Nameless (5 page)

Vi just
oozed
charisma.

‘I live here,’ said Betsy chirpily. ‘And Ruby’s visiting. You not working today?’

‘Not today. Tomorrow. Unlike you, I
do
work. I do my bit for the war effort.’

‘Prancing around on a stage ain’t work,’ scoffed Betsy.

‘Try it,’ advised Vi, sitting down at her dressing table, taking up a hairbrush and applying it to her shiny dark-red bob. ‘It’s work, all right, I promise you. Van Damm’s a slave driver.’

‘I thought that place might close down, with the war,’ said Betsy, watching her sister with a sour little smile as Vi pouted and preened in the mirror.

‘We never close,’ said Vi.

‘It can’t help the war effort, doing what you do.’

Vi turned her head and sent Betsy a pitying smile. ‘Don’t be daft, ’course it does. Keeps the boys cheerful, don’t it?’

‘Cheerful? That ain’t what
I’d
call it.’

‘As if you’d know,’ sighed Vi, turning her head this way and that, picking up a lipstick, touching it briefly to her lips.

‘Oh, I know
plenty
,’ said Betsy.

Ruby was watching Vi, too fascinated to look away. Vi was so beautiful, she even
smelled
beautiful, of sweet Devon Violets. There was a little round bottle on her dressing table, containing liquid of a brilliant acid-green and with a tiny violet silk bow tied around its stubby neck. According to Betsy, she never wore any other perfume.

Vi’s brilliant up-slanted eyes met Ruby’s in the mirror. Then they moved down, over her body. Vi put the lipstick down and turned to eye Ruby assessingly.

‘Can you dance?’ she asked.

‘Well, I . . .’ Ruby was caught off guard. ‘A bit.’

Vi’s eyes were still on her. ‘You look . . .’

Ruby froze. She knew what was coming.

‘Well . . . dark, maybe. Just a bit. You’ve got that big arse, and your lips . . . you got a touch of the tar brush, baby?’

‘Vi! You can’t ask her that,’ Betsy intervened, her eyes moving between her sister and her friend. ‘Look, she had lessons before the war, before the old dance hall got bombed out. We both did,’ said Betsy. ‘You remember.’

Vi might not have remembered her sister and her little mate going for ballroom dancing lessons, but Ruby certainly did. She’d pleaded to be allowed to go, and Dad had finally let her. Ruby remembered the embarrassment of realizing the neat little sailor-suit ensemble she had stored up especially for the lessons made her look like a gink, and oh, the crucifying humiliation of discovering that she was taller than every single boy in the class. Some of them had called her
Darkie
– such a witty play on her name – and she had cried and thrown up in a hedge on the way home.

‘Well, the dancing don’t matter much. They’re always looking for new girls, girls with that certain something . . .’ Vi hesitated, then turned away, back to the mirror . . . ‘You’re a looker, all right. But maybe you haven’t got it. Think about it, though. We could all be dead tomorrow. Bombed to fuck.’

‘’Course she’s got it. Look at her, she’s
gorgeous
,’ piped up Betsy.

Shut
up,
Ruby mouthed at her.

‘Well, you can come along with me tomorrow,’ said Vi. Her eyes met Ruby’s again. ‘That’s if you’re interested . . . ?’

Betsy was silent.

‘But the shop . . . What’ll I tell Dad . . . ?’

‘Tell him you’re volunteering or something.’ Vi shrugged.

‘I can do a turn in your dad’s shop, stand in for you,’ piped up Betsy. Anything that brought her closer to Charlie’s orbit was absolutely fine with her.

Ruby hardly dared even consider it. She had seen the WVS ladies about in the bombed-out streets, proudly wearing their green uniforms and their silver-and-red lapel badges bearing the legend WVS above the words ‘Civil Defence’. They provided food, blankets and clothing for homeless families, and worked all hours running the local salvage centre, all instigated by Lord Beaverbook.

‘I . . . suppose I could say I was doing salvage voluntary work at the centre, it’s just down the road,’ said Ruby.

The thought of going anywhere with the fabulous Vi was daunting, but my God! What would Dad and Charlie and Joe think if they ever found out the truth? They’d hit the roof.

