A Winter Love Song Read online

  She nodded to the thought as she reached the stage door of the theatre, her eyes dry now and her mouth firm. She was, she was lucky, and she wasn’t going to waste one more tear on what could have been. She had come a long way and she intended to go further still, and if this ache deep down inside her was the price she had to pay for the solitary path she had chosen, so be it. ‘No more bellyaching, lass,’ as her da used to say when she was whining for something.

  She pushed open the door and entered the theatre. It welcomed her with its familiar smell of greasepaint, mustiness, stale smoke and the distinct but indecipherable odour all theatres had. She breathed it in, as other people would inhale the sweet perfume of orange blossom on a summer’s day, and her world righted itself.

  It was a few months before Nelly and Thomas came to visit, and this was solely because Bonnie was so busy when the tour ended and she was back in London. The day after she got home from the north Enoch had fixed up a cabaret spot for her in a cricket club that was also used for concerts and events. He’d also arranged for Art Franklin, a prominent and extremely influential local bandleader, to come along to the club on the night to hear Bonnie sing, although he kept this from her, knowing it would be likely to send her into a tizzy.

  Art was thirty years old and a giant of a man at six foot five inches, his shock of jet-black hair and piercing dark eyes causing female hearts to flutter wherever he went. He’d begun his career as a trumpet player when he was sixteen, and two years later had formed his own band. This proved so successful that within a few years – finding himself in the position of having to refuse more work than he accepted – he set up an agency to supply bands for engagements within the entertainment business, whilst still keeping his own band intact. Art was both an excellent musician and an astute businessman, but he had a reputation for being something of a Lothario, a fact which seemed to make the ladies even more besotted as each one dreamed of being ‘the one’.

  Bonnie had been hoping for a few days’ rest when she got home from the tour; she was physically exhausted and still recovering from the lingering effects of a stomach upset caused by one landlady’s undercooked chicken dinner. But Enoch had booked the date and so she attended, transforming into Bonnie May the moment she stepped onto the stage and putting everything else aside.

  Enoch was waiting for her when she had finally managed to make her last curtsy, after three encores, and he was grinning from ear to ear. ‘You knocked ’em dead, gal, as always,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘And you knocked someone else dead an’ all. Art Franklin wants to meet you.’

  She knew who he was – everyone knew who Art Franklin was – but she had never seen him, let alone met him. As Enoch hurried her along through the club and out into the car park, Bonnie stopped dead. ‘Enoch, where is Mr Franklin?’

  Enoch stared at her. ‘He’s waiting in his car, of course.’

  ‘I’m not getting into a car with Art Franklin.’ She had heard enough about him to know that Hilda’s casting couch was alive and well in Art Franklin’s world.

  ‘Don’t be daft, course you are.’

  As he made to take her arm again, she stepped back.

  ‘Enoch, I am not getting into a car with Art Franklin. Unless –’ a thought had occurred – ‘are you accompanying me?’

  ‘He’ll want to talk to you privately.’

  She bet he would. ‘Unless you stay with me I’m not putting myself in that position.’

  ‘Bonnie, Art Franklin, the king of the local bandleaders, is going to offer you a job. At this stage in your career you do not look a gift horse in the mouth.’

  If the gift horse had wandering hands and thought he was God’s gift to womankind, that’s exactly what she was going to do. ‘Enoch,’ she said, in the same tone he had used, ‘I see no reason why any conversation with Mr Franklin cannot take place outside his car and with you present.’

  ‘Quite right.’

  The deep, slightly husky voice caught them both unawares, causing Bonnie to gasp and Enoch to give a stifled groan. The next moment a tall, a very tall figure emerged from the shadows at the side of the eight-foot wall enclosing the car park.

  Art Franklin hadn’t been sitting in his car. He had been standing smoking a cigarette in the cool of what had been a warm September day. The realization hit Bonnie at the same time as she looked up – and up – into a darkly handsome face, the mouth of which, she saw to her chagrin, was twitching with barely concealed amusement.

