youths who’d never before clapped eyes on an unclothed woman. ‘A lot of the servicemen who come along seem quite young and sweet.’

‘Fancy going to the pictures later?’ Bill changed the subject quite abruptly.

‘I don’t finish till eight o’clock. We could try and fit in a late show somewhere,’ Dawn suggested. Bill had frowned on hearing she had to work, so she added quickly, ‘Are you planning on seeing your folks?’ Bill’s parents were quite well to do and lived in Surrey.

‘I’ll drive over to them this afternoon then meet up with you later on this evening.’

Dawn went onto tiptoes and kissed his cheek. ‘How is it all going in Suffolk?’

‘The main news – and very bad it is too – is that our local brewer has been sent to prison. Shame about that, ’cos he produced a decent whisky.’ Bill, tongue-in-cheek, recounted a tale about the fellow in Ipswich who’d had his illegal still, and his liberty, taken by the authorities. ‘Oh, and there’s a rumour that Midge Williams has gone AWOL. Top brass in the Navy know our top brass and the news filtered down that there’s a bit of a to-do about it. A rating called Jack Chivers was found stabbed in a lifeboat, and Williams has gone missing … odd.’ Bill hadn’t noticed that his girlfriend had turned pale at his news. ‘Midge didn’t return to his ship. But to give him his due, there were some heavy raids on London during his last shore leave.’ Bill paused. ‘He might be under rubble or perhaps he’s still recovering from the effects of too much rotgut.’ Bill glanced at Dawn for a comment, realising she’d remained quiet. ‘Oh, God, I forgot …’ He grimaced in apology. ‘Midge’s sister does cleaning at the Windmill, doesn’t she?’ He drew Dawn close with an arm about her shoulders. ‘Is the poor girl in a state? Has Midge come a cropper somehow or other?’

‘I haven’t seen Gertie for a few days … different shifts,’ Dawn explained.

She’d been mulling over whether to voice her suspicions that Gertie’s brother was alive and a member of a gang of bomb-chasers. Bill had never liked Midge since the seaman and some of his Navy pals had taunted Bill and his RAF colleagues in a pub, calling the airmen nancy boys and starting a fight. Dawn certainly didn’t want Bill feeling he ought to jump to her defence and confront Midge, especially now she knew that Gertie’s brother was wanted for questioning about a murder. But there was no proof of anything, she reminded herself. Nevertheless she decided to keep quiet about the horrible night she and Rosie had witnessed the gang out looting.

‘Is that you, Rosie?’

‘Yeah, it’s me home, Dad.’ Rosie slipped out of her jacket and hung it on a peg on the wall before closing the door. The hallway of the Victorian terraced house was dog-legged and painted in a sepia colour that deepened the gloomy interior. But dark or not, she’d glimpsed her father, in his tan cotton coat, scurrying out of the cellar a moment ago. He’d obviously been alerted to her presence by the sound of her key grating in the lock. ‘You’ve been down there again then?’ she accused. ‘You said you were going to pack it in.’

‘Well I’ve changed me mind.’ John Gardiner sounded obstinate. He shoved his hands into his overall pockets. ‘How else are we going to get by if I don’t tinker around and make us a few bob?’

‘I got a job posing with no clothes on so you wouldn’t need to tinker around,’ Rosie shouted, rapidly approaching him.

John Gardiner pulled off the rubber gloves he’d been wearing and stuffed them in his overall pocket. He turned his back on his angry daughter and disappeared into the kitchenette, throwing over a shoulder, ‘I’ve told you what I think about that! Daughter of mine, acting like a little tart! Disgusting!’ A moment later Rosie could hear the squeaky tap being turned on.

‘And I think it’s disgusting what you’re getting up to … and dangerous too.’ Rosie sighed, thinking it was pointless arguing with the stubborn old git. ‘You’d better pack it up, Dad,’ she warned with a hint of despair in her tone. ‘We can manage now I’m working at the Windmill Theatre and getting good pay.’

John started setting cups as though he’d not heard her pleading with him. ‘Brought me in any empties, have you?’

‘No! And I’m not going to! And I’m not doing any more deliveries for you neither. Nearly got me head blown off in a raid last time.’ Rosie kept quiet about the fact that she’d also almost got set about by looters. Her father exasperated her, but she didn’t want to worry him unnecessarily. Besides, Dawn had reassured her that nothing more would come of it. And Rosie put a lot of store in what Dawn Nightingale said. She wasn’t sure why that was, being as they hardly knew one another.

‘I’ll pay you for them … a shilling a pop … that’s a good amount for an empty bottle of whisky.’ John carried on as though he’d not heard his daughter’s complaint. He glanced slyly at her. ‘Must be loads of places round in Soho where they’re putting out empties. Can’t you just have a poke around the dustbins, dear, and fetch me some in?’