‘Your dad would like you volunteering,’ said Vi. ‘He’s a churchgoer, isn’t he? He’d think of it as an act of Christian charity.’

Ruby considered this. It was true, what Vi was saying. And there was less chance of him pounding her if she could keep out of his way during the day.

‘Think of that bleeding shell factory,’ said Betsy. ‘Would you rather be doing something like
that?
’

‘I don’t know . . .’ Ruby didn’t relish the prospect of change the way Betsy did; she never had. But she was bored, and unhappy, and Vi was right: they could all be dead tomorrow. Probably
would
be, the way things were going.

‘Well, make your mind up, girl,’ said Vi. ‘What’s it to be, yes or no?’

Ruby looked at Vi. Thought of her boring, routine life and had a whiff – just the tiniest whiff – of the life she
could
be leading. If she dared.

‘I don’t know . . .’ said Ruby.

‘Jesus, you’re wet,’ said Vi with a sharp sigh. ‘Think it over. We’ll meet up outside the Windy. Monday at ten. That’ll give you time to get your story straight. If you’re not there, I’ll know you’re not interested.’

8

After Ruby left Betsy’s she had an hour or two to spare before she had to get the tea on, so she wandered down to the church. There were a lot of new graves there, casualties of the war, with soil piled up on them. The misty rain was spoiling the petals on the floral offerings, smudging the ink on the small poignant cards left on the new graves by loved ones.

Ruby walked around the graves, looking at the headstones. She didn’t know exactly where Mum’s grave was. She had never been privileged with that information. Only Charlie and Dad and occasionally Joe ever came here; she was never invited.

She ended up at the cluster of older graves, right over in the far corner, shaded by ancient yews. It was cold here, and the grass was spongy with moss. She looked around nervously; she didn’t want anyone spotting her. She didn’t want word getting back to Dad or Charlie that she’d been here looking for the grave. But there wasn’t another soul around.

And . . . there it was. The wording on the headstone seemed to leap out at her.

Here lies Alicia Darke

Beloved wife and mother

Sadly missed

There was nothing else, except the date of Alicia’s birth, and the date of her death, which was the twenty-ninth of July 1923 – the day after Ruby’s birth. She stood there staring at the headstone and felt tears spill over. In giving life to her, Alicia had forfeited her own. And for what? So that her daughter could live caged in by fear and guilt?

Ruby couldn’t believe her mother would have wanted that for her. She thought of Vi, and the Windmill. Of what it must be like: the excitement of theatre life, the bright lights and the gaiety of it. Her own world was dull and troubled by comparison. She had never been inside a theatre, or even a cinema. There had never been culture, or even much laughter, in the Darke household.

But she couldn’t do it . . . could she?

No. She couldn’t.

She couldn’t lie to her father; that wouldn’t be a Christian thing to do, would it? But then . . . was his treatment of her all that Christian? She didn’t think so. It wasn’t
her
fault her mother had died, it wasn’t something she could have prevented, any more than she could change the not-quite-acceptable colour of her skin.

Ruby turned away from her mother’s grave; far from being comforted by coming here, she felt sadder and even more bewildered than she had before. She walked home in the gently falling rain. Nearly time to get the tea on.

Joe was cleaning his shoes in shirtsleeves and braces at the kitchen table when she got back home. Flanagan and Allen were singing ‘Underneath the Arches’ on the radio and Joe was whistling along to the tune.

‘Where’s Dad?’ asked Ruby, coming in and taking off her coat. This was always her first question. She wanted to know where Dad was, know where any new threat was going to come from.

Joe stopped whistling and looked at her. ‘Went up to bed early. You’ll have to take him up his tea on a tray. Foot’s playing him up.’

‘And Charlie?’

‘Out. Tea in the pot, if you want it.’

Ruby sat down and poured herself a cup. She sat there, looking at Joe.

‘What is it?’ he asked, glancing at her, buffing the black leather to a high shine.

Joe wasn’t a bad sort, not really. Ruby had always believed him to be a cut above her dad and Charlie. He’d never laid a finger on her, there was that to say in his favour. Even if he never intervened, at least he never
participated
, unlike Charlie.

Still, Ruby had to force the words out of her mouth. ‘About Mum . . .’ she said.

