A Sister's Shame (2 page)

‘I haven’t got a thing.’

‘Only half a whole wardrobe!’

‘But nothing to catch Teddy’s eye,’ Vesta sulked.

‘Perhaps we could go to Cox Street market after work?’

‘I’m fed up with second-hand clothes.’

‘Oh, pardon me for speaking,’ chuckled Marie, ‘but beggars can’t be choosers.’

‘We aren’t beggars,’ argued Vesta indignantly. ‘We take after Dad and are performers!’ Adding quickly, ‘Well, I do anyway!’

Marie spluttered. ‘Not if you don’t practise.’

‘I have to be in the mood for that.’

‘You’ll have to remember our routines if you want everyone to know who we are,’ Marie said determinedly. ‘We won’t see our names up in lights at the Queen’s
unless we’re really good.’

‘Course we will,’ protested Vesta. ‘We’re natural performers, silly.’

Marie admired Vesta for her confidence, though when it came to practising their act it was a different matter. Vesta believed it all came naturally, without much effort. And in a way, it was
true for Vesta, who was a bit of a show-off, like Hector. But Marie made her sister practise in any spare half-hour they had, even when walking home from the shoe factory where they worked. In
their long hours spent at Ellisdon’s, they didn’t have much time for themselves.

As Vesta’s breathing deepened, showing she had fallen asleep, Marie wondered if they would ever have their spot in the limelight. But when sleep finally overcame her, her last thoughts
were of the woman in her dream. Who was she and why was that horrible brute attacking her? It was only she who had this nightmare. Never her twin, Vesta.

‘I can’t wait for tonight!’ Vesta linked her arm through Marie’s as they made their way home from the factory the next day. ‘I hope we sit in the
front row.’

‘Elsie knows one of the usherettes, so we’re bound to get good seats.’ Marie hurried their steps a little. It was almost one o’clock and the market would be well
underway.

‘Elsie knows everyone from her years at the Cubby Hole,’ Vesta agreed. ‘Being the landlady of such a popular pub must have been very exciting.’

‘Yes, but hard work and long hours.’

‘I wish we’d known her husband,’ Vesta sighed. ‘She says they made a success of the pub together. Joe was the love of her life.’

‘She must have been very upset when he died.’

‘Elsie isn’t the type to show it,’ Vesta pointed out. ‘Perhaps we turned up at the right time and made up for her loss. She says we are like family to her. Don’t
forget we were only seven when Mum and Dad first came to the island and she gave us two rooms over the pub.’

‘Until she retired,’ Marie added thoughtfully, ‘and moved us all to Sphinx Street along with her.’

‘Do you think Elsie is rich?’ Vesta glanced quickly at Marie.

‘Don’t know. She told Mum that Sphinx Street was left to Joe by his parents. They were wealthy Jewish people, who owned a theatre up north.’

Vesta nodded. ‘Elsie does wear all that gold jewellery.’

Marie smiled. ‘Elsie is our fairy godmother. She took the Haskinses under her wing, lucky for us.’

But for Elsie’s kindness ten years ago, Marie reflected, when she had taken pity on the poor and homeless Haskins family, newly arrived on the Isle of Dogs, they might have lived a very
different existence from the comfortable one they now enjoyed.

Not that Elsie ever acknowledged her role as their benefactor. All she ever said was that if her late husband, Joe, wasn’t around to enjoy the fruits of their labour as hard-working
publicans, then she was glad her best friends could.

‘I believe she’s got a soft spot for Dad,’ Vesta confided. ‘Being in the entertainment business, like her Joe, who was once an actor.’

Marie smiled at this. ‘Dad isn’t really a performer now.’

‘Well, he was once,’ Vesta reminded her. ‘He was very famous in his time and had a lovely voice.’

Marie didn’t really believe he’d been
that
famous. But it was true that he had a lovely deep voice and knew lots of songs, and he could also recite many passages from
literature. Sadly for her father, however, the modern audiences were going to the pictures to enjoy the talkies now. They didn’t bother so much about the music halls or travelling groups that
had been popular a generation ago.

‘Talking of nice voices . . .’ Vesta continued eagerly, ‘sometimes I can’t believe we’re living in the same house as Teddy Turner. Just imagine, he’s only one
ceiling above us.’

Marie laughed. ‘You’d think he was royalty, the way you go on.’

‘He might not be royalty but he’s gorgeous,’ Vesta insisted. ‘And he has a lovely voice.’

‘You haven’t heard him sing yet.’

‘I have!’

‘When?’

