Ellie

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘Why weren’t you called up?’ Ellie asked. It was something of a rarity to see a man of his age out of uniform.

  ‘Failed the medical.’ He grinned. ‘The one advantage of being a sickly kid. They wouldn’t even take me in ENSA.’

  ‘How did you meet Ambrose?’

  ‘Just a fluke, really.’ Edward shrugged. ‘We got talking in a bar one night. I was in a play in Bath. Ambrose was passing through. He said he’d be in touch if anything came up. I didn’t really expect to ever hear from him, you’re always meeting people who say such things. About ten days later he telephoned me at my grandmother’s and offered me this part.’

  Ellie in turn told him about herself. Her childhood background in the theatre, her mother’s death and Marleen’s injuries. ‘The saddest thing is she won’t be able to see the show.’ Ellie felt a prickle of tears.

  ‘I won’t have anyone rooting for me either,’ Edward said sympathetically. ‘My grandmother won’t come to watch, she thinks dancing-girls are harlots and actors are pansies.’

  Ellie wondered if he had a girlfriend, but she didn’t like to ask. Instead she told him a little about Charley.

  ‘It’s been awful,’ she admitted. ‘I miss him so much, Edward, but he hasn’t called round since I wrote to him. I suppose he just doesn’t care enough for me.’

  She couldn’t bring herself to admit to such a new friend that almost every night she cried herself to sleep and that she didn’t believe she could ever get over losing Charley, but it was comforting to have someone to confide in, even partially.

  ‘Being in a show makes it hard to have friends outside the theatre,’ Edward said, guessing Ellie was as lonely and friendless as himself. ‘We don’t seem to speak the same language as outsiders.’

  ‘I think it’s time we went,’ Ellie said, seeing the woman glowering at them from behind the counter. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘Ambrose put me in some digs in Camden Town. They’re awful, but perhaps I can find somewhere else once the show has opened.’

  ‘Rooms are hard to get,’ Ellie told him. ‘Now all the evacuees are coming back it’s getting worse day by day. My room’s awful too, but it’s cheap and handy for the Phoenix.’

  ‘Well, I’d better get off there now.’ Edward looked at his watch. ‘I’ve missed the evening meal, but judging by the smell last night when I arrived, that’s probably just as well.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’ Ellie grinned at Edward as they parted. ‘It won’t be such an ordeal again, not now we know one another.’

  He gave her a curious, wobbly smile and disappeared into the crowd without replying.

  Stacey Passage, where Ellie lived, was a narrow alley off Charing Cross Road. Sunshine never found its way down between the tall houses and it had a quaintly Dickensian quality, with small second-hand bookshops and malodorous gloom. All kinds of people lived in the dozens of rented rooms above the shops: Ellie had seen little old ladies, Jewish refugees, musicians, shop girls, and even some of the spivvy types she’d seen drinking at the Blue Moon.

  As she turned into Stacey Passage her heart nearly stopped. Charley was standing there, looking up at number four.

  He was wearing his best clothes; a tweed jacket, grey flannels and the blue tie Ellie had bought him for Christmas. He’d had his hair cut rather severely and the shorn patch above his collar, coupled with the anxious look on his face, made him look endearingly boyish.

  ‘Charley,’ she called out, unable to prevent herself from running to him, tears of delight pricking her eyes. He turned at her voice and the joyful expression on Ellie’s face made his resolve vanish.

  She was wearing the same skirt and jumper she’d worn for much of the winter, bare legs and white ankle socks, her hair tied up loosely with a red ribbon, but she had never looked more beautiful to him.

  He’d almost forgotten how big her dark eyes were. In the split second before she reached him, arms open wide with welcome, he thought he’d sooner die than face life without her again.

  ‘Ellie,’ he murmured as her arms wrapped around his neck. ‘Oh Ellie!’

  There were people hustling through the alley, intent on getting home, but they were both unaware of being in the way, causing office workers to sidestep them as they clung to each other.

  ‘Have you forgiven me?’ she asked, warm lips showering his face with kisses.

  Only then was he brought up sharply as to why he’d come and his mother’s insistence that he told her face to face. ‘We’ve got to talk,’ he said, catching hold of her two arms and creating a space between them.

