Signing the Guestbook
1943 London
She could smell the city; even as the train from Yorkshire chugged into the outskirts of the sprawling city, she could smell the air changing. Watching from the window, she could see the houses growing smaller, more tightly packed together, row upon row of red brick boxes with their long, narrow gardens decorated with neat vegetable patches and at the end of each, an Anderson shelter; flimsy protection from the bombs that destroyed the peace of so many nights. Every so often there was a gap between the houses; sometimes they were stark, empty; sometimes they were still full of the tumbled rubble of recent destruction.
She had only been gone a week; a brief visit home, a brief visit to a different world. A hidden, rural world, a world cut off from the excitement, the exhilaration she found in the city. A world of bleak, rolling countryside, of scattered farms doing their best to provide food for a country at war. A world where the women coped; where most of the young men had gone to fight; a world of old men, young boys and invalids.
Except for Seth; she smiled at the thought of the gangling young man with his large, puppy-dog eyes, his devotion to her evident in every look he gave her; his quiet, dependable nature admirable – but not what she wanted. She craved excitement; life! His best friend now, Wally Eagleton; he had a spark about him; but he had gone to fight in 1940, she hadn't seen him since.
Carefully she adjusted the basket resting on her lap; six fresh eggs, a precious gift from Seth. Unable to fight, his war was on the land, on the farm in Emmerdale; his horizons limited by the rolling Dales, by the crops and cattle that were the centre of his world; by the poaching that supplemented many a dinner table in Emmerdale.
The train was getting closer to the station now; around her, people began gathering up their baskets, began heaving their cases from the over head racks. Someone; the man sitting nearest the compartment door slid it open and stepped into the corridor, moving along the narrow passage out of sight.
She didn't hurry, didn't join in the ungainly scramble to be among the first jumping from the train. Three years in the city had given her an edge, a poise beyond her nineteen years. Staying in her seat, she pulled her fox fur stole further round her shoulders; it was well worn, slightly moth eaten; she had bought it second, third hand, but she loved it. Shrugging her shoulders, feeling it settle comfortably around her, a carapace shielding the girl she inside from the she woman she showed to the world.
Minutes later, walking down the platform, she glanced at the large clock high in the station ceiling. It was still early enough; she would have time to go home, to the room she rented, before she was due at the theatre.
Weaving, easing her way through the crowds, through crowds of people walking, almost running in their determination to get to their destination; a sea of khaki uniforms, swirling navy nurses capes, civilians; a tumult of colour, of movement, for a moment she was disconcerted, needing to readjust, to find her city manners, lack of manners; to leave the etiquette of the countryside behind her.
Reaching the front of the station, she walked the few yards to the bus stop, impatiently pacing, willing the lumbering red double-decker bus to appear, her carriage, her chariot, whisking her from reality to the bright lights, the greasepaint, the very smell of the theatre.
An eternity; two minutes at the most, around the corner, the bus appeared. Nimbly jumping aboard ahead of a middle-aged man, suited and bowler hat'd respectability, she looked over her shoulder, flashed her eyes, hitched up her skirt as she climbed the twisting stair to the top deck. Flinging herself into an empty seat, she gazed out of the window, only breaking her gaze to drop her pennies into the clippie's palm, to take her ticket, pushing it unheeded into her pocket.
The bus took her from the north of the city deeper into its heart, took her, turning, weaving, from wide open streets, from hotels still, magically maintaining pre-war standards, from the departments stores, their windows tapes for fear of breaking glass when the bombs fell, into the darker depths of the city. Narrower roads, even narrower lanes with towering buildings three, four storeys high leering over them, leading from them, visible as they passed; smaller shops, broken windows boarded up not repaired. A seething seedy undercurrent, even in broad daylight.
And then she saw it; she was watching for it, waiting, her heart beating faster in increasing excitement. Lights blazing! There were several hours yet before the blackout would come into force for the night, lights blazing, posters plastered over the surrounding walls, posters that she knew carried her name.
Jumping up quickly now; her stop was only a short distance from the theatre, she clattered noisily down the steps, her heels clicking, barely stopping as she reached the platform, impatient at the need to wait for the bus to slow down enough for her to jump off.