  ‘Art Franklin, Miss May. How do you do?’ A large hand reached out, and as Bonnie proffered hers it was engulfed in a hard warm grip for a moment. ‘As I’m sure Enoch has already explained, I liked what I heard tonight. I have a vacancy for a vocalist with my band and the job is yours if you want it. You’ll be working most nights a week, sometimes every night, and I expect total commitment from everyone who works for me and that will include you. Unless you are at death’s door you will be expected to sing – whatever your personal circumstances, whatever the weather, no matter if little green men land in a spaceship in your garden. Do I make myself clear?’

  His eyes seemed to bore into her soul; she didn’t think she had ever met anyone with quite such a penetrating gaze. His mouth, though, was still on the verge of laughter, and it was this that put iron in her backbone. She didn’t know if he expected her to fall on his neck in gratitude or grovel or stammer out an apology for what he had overheard, but the fact that he seemed to be silently mocking her did away with all those options. Her voice so crisp it surprised even herself, she said, ‘I don’t have a garden, Mr Franklin.’

  She heard Enoch groan again beside her. Clearly he thought she had ruined whatever chance she’d had, but Art Franklin stared at her for a moment before throwing back his head and laughing out loud. ‘No, I’m sure you don’t, Miss May,’ he said wryly in the next breath. ‘I can offer you five pounds a week, take it or leave it.’

  ‘I’ll take it, Mr Franklin, and – and thank you.’ She was secretly over-awed at the amount. Everyone in the business knew that if you earned five pounds a week you’d made it big time. And this was five pounds every week, guaranteed.

  ‘Now, Enoch tells me you’re pally with Julian Wood, Miss May?’

  Bonnie nodded. Through Enoch she had been introduced to all of the people in the publishers’ offices and most of them had been friendly enough, but Julian was a particular friend. He worked on what Enoch called the ‘exploitation’ side of the music-publishing house of Norman Mortimer. This meant Julian would try to match the right song with the right artiste, and since Bonnie had met him he’d kept his eyes and ears open for songs he thought would suit her as well as offering encouragement and advice. Listening to the wireless was becoming very popular and to get on the radio was a wonderful opportunity for any burgeoning artiste; Julian had told Enoch and Bonnie many times that her voice was perfect for it. Then, if your luck held, he’d added, the next step was making records. Bonnie hadn’t dared to hope for that. It seemed like reaching for the moon.

  ‘Julian’s one of the best in the business. I’ve got some radio broadcasts lined up in the near future so I think we’ll go along and see Julian together, Miss May. I’m sure I hardly need to mention that once you’re signed to me I don’t want you broadcasting with anyone else.’

  Bonnie tried not to look as amazed as she felt. Did he really think that was an option, that bandleaders were lining up for her to sing with them? ‘Of course, Mr Franklin,’ she said, in what she hoped was a businesslike tone.

  ‘Good, good.’ He half-turned and then swung back to face her. ‘What’s your telephone number, Miss May?’ he asked as he fished a notebook and pen out of his pocket.

  ‘Telephone number?’

  ‘You do have a telephone?’

  Why on earth would she have one? No ordinary person had a telephone, for goodness’ sake.

  ‘You don’t have a telephone,’ he drawled in a resigned, I-should-have-known sort of way.

  ‘I live in lodgings
, Mr Franklin, and—’

  He was no longer listening to her. Looking at Enoch, he said, ‘Get a telephone installed at her place, Enoch, and bill me, all right? Then let me know the number.’ Turning back to Bonnie, he added, ‘It’s a necessity, not a luxury, Miss May. There will be times when I call you at extremely short notice to sing with one of the agency bands if a vocalist is taken ill or if our own band’s schedule changes. You live in lodgings, you say? What is the address?’

  She told him, her head spinning.

  ‘And is there usually someone available to take a message if you are out?’

  ‘My landlady, Mrs Nichols.’

  He wrote swiftly and then snapped the notebook shut. Looking directly at her, he suddenly smiled. ‘Don’t look so tragic, Miss May. Whatever you might have heard, I promise I don’t make a habit of eating my vocalists for breakfast. Your honour is quite safe.’

