Christina and the George Cross Island

By Gordon Edgar Weston

In the years leading up to the Second World War, amidst an economic depression, a young cabaret dancer from Northern England accepts a job at a modest music hall in Malta, a Mediterranean island. Unbeknownst to her, the outbreak of war following Italy’s declaration against Britain and France in the summer of 1940 would leave her stranded in Malta for the entirety of the conflict. In these challenging times, she finds herself working for the Royal Air Force and embroiled in a passionate love affair with a distinguished RAF pilot.
The author, drawing on contemporary eyewitness accounts and historical resources, sets the scene against a backdrop of bravery, resilience, and sacrifice. This period marks the two and a half years when Malta’s population and its defenders valiantly withstood the relentless onslaught of the Italian and German air forces.
Christina and the George Cross Island weaves a narrative that blends fact with fiction, infusing both humour and heartbreak into this compelling tale of war, love, and endurance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035847259

Gordon Edgar Weston

After relocating from England to Malta in 2006, Gordon Edgar Weston dedicated considerable time to studying various facets of Maltese prehistory. This research culminated in his 2010 publication, The Maltese Cart-Ruts: Unravelling an Enigma. He followed this with Clapham Junction: 3,000 Years of Maltese Heritage in 2015. Weston’s most recent work, Christina and the George Cross Island marks a shift from prehistoric to modern Maltese history. Opting for the historical novel format, he believed this approach would resonate more broadly with readers. Christina is crafted as a historical narrative, aiming to engage a wider audience with its blend of fact and fiction.

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About the Author

After relocating from England to Malta in 2006, Gordon Edgar Weston dedicated considerable time to studying various facets of Maltese prehistory. This research culminated in his 2010 publication, The Maltese Cart-Ruts: Unravelling an Enigma. He followed this with Clapham Junction: 3,000 Years of Maltese Heritage in 2015. Weston’s most recent work, Christina and the George Cross Island marks a shift from prehistoric to modern Maltese history. Opting for the historical novel format, he believed this approach would resonate more broadly with readers. Christina is crafted as a historical narrative, aiming to engage a wider audience with its blend of fact and fiction.

Copyright Information ©

Gordon Edgar Weston 2024

The right of Gordon Edgar Weston to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035847242 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035847259 (ePub e-book)

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First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Malta

1981

‘It’s too bleedin hot,’ exclaimed a huge man, as he pushed his distended belly through a fly-curtain into the English Bar.

‘I told you we shouldn’t have come in August, Alf. You were warned, but no, as usual, you wouldn’t listen…would you,’ said his small fat wife, following him into the bar. On her head was a straw hat with a black band, boldlAy printed on which was: I LOVE MALTA.

Two squeaky ceiling fans rotated slowly overhead, affording some—but not much—relief from the oppressive heat. The tourists plonked themselves down on a vinyl-covered bench seat, in front of which was a table strewn with old sticky and stained beer-mats. The bar had that air of seediness that comes from not having been redecorated in years. As their eyes adjusted to the comparative darkness within the bar, the tourists could see framed photographs set around the walls: warships and groups of smiling sailors along with an array of small colourful wood plaques bearing the symbols and mottos of Royal Navy ships. Also pinned to one of the bar walls were large white and red ensigns, together with other naval bric-a-brac, particularly a lot of HMS cap bands.

The only other customer in the bar appeared to be an elderly looking woman, sat behind a table on the opposite side of the room. The elderly woman had a full head of shoulder-length grey hair, and she wore bright red lipstick. She was leaning heavily on her elbows concentrating on a newspaper spread out on the table in front of her, while she twiddled a pencil held between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand. She took no notice of the tourists that had just entered the bar.

‘Wonder what you have to do to get some service around here,’ said the man in an irritable tone, as he attempted to brush away a fly buzzing around in front of him.

‘Sandro, SHOP,’ the elderly woman called out without looking up. Some moments passed. ‘Sandro,’ repeated the elderly woman, even more forcefully.

‘Alright, alright,’ came a shout from behind a curtain separating the bar from a back room. A young Maltese man appeared dressed in shorts, that of late had not seen the inside of washing machine, and a loose-fitting red vest, on which was emblazoned the logo of Manchester United FC.

‘Yes,’ said the barman brusquely, as he looked across at the tourists.

‘Ah…yes…a pint of Cisk (which he pronounced as Sisk), a Diet Pepsi and a bag of cheese and onion crisps, please.’

‘Haven’t got any Diet Pepsi.’

‘Er, well, what’ll you have instead then, Dot?’

‘Try a Kinnie, it’s more thirst-quenching than cola,’ said the elderly woman, looking up and over the top of her reading classes. ‘And it’s not Sisk; it’s Cisk, the C is pronounce ch, as in change.’

‘Ah, thank you, I’ll try and remember that,’ said the man, looking at his wife with raised eyebrows.