Standing in the street, watching the bus rumble away, continuing its journey through the rabbit-warren that stretched into the distance, she paused, desperate to go directly to the theatre, knowing the rolling programme of shows would already have started, knowing that she wasn't due there until six o' clock. Reluctantly she turned away from the theatre, crossed the road and walked down the lane opposite, halfway down turning again into a smaller, darker dead-end lane. A door, its peeling red paint testimony to brighter days, stood ajar.
Easing it slightly wider open, she paused to sniff...and breathe; the smell not too bad, tolerable at least. Clutching her brown suitcase close to her body, carefully nursing her precious basket of eggs, she began the race up the stairs. As quick as she could, always as quick as she could for fear of meeting anyone on the narrow, twisting stairway, two twists, first floor; four twists, second floor; six twists, third floor, time to catch her breath, fumble for her keys; eight twists, fourth floor, her own front door. The door to her own attic rooms, her freedom; a room of her own.
She didn't bother taking her jacket off. A weeks absence and there was a chill to the room; lowering her case to the floor just inside the door, kicking off her shoes, carefully resting the basket of eggs on the small table, she turned to the gas fire. The matches were on the mantelpiece where she always kept them but they felt damp to her touch; it took several strikes before the match lit, before she could turn on the hissing gas, ignite it.
Even having the gas low lent a cheering quality to the room. Moving to the single gas ring, she lit it too, then filled a battered tin kettle from a single tap at the sink in the corner. She spooned a few tea leaves from a tin into a brown tea pot – tea always tasted better from a brown pot – then waited for the kettle to sing.
The room was everything; sitting room, two battered armchair that had lost a lot of their stuffing graced either side of the gas fire. She had covered them with blankets knitted from colourful scraps of wool. Kitchen; the sink with its single cold tap, the gas ring and a small table to eat her meals on sufficed for her needs. Bedroom; a curtain, threaded on thick string, doubled, hid her bed from the rest of her room; she like the cosiness at night, cocooned from the world outside.
She sat on one of the chairs, rubbing her feet; heels were all very well, she liked the extra inches, but even short walks on the city pavements set them throbbing.
In no time at all, the kettle boiled; she would drink her cup of tea, then walk back to the theatre; she would be early, but that didn't matter, that was where she wanted to be after her week away.
There was a mirror on the wall near her door; placed there to catch the best light from the window; placed there to be handy for a final glance as she walked out of the door. She glanced in it now, touching her finger to the corner of her eye, to her lips, wiping away a smudge of vermilion colouring, not perfect, but it would do; it would all be wiped away with cold cream, making way for the heavier stage make-up later in the evening.
Pulling the thick, blackout curtains before she left, in preparation for coming back late, needing to put the light on, she locked her door, rattling it, just to check; she set off down the stairs at a quick trot, her heels clicking, tripping rapidly down each twisting flight. Regaining the street, she caught her breath before hurrying down the lane, turning, then turning again, retracing the steps she took earlier. At the last turn, she could see the theatre in the distance, drawing her as a moth is drawn to a flame.
Ignoring the bright lights of the main entrance, she walked beyond the warm welcome spilling out onto the pavement, not giving it a single glance, to a smaller door, so nondescript it was almost invisible. Yet it was here she was drawn; this was the entrance to her world, to the glitter, the feathers, the greasepaint. It was here, amid the backstage hustle and bustle, the panic, the congratulations, the camaraderie, that she felt at home, that she felt alive.
The door was unlocked; she slipped through, immediately the other side was a dark corridor but to one side light spilled from an open doorway, from a small office, a gatekeeper
"Evening Stan," she sang out cheerfully to the man seated at a table, seated to give him a clear view of all who entered or left.
"Evening Miss," he replied. "Thought it was tonight you were due back; the place was quiet without you!"
"Stan! You say that to all the girls!" she laughed.
"And I miss every one of you when you're not here!" he retorted brightly.
Moving on down the corridor into the backstage area, passing scenery stacked against a wall until it was needed or stored, past dressing rooms, past people elaborately dressed or hardly dressed at all; nodding greeting, stopping to chat for a minute until they whisked away towards the stage, towards their own dressing room.
Filling the air, the sounds of the orchestra; muffled through the distance, through the stage, through the canvas backdrops hanging in strict order of use, waiting to be lifted up, down, into position.
