Ellie (2 page)

How was she going to face this place without Ellie? They had shared everything – from the bed, to gossip, chores and laughter. What purpose would there be in her life now?

Polly had seen for herself today that she wasn’t alone in loving Ellie. All morning there had been a steady stream of neighbours calling at number 18 to say goodbye to her, many of them bringing small gifts. Old Mrs Schoebl, the Polish woman from across the street, brought a few sweets. Ossie Freidburg brought a length of red flannel for Polly to make into a nightdress and Mrs Green, who ran the paper shop on the corner, offered a couple of comics for the journey.

Ellie was such a gregarious and warm-hearted child, that she assumed her neighbours’ kindness was extended to every other mother and child in the street. She had no idea that she’d won a special place in people’s affections.

Humour was the traditional way in the East End of dealing with the grimness of life. ‘If I couldn’t have a laugh every day I’d sooner die’, was a remark heard constantly, and Ellie made them roar with laughter. Whether she’d become a comedienne through her close contacts with comics at the theatre, or simply to rise above her size and situation, Polly didn’t know, but Ellie’s ability to mimic and entertain was appreciated by everyone, from her schoolfriends, to the oldest residents in Alder Street.

Ellie was an observer. Whether she was sitting on a bus, in a shop or just in a room full of people, she listened and stored away information. Later she would re-enact the characters she’d studied with faultless precision, using the simplest props like a headscarf or a pair of glasses.

‘You should put your Ellie on the stage,’ Edna often said to Polly when she’d had a few gins. ‘She ’ad me laughin’ fit to bust.’

Polly was never sure how she should react to this. She felt Ellie was destined for it, believed she had the raw talent to succeed, but yet she knew the pitfalls of such a life first-hand. So she took the easy way out, a smile which could either be translated as acceptance, or as disbelief. She never let on that Ellie’s birth had finished her own career on the stage, or showed how hard she found it merely to dress entertainers, when once she had been out there in the footlights.

*

‘I’m ready!’ Ellie said from the doorway. Polly turned at her daughter’s voice and for a second caught a glimpse of how Ellie might look once she’d lost her puppy fat.

With the light slanting over Ellie’s shoulder, Polly could see there were high cheekbones and her own delicate, pointed chin buried beneath surplus flesh. Ellie’s eyes were glorious, deep pools, so like her father’s. That wide mouth, with a slightly protruding bottom lip, hinted at sensuality and her small nose was perfectly shaped.

Polly wasn’t quite comfortable with this sudden flash of Ellie as a woman, especially on the eve of evacuation. Guilt stabbed at her as she remembered she hadn’t yet got round to broaching that awkward subject of menstruation.

‘You don’t need a towel.’ Polly took the dingy thin grey one from beneath Ellie’s arm, shamed as much by this symbol of their poverty as by failing to have seen how fast her daughter was growing up. ‘Marleen’s got plenty. Just take your cardigan in case it’s cold when we come ’ome.’

Polly swiftly ran a comb through her hair and put on a little lipstick. She was wearing her one and only decent dress, a pale blue crêpe that Marleen had given her. If only Ellie wasn’t going away tomorrow, having the night off from work would’ve been a rare treat. As it was, she felt more like crying than pretending this was a celebration.

Ellie would have walked right past the Gray’s Inn Road mansion block. Polly grabbed her arm to stop her.

‘Is this it?’ Ellie asked, looking up at the elaborate red brick Victorian facade with awe.

Polly nodded, smiling at her daughter’s expression. Polly had seen smarter places in her time, but today she saw it through Ellie’s eyes.

The steps were white marble. A red patterned carpet, similar to the one in the Odeon, softened their footsteps as they plodded up the stairs to the second floor. Maybe it hadn’t been repainted in years, perhaps the tenants weren’t as aristocratic as those it had been designed for, but compared to 18 Alder Street it was a palace.

‘Hello, darlings!’ Marleen said as she opened the door, her theatrical greeting matching her appearance. She wore a vivid green and orange long kimono, and her hair was dyed a deep, dark red, arranged in loose curls on the top of her head. ‘Come on in, Cyril’s just left.’

Ellie felt rather than saw her mother’s warning finger on her lips, and smiled to herself.

Although Ellie was young, she knew a great deal more about adult relationships than her mother realised. An intuitive and observant child, she could work out for herself exactly how Marleen, who was too old now to dance, managed to have such smart clothes and live in a place like this.

