Read Online Against the Wind by Brock Thoene, Bodie - Free Book Online
Authors: Brock Thoene, Bodie
Tags: Against the Wind
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You’ll stick to the Carmen Miranda material or we can’t use you to tour, see? We’re meant to lift up the spirits…you get it?”
Pablo looked as if he might strangle Nobby. Raquel simply smiled sadly, bowed slightly, and resumed her place in the lineup.
Each of us was made to audition. Top billing went to a young girl with a big voice. Miss Julie Andrews sang the most popular tunes of the day, such as “You Are My Sunshine.”
We put together a show that opened with a medley of American tunes. Nobby bashed away at the honky-tonk piano. A trumpeter belted out old familiar vaudeville tunes. Our performances made a great noise in factory lunchrooms as hundreds of knives and forks clattered. Nobby’s experience as the manager of a burlesque house paid off as our performances both entertained and lifted morale. I continued to be introduced onstage as a blond Hedy Lamarr. I waited stage right with my violin as Nobby and Pablo performed a comedy routine:
Nobby: Anything I can do for you while you’re visiting England?
Pablo: I hear Hedy Lamarr is here, and I’d love to meet her.
Nobby: Hedy Lamarr, eh? Okay. Get on a train.
Pablo: A train? Why?
Nobby: ’Cause the line forms in Scotland!
I came out onstage to thunderous applause and laughter. Mariah sang Gershwin tunes, I played my violin, and Raquel tap-danced.
The highest compliment we could receive was when Nobby declared, “Well, girlies, you wowed ’em again!”
Late one afternoon I emerged from an air raid shelter and hurried toward our shabby boardinghouse as the fire brigade clanged past. As I rounded the corner, I suddenly realized that once again I was homeless. Incendiary bombs had hailed down fire and brimstone on our street. Flames leapt from every window of our dwelling. Our landlady stood weeping on the sidewalk.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Awl-right? Awl-right! Me precious lovely ’ouse is up in flames an’ m’lady wants t’ know if I’m…what?”
“Is anyone injured?” I tried again gently.
“Anyone? Anyone injured! No person, if that’s what y’ means. But me little cat…aye! Me little sweet kitty! Ohhhhh! Poor Tabby! Look! Look! I’d give me ’ouse an’ gladly for the sake of me little Tabby!” She wept profuse and sincere tears. I knew she meant what she said about trading the house for the cat. But I knew that nothing could survive in such a fierce blaze.
“I’m so very sorry.” I patted her shoulder. “It is good no one—no human, I mean—was killed.”
“Me Tabby! Poor, poor little dear. I found ’er abandoned in the rubbish heap an’ nursed her from a tiny kitten. She was like a child. Like a child!”
The frantic search for undamaged water mains was useless. At last the officials simply turned and began to warn the spectators to stand back before the walls collapsed. My landlady wailed on in grief for her cat.
I did not mention that I was once again without clothes to wear. Even the loss of Raquel’s red dress was nothing compared to the death of the tabby.
On the opposite side of the perimeter, I recognized Murphy standing near a policeman. I waved, hoping he would see I was uninjured.
In his arms he cradled something small and orange. I yelled, “Murphy, hold onto that cat!”
He raised his head at the same moment the landlady shrieked like some sort of horrible banshee and waved her arms. “Me Tabby! He’s got me Tabby. Oh Lord! Lord have mercy! Bless my soul, she’s alive. Alive!”
Cupping my hands around my mouth, I shouted, “Meet us round the corner! Bring the cat! At the White Hart Pub!”
Someone relayed the message to him, and he set out down a side street, while I clasped the arm of our blubbering proprietress and we hurried away from the collapsing building.
We rounded the corner at the same moment as Murphy spotted us a block away. The cat was snuggled safely in his arms as he approached the White Hart.
“Lord love you! LORD! Love you! You’ve saved me darlin’
Pablo looked as if he might strangle Nobby. Raquel simply smiled sadly, bowed slightly, and resumed her place in the lineup.
Each of us was made to audition. Top billing went to a young girl with a big voice. Miss Julie Andrews sang the most popular tunes of the day, such as “You Are My Sunshine.”
We put together a show that opened with a medley of American tunes. Nobby bashed away at the honky-tonk piano. A trumpeter belted out old familiar vaudeville tunes. Our performances made a great noise in factory lunchrooms as hundreds of knives and forks clattered. Nobby’s experience as the manager of a burlesque house paid off as our performances both entertained and lifted morale. I continued to be introduced onstage as a blond Hedy Lamarr. I waited stage right with my violin as Nobby and Pablo performed a comedy routine:
Nobby: Anything I can do for you while you’re visiting England?
Pablo: I hear Hedy Lamarr is here, and I’d love to meet her.
Nobby: Hedy Lamarr, eh? Okay. Get on a train.
Pablo: A train? Why?
Nobby: ’Cause the line forms in Scotland!
I came out onstage to thunderous applause and laughter. Mariah sang Gershwin tunes, I played my violin, and Raquel tap-danced.
The highest compliment we could receive was when Nobby declared, “Well, girlies, you wowed ’em again!”
Late one afternoon I emerged from an air raid shelter and hurried toward our shabby boardinghouse as the fire brigade clanged past. As I rounded the corner, I suddenly realized that once again I was homeless. Incendiary bombs had hailed down fire and brimstone on our street. Flames leapt from every window of our dwelling. Our landlady stood weeping on the sidewalk.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Awl-right? Awl-right! Me precious lovely ’ouse is up in flames an’ m’lady wants t’ know if I’m…what?”
“Is anyone injured?” I tried again gently.
“Anyone? Anyone injured! No person, if that’s what y’ means. But me little cat…aye! Me little sweet kitty! Ohhhhh! Poor Tabby! Look! Look! I’d give me ’ouse an’ gladly for the sake of me little Tabby!” She wept profuse and sincere tears. I knew she meant what she said about trading the house for the cat. But I knew that nothing could survive in such a fierce blaze.
“I’m so very sorry.” I patted her shoulder. “It is good no one—no human, I mean—was killed.”
“Me Tabby! Poor, poor little dear. I found ’er abandoned in the rubbish heap an’ nursed her from a tiny kitten. She was like a child. Like a child!”
The frantic search for undamaged water mains was useless. At last the officials simply turned and began to warn the spectators to stand back before the walls collapsed. My landlady wailed on in grief for her cat.
I did not mention that I was once again without clothes to wear. Even the loss of Raquel’s red dress was nothing compared to the death of the tabby.
On the opposite side of the perimeter, I recognized Murphy standing near a policeman. I waved, hoping he would see I was uninjured.
In his arms he cradled something small and orange. I yelled, “Murphy, hold onto that cat!”
He raised his head at the same moment the landlady shrieked like some sort of horrible banshee and waved her arms. “Me Tabby! He’s got me Tabby. Oh Lord! Lord have mercy! Bless my soul, she’s alive. Alive!”
Cupping my hands around my mouth, I shouted, “Meet us round the corner! Bring the cat! At the White Hart Pub!”
Someone relayed the message to him, and he set out down a side street, while I clasped the arm of our blubbering proprietress and we hurried away from the collapsing building.
We rounded the corner at the same moment as Murphy spotted us a block away. The cat was snuggled safely in his arms as he approached the White Hart.
“Lord love you! LORD! Love you! You’ve saved me darlin’
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