Passing the dressing rooms nearest the stage, the dressing rooms of the names highest on the posters that decorated the entrance to the theatre that decorated any free wall space for miles around. Passing further down the corridor, she found the door she wanted; putting her hand to the handle, she paused. She could hear the giggles, the laughter, the sounds of preparation behind the solid wood. Pursing her lips for a moment, taking a deep, steadying breath, she turned the handle, opened the door.
It took a second, two seconds for any of the girls gathered at the brilliantly illuminated mirrors or in various states of dress or undress to notice her arrival.
Then suddenly, squeals of surprise, of recognition; questions, a million questions pouring from a dozen lips as her quiet presence was noticed. Suddenly surrounded, the girls enthusiastic greetings pulled her further into the room; hugs, cheeks touched in greeting, the shrill chatter of too many excitable girls speaking at once.
"Oh it's so good to be back!" she said, lifting the fox stole from her shoulders, draping it over a chair as she took off the close fitted jacket of her suit, hanging it up, laying the stole carefully over the top of the jacket. "Have I missed anything?" she asked.
"Well!" Annie, a dark haired girl, pulled her to one side of the room. There was a table piled high with every odd and end of sparkle and feather imaginable, pushing it to the back, Annie reached into a cupboard underneath, pulling out a bottle, two chipped cups. Sloshing out two large measures, she passed the bottle to another girl sitting at the mirrors, transforming herself. Quickly the bottle passed the length of the room, every cup and glass pressed into service.
"Well," Annie continued, once they were perched comfortably with their drinks, "Cissy had to leave, in the family way; Mr Van D. was seriously cross. Gave us all a huge lecture; thankfully Mrs H wasn't here, can't bear that look she gives, like we've all let her down. Gracie's soldier-boy was wounded in France; he should be home soon. And we've been down on them bloody cellars every day since you left. Bloody Hitler and his bombs!" Annie took a big gulp of her drink. "So what about you? How was 'the country'?" She emphasised the last two words.
"Still there!" she laughed.
"And your young man?"
"Seth? He's not my young man. But he did give me eggs; you must come for tea tomorrow, have one."
The two girls grinned widely at each other; then something, someone, a new face, caught her eye. "Who's that?" she asked.
"New girl. Cissy's replacement," Annie replied, beckoning the girl over.
"Pearl Hartbourne, this is..." began Annie.
"Eloise du Pont," she interrupted, holding out her hand.
"But only to the punters," called one of the other girls, raising her glass. "To the rest of us she's Betty Pendergast from some end of the world place in Yorkshire!"
Betty smiled, "Nice to meet you, Pearl. Hope you'll be happy here."
"Oh, I'm sure I will be, Miss...Eloise...erm"
"Betty will do fine," she laughed. She drained the last of her drink. "Right, I'm going to get my dresses; I left them with Mrs Goodfellow while I was away."
"Dresses?" questioned Pearl, still standing beside the two older girls.
"Eloise is an artiste, Pearl, not a living statue," explained Annie.
"That means she gets to keep her clothes on," called a girl from across the room.
"And dance with Richard Sparks," called another.
"Who's got bad breath and hands that stray where they shouldn't," countered Betty, laughing. "And," she continued, turning to speak to Pearl directly, "I did my time as a living statue, displaying my all, so don't let these...ladies...tell you different."
Leaving the dressing room, Betty made her way upstairs to the domain of Mrs Goodfellow, the wardrobe mistress. By the time she returned to the dressing room, laden with her dresses, most of the girls were in robes to cover their stage costumes, their nakedness. As living statues they could be onstage, bare naked, so long as they didn't move; to move was rude.
The tension was running high, pre-performance nerves kicking in; chaos, raised voices, raised in panic, shrieking to borrow panstick, eyeliner; raised in accusation as precious items momentarily couldn't be found; the swirling movement of girls, perhaps more animated in anticipation of the stillness they would have to sustain during the performance
Betty moved to the corner of the room, she liked being away from the door, being able to see who was coming in and going out. She piled her dresses on a chair; once the girls were away, she would check them over, hang them up in the order she would need them later in the evening.