‘And Sandro, while you’re at it, I’ll have another whisky and soda,’ said the elderly woman, as she folded her newspaper, and leaned back in her chair. ‘Your first visit to Malta, is it?’

‘Yes, we’re staying here in Qawra, the Palace Hotel, just along the waterfront, air conditioning, very nice. Oh…and I got that name wrong too,’ said the man apologetically.

‘Yes, he’s been pronouncing it Kwara,’ said the little fat wife, in a know-all self-satisfied tone.

‘Yes, the Q is silent. But I wouldn’t worry about it though. In all the years I’ve been here, I still struggle a bit with some Maltese pronunciations. And by the way, this isn’t Qawra, its Buġibba.’

The drinks arrived at last.

‘I’ll pay for the ladies,’ said the man. At which his wife gave him a disdainful glance.

‘Very kind of you, thank you,’ said the elderly woman, dropping her pencil onto the folded newspaper.

‘Strange language, the Maltese language…sounds a bit like Arabic,’ said the man quizzically.

‘That’s because it is Arabic—leastways, a form of Arabic. It’s known as Siculo-Arabic, introduced from Sicily, and the Maltese have been speaking it for the last eight hundred years. Although over time, Malti, as it’s often called, has become mixed in with Italian and, of course, English. Most Maltese, the educated ones at least, can speak English and enjoy showing off their command of the language, such as it is, to British visitors.’

The elderly woman continued to earn her free drink by regaling the two tourists with a potted history of the island.

‘Bonġu, Constable Borda. Hot enough for you, is it?’ said the elderly woman as the policeman entered the bar. He took off his cap and wiped the sweat from its inner band with a handkerchief.

The police officer nodded at the tourists before turning his attention to the elderly woman. ‘Iva, Miss, yes, it certainly is. Mind you, it’s a damn sight cooler here than in Birkirkara. Have you finished today’s Times of Malta crossword already?’ said the officer, looking down at the folded newspaper. ‘How long did it take you then?’

‘About fifteen minutes.’

‘Ah, you’re getting faster at it, then.’

‘No, Constable…slower.’

They both laughed.

‘Be a dear and pick up my stick for me, constable. I must pay a visit.’

While the elderly woman was out of the room, the policeman helped himself to a small bottle of water from a cold-cabinet and sat down. The sound of the cold-cabinet being opened and closed brought the barman back into the barroom. ‘Sandro, I won’t tell you again; Inspector Zammit wants to speak to you and your brother. You know about what, so see to it!’ The barman gave no answer and disappeared into the back room.

‘Interesting lady…she seems to know an awful lot about Malta. Is she English?’ asked the man of the officer.

‘Yes, she’s English.’

‘She sounds like a northerner to me, Alf,’ said small fat Dot in a judgmental tone.

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ replied the officer. ‘She lives in Floriana, just outside of Valletta, but she usually spends the summer months here in Buġibba. I don’t know how long she’s been in Malta, but she was here during the war. In fact, she’s written a number of articles for a local newspaper about her experiences in the war. I’ve read most of them, they were very good.’

‘Is that right…very interesting,’ said the man, turning to look at his disinterested wife.

Back in the room, the elderly woman sat back down at her table. ‘Sandro’s got to do something about that loo, it positively stinks!’

The policeman stood up and put on his cap. Leaning over the elderly woman, he said in a whisper, ‘I’m going off-duty in an hour or so and I won’t be back here today, so, not too many, alright! You must be careful with that leg of yours. We don’t want a recurrence of what happened the other day now, do we?’

‘YES, yes, yes,’ replied the elderly woman irritably.

The officer gave her an old-fashioned look and turned towards the door.

‘Constable Borda…I’m sorry if I’m a burden to you. I’ll try and behave myself, really I will.’

‘You’re not a burden to me, Miss Ratcliffe,’ said the constable, wishing the tourists a good holiday and a safe journey home, before leaving the bar.

A long period of silence ensued before more drinks were ordered—including another whisky and soda, paid for again by the man, much to his wife’s chagrin.

’Lovely fellow, Ian Borda, likes to keep an eye on me when I’m here.

‘He says you were here in Malta during the war and have written about it,’ said the man, obviously wanting to hear more.

‘I only do the writing to keep the old grey-stuff from seizing up. People seem to have liked it, which is nice.’

‘What was the war like, here in Malta?’

’What was it like? Well…what can I say? Looking back, the war was a great time to be alive, as long as you could stay alive, that was. You met people that in any other circumstances you would never have met. You did things, behaved in a way that was undreamt of in peace time. People came together, helped each other, pulled together with a sense of common purpose. Tomorrow had no meaning, you lived for the day. Silly as it might sound now, in a way it was rather wonderful.

