A Song for Joey (5 page)

-♪-♫-♪

Almost every day after that, for the rest of his stay in Yarmouth, Ted took me to a
theatre. By the end of that season, we had visited every one. At each, he introduced me to
the staff, backstage crews, entertainers and managers. Everyone seemed to know and like
the jolly and sincere comic; showgirls flocked to put their arms around his plump body,
and men shook his chubby hand.

In The Empire, an austere-looking grey building, we found rehearsals under way onstage for a new summer variety show.
The director, a tall, thin man with a pelmet of shoulder-length, grey hair and a nose like
an eagle's beak, broke off from instructing the young artistes to warmly greet Ted.
"Ted, darling, so wonderful to see you," he gushed in a beautiful Glasgow accent. "Who
is this delightful creature you've brought to see me?"
"This," said Ted, without a hint of irony, "is my friend Princess Belinda. She is going to
be famous one day. Belinda, this is Douglas Barrett. Doug and I have known each other
since we were both starting out. Now he has his own touring company."
"Hello, sir," I said nervously.
"Hello Belinda my love," he replied with a big smile and an outstretched hand, which I
accepted, feeling rather overwhelmed by his exuberant personality.
"Who have you got in this show, Doug?" Ted asked, scanning the troupe on stage, who
were gathering in little clusters, talking in whispers while the great man was otherwise
occupied. "I don't see anyone I know."
"No, I doubt you will," the eagle replied. "These are all relative newcomers. But I've got
some names joining us later in the week: Teddy Johnson will be here tomorrow, and Anne
Shelton is joining us on Friday for a wee while."
I was amazed. Here were names I had heard on the radio, world-famous singers whose
records I had played and whose songs I had learnt, being talked about on first-name terms.
I felt a glow inside, a surge of happiness to be touching the edge of this fantasy world.

-♪-♫-♪

Later that same week, Ted took me to The Regent (which was mainly used as a cinema,
but held summer shows) and The Hippodrome, a stunning indoor circus, where they also
put on huge variety spectaculars. I talked to some of the successful entertainers of the time
who were headlining lavish productions, and to ambitious amateurs, willing to work for
peanuts just to be on the stage. It was magical, the greatest adventure of my life, and I
loved every second. I had expected show-business people to be snobbish, but everyone I
met was incredibly open and welcoming, I felt as though they accepted me.

"They're not all so friendly," Ted said when I commented on how nice they all were.
"Some think they're a class apart, so stupid they don't even talk to each other. They start to
believe the myth of their own publicity."

"Do you know all the stars?" I asked.

He laughed. "Not all of them, but I've worked with quite a few: Matt Monroe, Arthur
Askey, Billy Cotton, Alma Cogan; she's lovely, Alma, completely un-star-like, softspoken, always happy, incredibly sexy." He trailed off, smiling, lost for a moment in
memories.

I took his hand. "Thanks for what you are doing for me, Ted," I said.

 

"Princess, you're going to be a star too, one day, I know it. When you make it to the top,
I hope you'll think fondly of old Ted."

 

He looked down at me and grinned, and I squeezed his arm.
Chapter 3
January 1953
Oliver

My days all began on the beach. No matter what the weather, I would be there first thing
every morning, walking along the golden sand, close to the water's edge. I didn't care if
the wind was whipping my hair into my face and the waves were bursting savagely into
huge clouds of spray and foam, or if the sky was blue and the sea as still as a painting, it
was just good to feel close to the power of it. What I liked was that the sea was the same
for everyone, it didn't care if you were rich or poor, or even a Wop.

In the summer, holidaymakers would emerge from their hotels and caravans as the sun
sprang from the horizon, swathes of them jostling in the shops and amusement palaces,
determined to have fun, staking out their little territories on the beach with windbreaks
and deckchairs. This was post-war Britain and, though the fighting was over, the
hardships mostly remained. So the adventure of a holiday by the sea was attracting hordes
of visitors to places like Great Yarmouth.