Next to her, Pearl was peering at her reflection in the mirror, adding the finishing touches to her make-up. Suddenly she pulled open the front of her robe, cupping one breast in her hand, with her finger and thumb pinching her nipple, she began to brush ruby red rouge onto it.
"What are you doing?" asked Betty
"Highlighting my assets!" exclaimed Pearl, her eyes sparkling cheekily. "Look!" Brazenly she turned towards Betty, thrust her chest forwards. "See! Makes them stand out nicely!" She moved her hand to her other breast, repeating the process.
"You're not meant to be ... 'highlighting your assets'," said Betty, "you're meant to be discreetly and elegantly naked in the background."
"Well, if I'm flaunting them, they might as well be seen," replied Pearl, shrugging her shoulders back into her gown.
"Well, make sure Mr Van D. doesn't notice what you've done, he won't be happy," cautioned Betty. Sitting in front of the mirror, she began taking the pins from her hair. "If that's you ready, you can take my hair down and brush it for me," she said, turning back to Pearl. "If you want," she added.
Pearl moved to stand behind her and began carefully removing the pins from her hair, watching the elaborate style fall apart underneath her fingers. As she worked, Betty reached for a pot of cold cream and began smearing it over her face, removing the make-up she had applied so many hours earlier.
Watching her, watching the mask disappear, watching the woman beneath appear, Pearl was surprised; she was younger than she expected, and prettier. Flicking her eyes between the mirror and the honey blonde hair now hanging long and loose in her hand, she picked up a brush and began to stroke its length, a section at a time.
"So! Where're you from Betty?" Pearl asked, brushing rhythmically.
"Small, no-where place not too far from Leeds," she replied. "What about you?"
"Scarborough," she said.
"And what brought you down to London?" asked Betty.
Pearl paused in her brushing, looking at Betty's reflection in the mirror; for a moment they held each other's eyes. "Sick of the sand and hungry for the bright lights," she replied
"Bright lights! In the black out!" laughed Betty, "that's a good one."
Behind her, Pearl blushed.
Glancing in the mirror, seeing the colour flood into her cheeks, Betty spoke quickly, seeking to ease her embarrassment.
"I'm sorry love, just struck me a funny, that's all."
"S'pose it is really," admitted Pearl, a smile touching the corners of her lips.
Suddenly they were interrupted; a wave of movement, a scurry of final preparations, a buzz of excitement flooding the room; the knock on the door, their five-minute call.
"Go," said Betty, half turning in her seat, reaching out to take the brush from Pearl's hand, for the briefest of moments, their hands touched.
Less than a minute later, the room was empty; strewn with the debris of a dozen girls, their clothes, their make-up; the ephemera of transient glamour. Somehow the peace was disconcerting, the silence after the frenetic activity, the emptiness after the press of bodies moving, weaving between each other, each focused on their own needs in their quest for immaculate hair, make-up; the only display available to living statues.
Betty moved around the room, absently picking up clothes, putting tops back on make-up pots and tubes. Retrieving her cup, she poured another drink into it, before wandering back to the pile of dresses she had left on the chair. Carefully she lifted the first one, shook it gently on its hanger, shaking out the flounces and ruffles; casting a critical eye over it, turning it this way and that. When she was satisfied, she hung it on one of a number of rails dotted about the room.
Once she was satisfied that her costumes for the evening performance were ready, she wandered out of the dressing room, heading towards the backstage area. The noise grew louder as she grew closer to the stage; the music, the intermittent noise of the audience. In the wings, costumed folk were clustered, waiting their turn to shine under the lime lights. An exotic, motley bunch; beside her were mermaids, struggling to control their long tails; King Neptune, standing beside them, his body scantily covered with artfully placed seaweed. Looking across to the opposite wings, she could see a musical quartet in their formal evening wear surrounded by Red Indians, all waiting their turns. Moving until she could see onto the stage itself, see the back of Hilde de Vere, the male impersonator, doing her – his – turn. Behind her – him – she could see some of the girls, the living statues, the tableaux vivant; Gracie, Dotty, Annie, she knew Annie had seen her, Pearl next to her...ah! she moved! Just a fraction! Betty hoped no one but herself had noticed the tiniest change of position. Stepping quickly back, out of their sight, not wanting to distract the new girl, she made her way back to her dressing room. Soon it would be the interval; soon the dressing room would be alive with the hustle, bustle and chatter of the excitable girls.
