The Windmill Girls. Kay Brellend

      ‘Had a letter from my Fred.’

      ‘Ooh, ain’t you the lucky one …’ Gertie Grimes’s acid muttering was intentionally audible.

      Olive Roberts turned to give her colleague a withering stare. ‘My Fred always keeps in touch. Doesn’t matter how busy he is with all his duties, he’s always found time for his wife.’

      ‘Way you go on about him you’d think he was a brigadier general instead of a bleedin’ corporal.’

      ‘He’s got the responsibility of having men under him …’

      ‘That wouldn’t surprise me,’ Gertie snickered.

      ‘What you implying, you dirty-minded cow?’

      Olive was a skinny, big-boned woman of above average height but she didn’t frighten Gertie who was tubby, a good six inches shorter and, at twenty-six, nearly ten years younger. Gertie stuck her hands on her hips, staring defiantly at Olive.

      ‘We all know you’re like a bitch on heat but there’s no need to think we’re all at it,’ Olive spat. ‘Four kids and only in your mid-twenties?’ she scoffed. ‘You need to get that husband of yours down the recruiting office. A bit of active service’ll take the lead out of his pencil.’

      ‘My husband knows his duty to his family comes first, so you can piss off trying to tell us what to do. Just ’cos you ain’t got five minutes for those boys of yours, don’t think we’re the same. My kids are my life.’ Gertie began poking her broom beneath a chair to drag fluff and hair out from beneath it. ‘You’re just jealous of us because we’re a happy family.’ If Gertie was annoyed that her colleague had hinted she was a scrubber she didn’t let on. Gertie preferred talking dirty to actually doing the deed. The other, as she called it, robbed her of sleep and always seemed to bring her another mouth to feed.

      ‘Jealous of you, Gertie Grimes? You’re jealous of me, more like, ’cos your husband might get you up the spout regular as clockwork but he ain’t man enough to join up, is he.’

      ‘You leave my husband out of this!’ Gertie threw down her broom in temper. ‘Don’t you dare say nothing bad about him. He’s a father with little ’uns to consider before he considers himself.’

      ‘Reckon he is considering himself … that’s why he’s sweeping roads instead of carrying a rifle,’ Olive scoffed, turning away to bring the row to an end.

      ‘You’d better apologise for that.’ Gertie poked Olive in the shoulder. ‘’Cos if you don’t …’

      ‘Oh, shut up, you two!’ Dawn exploded. She’d just entered the dressing room to find the theatre’s cleaner and kiosk attendant at each other’s throats as usual. Her feet were aching and she had a thumping head because she’d been on the side of the stage close to the trumpet player. Her temples were still throbbing from the ear-splitting toots.

      ‘Customers won’t like hanging around in the foyer waiting for you to sell ’em tickets. If Phyllis finds out you ain’t where you’re supposed to be you’ll be for the high jump.’ Gertie stared pointedly at Olive until the woman stormed towards the door.

      ‘All her airs ’n’ graces yet she ain’t got a minute of time for those two boys of hers.’ Gertie’s lip curled in disgust. ‘Kids should come first in my book, not shoved to one side soon as the opportunity turns up.’ She glanced at Dawn for a comment but her colleague flopped down onto a seat at the dressing table.

      Dawn averted her sore eyes from the glaring bulbs edging the mirror in front of her. She eased off the feathered headdress and once released from confinement her honey-blonde hair cascaded to her shoulders in untidy waves. She dropped her face forward and gave her tender scalp a massage with her fingers. ‘If Phyllis finds out you two are still at it you’ll be for the high jump too.’ Dawn’s caution emerged from behind a screen of glossy hair.

      ‘Well, Pocahontas.’ Gertie tweaked the feathers that Dawn had discarded on the dressing table littered with brushes and cosmetics. ‘I don’t care if I do get the sack from here for telling Olive what I think of her; she deserved it. How did the performance go? Was it a full house?’

      ‘Almost, and the comedian got a lot of applause, even though he forgot his punchline a couple of times …’ The rest of Dawn’s report was drowned out as more showgirls came into the room, chattering like starlings. The troupe was dressed in beaded Red Indian costume, with colourful feathers embellishing their hair.

      ‘What’s up with Olive Roberts? She’s got a face on her fit to curdle milk.’ Sal Fiske was stepping out of her short, fringed skirt while speaking.

      ‘No change there then …’ Gertie muttered. ‘The woman’s ugly as sin, don’t know what her husband sees in her.’

      ‘Have you been upsetting Olive again, Gertie, you naughty thing?’ Lorna Danvers had entered the dressing room to boom that out in her cut-glass accent. She began unhooking fancy suspenders and rolling down her fishnet stockings. ‘I dearly hope we don’t have to wear these costumes again; this leather’s made me itch dreadfully up here.’ She started to scratch close to her groin. ‘I’ll wriggle about in a mermaid tail for my wages but I really don’t fancy getting eczema on my Minnie for a thousand pounds.’

      ‘I reckon you would!’ came a chorus of voices.

      ‘Gordon’ll scratch it for you,’ Sal called out.

      It was well-known that the senior stagehand had a thing for La-di-da Lorna, as she was fondly called due to her upper-class roots. Gordon was starting to get on Lorna’s nerves because he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

      ‘You need a bit of Endocil cream on that.’ Gertie examined the angry rash Lorna was picking at. ‘My brother suffers with eczema something chronic on his knees ’n’ elbows. Told him to always dab a bit of Endocil on to soothe it.’

      Dawn carried on hanging up her squaw’s costume, strolling to and fro in just her brassiere and camiknickers, as were the other girls as they moved between the various dressing cupboards. But her ears had pricked up on hearing Gertie mention her brother. She’d tried to forget about the robbery last week and hadn’t mentioned anything to Gertie about suspecting Michael might be a looter.

      Dawn had never been introduced to Michael but Gertie had once brought her brother to Dawn’s notice by telling her that he’d bagged a prime spot in the front row of the theatre. Dawn had promised to look out for him and when she went on stage had squinted through the lights in the direction of a boyish-looking able seaman. Dawn’s boyfriend had spoken about Midge Williams too, not because he liked Gertie’s brother, but quite the reverse. In Bill Sweetman’s opinion Midge was a troublemaker with a chip on his shoulder and he was glad their paths crossed only rarely when they both had leave. But before saying she suspected Michael was a deserter and a thief, Dawn knew she’d have to be sure of her facts. Gertie was short like her brother but could be aggressive, especially when defending her relatives. Gertie’s animosity towards Olive stemmed from her disgust because the older woman didn’t fawn over her children in the same way as Gertie did. Dawn had to agree that Olive seemed a remote mother, but different people had different ideas about bringing up kids.

      ‘Don’t suppose it’s easy for your brother to get Endocil cream on a frigate.’ As Gertie had brought up her brother’s name a few minutes ago Dawn took the opportunity to carry on the conversation. In that way she might discover if Midge was in Malta and put her suspicions to rest.

      ‘You’d be surprised what the NAAFI can get hold of.’ Gertie laughed.

      ‘I wouldn’t!’ Sal chipped in. ‘I’m beginning to wish I’d joined the NAAFI instead of taking this job. Could’ve made myself a packet selling hooky stuff on Loot Alley. Not that I’ve ever been there …’ She dropped a sly wink following her mention of the haunt in Houndsditch where merchandise changed hands.

      ‘Had a letter from your brother Michael yet?’ Dawn tried