’Here in Malta, we were bombed relentlessly for just over two and a half years. First the Italians, and then the Nazis—and it was those bastards, excuse my French, that did most of the damage. They talk about the London Blitz and Coventry, but what went on here was something else. When they found they couldn’t bomb us out, they tried to starve us out. And they damn well nearly succeeded too. But, I have to say, the Maltese—many of whom have become my friends—were incredible. Their country was being destroyed but they wouldn’t give in. Had they given in, well, God knows what would have happened. Certainly, we would have lost the war in North Africa and Hitler would have got his hands on the oil in the Middle East. And, most, if not all, Maltese men might well have been shipped off to the forced labour camps where, along with so many others, they would have been worked to death.

‘A lot can be said for and against the Maltese, but when it came to spirit, courage, they had it in bucketloads. They believed, back then at least, that God in His mighty righteousness would see them through. Like us Brits, the Maltese are an island people. And we island people do not like continentals trying to push us around, take us over, telling us what to do and when to do it.’

There was a long moment of reflective silence.

‘Now, let me buy you two a drink. Sandro…’

‘We must be going, Alf,’ said little fat Dot, looking at her wristwatch.

‘Yes, in a minute, dear. There’s no rush. We’re on holiday, remember. If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly did you do during the war?’

She took a sip of her third whisky and soda. ‘You wouldn’t think it to look at me now, but in my time, I used to be a professional dancer. I was working in Malta when that idiot, Mussolini, declared war on Britain in June 1940. I, along with other artistes, were stuck on the island, there was no way of getting off. So, we came up with the idea of forming a travelling concert party of sorts: entertaining service men and their families, it was great fun while it lasted. But, as things became more difficult, shortages of everything including petrol, I took a job working for the RAF.’

There was a short pause while she rummaged around in her large handbag, eventually fishing out a small flat box. ‘King George saw fit to give me this.’ With a shaky hand, she opened the box and took out a medal, attached to which was a rather grubby-looking faded pink medal ribbon. (The medal had obviously been in and out of its box many times.)

‘What is it?’ said the man, getting up and moving over to take a closer look at the medal.

‘Well, if you’ve got a moment, I’ll read you the citation,’ she said, with one eye cocked at the man’s increasingly restless wife.

She unfolded a heavily creased and dog-eared piece paper and read it, as she had done so many times before:

Madam, I am commanded by the Air Council to inform you that on the occasion of the Birthday Honours List, 1943, His Majesty the King has been pleased to approve the award to you of the BRITISH EMPIRE MEDAL in recognition of your meritorious service and devotion to duty during the period of the heavy air bombardment of Malta.

The Air Council wish me to convey to you their warm congratulations on this mark of His Majesty’s favour.

Then, carefully, she refolded the citation and put it and the medal back in its box.

‘So, you were in the RAF…?’

’No. I was a civilian, recruited along with a number of other girls—British and Maltese, to work deep underground as plotters: we moved markers around on a huge map showing the positions of enemy and friendly aircraft movements. Although we were only small cogs in a big machine, so to speak, all us girls took our work very seriously; because it enabled those charged with the defence of the island to see at a glance exactly what was going on in the air. Being an RAF plotter was, for me, almost a privilege. When on duty, I was able to see first-hand the air battles for the defence of Malta being played out on the map in front of me.

‘It was a sad thing though, when we removed a marker from the map that represented one of our boys. Many of those brave young pilots were personally known to us, friends, you know. When off-duty we danced with them, laughed with them and got drunk with them—it was bizarre. Food became more and more scarce but there always seemed to be plenty of booze; Lord knows where it came from. Yes, it was a strange time, almost unimaginable now. Violent death became a normal part of day-to-day life; one day they were there, the next they were gone.’

She stopped talking, and stared head down into what was left of her drink. There was a long awkward period of silence, as though she had mentally left the room. The tourists stood up and looked at each other, the wife whispered something in her husband’s ear. Then suddenly, she was back, lifting her head and picking up her glass. ‘Here’s to them. Bless ’em all,’ she said, raising her near empty glass, by way of a toast.

‘Yes…yes, of course,’ said the man, as he and his fat little wife shuffled their way towards the door of the bar. ‘We must be off now. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.’

As the plastic strips of the entrance fly-screen again became motionless, the flickering splashes of bright sunlight ceased to illuminate the bar and it returned to its gloomy shabbiness.

Just as she had been indifferent to the tourists entering the bar, she was indifferent to them leaving it.

Chapter One

1937

59, Greek Street, Soho, London, is an imposing building dating from the late nineteenth century and was known as the Soho Club. The Soho Club functioned as a home and refuge for working girls. In the 1920s, the Soho Club changed its name to the Theatre Girls Club, having more or less the same function as before but exclusively for young women working in the capital’s theatres. Accommodation and meals were set at very reasonable rates, and though facilities were in no way luxurious, the Club was clean and safe.