Quickly now, Betty striped off her clothes; almost naked, she found her bag, raked in it for her bottle of scent, dabbed a little on her shoulders, in the valley between her breasts. Easing herself into her dress, she left the back undone, needing help to fasten all the fiddly little hooks and eyes that ran the length of her back.
Sooner than she expected, she heard the excited chatter, voices coming down the corridor, elated at being released from their poses, elated after the excitement of being on stage. Bursting open the door, piling in, one after another, in seconds the room was full, vibrant, alive again.
"Annie, do me up, will you?" asked Betty, seeing her friend come through the door.
"Need to wee, darling," she gasped, rushing past. "Pearl, give Betty a hand," she called back over her shoulder.
"Turn round then," said Pearl, giving her the tiniest push against her shoulder, a hint that she should turn, let her begin the fiddly task of fastening all the hooks.
Betty turned her back to Pearl. "Start at the bottom," she instructed, "work your way up. It's easier that way."
Stretching, clenching her fingers once or twice, getting movement, feeling, back into them, Pearl reached for the delicate fabric; a shining, shimmering turquoise opening low down on the curve of Betty's back. As she caught the material, her fingers slid a short distance along the soft skin that rose from her buttocks.
Betty caught her breath sharply as she felt the cold touch on her back, the movement pulling her forwards, away from those intrusive fingers; fingers that she couldn't avoid if she wanted her dress fastened. Calming herself, she let her body relax, felt the fingers rise further up her back with each hook closed.
"You moved," she said.
"What?" asked Pearl, concentrating on her task, confused.
"You moved. On stage. I was watching, I saw," Betty elaborated. "Just hope no one from the Lord Chamberlain's office was in or there'll be trouble."
"Well," said Pearl, not sounding in the least bit concerned. "It's hard work, staying stock still all that time. Besides, there was a good looking chap in the front row; you look out for him, trilby, smart suit, red tie; that's what made me notice him, the tie."
"That's Charlie Spiv," replied Betty. "He's a regular; he's alright, but don't get your nylons from him, he charges too much and the quality isn't good. Mr Van D. will see you alright. And don't get involved with him," she added. "He's too old for you and too...well just too old."
"You mean he's got too many ships in too many ports," Pearl giggled.
"I mean it, Pearl!" Betty exclaimed crossly. "Don't get involved."
"Yes grandma," teased Pearl in response. "There! That's you done."
"Thanks," said Betty, turning. "And less of your cheek, young lady," she smiled. "How do I look?" She twirled.
"Very nice," Pearl nodded, slowly. "Lovely."
"Ah, stop fishing for compliments, Pendergast!" exclaimed Annie, returning in time to hear the end of the conversation.
"Well you never give me any," replied Betty quickly, teasingly.
"That, my dear, is because we don't want your head to swell any more, do we?" said Annie, a cheeky glint in her eyes.
Both girls collapsed together, giggling.
It wasn't too long before a knocking at the door heralded the imminence of the next set; a five minute call not only for the living statues, but one for Betty as well.
She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her thoughts, her nerves, before heading to the wings, to wait for the lights to dim, the curtain to come briefly down as they all took their places.
There's always a fear, a dread lurking in the back of her mind that between one performance and the next, she will have lost it; lost the magic, whatever it is, that she is able to conjure from the very depths of herself when the house lights dim, when the spotlight is on her. For those few second of waiting, terror seizes her, she want to flee; but then the music starts, quietly at first, but calming her, drawing her nerves from her, setting her free.
In the seconds before the curtain went up, before light, flooded the stage, she cast a quick glance behind her at the girls, the living statues on their pedestals, in their elegant poses, merely hinting. Annie, Gracie, Dotty, Pearl.
Pearl caught her looking along the row, looking at her; she flicked her eyes up and down, admiring. Daringly, she stood a little taller, moved her shoulder a little, thrust her chest, her breasts, out just a little further. Allowing the tiniest of smiles to touch her lips in the seconds before the curtain went up as she saw Betty noticing.