Marleen and Polly had been friends since joining the same dance troupe at seventeen. Ellie sensed, when the two women spoke of those days, that her mother’s past was almost as racy as her friend’s. She had seen photographs which gave a glimpse of this thrilling, glittery world. Showgirls in spangled costumes and feathered head-dresses, the pair of them in short ‘flapper’ dresses and beaded headbands on the arms of men in evening dress, always exuding an aura of glamour and sophistication.

Ellie had to assume, though neither Polly nor Marleen could be drawn on the subject, that it was her birth which finished her mother’s ritzy life. Maybe if Polly had married one of those suave gentlemen instead of Tom Forester, they might be living in one of those big houses she saw in the background of those pictures.

*

‘What’cha think of it then?’ Marleen asked as she ushered them along the wide, carpeted passageway into her sitting-room.

Ellie stopped short at the door, gasping in admiration. ‘Cor, it ain’t ’alf nice, Auntie Marleen,’ she said. ‘It’s like a palace.’

‘The only palace I’ve ever seen was the one in Brighton,’ Marleen giggled, looking at Polly. ‘Remember that place, Poll? You caught my side too tightly when we did the wheel routine and your nails split my costume.’

Normally Ellie would hang on every word of this sort of reminiscing, but just now she was too taken aback by the room before her.

It was full of sunshine, even though the big windows had thick lace curtains which muted it. It had a carpet too, pale blue with scrolls in a darker colour, which went right up to the skirting boards. A big three-piece suite with floppy feather cushions and the covers all greens and blues. As if that wasn’t enough, there were gilt electric lamps, and a low table with lion’s feet, so highly polished she could almost see her face in it.

Ellie often parodied Marleen. She would drape a coat over her shoulders, pretending it was her aunt’s musquash, and mince around, fluttering her eyelashes and talking in that special posh voice Marleen put on for effect. Yet, young as she was, Ellie knew there was another Marleen hidden beneath the brash, hard exterior. She was generous with love and money, loyal and kind-hearted, and when she hit low spots in her life she laughed about it, picked herself up and started out again. It was typical of her showy, caring aunt that she’d chosen to buy a new blue velvet party dress for Ellie to take away with her, rather than something practical like shoes or a coat.

Marleen was still glamorous. Although her face was thin and her features unremarkable, she made the best of herself. Never a hair out of place, her eyebrows just a thin painted line, skin like a porcelain doll. Like Polly, she still retained that dancer’s stance, straight-backed, head up, tummy tucked in. She was always entreating Ellie to copy it.

Ellie explored the rest of the flat with ever-growing amazement. A kitchen almost as big as their entire flat, with proper cupboards all built in and that unheard-of luxury, a refrigerator. The main bedroom was pink, with a silky padded cover right over the big double bed.

‘You ain’t got married ‘ave you?’ Ellie said, trying very hard to sound guileless.

‘Me get married!’ Marleen raised one thin eyebrow. ‘That’ll be the day, luv! My ship come in, that’s all.’

Finally they came to the bathroom. Once again, Ellie was dumbstruck. It had white tiles right up to the ceiling and the bath was big enough for two. Pink soap sat on the wash-basin, there was a fluffy rug on the floor, and the lavatory had a shiny wooden seat. Ellie could only remember ever having had a real bath on three occasions – and all of them had been in Marleen’s many different homes. But those had been dingy, cold places, shared by other tenants, not this kind of opulent splendour.

‘Want yer bath now?’ Polly asked, smiling as she saw the excitement bubbling out of her daughter.

‘Yeah, ’ave it now,’ Marleen agreed, opening a mirrored cupboard on the wall and taking out a bottle of something pink. ‘And for a special treat, a touch of my smellies!’

Ellie watched, fascinated, as Marleen poured a little of the pink liquid into the gushing hot water. Instantly, bubbles began appearing. The whole room smelt of roses.

‘Cor, that’s the stuff film stars ‘ave.’ Ellie hugged her aunt impulsively, dark eyes dancing with glee.

‘You can practise being one then,’ Marleen laughed, tickling the child’s upturned face. ‘Now wash yourself properly, mind, and when you come out I want to see if you can still do those dance steps I taught you. Just because you’re going away don’t mean the earth stops moving.’

Ellie was in seventh heaven as she lay back amongst the bubbles. Her mother and Polly would be attacking the gin, soon there’d be a nice supper, and tomorrow would be a real adventure.