On a rainy wet Sunday afternoon in March 1937, a group of theatre girls were lounging around in the Club’s upstairs sitting room. The dingy room was furnished with some heavy old dark brown cracked leather arm chairs and a settee. In addition there were some equally old wicker easy chairs, a small writing desk, a meagrely stocked book case; in which there was mostly cheap fiction, some books on cookery and home economics, more than one copy of the Holy Bible and dog-eared back copies of the Lady magazine. The paintwork above the delft rail was nicotine-stained (although, at the time, smoking in the room was forbidden) and the peeling brownish wallpaper matched in tone the stained well-worn carpet. A couple of dim heavily shaded standard lamps were all there was for illumination. The room…indeed, the whole institution, smacked of austerity and charity.

Some girls were whiling away time by knitting or sewing—mending their smalls—others were reading a cheap paperback or going through the Sunday papers. The rain lashing the room’s windowpanes was incessant—set in for the day. As the grey afternoon light faded, eyes were intermittently glancing towards a clock on the mantelpiece, under which was a small gas fire. In accordance with Club rules, at four o’clock the fire could be lit and the curtains drawn. The lights in the room had been on nearly all day, however, the atmosphere in the room changed markedly with the closing of the curtains and the warming glow coming from the fire; spirits lifted and chatter increased. As was usual on a Sunday, afternoon tea consisted of bloater-paste sandwiches and, with any luck, a slice of Madeira cake, which would soon be on the way up from the Club’s basement kitchen.

All the girls in the room were, of course, aspiring or already accomplished artistes. They were all around the same age, early to mid-twenties. The girls were all pretty—or at least attractive: petite and blonde, Joan was a singer; Sheila with black hair and dark eyes was a dancer. Indeed, all the girls in the room were either dancers or singers of one sort or another. Whatever their specialties, however, that March they all had one thing at least in common: they were all unemployed.

‘God, how I hate Sundays,’ said Ivy, who stood hogging the fire. ‘What’s the time? I’m going down the Coach and Horses after tea; anyone coming with?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Joan, without looking up from the crossword puzzle she’d been labouring over all afternoon. ‘Miss Bell won’t like it; you know full well the Reverend Father will be around soon for one of his regular cosy little chats. And we all know he’s got a soft spot for you, love!’

Everybody laughed.

‘Dirty old git, he’s a Catholic, isn’t he?’ said Ivy crossly, amid more laughter.

‘Christina, you’re good at crosswords, Burghers of Calais, the sculptor, five letters?’ asked Joan, looking across to where Christina was busy thrashing Sheila at Ludo.

‘Rodin,’ Christina answered.

‘Clever clogs,’ retorted Ivy.

Christina was a dab hand at crosswords puzzles. While in her parental family home, in Dukinfield, Cheshire, she had won a crossword puzzle competition, the prize money coming in very handy when eventually she embarked on her chosen career as dancer.

On the 1st of July 1914, a Mrs Jeanie King Ratcliffe safely delivered a baby girl, to be christened Mary Christina. (Mary was a respectable enough Christian name, but the young Miss Ratcliffe thought it somewhat staid and old-fashioned. While the name, Christina, to her mind, smacked of modernity and sophistication: it had a certain something about it—je ne sais quoi.) In developing maturity, Christina had what might be described as a willowy figure, indeed she once described herself as being ‘lanky-legged’. She had an intelligent looking high forehead with well-defined facial features, which always photographed well. Added to this was the asset of being a natural blonde, which, as it is said, gentlemen prefer. She was, as they say, a ‘good-looker’, a ‘smasher’. Young Cristina was academically fairly bright. After attending Ashton High School, in April 1928, she was enrolled as a day-pupil at the enlightened, progressive Manchester High School for Girls. On graduating from Manchester High in July 1931, she had attained school certificates in history, natural history, English literature, geography, French and art; she was particularly adept at French. On her school admission card, under the heading PROBABLE OCCUPATION was scribbled in pencil, home duties; this was probably a polite way of indicating that she had not made a decision regarding her future career or occupation.

The world in which Christina’s mother had grown up in was radically different to that being experienced by her daughter. Young Christina’s post-school world was one of insecurity fuelled by economic depression and unemployment. Gone were the heady days of the Twenties, gone were the Flappers; women bent on frivolous self-expression courting notoriety by behaving outrageously: high hemlines, dancing to jazz and ragtime music, driving cars, flirting and smoking cigarettes in public. In mind and spirit Christina was a Twenties girl. In 1921 the cinema had come to Dukinfield with the opening of Oxford Picture House. It was a palace of dreams. Going to the ‘flicks’, as they were popularly called, was a form of escapism, an hour or two spent in a magical world of make-believe; a world utterly different from the reality of depressed and dowdy Dukinfield, with its economy wholly, and perilously, based on cotton spinning and weaving. The advent of the talkies (synchronised sound) brought a whole new level of sophistication to the movies, of which many were in colour. Although the cinema pandered to all tastes, Christina’s taste was for the lavish all-singing, all-dancing productions, such as: 42nd Street, Gold Diggers of 1933 and The Blue Angel, staring the leggy vamp, Marlene Dietrich. Beauties the likes of Dietrich, Ginger Rogers and Joan Crawford danced their way to stardom and wealth on glittering stage sets emulating exotic faraway places.