The curtain went up; no one mattered then, nothing mattered then except the performance; the music, the songs, the dances, the audience. In a whirl, in a dream, the magic returned. Nothing was real except the music, the songs, the dances, the audience. In no time at all it was over, for the moment at least, for her first performance of the evening.
The hours passed in a dream, a haze of magical unreality; before it even seemed possible, it was almost midnight, it was over. It was quieter now in the dressing room, tiredness taking over as clothes were finally put on again, as faces were cleaned, as outdoor coats were struggled into against the evening chill.
"You coming up for a cuppa? Glass of something?" Betty asked Annie as they walked arm in arm from the theatre.
"Not tonight lovie," replied Annie, "I'm wacked. Why don't you ask Pearl though; think she's a bit lonely in the city, finding it hard away from home."
"That one!" scoffed Betty. "Hard as brass tacks and a hussy to boot; flashing her bits on stage!"
"Bit hard not to in our line of work," laughed Annie. "But it's all a front, mark my words. Go on, there she is; ask her."
Pulling a face at her friend, Betty called out to Pearl. "You got anything to rush home for? Fancy a cuppa, something stronger, at mine?"
"No...I mean...well, if you're sure," Pearl hesitated.
"Course love, wouldn't have asked otherwise, would I?" replied Betty. "I'm not far, just round a couple of corners."
Together they waved goodnight to Annie, heading in the opposite direction.
"Where've you got rooms then?" Betty asked companionably, making conversation as they walked the few streets home.
In no time they reached the red-painted door. "Now, deep breath and run," instructed Betty. "I can usually get to the third floor without having to stop too much. Go!
Giggling, they began scampering up the stairs; giggling, they had to stop for breath much sooner; giggling they launched themselves through the front door the minute it was unlocked.
"Oh this is lovely!" exclaimed Pearl after Betty had flicked the light on. "You've made it so cosy."
"Well it's handy for the theatre," said Betty, turning two small lamps on, turning off the pendant light in the centre of the room. Then bending to the gas fire she lit it before moving to the stove. "Tea, or something stronger?"
"I shouldn't; we had that...whatever it was...earlier." said Pearl.
"It's American, best not to ask," replied Betty. "I've some more of that, you could have a small one if you wanted, or..." she moved to a cupboard, looked inside, "...or I can do cocoa if you fancy that? Have to be dried milk though, in fact, tea would have to be with the dried stuff too I'm afraid," confessed Betty, screwing up her nose at the prospect.
"Oh well, maybe I could have just a small one...if you are," said Pearl.
"Oh I am," agreed Betty, hunting for two glasses; finding them, she poured generous measures into each. Handing one to Pearl, she left her own glass standing while she slipped out of the fox fur stole and her jacket, hanging them carefully. Moving behind the curtain shielding her bed, she emerged wearing an old shapeless cardigan over her blouse; in her hand, she carried another.
"Here," she said, handing it to Pearl. "Take your coat off, put this on; it's not very glamorous, but it'll keep you warm."
Gratefully, Pearl shrugged off her coat, pulled on the cardigan, relishing its cosy warmth. She sat on one of the chairs in front of the glowing gas fire, curling her feet comfortably underneath herself, watching as Betty raked in first one cupboard then another.
"I'm afraid the cupboard's a bit bare," Betty confessed. "With just coming back today, I haven't got anything in.
Pearl hastened to reassure Betty that she needed nothing, that the drink was fine, that it was a treat not going straight to her rooms from the theatre.
As Betty settled with her drink, Pearl chatted happily, telling tales of her childhood, seaside adventures when it was fun living in a bustling holiday resort. Of her escape to London so recently achieved; of her hopes for the city whose streets were surely still paved with gold, of her fears in the city where the rubble of war was visible from every corner.
Easily the conversation flowed between the two girls, not so far apart in age; they laughed, giggled, shared easy confidences as the evening grew ever later, as Betty refilled their glasses once, twice. The drink, the warmth of the room, a spreading lazy contentment engulfed them until at last they drifted into comfortable silence.
The sudden, awful shrieking ripped the night apart; the noise so familiar, yet so unexpected brought both girls to their feet, small screams, squeals of sudden surprise leaving their lips almost unawares.
"God! The bastards are late tonight!" cursed Betty. "Do you want to go down to the shelter?"
