Mothers and Daughters by Leah Fleming Read Free Book Online

They’d painted their faces as if for the stage, with lashings of black mascara, eyeliner, and lips with ‘Gone Lilac’ lipstick from Woolworths. Their hair was scraped back into ponytails wrapped with gold and black scarves made from one of Auntie Su’s silk offcuts. They’d borrowed long droopy sweaters, worn over their black ballet tights and pumps. This was their Juliette Greco look.
    They’d begged and borrowed enough instruments to qualify as a skiffle band but there was no guitar, only Rosa up front and Joy on the beat at the back.
    ‘Which one are you lot?’ shouted an official with his list. ‘I’ve got two Winstanleys. Are you the Railroaders?’
    ‘No,’ Connie blushed. In all their rehearsing they’d never agreed on a name.
    ‘Hurry up, I’ve not got all day.’
    ‘We’re the Silkies,’ Joy said, looking to them both and pointing to their scarves.
    ‘So we are,’ smiled Connie. She liked the name. It rolled off the tongue.
    ‘You’re number twenty … God help the poorjudges. We’ve got a right load of rubbish here tonight. The rules is on the sheet: no swearing, no smoking on stage, nothing smutty or you’re off. Miss your turn and you’re out, so no sneaking off for a pint.’
    Neville spotted them and came rushing across, his quifflacquered into a Tony Curtis do, his black shirt neatly pressed. ‘What’s all this? Come to lend your support? Dig the get-up!’ he exclaimed, taking in the girls’ outfits.
    ‘You’ve got competition. You’re not the only Winstanley who can sing!’ Connie replied with more bravado than she was feeling.
    ‘You dark horses! And behind my back too … lambs to the slaughter,’ he laughed. ‘Skiffle’s for guys, not girls. What are you going to attempt then?’
    ‘Wait and see.’ Rosa batted her thick black lashes at him.
    ‘Still, the outfit should cause a sensation, all that black leg on show. Gives our Joy a bit of shape too, very sensible.’ He eyed them up and down with a sly smile. ‘Break a leg then!’
    ‘And you too … both of them,’ muttered Rosa.
    Neville paused. ‘I heard that. Any road, the trophy’s as good as ours from the lot I’ve seen so far. I don’t think you Winstanley Warblers are going to rattle my maracas.’
    ‘Just you wait and see …’ they all replied.
    Sitting on the floor of the back room, waiting theirturn, Connie felt stupid, trying to stay calm. After all, this was her idea. What if they died on stage and made fools of themselves? Neville would tease the life out of them. Her face was ashen under the panstick. ‘Oh heck, ifI go to the lav one more time …’
    It was Rosa who steadied them. ‘This is no different from going on stage with the Liptrot Lovelies. Look how many godforsaken outfits we’ve had to dance in – prefabs, cold church halls, rickety platforms on top of pews – but we smiled and did the routines. Stare to the back and look up, don’t search out faces. We’ll be great.’
    Then they stood on the side of the stage shaking as the compere announced them.
    ‘Give a hand to the Silkies, brave lasses come to challenge the lads. Rosa, Connie and Joy Winstans …’
    They had a minute to set the microphones to their heights, to rearrange the stage, and all Connie could think about was how much leg they must be showing. Rosa was right: this was no different from any other performance. Turn, smile, take a deep breath and look as if you were born to it.
    Connie shook the tambourine, Joy kept them to the beat with her makeshift drum and hooter, and Rosa sang her heart out. To her surprise they got more than a polite clap at the end. Bowing, scuttling off stage in a daze, all she could think of was that it was over. They twittered like starlings, unaware that the clapping continued.

    ‘Go back and do an encore … back on,’ yelled Neville from the wings.
    ‘But we haven’t rehearsed anything else to sing,’ Connie shouted.
    ‘Just go and do a reprise.’
    ‘What’s