Home duties aside, Christina was put to work by her father, Henry Marsland Ratcliffe, in the family business, J.H. Ratcliffe, at Johnsonbrook Mill, specialising in cotton banding and spinning. As she gazed through the dusty windows of the mill, Christina saw no future for herself in cotton spinning, an occupation better suited to her two elder brothers. Mr and Mrs Ratcliffe had wanted their daughter to further her education, having in mind a career in the medical profession: a nurse, or, perhaps even a doctor? But Christina had no such ambition. Her young head was full of the magical images reflected from the silver screen, and the allure of exotic faraway places. She was ‘stage-struck’, and made it quite clear to father and mother that all she wanted to do was tread-the-boards as an artiste. Above all though, she wanted to travel; get out and away from rundown, dreary Dukinfield.

‘I am afraid, Mrs Ratcliffe, that this little girl of yours will never get anywhere with her dancing. She’s far too wooden!’ These hurtful remarks had been uttered by Christina’s ballet mistress. Young Christina loved to dance and, notwithstanding the disparaging comments made to her mother, was determined to prove the ballet mistress wrong. She accepted that she would not be a ballerina, but the love of dancing stayed with her and she was determined to do it professionally, and successfully. Prove to herself and that old ballet mistress that wooden she was not.

Mr and Mrs Ratcliffe reflected long and hard on their daughter’s declared intentions.

‘She’s headstrong; I blame that school, they teach them to think and do what they want, whether it’s good for them or not. The theatre, I mean, everybody knows it’s full of wastrels and idlers. And most of them have the morals of alley cats. If she doesn’t make a go of it, she could get into serious trouble,’ said her father.

‘Really Henry, you worry too much. Headstrong she is, but it’s properly screwed on. Mary’s intelligent and thoughtful. She’s nobody’s fool. Like it or not, it’s what she wants. She’s set on it and must go with our blessing, or she may never come back. She wants to dance, and she can dance, not like a ballerina I know, but beautifully all the same, like them in the films do.’

‘Yes-yes, very well, you’re right, as usual.’ Ratcliffe recognised the practical wisdom of his Lowland Scottish wife’s words. He was very fond of his youngest child and rightly concerned for her future in a profession that was notoriously precarious. ‘Lord knows what my friends will say though.’

‘They can say what they like, Henry Ratcliffe, I couldn’t give a tinkers cuss. She’s my only daughter, and I won’t lose her, so think on it…She’s saved some money, and we’re not so poor as we can’t help her out if needs be. In any case, she might take up with one of those stage-door-Johnny types and live in the lap of luxury. You never know.’

‘No Mother, you never know. Is tea ready?’

With her parents’ blessing, Cristina embarked on her chosen career by taking professional dancing lessons.

On Monday morning, the rain was still coming down as the girls at the Club wrapped up as best they could, trying to stay dry while they made the all too familiar rounds of London’s theatrical agents. By late afternoon the curtains in the Club’s upstairs sitting room were being drawn and a match put to the fire.

‘Anything?’ said one of the girls to Christina, as she came in to the room shaking her long hair free of her wet head scarf.

‘No, just the usual NO CASTING notice pinned to a door or, nothing today, dear, but keep in touch. We’ll let you know,’ replied Christina.

By the time the pubs had shut at 3 o’clock, most of those who had been in the sitting room the previous afternoon had drifted forlornly back to the Club and the welcome warmth of the sitting room. All had more or less the same tale regarding work prospects. Although one girl said she had been offered a short stint up north entertaining troops, but felt more inclined to try and get a job in Woolworths. A palpable air of gloom settled over the sitting room. All of a sudden, dripping wet, Sheila came in with a broad grin on her face.

‘I’ve got a contract, three months in a cabaret, in Malta, wherever that is,’ said Sheila excitedly.

There was a brief moment of silence before uproar. Sheila was a somewhat demure sensitive girl. She had less professional—and life—experience than other girls in the room. She thought she had done well and looked forward to garnering some approbation. She was, therefore, utterly shocked and dismayed at the torrent of derisive, hurtful remarks that were heaped upon her by just about everyone in the room.

‘Malta, you must be mad.’

‘You need your head examined, love.’

‘You’ll be raped by drunken sailors.’

‘You’ll never see London again.’

‘They certainly saw you coming. There’s one born every minute.’