‘Somebody died of rotgut poisoning the other day, you know …’

‘Nothing to do with me.’ John banged the filled kettle on the gas stove and put a match under it. ‘I know what I’m doing; I worked as a chemist’s assistant for a long time.’ He tapped his nose in emphasis.

Rosie’s father had always been one to do a bit of home brewing, just for the family, but since the war started he’d seen the profit to be had operating an illegal still, as had many other people who’d turned to peddling hooch.

‘Mum would hate what you’re doing, you know,’ Rosie said in desperation, hoping to talk sense into her father.

‘Oh, yes, I know that. Prudence never liked me enjoying myself or having cash in my pocket.’ John’s lips thinned as he recalled his dead wife. She’d been gone seven years, having succumbed to pleurisy, leaving him to raise their daughter.

A bang on the door made Rosie start to attention and stare wide-eyed at her father. She was on tenterhooks all the time fearing that either the police or the Revenue men would get a tip-off and turn up to search the house. Rosie knew if her father’s still in the basement were uncovered he’d get a long prison sentence. If he were implicated – even wrongly – in supplying lethal moonshine that had poisoned somebody, he might hang.

Unconcerned by the rata-tat John finished filling the teapot with boiling water. ‘Calm down,’ he told his agitated daughter. ‘That’ll be Lenny fetching me round some labels. I’ve been expecting him.’ John held out a cup of tea towards Rosie.

‘Don’t want no fuckin’ tea!’ Rosie was incensed by her father’s attitude. From the moment she’d heard the knocker crash against the door her heart had been crazily racing. ‘I’m sick of being scared half to death all the time,’ she hissed. ‘If you don’t pack it in, I’m moving out.’ She stormed out of the kitchen and ran up the stairs. About to enter her bedroom, she hesitated, smearing angry tears from her lashes. Crouching down by the banisters, she watched through the sticks as her father opened the door and ushered inside a young man.

They started to talk in low voices and Rosie strained to hear what her dad said to Lenny Purves. Lenny and his father had a legitimate printing business on the High Street and did some under-the-counter stuff on the side. Rosie watched her father hand over some money in exchange for a brown paper package that the young man took out of his pocket. Then her father was ambling away, leaving Lenny to see himself out.

But he didn’t; he glanced up and saw Rosie watching him.

‘Ain’t sure you should be up there earwigging, should you?’

‘Ain’t sure you should be wearing civvies. Too scared to fight?’ Rosie taunted.

‘Got poor eyesight. Can’t see nuthin’, me,’ Lenny said slyly. He’d swung the lead at his medical. His father had dodgy eyes so Lenny had pretended he was afflicted too and couldn’t see past the end of his nose. He’d been discharged from the army on medical grounds almost before he’d been enlisted.

Lenny liked to think he wasn’t a coward, he was just protecting his inheritance. His father was a crafty git who’d stashed away a tidy sum, and Lenny was an only child because his mother had died having him. Lenny didn’t want to risk taking a bullet and losing out on enjoying a pot of money coming his way.

‘Can’t see nothing … that right?’ Rosie said sarcastically. ‘Just saw me well enough, didn’t you.’

‘Yeah … well, you’re a sight for sore eyes, ain’t yer, Rosie,’ he purred.

‘Piss off,’ Rosie said defiantly, standing up. She knew Lenny fancied her; he’d tried to touch her up before on one occasion when he’d come round to bring her father’s order. But she’d nothing but contempt for him. He was a gangly, spotty youth with unkempt greasy hair.

Lenny swaggered to the bottom of the stairs and gazed up at her, head cocked to one side. ‘Gonna give us a show then?’ he asked coarsely. He pulled out the money her father had just handed over. ‘Want paying to flash yer tits, I suppose, do you?’ He peeled off a ten-shilling note. ‘There … how about that for a start?’ He began climbing the stairs, leering at her and waving the cash in his fingers to and fro. ‘If I like what I see I’ll pay up for the works …’

Rosie felt her face burning in anger and embarrassment. She hadn’t told many people that she’d started working as a nude in the Revudeville shows at the Windmill Theatre, but obviously word had got around.

Lenny lived just a few streets away and was about twenty-one. He’d been at the same school but in a different class. Rosie had never liked him; he’d always been a show-off with a fast mouth.

‘I told you to piss off, so get going before I call me dad and tell him what you just said to me.’

Lenny was just below her on the stairs now. He poked his face forward giving Rosie a close up of a yellow-headed spot on his chin. She recoiled from his sour breath but refused to back away.

‘What’s yer old man gonna do to help you?’ Lenny drawled. ‘I’ll knock him down with a punch. He’s probably disgusted by you anyhow now you’re stripping off. Come on … how much to go all the way?’ He looked Rosie up and down, suddenly grabbing at her breast.