Early mornings were the best time for me, before school, when I was alone with nature.
The beach had been swept clean by the tide, all footprints and litter gone. Gulls would
swoop and screech overhead, fighting over the crusts of bread I often took them, and
swarms of tiny sanderlings would hurtle along the frothy tides reach in perfect formation,
perilously close to the waves, then swirl and land like a picnic blanket thrown onto the
wet sand, to prick and probe for hiding marine creatures. Walking alone, leaving fresh
footprints in the virgin sand, skipping aside as a sudden wave rushed at my feet, I would
believe that I owned the beach. Soon, people would begin to arrive, and I would return
home for breakfast before going to school.

-♪-♫-♪

One wild winter's day, another figure appeared on my beach. He was a bit older than me
(I was six by then, and he would have been about eight), tall and skinny, with ginger hair.
We eyed each other as we passed, but did not speak. On the second such occasion I glared
at him through the rain that slanted, freezing, across the space between us, willing him to
go somewhere else. But on the third day he was back again, and this time with a cheery
wave and a cheeky grin; I glowered at him but, undaunted, the next day he was there, and
this time he stopped to speak.

"Hello."

I refused to answer, or even to meet his eye, but stared at the sand before my shuffling
feet.
"Do you live near here?" he asked, undeterred, his voice carrying strongly against the
wind, and bearing a distinctive accent.
"Yes," I muttered into my chest.
"I moved here last week. I live over there."
I saw his arm raise and point towards the north beach. Following it forced me to raise
my head, and when I turned back to him, he was smiling. I quickly looked down again.
"You don't say much, do you?" he said, and I could hear the amusement in his voice.
"Don't have to," I grunted.
"My name's Oliver, what's yours?"
"Belinda."
"Can we be friends?" His voice sounded serious for a moment, and sincere.
I was suspicious. No-one of my own age had ever wanted to be my friend before. Why
would he?
"S'pose so."
Suddenly, his hand came into view, extended in a handshake. At first I jumped when it
appeared, but, still half fearful of a trick, I took it.
Nothing bad happened, and I looked up again to see his broad smile. Despite my
resentment at his invasion of my private beach, and my nervousness that he would turn
out to be like the other boys around Trafalgar Road, I could not help liking him. He had a
simple openness that was endearing.
"See you tomorrow then, Belinda?"
"Ok." I watched him walk away, heading for north beach. He turned once and waved,
and I waved back, then returned to my sea and solitude, but with a new sensation deep
inside and a smile on my face.

-♪-♫-♪

We met every day after that, and I was surprised to find myself looking forward to each
encounter. He told me that his family had come to Yarmouth from Sheffield, hoping to be
allocated one of the new prefabs that had been erected in Gorleston, but had been turned
away. Sheffield suffered terribly in frequent night bombing raids by the Luftwaffe, and
when Oliver's father had returned home from his army service he found that they were
homeless. They had been moving from place to place ever since, staying with family or
friends, or living rough.