‘Where’s Malta?’

‘In the Mediterranean, stupid!’ replied Lillian.

For a while, Sheila just stood motionless as her big eyes began to fill with tears. Saying nothing, she then turned on her heel and left the room. Christina, who liked Sheila, felt uneasy that she had not stood up for her.

‘You lot should be ashamed of yourselves…you’re only jealous,’ Christina blurted, as she stood up with the intention of going after distraught Sheila.

At that point, Lillian, who was quite old—she was all of thirty—said, ‘I’ve worked in Malta.’ Christina sat back down.

‘Well, go on, Lillian, what’s it like, how did you get on?’ said one of the girls.

’It was alright. Workwise, it’s certainly not first choice. I mean, you wouldn’t go there if you had a choice. You have to be pretty thick-skinned and have a good sense of humour. It’s true, the place is full of drunken sailors or at least that’s the way it seems when you’re at work in a grimy backstreet dive every night. But in the daytime, when the boozy blighters are back onboard ship, Malta’s alright. The natives are friendly. And yes, by day it’s a fairly nice place: it’s warm and it doesn’t seem to rain much, which is a bloody welcome change from this place.

‘Of course, wages are rubbish compared with here. But then, accommodation, food and things are dirt cheap. I even managed to save a bob or two. Sheila will be fine. She won’t get raped—well, not as long she keeps er-hand-on-er-apny. A short spell in the Med will do her no harm, knock her corners off. It did me no harm. The problem, though, is that when you’re out of town, you’re out of the swim; the agents forget about you…’

Christina was unhappy about the treatment Sheila had been subjected to. It was uncalled for. She decided to go and find the girl. ‘Can I come in?’ said Christina, knocking on the door to Sheila’s room. Eventually, the door opened, and Christina put a comforting arm around her tearful friend.

‘Cheer up, wipe your eyes, it’s not as bad as all that. Mind, they shouldn’t have behaved like that. This is the Theatre Girls Club and we’re the Theatre Girls. We’re supposed to help and support each other; it was too bad of them.’

‘Yes,’ said Sheila with a sniffle. ‘I had heard some gossip about Malta, but, you see, I need the money. I’m just about broke. The way things are at the moment, I thought I’d been pretty lucky.’

‘Hey, come on, let’s go down to the pub, it’ll be open about now. I’ll buy you a port and lemon, how’s that. The rain’s eased off, let’s go, yes? And I’ve got something to tell you.’

Sat down in the backroom snug of the Coach and Horses, Christina told Sheila what Lillian had said. Sheila fished around in her handbag and produced a copy of her contract and handed it to Christina.

‘What do you think?’

‘You know, this isn’t that bad. They’re going to pay your fare out there. They have the option to extend the contract by a further three months. And, look at this, there’s free accommodation…no, it’s not bad at all,’ Christina said, handing back the contract.

‘Oh thanks, I was going to tear it up.’

‘Like the rest of that lot, except for Lillian that is, I’ve never been to Malta. But, when I was young, the husband of one of my mother’s cousins had been in the Royal Navy. Uncle Willie, he’s dead now unfortunately, had travelled all over, including being stationed at times in Malta. He used to bring back colourful prints of places he visited around the world. On family visits to his home in Gillingham, I would always ask to see the pictures. I never tired of looking at them. As I recall, some were of a city called Valletta, which had narrow streets and high buildings with overhanging balconies. There were beautiful churches, little gondolier-like boats and horse-drawn carriages. It looked so romantic. I’ve no idea whether the place is the same today, the pictures were quite old. Look at it this way, Sheila, it’s only few hours work in the evening, the rest of the day’s your own. Lounge in the sun, swim, and, like Lillian said, you can save some money. Look on it as a paid holiday. You can be back in three or six months, and who knows, job prospects with any luck might have improved by then.’

Sheila, who was on her second port and lemon, had perked up. ‘Thanks Christina, you’re a tonic…’

‘No dear, that’s the port and lemon.’ They both laughed. Christina was pleased to see Sheila back to her usual bright self.

‘Look, Christina, I was going to mention it back at the Club, before, well, you know…Anyway, the agency said that the company, the one in Malta, was looking to hire more girls. Why don’t you come with me, the two of us? We could get up a sister act or something. I know the work may not be what you’ve been used to, or what you’re looking for but there’s nothing doing here. And as you say, it will be like a holiday, in the sun, out of the rain. Go on, what about it? It’ll be fun!’

‘Well, I’ll think about it, sleep on it.’

Although she didn’t show it, Christina was slightly taken aback. She was being asked to take her own advice—something most people seldom do. She had been hoping for a bit of well-paid film work, but that seemed to have all dried up. After weeks at the Club, and the daily tedium of tramping around the agencies with negative results, she was becoming bored and increasingly restless. Her money was holding out, for the time being at least, but her spirits were starting to flag. Whatever happened though, she would not go back to Dukinfield, certainly when things were not going well for her. Her parents would be kind and sympathetic, but there would be a lot of—‘we told you so’—either said or thought by those who had been critical of her thespian ambitions. Christina Ratcliffe did not do failure.