  Bonnie felt the colour flood her cheeks. She wanted to come back at him with some witty, light retort but it was beyond her. The overall quality of his clothes, his sophisticated manner, the hard planes and angles of his face were intimidating enough, and she had just caught sight of what was an expensive and clearly newish vehicle in the car park which just had to be Art Franklin’s. Deciding that silence was the best way to hold on to what remained of her dignity, she simply inclined her head in what she hoped was a decorous manner.

  Art shook her hand, and then Enoch’s, and the two men exchanged pleasantries before he strode off towards his car.

  ‘Phew.’ Enoch breathed out and shook his head as they watched Art drive away. ‘I thought you’d blown it then, gal. Art’s used to telling people to jump and them asking how high.’

  ‘Is he indeed?’ It didn’t endear her towards her new boss. ‘What a charming attribute.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Bonnie. Get off your high horse. Art’s a great fella to have backing you.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Feeling ashamed that she hadn’t thanked Enoch, she said quickly, ‘I appreciate the chance you’ve made possible, Enoch, I really do. I’m not ungrateful, truly. It’s just that . . .’

  What was it exactly? She wasn’t sure. Certainly Art’s reputation with the ladies was a factor, but then in this business no bandleader would want to give the impression of being cool and unavailable to their admirers, the ones that weren’t married, that is. And even some of the married ones. But it was more than that. It was the man himself. He was so self-assured, so poised, so . . . male. He had charisma, that was the word, she told herself. And she didn’t like it. Or him. But then she didn’t have to. She only had to work for him.

  She smiled at Enoch, slipping her arm through his as they walked back into the club. ‘You really are my fairy godfather,’ she said warmly, eliciting a chuckle in response.

  ‘Gal, I’ve been called many things in my time but a fairy isn’t one of ’em.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  That had been four months ago, and since then Bonnie had hardly paused to take breath.

  The telephone had been duly installed in Hilda’s hall amid much excitement. It was big and black with two parts, one for your ear and one to speak into. The dial was on the base and when you picked up the telephone to make a call, you spoke directly to the operator and gave them your number. Hilda was terrified of it, but the other occupants of Fairview, including Bonnie, thought it was wonderful. It took Hilda a good few days before she dared answer it when it rang, and Art complained to Bonnie that her landlady nearly deafened him, she shouted so loudly into the receiver.

  The first time Bonnie was due to broadcast she felt ill with nerves. She was just a little nobody from a north-east fair, she told herself beforehand – unhelpfully. She had been fooling herself and everyone else thus far, but now someone would tumble to the fact that she wasn’t good enough for all this. The band were waiting for her when she reached the studio, her knees shaking, and once inside, the morning became a jumble of microphones, red lights, song sheets, instruments, other band members, Art and the studio clock.

  Somehow she got through, and it was never so bad again. By the sixth or seventh broadcast, she had begun to relax and actually enjoy it, although never as much as singing at Art’s nightclub in Regent Street. True, the club hours could be gruelling, but she was doing what she loved and it made all the difference. She wasn’t frightened of hard work – in fact she thrived on it – but by the time Christmas approached she was ready for a break. Nelly and Thomas were coming to stay and Bonnie was longing to see them again. Verity and Larry wouldn’t be around because they were visiting Verity’s mother, but the rest of the Fairview household would be there, and Selina’s boyfriend, Cyril Preston – Betty’s brother – was joining them for Christmas Day dinner. Cyril was the only one of Betty’s brothers who had ‘gone straight’ as Betty put it and never been in trouble with the law. He had been working at the docks since leaving school fifteen years ago and had a little place of his own, a two-up, two-down terraced house not far from where his parents lived. The big, muscled, blunt and loud-mouthed docker and the middle-class school-marm made an unlikely pair in some respects, Bonnie considered, but since they had started courting a couple of months ago, Selina had changed. The somewhat wild partying side of her friend that had worried Bonnie when she’d had time to think about it had disappeared, and Selina appeared quieter and more content. Added to that, Cyril clearly worshipped the ground she walked on.