We squatted on the sand behind a breakwater, to shelter from the relentless wind, so we
could hear each other speak.
"There's a village sprung up on North Beach, little shacks made of corrugated iron and
bits of wood ... all homeless people. My folks have built one for the four of us," he told
me.
"What will you do now?"
"Probably try again for a prefab, I suppose, wherever they are building them."
"What's a 'prefab'?"
"It's a kind of house. See, there's a shortage of homes, 'cos of the war. There's thousands
of families like mine that have been bombed out, and they can't build new houses quick
enough. Usually it takes months to build one with bricks and mortar, but someone came
up with this idea of making all the walls and roof and floors out of concrete in a factory,
then putting them together quickly, wherever you want them."
I asked him about the bombing of his home town. He told me that the German planes
had targeted Sheffield because of its steel industry and the factories producing essential
weapons and supplies for our troops, and they virtually destroyed the city. Huge areas
were devastated, and thousands of families killed or made homeless. He was too young at
the time to understand what was happening, but he told me how terrified he had been of
all the noise.
"Every night, the sirens would go off, and we would all run down the garden to the
Anderson Shelter."
Seeing my incomprehension, he explained. "It was like a little cave, a hole dug in the
ground, with a dome made of corrugated iron set into it, and then covered with the soil
and grass from the hole." As he described it, he drew a picture in the sand with his finger.
"It was supposed to be safer than staying indoors," he said. "I suppose it was, really, 'cos
we was in it when our house was hit."
He stopped speaking, and I looked up from his drawing to see that he was gazing off
into the distance with unseeing eyes. I edged closer and put my arm through his, and he
turned to me and smiled.
After a minute, he resumed. "It wasn't just us; the whole street was flattened by a stick
of bombs. We could hear the planes coming, same as every night; droning engines,
getting louder. Usually, there'd be a whistling sound made by the first bombs as they fell,
then the bangs would start all around us, and the ground would shake, and that would go
on all night. But the night we lost our house it was different. Right from the start the
bangs were louder, closer. Then, suddenly, the door to our shelter came flying open, and
we were lifted up and slammed down by the shock wave of a bomb exploding very near. I
remember my mouth was open, but couldn't hear myself scream; the blast had deafened
me."
Again he fell silent. I didn't know what to do to help him. His lips were pressed so
tightly together that they were white, and his hands gripped each other under his chin, as
though protecting his heart.
"I ... I have never talked about this before," he said quietly.
"You don't have to, if it's hard."
He shrugged, and even managed a small smile. "It is hard, but actually it's good to let it
out. I have kept it in all this time. No-one in the family wants to talk about it, see, never
even mentions it. It's as though they think that, if they pretend it didn't happen, maybe it
will un-happen." He gave a little wry snort, then settled back into thoughtful silence for a
while.
With an effort, he resumed. "When we came out of the shelter, not one building in sight
remained standing. I looked up and down our street - every house was gone, there were
fires everywhere, smoke and dust rising in a pall; it was a scene from the worst nightmare
imaginable."
I had seen the boys in Trafalgar Road playing killing games, running after each other
with pretend guns, shouting "Bang, bang, you're dead!" But when Oliver talked, there was
no excitement in his voice, no laughter, just the flat tones of dreadful memories shared
and a calmness that failed to hide the terror he had seen and felt. A bond had been forged
between us; an understanding.

-♪-♫-♪

Our meetings became the highlight of my days. He asked me about my family; I told
him about Gran and my life with her. And, as we walked along the shore, deep in earnest
conversation, it felt natural to talk about my Italian father, who I had never met, and my
pretty mum, who died having me.

One wild and wet January day, he held my hand as we walked, and didn't let go until we
said goodbye at the edge of North Beach. I didn't mind.

But nothing is forever. The next day, I waited for him at our place, but he didn't arrive.
The wind, that had started to build up before dawn, buffeted me as I stood alone on the
shore, and hurled the first stinging frozen raindrops into my face like shards of glass. I
looked up and down the beach, seeking out his familiar walk, increasingly anxious with
each minute that he was late.

Eventually, I stayed long beyond the time for school, standing futilely on the swirling
sand in the howling wind and sea spray all morning, before I finally accepted that, for
whatever reason, he wasn't coming. I went home and cried into my pillow for the whole
afternoon.

That evening I couldn't eat my dinner, and when Gran asked why, I told her I didn't feel
well. She gave me a hug and made me a drink of Ovaltine and hot milk. I was sure she
must have seen my red eyes, but she sensed that I didn't want to talk and left me to tell her
in my own time.

At bedtime, I lay awake for hours, listening to the wind shaking the house and the rain
lashing the windows. My thoughts of Oliver were interrupted by great crashes of thunder,
and at some stage I heard raised voices in the darkness outside.