Ellie had only been out of London two or three times in her entire life, and then only to Southend with Marleen. Although she was sad at leaving her mother, this was outweighed by the prospect of the new, exciting experiences before her. Miss Parfitt, her teacher, had assured Ellie there would be plays and school concerts she could take part in.

It was inevitable that Ellie would want to go on the stage. As a baby she’d slept in a wicker costume box, and sometimes even been borrowed as a real-life prop when an act called for one. Actors, actresses, dancers and comics had all become an extended family, and she learnt their lines watching from the wings, noting timing, movements and gestures. Instinct told her which were good and bad performances. But Ellie knew she needed experience of acting to further her ambition, and she would never get that in Bancroft Road School.

‘Ellie’s a lovely kid,’ Marleen said as she took a large swig of her gin, a cigarette poised in her scarlet-tipped fingers. She and Polly were sitting at the kitchen table, a warm breeze from the open window ruffling the white lace curtains. ‘You’ve made a good job of bringing ’er up, Poll, so don’t worry about ’er with strangers.’

The two women had shared much more than a dancing career. Their deep, close friendship had been cemented with highs and lows, sorrows and joys since 1917, when they’d taken part in their first concert for a group of wounded servicemen. Marleen had been the ambitious one, grasping opportunities for both of them as the First War ended, when people were hungry for entertainment and fun. Yet it was Polly who had the real talent. She wasn’t a mere dancer, but a singer and brilliant comic actress. It was she who coached Marleen and comforted her when the breaks didn’t come as quickly as she’d hoped. They had cried on each other’s shoulders when love turned sour and supported each other in times of need, and though in those early days it had been Polly who was more often than not the provider, Marleen had reciprocated when Ellie was born.

‘I just ’ope they find ’er a good place,’ Polly said anxiously. ‘I dream of ’er getting set up with some toffs.’

‘I ’ope she keeps up ’er acting and singing,’ Marleen replied. ‘She’s got your talent, Poll, a lovely voice and she can take off anyone.’

‘I know.’ Polly smiled. ‘She was being Tommy Trinder this morning and if I ’adn’t bin feeling so down in the dumps I’d ’ave wet myself laughing.’

‘This bloody war,’ Marleen exploded suddenly. She knew Polly would be like a three-legged chair without Ellie around and it grieved her to think she could offer no consolation. ‘It ain’t even started yet and already I’m sick of it. Cyril was even talking about joining up today and I thought ’e was certain to wriggle out of it.’

Polly shook her head in disbelief. Many of the entertainers had already joined up in the hope they’d get a cushy number rather than waiting for conscription, and she was worried the Empire might close with war coming. If a big shot like Cyril Henches, who ran everything in the East End from sweat shops to clubs, had turned patriotic, it seemed the world was going crazy.

‘Where will that leave you if ’e does?’ Polly asked. Marleen had been Cyril’s mistress for a couple of years and when he set Marleen up in this flat Polly was sure it meant that he intended to leave his wife at least.

‘Up shit creek,’ Marleen smirked. ‘Can’t see ’im sending me a few bob every week while e’s playing soldiers, can you? Even if I got a job I couldn’t manage this rent.’

Polly thought for a moment before replying. ‘I could move in with you if push came to shove.’

Marleen’s pencilled brows shot up in astonishment. ‘Blimey girl, that’s a turn-up,’ she said. ‘Thought you didn’t approve of my carryings on?’

‘I don’t,’ Polly said quietly. ‘But with Ellie away and Cyril maybe joining up we’ll both be alone. I ’eard there’ll be well-paid jobs in factories soon. Perhaps it’ll be good for both of us to start something new.’

Marleen topped up their glasses. Working in a factory was her idea of hell, but she knew Polly meant well. ‘It’s a thought,’ she said. ‘But let’s see if Ellie settles in the country first.’

Polly knew what Marleen meant. Marleen couldn’t and wouldn’t change her lifestyle: there would always be men around her. But though Marleen had few morals, she cared too much for Ellie to expose her to anything potentially damaging.

Marleen wasn’t a tart, not in the true sense of the word, anyway. She just didn’t waste her time and energy on men with nothing to offer her, and Cyril was the latest in a long line of men. Polly worried about her friend, though. She wasn’t getting any younger, she drank too much, and though still attractive, the day would come when she’d be forced to fend for herself.