  The only fly in the ointment, as far as Selina was concerned, was that Cyril knew nothing about her father’s treatment of her. He knew she had fallen out with her parents some years ago and there was no possibility of a reconciliation, but that was all. Selina wanted to tell him, she’d confided in tears to Bonnie just nights ago, but she was terrified she’d lose him if he knew the truth.

  ‘He treats me like a princess,’ Selina had whispered when she’d come to Bonnie’s room once the rest of the household were asleep. ‘He’s so respectful, it was only on our third date that he even kissed me goodnight, and he never, you know, tries anything. Betty’s told me he’s had umpteen girlfriends but once they get serious about him he gives them the old heave-ho, and she’s sure he’s sown his wild oats in – in the fullest sense of the word. But he’s already talking about our future as though he sees us staying together.’

  ‘Do you have to tell him about your father?’ Bonnie had whispered back. Betty had told her that when she and Selina had been out on the town there had been lots of blokes who had shown an interest in getting to know Selina better, but she had cold-shouldered all of them. And then Cyril had been at his mother’s house one day when Betty had brought Selina home for a cuppa, and that had been that. Betty said she’d never seen two people fall for each other so fast.

  ‘I do if he’s serious about us, you know, marriage and everything. How could I not? He’d have the right to know, wouldn’t he? If you were me you’d tell him, I know you would.’

  Yes, she would. She couldn’t deny it, but she wasn’t Selina and it didn’t seem fair that her friend might lose the only man she’d ever cared about because of her father’s wickedness. She had prevaricated by saying, ‘How do you think Cyril would take it if he knew the truth?’

  ‘He – he thinks I’m pure, untouched. He knows I’ve never had a boyfriend before. Oh, Bonnie, I’m so frightened, I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘You don’t have to do anything for now,’ Bonnie said practically. ‘You’ve said yourself he’s had loads of girlfriends but once they want him to put a ring on their finger he backs off. He might be the sort who will never settle down with one woman, Selina. I’m not saying he doesn’t think the world of you but old habits die hard, and some men can never make that commitment, no matter how in love they are. See what happens, take it a day at a time. You’ll know if the moment comes to tell him but it might never happen.’

  ‘You’re so wise. I’m years older than you and yet I haven’t got half of your discernment about things.’

  She’d nearly
told Selina about Franco then. Told her that this supposed wisdom her friend had credited her with was only skin deep, that it came from fear and mistrust of the male sex. Just the thought of intimacy with a man caused her skin to crawl. But this was about Selina, not her. She had passed the moment off and a little while later Selina had trotted back to her room in a calmer state of mind. She, however, had been left feeling totally at odds with herself and it had taken her hours to fall asleep; even then her slumber had been populated with menacing shadows and half-formed creatures with hard grasping hands.

  But now it was Christmas Eve. Nelly and Thomas were due to arrive later that morning. Verity and Larry had kindly offered them the use of their room because they would be staying with her mother, which had suited everyone perfectly. Everything had fallen into place for a lovely Christmas.

  Bonnie had awoken early and lay watching the cold light of dawn slowly envelop the darkness outside her window. She had bought Thomas a sackful of presents and thoroughly enjoyed herself in the process, and after a while she slid out of bed and put on her thick dressing gown and bootee slippers and finished wrapping the last of them. In spite of the smouldering remains of the fire in her little grate the bedroom was icy cold, and she reminded herself to light a good fire in Verity and Larry’s room once breakfast was over. She wanted it to be welcoming.

  She so wanted little Thomas to have a good Christmas, and with that in mind she wasn’t sorry that Verity and Larry had already departed for her mother’s. Hilda had shouted at him a few days ago, and since then things had been a little tense. It had been Larry’s fault though. Every morning for the past year he’d subjected them all to reports on the fast deteriorating state of the world in general, and Hitler’s part in the decline in particular.