  ‘Come upstairs to my room then.’ Her eyes danced, her skin glowed with excitement. She had all but forgotten the misery he’d put her through.

  Charley glanced up. He’d been to many houses just like this in fires: rabbit warrens of small, dingy rooms with paper-thin walls. He knew that alone with her he would weaken. ‘No, let’s go to a café,’ he said. ‘It’s better.’

  Ellie sensed he had something to say she wouldn’t like. But he was here, and that was enough for now. She let him lead her down to Charing Cross Road and into the cafeteria on the corner of Lisle Street.

  ‘Have you had a meal today?’ he asked as they queued at the counter.

  Ellie saw piles of soggy golden chips, sausages and shepherd’s pie lying there invitingly on the hot plate and she was suddenly starving. ‘No. Could I have sausage and chips?’

  ‘I’ll get it, you go and find a table.’ Charley glanced over his shoulder at the crowded room, glad for once to see so many people.

  It was hot and noisy, the sort of place where however hard the staff worked, they never got on top of clearing the tables before someone else grabbed them.

  Ellie felt rather pleased with herself at finding a corner table only big enough for two. She dumped the dirty plates on to an already loaded trolley, flicked off the remaining crumbs and sat down.

  In all these weeks since she’d moved out of Coburgh Street, she’d almost managed to convince herself that her memory of Charley was distorted. But as she watched him shuffling along the cafeteria counter her heart contracted painfully. The length of his eyelashes, his shy smile as the woman serving him made some cheeky comment, the healthy glow of his skin, all so different to the kind of men who drank at the Blue Moon. She could see the outline of hard muscle beneath his jacket, the big hands holding the tray hard enough to direct a hose at the biggest fire, strong enough to dig people out from mountains of rubble: yet she remembered how sensitive they were when he caressed her.

  The curls in his hair were already springing up despite his efforts to tame them. He had a new small scar on his chin, another reminder that he lived with danger. But as he turned towards her with the loaded tray his brown eyes were soft with sorrow. She knew he’d got something serious on his mind.

  ‘How’s your mum?’ Ellie said once he had sat down across the small table to her. She wanted to keep the tone light until at least they’d eaten and she’d had time to gauge his real feelings.

  ‘She’s very busy.’ Charley sprinkled his chips with salt. ‘She took in a bombed-out family. There’s four kids and it’s bedlam. But with a bit of luck they’ll get one of those new prefabs soon.’

  He told her about some of his friends who were also hoping to be re-housed, about builders repairing roofs in the street and plans going ahead for a street party for Victory Day. ‘I reckon it will be next month,’ he said. ‘It’s really quiet now at the fire station, all we’ve been doing is putting out fires on bomb-sites where kids have been messing around.’

  Ellie told him her news and how she’d spent the day rehearsing.

  ‘I’m really glad for you,’ he said, smiling as she described the sketch. ‘I’ll come to see it, of course.’

  As they finished their meal, Ellie felt she had to tackle him. ‘You look as if you’ve got something to tell me,’ she said, reaching out for his hand and stroking it. ‘But it isn’t something I’m going to like, is it?’ />
  She saw him gulp, his Adam’s apple leaping over his shirt collar. His soft lips took on a tighter look and his eyes could no longer meet hers.

  ‘I’m leaving the fire brigade,’ he said. ‘I’m going to Australia.’

  It was as if someone had just given her a push off a cliff and she was falling through space. Why did he have to come if it was only to upset her further?

  ‘When?’ she managed to ask.

  ‘As soon as I can get a passage,’ he said. ‘It may take some time, what with the war still on in the Far East. But I’ve made up my mind, Ellie. England’s got nothing to offer me for the future.’

  ‘So you came to say goodbye then?’ she croaked out, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘I thought. I hoped –’ She broke off, unable to continue.

  ‘I came to ask you to go with me.’ He reached out across the table and wiped away her tears with one finger. Ellie looked into his eyes and saw a challenge in them.

  ‘Just like that?’ she asked. It felt like she was being backed into a corner. ‘You expect me to say yes or no right now without any time to think about it?’

  ‘What is there to think about? You said in your letter you loved me, prove it Ellie.’

