Victory for the Bluebird Girls

by Rosie Archer

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

As war finally draws to a close, what will victory and peacetime bring for the south coast's Bluebird Girls? In their rise to fame over the course of the war, Bea Herron, Ivy Sparrow and Rainey Bird have faced down bombs and looked tragedy in the eye. They have also found love, created their own families and had careers that they never thought possible. With peace finally on the horizon, what will the new world hold for them?

Release date: July 23, 2020

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 232

Sample

Chapter One

1944

‘When you’re old you’ll regret not doing the things that scared you.’

Bea Herron stole a look at Rainey Bird’s tired, earnest face and considered her words. If anyone knew about taking chances, it was Rainey, Bea thought. During the past year hadn’t her friend gambled on having what she’d wanted? Only to find it snatched cruelly away because of this damned war?

‘I regret nothing, except . . .’ Rainey faltered.

Bea felt for Rainey’s hand and squeezed it comfortingly. How Rainey had come through everything was a mystery to Bea. But, like the trouper she was, Rainey was back on stage once more.

In silver sequin-studded evening dresses that clung to their bodies the two young women were standing in the wings at Dartmouth Town Hall, in Devon.

‘There’s no need to say more,’ Bea said. Now was not the time to dwell on misfortune. Now was the time to celebrate that the the Bluebirds were together again and performing for the United States 5th Army Corps to raise their spirits before they crossed the English Channel.

‘You’ve got to do what I did, Bea, and take a chance.’ Rainey’s voice was insistent, but her heavy make-up didn’t quite conceal the shadows beneath her eyes. ‘Not all men are untrustworthy.’

The curtains had already closed on the first half of the show and the Bluebirds, top of the bill, now waited to go on.

Clouds of lily of the valley perfume announced Ivy’s sudden appearance. Out of breath because she was late, as usual, she moved quickly into her place next to Bea. She took a deep breath. ‘You all right, Rainey?’ She didn’t wait for a reply but instead addressed Bea: ‘That bloke’s here again!’

‘You’re only telling her what she already knows,’ Rainey said.

‘I don’t want to talk about him,’ Bea broke in. Then she said, ‘Ivy Sparrow, you’re cutting it fine – we’re about to be introduced.’

With both hands Ivy smoothed her dark chin-length bob. ‘We don’t need no introduction! Just listen to those men already whooping and whistling for us.’ Ivy carefully pulled aside the edge of one of the red velvet curtains so she could peep at the audience.

Bea craned her neck. ‘Let me look, then.’

Men were clustered around little tables, their smart uniforms of olive-coloured jackets and light trousers enhancing well-nourished bodies and tanned faces. They all looked so young and innocent, Bea thought. Unlike the world-weary British servicemen the girls had entertained abroad and at home.

Frothy pints cluttered tabletops. The men were evidently intent on enjoying themselves. Snatches of dialogue reminded Bea of how American film stars spoke. Her eyes searched the busy bar below the stage until they found the one man she was looking for. ‘Is it so wrong for me to want to care for somebody? To have what you two have already had?’ Bea paused. ‘I want to understand how it feels to have that special someone.’ Her voice grew stronger as she tried to add substance to her words. ‘I mean, even if the person who loves you isn’t in the same room with you, they’re still there, aren’t they?’ She looked at Ivy for reassurance.

‘So, the Ice Queen’s melting, is she?’ came Ivy’s sceptical reply.

‘Ice Queen?’ Rainey’s voice was sharp. She shook her head, her shoulder-length Titian hair gleaming under the lights. ‘I wish you wouldn’t call Bea that. When a woman’s endured an assault she’ll often keep away from men.’

There was an awkward silence.

Ivy’s face had reddened. ‘I’m sorry, Bea,’ she said. ‘I let my mouth run away with me, I didn’t mean anything.’

At the time Bea hadn’t thought of that sailor’s unpleasant groping as an assault but, of course, it was. Afterwards her relationships with men had changed. She had never been interested in a serious romance with any man, until she’d spotted the tall broad-shouldered fellow a couple of nights ago with a paperback copy of The Brothers Karamazov tucked into his back pocket. She admired men who read intelligent books. She’d spotted him leaning casually against the bar, his weight thrust heavily on one hip. He’d looked content, at ease with himself. She’d wondered if he’d always been that way, the end-product of loving parents and a secure homelife. Or perhaps it was an outer skin, a sort of shield he’d fashioned to keep away unwelcome individuals.