By midmorning the next day, Christina had signed a contract to perform at a Valletta music hall, known as the Morning Star. Sheila was over the moon. Word soon got around the girls at the Club that level-headed Christina was joining silly-headed Sheila on her Mediterranean adventure. However, although eyebrows were raised, most tongues did not wag. Christina was liked and respected. Indeed, some of the unemployed Club cynics were beginning to think that a spell in the Med might not be such a bad idea after all.

The two girls tended to keep themselves to themselves while making plans for their impending departure. They worked out and practiced the sort of routines they might perform. Lillian, who was very much on their side, was a great help with some sound advice. She told them to travel light; they need take little with them, as most of what they’d need could be found on the island, and at astonishingly cheap prices. Gown shops were few, but material for costumes and the like could be picked up from the numerous Indian traders, and run-up cheaply. Because you’re obviously English, the Maltese will think you’re made of money, so haggle with them too. When you’ve shopped around and found people you like dealing with, stick with them: they won’t want to lose you, and so they’ll always see you right. For the train journey, Lillian recommended plenty of reading matter, and a pillow, or something soft on which to rest their heads. She said she had found the trains far from comfortable, and what with the noise and other irritations, getting some sleep on the four- to five-day journey could be damned near impossible. Probably the best piece of advice Lillian had to offer was to take some toilet paper, they wouldn’t regret it…

The girls were in an upbeat mood when they awoke on the day of their departure; knowing they would soon be on the move after what had seemed an eternity of inactivity. They dressed in suitable clothes for travelling, had a leisurely breakfast and took their time over packing a single suitcase each. This caused some frustration for Sheila as she feverishly tried to close the lid of her case against the stubborn resistance of a small cushion, which she thought wouldn’t be missed from the upstairs sitting room. Phone calls home had been made the night before, as had settling of their Club accounts. With a lot of kissing and wishes of good luck—accompanied by a tear or two, goodbyes to the girls and the Club staff had also been said.

In the early afternoon, a taxi drew up to the door of 59 Greek Street. The cabby loaded the two cases onto the luggage platform at the front, as the pair of them settled themselves on the seat in the back. Suddenly, before the taxi moved off, there was a loud urgent rapping on the rear window of the taxi. It was Miss Bell.

‘Christina, Christina, telephone!’

‘Oh no, that’ll be mother with her usual last-minute advice.’

Eventually, the taxi moved off and Christine told Sheila that it had not been her mother, but her friend, Vera, who had just come down from Manchester and was staying with a girl called Rosa. Vera wanted to meet up for a meal and chew over old times. However, Vera and her friend were going to meet up with them at Victoria station and see them off.

‘You’ll love Vera, she’s terrific fun. We once both had a contract you know with Miss Frances Mackenzie’s Young Ladies dance troupe. We had a great time. Mind you, when I told her where we were going, she gave me an awful earful, and I think we’ll get more of it when we see her at the station! Still, we’re on our way now and that’s that.’

When they arrived at the station, Vera and Rosa were already there.

‘Christina, darling, wonderful to see you again dear, say hello to Rosa.’

Vera was beautifully made up and smartly dressed, topped off with a fashionable little cloche hat. Her friend, Rosa, was also very smartly dressed, decked out in the latest Paris fashion. Rosa’s hat was a little Tyrolean number, with the added extravagance of a plume of pheasant feathers. She had a fox stole casually draped over one shoulder and at the end of a cigarette holder burned a Black Sobranie cigarette. There was the powerful aroma of Coty perfume. Introductions having been made, Sheila felt a little uneasy, dressed as she was more for comfort than show. Rosa, in particular, seemed to her a little daunting—a bit standoffish, as she distractedly turned her head from side to side, looking admiringly at her reflection in the window of a nearby tobacco kiosk.

‘Really Christina, I’m sorry, love, but what the bloody hell are you doing going to Malta of all places? You must be crackers. You’ll end up in the white-slave trade!’

‘Oh, that sounds interesting,’ said Rosa, rolling her eyes as she blew cigarette smoke in the air.

‘Shut up, Rosa,’ replied Vera, intent on admonishing Christina.

‘Please don’t go through all that again, Vera.’ Christina said, trying to conceal mounting irritation. ‘We’ve had it all from the girls back at the Club, and I have to say it’s wearing a bit thin…Look, put it this way, needs must. It’s been weeks and there’s just nothing doing here.’

‘You’re not wrong there, but, Malta?’ said Rosa, catching the eye of a smart young man who smiled at her and tipped his hat as he passed by.