Joe looked taken aback. Then he spat on his shoe and went on rubbing at the leather.

‘What about her?’ he asked, not looking at her face.

‘Do you remember her at all?’

Joe’s big stubby hand stopped rubbing. He looked up at her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’

‘Only,’ Ruby went on in a rush, before her nerve failed her, ‘you were five when I was born. I just thought . . . if you remembered anything, I’d like to know.’

‘I don’t remember a thing,’ said Joe, his jaw set. ‘Drop it, will you?’

‘But Joe . . .’

‘I said
drop
it,’ he snapped, his eyes suddenly fierce. ‘Didn’t you hear me? And don’t ever be daft enough to ask Dad or Charlie about it, or you’ll get a right hiding.’

Ruby was going to bed that night when Joe stopped her on the landing.

He hesitated, glanced left and right, then spoke. ‘She had a gramophone. A Maxitone Dad bought her. It had an oak case,’ he said. ‘She used to play jazz music on it. Jelly Roll Morton, you heard of him? And Fats Waller.
Nigger
music, Dad called it. And she was pretty. Blonde. I remember that.’ He paused. ‘Dad smashed the Maxitone. I remember that, too. Now get off to bed.’

9

1922

Alicia Darke was crossing the road to the corner shop when she saw him for the first time. He was young – younger than her, she thought – and very black, with the loosely muscular way of standing his kind so often displayed. He was outside the shop talking to two other black men, and all three turned and looked as she passed by.

Alicia was a little surprised to see them there. All around these streets,the hotels and guest houses displayed signs in their windows that said
No Irish, No Coloureds
. They weren’t welcome here, they were viewed with suspicion.

She kept her head down, but she heard one of them say:‘Hey, sweetness,’ and she glanced up, ready with a sharp retort.

She looked up, straight into his face. His skin had the grain and polish of finest ebony, his nostrils were flaring, his eyes dark as night, his mouth broad and very sensual. When he smiled at her – he was smiling now – his whole face seemed to light from within.

Alicia felt herself blushing. She was a married woman, wed seven years to Ted Darke. He was much older than her, but her mum and dad had been impressed by his prospects;Ted had his own shop, inherited from his parents. He was a man of substance. And Ted had been kind to her, attentive – at first. Now she worked day in, day out in the corner shop, lugging stuff up from the cellar to line the shelves – and then at home, scrubbing and polishing, white-leading the doorstep, polishing the brass, while their kids – little Charlie and Joe – went to school, and Ted sat back, counted the takings, and did fuck-all.

But still, whoever said marriage was going to be perfect? She was a married woman – and this stranger was
black
. She didn’t answer him. She hurried on into the shop.

He was there again the next day when she went to open up, on his own this time. She saw him loitering by the shopfront as she crossed the road, fumbling for the keys.

‘Hi,’ he said.

Alicia looked at him nervously. ‘Hello,’ she said, fiddling with the keys, getting the damned thing into the lock with fingers that suddenly felt stiff.

‘How are you?’ he asked, turning towards her.

‘Fine.’ The key wasn’t working. She’d put it in upside down. She righted it, feeling hectic colour rising in her cheeks. ‘Where are your friends?’ she asked, for something to say.

‘Working.’

Alicia was still having trouble with the lock. Working? According to Ted, black men were lazy scroungers, they didn’t work. But then Ted had strong opinions on nearly everything, and she’d more or less stopped listening to them now. Ted wasn’t exactly the fastest things on two legs, himself.

‘What do they do?’ she asked, not wanting to be rude by ignoring him. At last, the door swung open.

‘A little jammin’, you know.’

Jammin’?

‘What’s that?’ she asked, curious, looking at him fully for the first time.

He was very elegant, wearing the new fashion in trousers – Oxford bags, they were called – and a brown jacket. He was holding a black bowler hat in his hand; he’d removed it as she drew near. She noticed that his shoes were snazzy two-tone brogues.

‘We’re musicians,’ he smiled. ‘We’re renting a place just over there.’ He pointed across the street. ‘We hang out, we jam, you know.’

Alicia didn’t know. She was just amazed that someone around here had let rooms to three black men. They must be
really
strapped for cash, whoever they were. And what he’d just described sounded like . . . like fun, and she had very little experience of fun in her life.