This man’s skin was a rich brown and his close-cropped hair a mass of tiny tight curls. His eyes were dark, like the chocolate freely available before the war but now as precious as gold dust. When she looked at him now, Bea felt an effervescent tingle deep inside her and she couldn’t turn away.

He was slender, but beneath his short jacket she could sense the strength of his muscles. Obviously, he was no stranger to hard work, either in the services or before he’d joined them. She wondered what it might be like to touch him, first with her fingertips and then perhaps with her lips.

She’d known he would return the following evening, just as she’d been certain he’d be here tonight for this was the Bluebirds’ last performance on the Devon coast. Tomorrow morning they’d be travelling back to Gosport in Hampshire. Which meant that this beautiful man and she were destined never to meet. Unless she or Fate made it happen.

So, what had happened to her?

She’d been standing on stage singing when she’d been struck by awareness of his presence. Cupid’s dart? Not possible: Bea didn’t believe in love at first sight. That only happened in books and films. Nevertheless, what she was experiencing must mean she was healing from the effects of that long-buried assault. Perhaps it even suggested that something wonderful might be about to happen.

Her thoughts whirled away as the curtains drew back and Sammy, their pianist, stood up and introduced them.

Amid fresh cheers and wolf whistles the girls sashayed in their high heels towards the microphones at the front of the stage.

Bea, as usual, calmed the audience with a short speech and then, with a nod towards the piano, allowed Sammy to take them into their first song, ‘Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy’. The three girls shimmied seductively to the music and the men went wild.

Ivy’s solo came next. Bea marvelled that her husky tones could so easily dictate the sad mood of the song. A pin might have dropped during ‘Stormy Weather’ and everyone would have heard it, so intently were the men listening. ‘As Time Goes By’ came next followed by ‘You’ll Never Know’, both sung sensually by the three. Then Rainey moved towards the central microphone to sing her solo, ‘I’m Nobody’s Baby’, the Judy Garland favourite.

As Bea listened she admired the way Rainey kept her true feelings hidden and even f lirted with the audience as she gave herself over to the lyrics. She inhabited a different persona on stage. Her friend caught her eye and gave her a hint of a smile, which turned into a laugh when, assuring the audience that she had no one to love, a tall American soldier stood and called, ‘You can have me, babe!’

The air inside the hall was charged with electricity amid the good-natured laughter. And then Sammy began to play the second to last song of the evening’s performance and it was Bea’s turn to stand alone in front of the microphone.

For the first time that evening Bea allowed herself to study the man at the bar. The look in his eyes gave her the courage to fasten her gaze to his face. ‘“You’d be so wonderful to come home to,”’ she sang. He chuckled, showing square white teeth, and she returned his smile, confident he was laughing with and not at her. He was now looking carefully at her and Bea, in that split second, was nervous, unsure what was happening between them.

‘“So easy to love . . .”’ came Bea’s next words.

Suddenly he looked away, and, leaving his drink on the bar, pushed through the crowd of men, ignoring their grumbled jibes at being disturbed while the show was on. Then the exit door closed behind him.

Bea’s heart plunged.

Professionalism took over and, despite the tears welling in her eyes, she immediately turned her face to the next table of men and allowed them to believe she was singing straight from her heart to each and every one.

As she finished, the audience cheered, and Sammy began the introduction to the Bluebirds’ final song of the evening, ‘Coming In On a Wing and a Prayer’, a rousing tune that encouraged the audience to sing along with them. Bea smiled brightly even as her heart was crushed to a million pieces. What had she done to make him leave?

Blowing kisses to the men, Ivy led the way down the tiny f light of steps that took them into the very heart of the overcrowded hall. At the end of each night’s performance the girls, along with the previous acts, mingled with the audience. Shaking hands and offering a few kind words made such a difference to men separated from their families and loved ones. Photographs of wives, children and sweethearts were produced from pockets or wallets and proudly displayed while their owners congratulated the Bluebirds on their singing.

The girls scribbled their names on napkins, menu cards and the fan photographs pushed in front of them. They signed autograph books, too, smiled and listened to the men eagerly greeting them.

Bea felt as if she was sleepwalking, playing her role by rote. Her mouth asked questions, her eyes smiled, yet over and over again she was asking herself why the one man she wanted had walked away without a backward glance.

And then, a tattered photograph was pressed into her hands. It was so familiar to her that she couldn’t help exclaiming, ‘Oh, this is one of our very first publicity shots.’ She remembered when it was taken, long before the girls had made a name for themselves.