"Where is it? Will we get there in time?" replied Pearl, just managing to keep the edge of panic in her voice under control.
"Well, to be honest," said Betty, pausing "I sometimes don't bother. It's a couple of minutes to the shelter, but up and down all those stairs. I usually just take my chances."
Pearl looked at her, all her instincts wanting her to take flight, to run, to get out of there; she looked at Betty.
Betty smiled, a tight, ironic smile accompanied by the slightest shrug of her shoulders. She was young enough to believe in Fate; she was cynical enough to believe in Fate, if it had your name on it…
"Alright then," agreed Pearl, nodding, "we'll take our chances."
In the moment of silence between them, in the silence of the sirens, they heard the rumble, the drone of engines in the far distance; far yet, but coming closer. Another noise; below them, drifting up from street level, loud voices, shouting, issuing instructions.
Betty began to feel her heart beating faster in her chest; this wasn't the first air raid she had braved in her flat; but this felt different, sounded different, sounded closer. Maybe they should have gone to the shelter; but it was too late, too late now to move from the false safety of her room.
A loud explosion shook the room as the noise deafened them; screaming uselessly, screaming from shock, they jumped into each other's arms, holding each other close. If this was to be their end, their deaths, they would have the comfort of another person holding them.
The raid seemed interminable, endless; all around them, closer, more distant, the noise of explosions. Switching the lamps out, Betty moved to the window, pulling back the curtain with one hand, her other clutching Pearl's hand, keeping contact, keeping the comfort. Looking from the window, the sky was orange with the glow from fires burning; from nearby streets they could hear the ringing bells of fire engines rushing to control the flames. By craning her neck, she could see the end of her lane, could see people passing, running by on their way to help, do something; ARP wardens maybe, Red Cross first aiders; any number of people braving the raid to help.
As quickly as it had begun, the raid was over, the wailing 'all clear' sounding, echoing across the city.
Laughing awkwardly in their relief, they clung together again, the room lit only by the light coming in through the window, their bodies close together. Pearl lifted her hand, gently stroking strands of loose hair back from Betty's face; watching her, her eyes captured by her face, Pearl let her fingertips drift over the smooth skin at her temples, slide down towards her chin. She couldn't have explained what she was doing, why she felt the urge, the need to touch her; maybe it was the sense that they had looked death in the face, cheated it. Maybe the fallen bombs had left something in the air, something that would explain the electricity she felt coursing through her body.
Holding Betty's eyes with her own, Pearl tilted her face slightly downwards, bringing it close to the older girls; closing her eyes now, she was so close she could sense the nearness of the other girl, feel her breath on her face, feel the anticipation, the excitement rippling through the air between them.
Gently she found Betty's lips with her own, pressed her own against them, for a second, two seconds, she was still. Then hardly moving, Pearl began kissing her; hesitantly at first, until her confidence, her need growing, suddenly, unexpectedly overwhelming her, her kiss increased in urgency, became suffused with desire.
Responding, Betty opened her lips in answer to Pearl's quickly exploring tongue, feeling it flick briefly between her lips, across her teeth. Unsure at first, she moved her tongue, gently touching, retreating, touching again, beginning to dance, to tease, to twist, to fight.
Flooding her body, a strange feeling, a tension, excitement growing yet still held in check; Pearl let her hands rest on Betty's shoulders, slide upwards, around the back of her head, pulling her in closer, deepening their kiss.
Breathlessly, at last they pulled apart. For a moment they stood, staring at each other, surprised, shocked at what had happened, unsure at what was about to happen.
Saying nothing, taking Betty's hand in her own, Pearl began the few steps towards the curtain hiding the bed. Feeling resistance, feeling Betty not following her movement, she turned, looked back over her shoulder at the other girl.
"It will be fine," she whispered.
Pulling the curtain behind them, Pearl faced Betty, her hands sliding the old cardigan off her shoulders, down her arms, letting it drop to the floor. Keeping her eyes fixed on Betty's face, she began undoing the buttons on her blouse, sliding it off, letting it join the cardigan on the floor.
Joining in now, Betty began fumbling with Pearl's clothes; smiling at each other, their breathing quickening, excitement taking over, the tentative, gentle removal of garments quickly giving way to a growing need; to explore, to touch each other's nakedness as they almost ripped the their remaining clothes from their bodies.