‘Really Rosa, you’re incorrigible, he’ll think we’re all on the game,’ said Vera with a smile. And they all laughed.

Although Christina was more than pleased to see her old friend who had so kindly come to see her off, she was equally pleased to hear, ‘SOUTHERN RAILWAYS NIGHT SLEEPER TO PARIS WILL LEAVE FROM PLATFORM 2 IN PRECISELY FIVE MINUTES’ announced over the station Tannoy. At this, there was a sudden flurry of kisses and hugs.

‘Nice to meet you, Sheila, look after this scatty friend of mine. And don’t you two do anything I wouldn’t!’ said Vera.

‘That gives them a lot of latitude,’ retorted Rosa, raising both her eyebrows.

More laughter, more kisses.

‘Bye. Bye, safe journey, don’t forget to write,’ shouted Vera as she and Rosa waved at the two girls, as they hurriedly made their way along Platform 2, looking for their third-class compartment. The shrill sound of a guard’s whistle was the sweetest of sounds. For Christina, it heralded, as it always had, a feeling of emotional relief. The fidgetiness of the morning, the discomfort of Vera and Rosa’s conversation, melted away almost immediately. The engine exhaled a blast of smoke and steam and the carriage jolted as the slack in the couplings were taken up, and slowly the train moved. They were on their way.

The girls settled themselves opposite each other, close to the carriage window. As the train rattled over the points, picking up speed as it passed through the drab uniformity of the south London suburbs, they chatted about Vera and Rosa. Though she thought Vera quite nice, Rosa had made a not so favourable impression on Sheila. With the city behind them, they both fell silent. Sheila began reading the late edition of the Evening Standard while Christina, periodically whipping away the condensation from the carriage window, stared out, watching the grey lifeless Kent countryside passing by.

After a while, Sheila looked up and, unnoticed, stared across at her friend. Christina, with her head resting close to the window seemed to be dozing. Sheila thought how attractive she was. She had poise, always well turned out. She was a show girl, but not showy. There was none of the self-conscious pretentiousness that tended to characterise most show girls. She was intelligent and sensitive, something of a rarity in most of her ilk. Above all, Sheila thought, Christina was a kind person; even to some that often didn’t really deserve kindness.

‘Penny for them,’ said Sheila.

‘O, I was miles away,’ Christina replied, sitting up in her seat and smiling across at her friend. ‘I was thinking. It seems such a short time ago since I left home, travelled to London, and had my first engagement; in fact it’s only been two years.’

‘Really, only two…I thought you’d been in our business much longer.’

‘No, it’s only really been about two years, but, I’ve been lucky, at least up until recently there’s always been plenty of work; not all of it particularly good, but interesting all the same. That time with Vera though, when we travelled all over, that was really good. Mind you, though I first come down to London to take some dancing lessons, my first professional engagement was up north, and it was such a thrill. I appeared on the same bill as George Formby at the old Manchester Hippodrome, just before they closed the place down. I was so excited—so proud knowing that Mum and Dad had made the effort to come along to see my debut.’

Sheila sensed that Christina wanted to talk about herself and her career, so she folded her newspaper and put it aside. Apart from friendly courtesy, Sheila looked up to Christina and was genuinely interested in her and what she might have to say. Christina said that once she had introduced herself to the capital’s theatrical agents, she had never actually been without work of one sort or another. Indeed, engagement opportunities had once been prolific enough as to on occasion affording the luxury of choice, which included performing in films with high profile international stars, such as Vivian Leigh and Conrad Veidt.

Sheila interceded, saying that she had never been offered any film work and that it must be so exciting to see oneself up on the silver screen.

‘Well, yes, at least the first time. But film work is quite tedious; with constant retakes. I much prefer stage work, a one-take performance in front of a live audience, who will let you know, there and then, exactly what they think of you: clapping and cheering, or silence, and if you’ve really made a hash of it, booing.’

‘God…that must be awful! I’ve never been booed—at least not so far.’

‘O, I have!’

‘No, really, where was that?’ said Sheila, with an incredulous expression.

‘It was in Genoa, northern Italy. Anyway, we were in smart well-tailored outfits doing this slick Toy Soldier number. Going on we felt pretty confident as that particular routine usually brought the house down. However, the curtain had barely gone up when sections of the audience began jeering and booing. As you can imagine, it was pretty disconcerting. However, we soldiered on, excuse the pun. Once we got off stage, and it wasn’t soon enough I can tell you, we were greatly relieved when a very apologetic member of the management told us that the problem had to do with the stage-set backdrop: a specially designed curtain incorporating not only the Royal Coat of Arms but also the Union Jack. We were assured that the kerfuffle was nothing to do with our performance, but it had put a damper on things, all the same.’

‘Well, surely then, you haven’t really been booed. Have you?’

’No. No, I suppose not. And to be fair, when the main curtain came down