‘So you’ll know how long I’ve treasured it,’ he said, in his American drawl. It was a soft Southern accent. A ­lemon-scented cologne emanated from him. For a moment all Bea could do was stare into his smiling brown eyes. He hadn’t abandoned her but had disappeared to bring her the photograph. Bea’s eyes were glued to his face, and her knees were almost buckling. She wondered if she’d fall at his feet for joy. With more confidence than she felt, she touched the picture, running her fingers across the familiar faces of herself, Ivy and Rainey, reliving the memories it conjured for her.

He grasped her hand and held it to his lips. ‘Before my courage kinda disappears, Bea, let’s get outta here.’

Chapter Two

Rainey pressed the off button on the cord of her bedside lamp. Despite her tiredness, she knew she’d be unable to sleep. This wasn’t due to the over-excitement that followed from singing her heart out on stage in Devon but because she had realized she must face up to the pain she’d caused the person who loved her most.

‘Mum, I need you,’ she whispered, into the pillow. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Her own pig-headedness was continuing the rift between them. But how could she apologise? How could things possibly return to normal between them after all that had happened? She squeezed her eyes tightly shut to stop the tears spilling out.

‘I’d give everything I own to feel like a little girl again,’ Rainey whispered into the darkness. ‘To have you pull back the covers and climb into my bed, as you’ve done so many times in the past, to comfort me . . .’ She remembered how Jo would hold her close until, safe in her mother’s arms, Rainey would fall asleep. The last time Jo had held her like that had been after Charlie died.

It seemed to Rainey that her mother, maybe all mothers, possessed a special skill to take away their children’s pain. After all, the words ‘Let me kiss it better’ magically made a grazed knee or elbow feel better, didn’t they?

But Rainey was no longer a child. Now, she was a young woman whose madness had passed but she needed her mother more than ever. What if Jo had had enough and had taken seriously Rainey’s refusal to see her? Surely not.

Her eyes lingered on the washstand where the blue and white jug and bowl sat. Treasured items bought from a jumble sale with money they could barely afford to spend when Jo and Rainey had first moved to Albert Street. This terraced house had been their refuge from Alfie Bird, Rainey’s father, who had used his wife as a punchbag until Jo had eventually realized nothing would change for the better unless she escaped him. Together, mother and daughter had left Portsmouth and survived in the hovel that gradually they’d made into a welcoming, comfortable home. Jo had worked while Rainey finished school. Later Jo had helped Rainey achieve her ambition to be a singer as one of the three Bluebirds, travelling abroad with ENSA, cheering the troops while the war raged about them.

Rainey loved Bea and Ivy – they were more than friends, practically sisters. But when Charlie, the man Rainey had worshipped, had been killed in that bomb blast, it had been Jo’s love that had saved her – that, and the approaching birth of Charlie’s child.

Back on stage in Dartmouth, she’d had to hide her grief. Troops leaving to fight on foreign shores deserved to be sent away with the memory of three smiling Bluebird girls encouraging them to defeat the enemy. With Bea and Ivy’s help, she had turned the corner on the long journey back to sanity by doing the one thing that made her happy: singing.

If only Rainey had the courage to begin to heal the rift she had created between herself and her beloved mother . . .

She lay wide awake remembering the day when Bea and Ivy had brought her back from the nursing home in the taxi.

‘You sure you’ll be all right if I pop up the road to Peacocks to buy fresh bread? Ivy’s here should you need anything.’ Bea was anxious.

From the armchair in the kitchen, with her feet on the stool, Rainey took her eyes from the dancing f lames in the grate, and said, her mind in turmoil, ‘Please don’t be gone a long time.’

‘I won’t.’ The front door closed behind Bea, but without the usual tinkle of metal swinging on string and hitting the wood. Rainey had removed the key. She couldn’t face well-meaning visitors letting themselves in. Not now, possibly not ever again, after all she’d been through.

She’d been dozing when the banging on the door started.

‘Rainey, I must talk to you.’

Indignation filled her at the sound of Jo’s voice from outside the house. How dared her mother think she could come visiting when, at the time Rainey had needed her most, Jo hadn’t been there for her? ‘Don’t let her in, Ivy!’

Ivy looked at her despairingly. She’d been on her way from the scullery to answer the knocking.

Resentment built within Rainey. ‘I don’t want to see her,’ she snapped.

‘But it’s your mum . . .’ Ivy was edging her way towards the passage leading to the front door.