Pulling Betty behind her, Pearl scrambled under the covers of the small bed, jittering as the cold of the sheets hit her naked skin. Beside her, Betty slid close, but not touching.
"What are we doing?" she whispered.
"We could have died tonight," answered Pearl, "and you are beautiful."
She moved, pushed the covers back from them both, exposing their bodies to the gentle light seeping into the room. Easing herself up, she lifted her leg over Betty until she was sitting on her hips. Looking down, she bit her lip, letting her eyes run up and down Betty's slender body, her fingertips following her eyes, feather light fingers sliding from her hips upwards. Feeing the outline of her ribs, upwards to the swell of her breasts, full breasts, she let her hand cup each one, feel the weight of each against her hand. Closing her eyes briefly, she let her thumbs flick across each nipple, repeating the movement as she felt Betty move, groan, beneath her, as she felt each nipple rise, harden under her touch.
Opening her eyes, smiling, she leant forward, moving until she could comfortably take that rosy nipple in her mouth, feel the hard bud between her lips. Briefly, she sucked, let her tongue roll it round in her mouth, let her teeth, capture it, close on it, tug it, bite down on it...then...oh so briefly...bite harder; feeling Betty groan in pleasure beneath her. Changing her position a little again, she cupped her other breast, pushing her open palm downwards, rolling her hand over the whole breast before playing with its nipple between her fingers as her lips continued arousing its companion.
As she moved under Pearl's clever fingers and tongue, Betty let her hands slide over her back, feeling the ridges of her spine, the curve of her hips, the swell of her buttocks. Stretching, reaching with one finger, enjoying the contours of the flesh under her hands, she found the valley between her cheeks, rubbing; she knew she had discovered a sensitive spot.
Time teased them, time meant nothing; moving together, bodies entwined, hands roaming, freely venturing across each other's bodies, taking turns to seek the warm welcoming places then exploring them together; arousing, heightening the sensitivity, the pleasure until it soared beyond anything they could have imagined, creating explosions of their own, flooding their bodies with shuddering emotion before leaving them spent, wrapped in each other's arms, sleeping the remainder of the night away.
Grey daylight filtered between the buildings seeped in the small window, announcing the morning. Sleepily, Pearl stirred, stretching, her body stiff from the cramped night in the small bed. Glancing to the sleeping girl beside her, she quietly slid from under the covers, pulling the top blanket from the bed to cover her nakedness.
As she struggled with the gas, she was aware of Betty behind her, wrapped in a well worn dressing gown, awkwardly standing, unsure now in the harsh light of day.
"We didn't die last night," Pearl said gently, the customary sparkle in her eye tinged with care, with concern, with wisdom perhaps beyond her years. "Here, you're used to this gas; this morning I would love a cup of tea and with dried milk!"
She smiled.
...
2003 Emmerdale
She paused outside the pub, the Woolpack, and took a deep, steadying breath. Fate, circumstance; call it whatever you will, had brought her here, to this village, to a village whose name she hadn't heard, a village she hadn't thought of, for nigh on sixty years. God! Was it really so long, a lifetime; it felt so much less, it felt like it could have been yesterday, she remembered it so well.
She had looked in the phone book, found the address, even chapped the door a few minutes ago. There had been no answer. She walked the short distance to the cafe, looked there; the dark haired woman, a touch cutting in her comments, said she hadn't seen her taking the bus to Hotton today; try the pub.
The Woolpack; it looked a nice enough place, a place a lady could walk into on her own even though she knew she was expected, although not by her. Gathering her courage, she walked in.
He saw her as she walked in, making an entrance, the silk scarf round her neck fluttering with the rapidity of her steps. Moving as quickly as his bulk allowed, he left the group of pensioners he was sitting with to escort her to their table.
"This is the lady I was telling you about," he began the introductions. "Betty this is..."
"Pearl Hartbourne," Betty interrupted.
"Betty Pendergast," replied Pearl.
"You two know each other then," he blustered, slightly annoyed.
"It was a long time ago," said Betty.
"War work; we met doing war work together," agreed Pearl.
They smiled at each other, conspiratorially; travelling back in their minds across the decades to a time they would not talk about; except to each other now.