  Ellie didn’t answer for a moment as she tried to regain her equilibrium. This wasn’t her gentle, reasonable Charley but a hard-faced version. She wondered who had suggested this plan to him; it didn’t sound like he’d thought it up himself.

  ‘I do love you,’ she said. ‘But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t just drop everything. I’ve signed a contract for the show.’

  ‘You can do the show,’ he said, looking directly into her eyes, daring her to stall or prevaricate. ‘Like I said, it might be some time before I can arrange a passage for Australia. But marry me now.’

  Ellie felt weak. He was as tense as a coiled spring, sitting bolt upright, his forearms resting on the table.

  Once married she would have to obey him, go to Australia, or even China if that was what he wanted.

  ‘You aren’t being fair,’ she said. ‘I don’t know whether the show will be a success or sink within a couple of weeks.’

  ‘It shouldn’t make any difference.’ A chill had crept into his voice. ‘If you really loved me that would be all that counted.’

  A bubble of anger rose inside her. ‘If I really loved you?’ she snorted. ‘You refused to listen to my apologies and let me leave Coburgh Street without even saying goodbye. You’ve left me to stew for weeks without a word. Now you expect me to give up everything I’ve worked so hard for, just because of what you want.’

  He had the grace to blush at this. ‘I have to be tough because I know what you’re like.’ He shrugged. ‘A year from now, two years or even three, it might still be the same. You’ll be saying, “Let’s see how this works out” or “I’ve just got an audition for this show.” I want to be married now because I can’t live with uncertainty any longer.’

  This last statement offered her a little hope. Maybe the idea of Australia was just a bluff. ‘I’m not against getting married,’ she said more gently. ‘It’s the thought of being whisked halfway across the world. Can’t we reach some sort of compromise?’

  ‘By that you mean do what you want to do, and I have to fit my life round it.’

  Ellie was faced with a stalemate. ‘Why does it have to be this all or nothing stuff?’ she snapped back at him. ‘I want fun, romance, love and adventure. Why can’t we have that?’

  Charley smiled sadly. ‘I thought that was what I was offering.’

  They talked on and on. Charley made Australia sound very attractive. Building a home together, learning to ride horses, the sunshine – a land full of opportunity. But however dreamily romantic it sounded, she knew if they lived on a ranch there would be no dancing, singing or acting, and not even any people.

  Ellie told him all her news, especially about Marleen. ‘That’s another thing,’ she pointed out. ‘How could I leave her? She hasn’t got anyone else.’

  Charley fudged that point by saying he’d have to leave his mother, but Ellie was certain that Annie would end up moving to Australia too.

  She very much wanted to tell him about Sir Miles Hamilton: the secret had been burning inside her ever since Marleen told her. But under the circumstances it wouldn’t be wise. It might look to Charley like another wedge between them.

  They walked around the West End for a little until it grew dark, then Charley walked back with her to Stacey Passage.

  ‘Come up with me?’ she asked, wanting to be alone with him, to hold him and let him sweep away her doubts.

  ‘No, Ellie.’ He shook his head. ‘I know how it will be if I go in there. I’m not going to add more complications than there are already. Write or call when you can tell me yes or no.’

  He kissed her then, long and hard, holding her so tightly she knew he meant exactly what he said. ‘If it’s yes,’ he said, breaking away, his eyes brimming with tears, ‘we’ll get engaged on Victory Day.’

  He didn’t have to say what would happen if her answer was no. Somehow she knew he’d be on the first ship out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  May 1945

  ‘Stop!’ Ambrose yelled, running down the aisle of the stalls, a long raincoat ballooning out behind him.

  The pianist’s hands paused in mid-air, his last notes echoing as he turned on his stool in surprise. He sensed an electric charge coming from the producer, but in the gloom of the theatre he couldn’t tell if it was anger or excitement.

  The sixteen dancers on the stage halted their cancan routine, flopping instantly to the floor, glad of a break for whatever reason. Some of them had been working under Ambrose’s direction for as long as two years, but they had never been driven quite so hard by him in previous shows.