‘Don’t you dare!’ Rainey shouted. ‘This is my house and I say who comes in!’

Ivy stared at her, then backed away. ‘You can’t leave your mother out there in the street . . .’

But Rainey allowed her anger to take hold of her. Through the black fog that had descended in her brain she could see Ivy’s wisdom but chose to ignore it. ‘Tell her through the door that I don’t want her near me.’

Ivy said, ‘I can’t do that! You don’t really mean it.’

Furious, Rainey had risen from the armchair.

‘Stay there. You’ve just come from the nursing home and you need to rest. I’ll go.’ Her face was hard, her normally warm eyes steely dark.

Rainey settled back in the chair. She kept her eyes on Ivy as she left the kitchen to walk down the passageway. She heard muff led voices, knowing Ivy wouldn’t upset her more by opening the door despite what she’d said.

Rainey’s head was spinning. The anger, the madness made her believe she was paying her mother back for ignoring her pain when she’d most needed help. In her scrambled mind it was retribution. She was aware of her mother’s love for her but she deserved to suffer as Rainey had suffered.

‘She’s gone, for now,’ said Ivy, coming back into the kitchen. After a short silence she added, ‘You’ve hurt her.’

Rainey had expected to feel jubilant that she was getting her own back. All she felt was a deadness inside her.

When Rainey didn’t answer her, Ivy took a deep breath and said, ‘I’ve heard of normally happy women who’ve given birth, then become depressed, even when their babies are strong and well. You’ve been to hell and haven’t come back yet. I understand all that. Just don’t try shutting the door like that on me or Bea because we’ve all been through too much together. What I’ve just done for you is because I care about you. But I owe your mother a lot so don’t expect me to share any of your misguided feelings.’

Ivy came over to her, bent down towards the armchair and pulled her into her arms. ‘I understand and I feel for you,’ she said. ‘So does Bea.’ She let Rainey go before she added, ‘So does your mother . . . I’m gonna put the kettle on, I think we could do with a cuppa.’

After that, Rainey ignored Jo’s visits, ignored her phone calls, and allowed her own unreasonable behaviour to continue.

Now she was ashamed she’d allowed that madness to take hold of her.

Rainey had to face up to the anguish she’d caused her mother, but how?

*

‘You know how much I love this child, don’t you?’ Ivy looked down at Gracie lying star-shaped in her cot. Tendrils of white-blonde hair stuck damply to the little girl’s forehead and to the neck of her white cotton nightdress.

‘You won’t be saying that if you wake her and she refuses to go back to sleep,’ Eddie said. ‘You know what a tartar she can be.’ Eddie was making sure the thick blackout curtains were pulled tight so the light at the top of the stairs didn’t escape through the bedroom window.

Ivy smiled, first at Eddie, then down again at the little girl. After tenderly replacing the patchwork cover over the precious child, Ivy nudged Eddie from the room, leaving the door slightly ajar so they could hear her if she woke. Eddie switched off the light.

Their bedroom was at the back of the house and overlooked the long thin garden with the brick lavatory and the lilac bush at the end. Before f looding the room with light, Ivy crossed in front of the iron bedstead and drew the blackout curtains, shutting out the late white frost that illuminated the darkness outside. A laugh bubbled from her throat. ‘Mr Edwards at number eight, so I heard, put up a new blackout curtain in his window facing the street. Then he went outside to check it was all right just as the ARP warden was passing on his bicycle and caught him with his front door open, letting all the light out! Talk about bad luck. He got a court fine!’

‘Bloody little Adolf Hitlers, some of those wardens,’ said Eddie. He pulled off his shirt and threw it onto the chair, then poured cold water into the china bowl from the jug on the nightstand for his usual quick wash before bed.

Ivy was still brushing her hair when Eddie threw back the bedcovers and, climbing in, said, ‘Come on, love, don’t keep me waiting for a cuddle.’

‘Didn’t you get enough of them in the pictures tonight?’ She smiled, remembering Eddie’s arms around her all through Jane Eyre.

‘Cuddling in the Criterion isn’t the same as being alone in bed together,’ he said. ‘And, before you ask, the picture didn’t quite follow the story as written in the book.’

‘I’m surprised you always remember the exact plots of all the novels you read,’ Ivy said. She remembered how put out he was on seeing Gone With the Wind after reading the book. She’d spoken lovingly. Many men, after being hard at work all day, preferred to go to the local pub and sink a few pints. Not Eddie – he rarely visited the Alma at the end of the street. He escaped his worries about his buil. . .