‘The other morning,’ Vesta replied. ‘He was coming downstairs and sang a line from “If I Had A Talking Picture Of You”. Then he gave me a smile that made me knees
knock.’

‘He doesn’t make
my
knees knock.’

‘He doesn’t sing to you.’

‘I’d laugh if he did.’

‘You’re so unromantic, Marie. Anyway, what would he be doing at the Queen’s tonight, if he couldn’t sing?’

‘Any hopeful can sing on amateur night.’

‘Not if they don’t want to risk people throwing rotten veg at them.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Do you know he’s got a job at that new club, the Duke’s, near the Queen’s?’

‘Doing what?’ Marie asked.

‘Singing, of course.’ Vesta stopped abruptly. ‘Why are you so against him?’

‘I’m not against him. I don’t know him. He’s only lived at Elsie’s since February. Where did he come from? What does he do, other than sing? Even Elsie don’t
know his background.’

‘He’s a man of mystery,’ said Vesta, going misty-eyed.

Marie giggled. ‘You’ve got it bad.’

As they walked on, Marie gazed up at the beautiful summer sky and felt excited. Work was over for the weekend. The noise and clatter of the factory was behind them. Tonight they were going out
for a special treat.

A shaft of sunlight caught the top of an old ship’s mainsail overhanging a cluttered back yard. Marie wondered where, in all the rest of England, you could see such a picturesque sight. It
was not unusual to spot a ship’s rigging poking above the roofs of the houses or hear dozens of hoots and toots from the river mixed in with the street vendors’ calls. The ice-cream man
and his three-wheeled cart, the muffin man and his tray of muffins, the shrimp and winkle seller and the stalls of hot chestnuts all vied for space and attention in the busy streets of the East
End. But what Marie loved most was the history of this part of Docklands.

They had learned at school that the Isle of Dogs, a horseshoe of land jutting out into the great River Thames, harked back to the Roman occupation. Then, London was called Londinium. Even that
long ago, the island traded goods, such as wood, wine, silks and spices and made the port one of the most important in the world. She always marvelled that even today those same trades continued.
In fact, every conceivable type of ship, tug, barge and skip was moored in Docklands. How lucky she and Vesta were that their parents had come to live here.

Just then they heard the shouts and cries of the stallholders at Cox Street. Marie felt another shiver of excitement. As much as the river and docks held a mystery, so did the busy markets of
the East End. ‘Come on, we’re nearly there,’ she encouraged her sister.

But Vesta pulled back. Raising her eyebrows, just like their father often did when reciting from Shakespeare, she shrugged. ‘I think we should look somewhere else for our
clothes.’

‘Such as?’

‘Oxford Street, perhaps.’

‘The West End?’ Marie was astonished.

‘We need new costumes, don’t forget.’

‘They would cost a fortune there.’

Vesta tossed her head. ‘When we’re famous, we’ll have plenty to spend wherever we like.’

Marie laughed. ‘You’ve got high hopes.’

‘Better than none,’ said Vesta, wagging a finger.

Just then a loud cockney voice called out. Marie saw two familiar figures emerge from the dock gates. The men wore the uniform of the dockyards; shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, dirty
corduroy trousers and rough working boots, their soles studded with Blakey’s. But no dockyard dirt could disguise the spiky golden mop of Bobby Brown. Better known as ‘Bing’, he
played the piano at the Cubby Hole pub. He was always whistling or singing Bing Crosby’s popular songs. Vesta had no time for him but Marie liked his friendly manner.

‘Just our luck, it’s that mouthy Bing Brown and daft Charlie Wiggins,’ Vesta hissed, pulling Marie’s arm to go in the other direction. ‘Let’s cross the road
before they see us.’

‘Vesta, they
have
seen us.’

‘Well, I’m not stopping to gas,’ Vesta decided impatiently.

‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ called Bing in his rough accent. ‘Charlie, ain’t we the lucky ones, bumping into such a concoction of beauty?’

Marie went crimson and smiled.

‘Me repertoire must be doing the trick,’ said Bing from the side of his mouth, ‘for there’s a twinkle in these lovely ladies’ eyes.’

‘I wouldn’t touch you with a barge pole, Robert Brown,’ huffed Vesta, much to Marie’s embarrassment. ‘Just look at the state of you.’

‘Oh, like that, is it?’ Bing answered mischievously. ‘Well, just wait a tick, milady. I’ll call for me servant to polish me boots and find a plum to stick in me
gob.’

Marie burst out laughing but Vesta looked furious.

‘May we be so bold as to offer you an escort home?’ Bing’s brown eyes were full of teasing.