  They had been The Gaiety Girls, The Cover Girls and The Brighton Belles. Now he was insisting on calling them ‘The Dingle Belles’ a name which alternately made them cringe with embarrassment or giggle helplessly. But whatever they thought of their new name, or of Ambrose as a man, they all had to admit that he’d kept his promise to them. He had got his girls on a West End stage.

  ‘Sally!’ Ambrose yelled again, and now, as he moved closer to the stage, they could all see his face was flushed. ‘Round up the entire cast. Everyone, stage-hands, performers, the lot.’

  Speculative whispers broke out amongst the girls as Sally got up and ran off into the wings. The ones who’d been with Ambrose the longest had seen his ruthless pruning and weeding out of girls. All the girls on the stage were uniformly tall and slender, their fatter and shorter friends long since dismissed. Ambrose was a perfectionist, not just about the choreography, but about their appearance. If a girl had a hole in her tights, her hair or make-up less than perfect, he wiped the floor with her. If her dancing wasn’t up to standard she was packed off on the next train home.

  ‘You don’t think the show’s been cancelled?’ Muriel whispered anxiously to Frances.

  Muriel, Frances, Sally, Margaret and Bonny were the only girls left of the ones auditioned in Littlehampton. Frances had had to lose her excess weight to stay.

  ‘I don’t think he’s angry.’ Frances twirled a black corkscrew curl round her finger, looking thoughtfully at Ambrose. ‘It might be he’s got a date for opening at last.’

  All the girls were aware that Ambrose had been under a great strain. Opening night had been planned for Saturday 28th April, but the theatre owners had insisted that since peace was so close, the show should open to honour it. The BBC had interrupted a programme the night before to say that Hitler was dead and now, on May 3rd, the whole of Britain was holding its breath, hour by hour expecting the news that peace had been declared.

  Rumours had been flying thick and fast amongst the cast during this uncertain time, hysteria affecting them all. They had seen Riccardo, the pompous tenor, walk out twice, only to return some hours later. Jimbo threatened to pull out as a backer unless he had a bigger hand in running the show.
There were suspicions that Edward Manning only got the part because Ambrose fancied him. Lorenzo the magician was secretive enough about his real name and background to be a deserter and the Doc, Jimbo’s partner, had been arrested, apparently for fraud. On top of all this, costumes for the dancers on loan from another theatre had been lost in transit, and had only finally turned up yesterday.

  ‘What’s wrong now?’ Lorenzo came on to the stage, his narrow face furrowed by frown lines. He was a very ordinary looking man, small, thin and grey faced. But once dressed in his top hat and tails, pulling white doves out of chiffon scarves, or sawing his willowy assistant Magda in half, he really was The Great Lorenzo, one of the finest magicians in the country.

  ‘I’ll give the news when everyone’s here,’ Ambrose replied from the darkened front of the house.

  Ellie and Edward, who had been going through their sketch back-stage, arrived next. Riccardo followed with a couple of the stage-hands he’d been arguing with. One by one they all trailed on to the stage. Buster the comic, wearing a ridiculously large pair of checked trousers wired at the waist and held up by red braces, bounced them to make the girls laugh. Fred, the man who handled the flies, appeared eating a sandwich; the props girl, Ruth, nervously holding her clipboard as if expecting a reprimand.

  Ambrose waited for a second, quickly counting heads to make sure everyone was present. They were an ill-assorted bunch. Pretty girls with graceful bodies in leotards, gnarled stage-hands in stained overalls, not one of them under fifty. Fred, with his neanderthal long arms, looked even more bizarre beside Edward’s physical perfection. Riccardo, a twenty-stone giant, was resplendent in a bright red jacket, his black hair and moustache gleaming with oil. Next to him stood Angus, the stage-manager, stooped and prematurely aged, in a Norfolk jacket and corduroys.

  When Ambrose had been summoned by the theatre owners, he’d assumed they’d decided to call the show-off. Despite all his efforts he hadn’t been able to lure Tommy Trinder, only Buster Bradley, who although very funny and on his way up, wasn’t exactly a household name. By now Ambrose was so dejected he hadn’t even got any counter arguments prepared: in his darkest moments he’d even told himself he could never lick this rag-bag collection of people into anything resembling a slick revue.