Suddenly my bedroom door opened and Gran called out to me. "Belinda, get dressed
quickly!"
I could tell by her tone that something serious was happening, so I did as she said, then
met her on the landing. She was holding a lighted candle that cast a dim glow, barely
illuminating her and the two lodgers who were staying at that time. She pointed down the
stairway. At first, I couldn't make anything out, then, to my amazement I saw that the
bottom steps were under water.
"The storm and tide have flooded the town, we may have to get up on the roof," said one
of the men, dramatically. He normally spoke little, a big, rough man, a labourer from upcountry looking for work, but now seemed to be enjoying himself.
We followed Gran into the front bedroom, her room, and went to look out of the
window. The town was in darkness - no street lamps were working - the only light came
from flashes of lightening that briefly revealed, in stark black and white, a stunning
parody of the landscape I used to know, transformed into a scene from a nightmare. The
whole town seemed to be sinking into the sea.
As I looked eastwards, towards the beach, I could see huge waves breaking on the
promenade. Beneath us, all the pavements and gardens were hidden under the flood
waters that, whipped into waves by gale force winds, were slapping and bursting against
the sides of the houses. Already, the downstairs windows were completely covered.
Here and there some brave people with small boats were risking their lives in the swirls
and eddies, rescuing trapped households, while the rain lashed them, and the winds tossed
their tiny craft like flotsam.
Gran opened the window and shouted down to one of them, a man punting what
appeared to be one of the paddle boats from the park, using a long plank of wood to push
it slowly along. There were two small children sitting in the boat, clinging to the sides as
it lurched dangerously.
He looked up. "Sorry dear," he called back, "I can't carry any more. I'll try to come back
for you as soon as I can."
"Take my granddaughter," Gran pleaded, "she's only six."
He took a moment to assess his status. There was room for me, but he was clearly
hesitant. In the event, Gran didn't give him time to say 'no' again - she and one of the men
lifted me up and heaved me over the window sill, my legs dangling over the abyss,
supported only by their hands.
I screamed with fear, the heaving waters seeming to reach up to grab my feet.
"Belinda, we're going to lower you to the boat," she shouted hoarsely against the
howling wind.
Seeing her determination, the man manoeuvred his rocking craft close to the house, and
when he was directly below me, Gran and the lodger lowered me until my feet were just a
few inches from the pitching floor of the boat, then let go. I landed awkwardly in the well
between the seats, and cried out with pain as my ankle twisted. The man grabbed me by
one arm, trying to steady the pitching boat. He pushed me down into a seat as water
splashed over the sides, beginning to fill the tiny space around our feet.
"You kids will have to bale out!" the man shouted, struggling to start the boat moving in
the right direction again.
I had only a fleeting moment to look up at the window, where Gran's worried face
lingered briefly, then I began desperately scooping water over the side with my cupped
hands, urging the other kids to do the same. They were younger than me, a boy and a girl,
holding on to each other, afraid to move.
"Come on!" I yelled at them, "If you don't help we will all drown!"
The boy, he could have only been about four or five, began copying me, and after a
moment, the girl did the same. I couldn't tell if we were making any difference, but we
must have kept up with the water coming in, as the boat didn't sink. I concentrated on
baling, trying to ignore the waves that slopped in over the rim of the tiny craft with every
movement. Huge raindrops stung my eyes, and the boat tipped and spun terrifyingly.
After what seemed an eternity, we lurched to a stop, and when I looked around, I saw
that we had run up onto dry land, somewhere near the market place.
"Quickly, kids, jump out," the man said, urgently.
I scrambled out as best I could, but collapsed as my ankle gave way when I tried to
stand on it. For a few moments I lay in the road, water lapping over me, too exhausted to
even try to get to my feet, then strong hands grabbed me and scooped me up. Through the
rain and tears of pain I saw that I was in the arms of a soldier, his khaki uniform turned
nearly black by the water that had soaked through it, his face, inches from mine, etched
with tiredness, his teeth clamped together in a grimace of grim determination.