‘We don’t need one,’ Vesta snapped. ‘And even if we did, you’d be the last person we’d ask.’

Charlie Wiggins roared with laughter whilst Marie went red trying to smother her amusement.

‘I’ll try to bear the disappointment,’ sighed Bing, giving Marie a conspiratorial wink. ‘Anyway, perhaps me broken heart will be mended by the time we see you girls at
the Queen’s tonight.’

‘You’re never going to the Queen’s?’ Vesta gasped, looking horrified.

‘We’ve got our suits and shirts pressed ready, ain’t we, Charlie?’ Bing nudged his friend’s arm. ‘Up in the gods, we’ll be, communing with the
greats.’

‘Well, we’re bound to be in the front row,’ said Vesta coolly. ‘So don’t bother shouting at us, as we won’t hear you.’

Marie decided it was time to leave before Vesta said something really rude. ‘We’d better go now,’ Marie said sweetly, glancing under her lashes at Bing.

‘Not goodbye, but haw-rev-you-are, as the French say,’ chuckled Bing, watching them walk away, his eyes twinkling.

‘The cheek!’ Vesta exploded, hurrying Marie on. ‘Do you really think they’ll turn up at the Queen’s?’

Marie shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’

‘How did he find out we’re going?’

‘It was Dad, I suppose. He goes to the Cubby Hole where Bing plays, doesn’t he?’

Vesta groaned miserably. ‘I forgot. If only Dad would keep better company.’

‘Oh, Vesta, Bing’s all right.’

‘He’s common and loud.’

‘He might be, but he’s been a good friend to Dad. Don’t you remember when Mum sent me to fetch Dad back from the pub one Sunday? Bing was the one who helped me to persuade Dad
to leave his pals and come home.’

Vesta gave this some thought. ‘Well, he may have a few good points,’ she agreed reluctantly, ‘but he’s certainly no gentleman like Teddy is.’

Marie sighed. Vesta was completely under Teddy’s charm. With his thick, black hair combed glamorously in a wave over his head, and his flawless suits with fashionable double-breasted
jackets, Teddy Turner was enough to turn any girl’s head. But he was also conceited and arrogant. He did have a nice smile, but in Marie’s opinion it never reached his eyes.

She decided not to say as much. Vesta wouldn’t like that at all.

‘How are yer, me darlings?’ Fat Freda ran the fruit and veg stall at Cox Street market and beckoned them over. ‘Let you out from that stinking prison,
’ave they?’

Marie laughed. ‘It’s not so bad at the factory, Freda.’

‘Girls like you should be out in the fresh air, not ’ammerin’ leather all day.’

‘We don’t hammer,’ Vesta corrected primly. ‘We trim the leather. And our jobs there are only temporary before we find something more suited to our taste.’

Fat Freda smiled. ‘Yeah, course, ducks. You’re the next Ginger Rogers, ain’t you? I forgot. Now, how’s your mum?’

‘She’s very well, thanks, Freda,’ Marie replied, as Vesta gazed uninterestedly around at the well-stocked market stall.

‘Now, what can I flog yer?’ Freda asked. ‘A pound of apples or pears? Or do you fancy a nice white cauli?’

‘No, thank you,’ declined Vesta, raising her chin. ‘We’re looking for something to wear. We’re going to the Queen’s tonight.’

‘Lucky devils. Who’s on?’

‘Teddy Turner, of course,’ answered Vesta, with a toss of her head. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of him?’

‘Can’t say as I have. What’s he do, darlin’?’

‘He’s a singer.’

Fat Freda laughed coarsely. ‘Isn’t everyone these days? Even my old man sings like a linnet after a night up the boozer.’

As the costermonger turned to serve a customer, Vesta pulled Marie away. ‘She wouldn’t know a good voice if she heard one,’ she whispered angrily. ‘Mark my words, one day
Teddy will make everyone wish they
did
know him.’

Marie began to wonder if Vesta’s recent airs and graces had begun when Teddy had arrived on the scene. It wasn’t just Fat Freda or the market stall-holders that she didn’t care
for, but the girls at work had begun to notice a change in her. She only wanted to speak about herself and couldn’t be bothered with other people’s interests. Working in a factory meant
you had to get along with everyone. Marie was worried that soon the girls would give Vesta the cold shoulder.

‘What do you think of this?’ Vesta was rummaging on the second-hand clothes stall. She turned over a crumpled black frock with shiny beads sewn over the bodice. ‘It’s
very Greta Garbo, don’t you think?’ Vesta pondered.

Marie laughed. ‘We’re only going to the Queen’s.’

‘I would be noticed in this, though.’