Ellie

by Lesley Pearse

  She lay there for a moment, rubbing her eyes. Once they were accustomed to the gloom, she recognised the room she and Bonny had danced in the night before. The entire floor was strewn with empty glasses, beer bottles and cigarette ends.

  A sudden realisation that she was naked made her jump up. As she put her feet down on the floor she felt the slime of vomit come up between her toes.

  Revulsion ripped away her drowsiness. Stumbling towards the window, she pulled back the curtain.

  She gulped hard as the early morning light revealed the mayhem from the party. This wasn’t some crazy dream. She was alone in what looked like a war zone, her frock crumpled on the floor amongst the debris. She picked it up, holding it over herself, as an awful suspicion crept into her mind.

  The frock was torn across the bodice. Her camiknickers were lying at the end of the settee in a pool of punch, staining them red.

  It was so silent. Apart from birdsong from outside and the faint dripping of a distant tap, it sounded as if she was alone in the house. Worse still, there was a strange fishy smell coming from her and she was sticky between her legs.

  Utter disgust washed over her as she saw a smear of blood on her thigh. She wanted to believe it was just her period, but as she hastily pulled her frock on she felt soreness too.

  ‘No!’ she cried out. ‘No, I couldn’t have!’

  She couldn’t remember anything more than Brad asking her to move over. Was that vomit hers? Had he really torn her clothes off, penetrated her, then left?

  She sank down on to an armchair, covered her face with her hands and wept with shame. She was disgusted with herself at becoming so drunk she was insensible, and furious that Brad would take advantage of it. But far worse was the knowledge that she’d come to this party of her own free will, without any thought for Charley.

  And where was Bonny?

  She got up and tentatively peeped through the hatch above the settee. The kitchen was an even worse shambles, with plates of half-eaten food, glasses, bottles and empty boxes all stacked drunkenly on top of one another.

  Charley would be coming home from work now; he might even go straight round to her room in Stacey Passage. How could she face him after this?

  Creeping upstairs, she felt sick with fear. She had no money and she didn’t know where she was. This was all so reminiscent of Marleen, coming home in the early morning unable to remember where she’d been or whom she’d seen and the same unpleasant smell clinging to her.

  Someone had been sick on the bathroom floor and the sight of it made her retch. The first room she looked in was empty, although the bed was rumpled.

  Who did the house belong to? Were they about to come home?

  Bonny was in the big front bedroom. Alone, lying naked across the bed, her face turned into the pillow, her hair covering her shoulders, but her narrow back and small rounded buttocks revealing she was still little more than a child.

  ‘Bonny!’ Ellie shook her shoulder. ‘Wake up, they’ve left us here.’

  Bonny opened her eyes and then shut them. She groaned and covered her face.

  ‘You must get up, Bonny.’ Ellie blurted out what had happened. ‘We must get out before someone catches us here.’

  Bonny sat up gingerly. She looked at the empty space next to her, then back to Ellie, eyes suddenly wide with alarm. ‘Where’s Steve?’

  ‘He’s gone too, they’ve both gone.’ Ellie began to cry again. ‘I don’t know how we’re going to get home, or even where we are. But we must get out.’

  Bonny’s pretty face was flushed with sleep, her hair tangled, and she had an angry red bite mark on her right breast.

  ‘Your dress is torn,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Did Brad do that?’

  ‘I suppose so. But I don’t remember anything,’ Ellie whispered. ‘I just woke up and I was naked. Did you see or hear anything?’

  ‘Steve carried me up here.’ Bonny’s face began to crumple. ‘He said he loved me.’

  There was no time for any discussion. Bonny smelt as sour as Ellie did herself.

  ‘We must get cleaned up and out of here,’ she said in a strangled voice.

  Bonny surprised Ellie. She got off the bed with some dignity and walked to the bathroom. She stepped over the vomit without even commenting on it and turned on the bath taps. ‘It’s cold,’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘But it will have to do.’

  ‘Do you know whose house this is?’ Ellie asked. Bonny had already stepped into the bath and was splashing water on herself.

  ‘Steve said it belonged to some officer.’

  Ellie guessed from the weak sunshine that it was about seven. She stepped into the other end of the bath and began washing too. The cold water was a shock to the system but it cleared her head a little.

  ‘There’s only that filthy towel,’ Bonny said plaintively. She stepped out, clearing the vomit by inches, and disappeared.

  She returned moments later with a clean towel wrapped round herself and handed another to Ellie. ‘I’d better try and find something for you to wear,’ she added.

  Ellie had to admire Bonny. By the time Ellie got back, clean and dry, to the bedroom, Bonny had some underwear layed out on the bed and even managed a weak grin.

  ‘Whoever lives here has good taste. Those are real silk and they’re our size.’

  The situation was too serious for them to question the morality of helping themselves to another woman’s clothes. Ellie slipped into the pretty oyster-coloured French knickers and gratefully accepted the matching brassière. Bonny discarded her own and selected a pale blue set for herself.

  The wardrobe revealed a whole host of clothes. Bonny rummaged through it, pulled out a peach-coloured costume with a peplum waist, thrust it at Ellie, and put on a pale green long-sleeved dress.

  ‘Shame she’s got such big feet,’ Bonny snorted with disgust as she found a pair of green shoes, obviously designed to go with her dress. ‘I’ve got a good mind to leave her a note to show my disapproval.’

  Ellie couldn’t laugh at the joke; she felt as if she’d never laugh about anything again.

  ‘Go and see if there’s any food left,’ Bonny said, once Ellie was dressed. ‘We might as well take it with us. I’ll look around and see if I can find some money.’ She took a beige hat down from the shelf in the wardrobe and put it on, then began to rummage again.

  Ellie filled a small shopping bag with oddments of chicken legs, pork pies and a bottle of lemonade. She found a full packet of cigarettes and two half crowns in a kitchen drawer, then wrapping up her own clothes, she put them in on top of the food.

  ‘I’ve found a ten-shilling note.’ Bonny came down the stairs just as Ellie had finished. ‘I think we’re in Uxbridge, or nearby. That’s more than enough to get us home.’

  ‘What’s in that?’ Ellie pointed to a small leather suitcase.

  ‘Just a few things to make us feel a little less used,’ Bonny grinned. ‘I’ll show you when we’ve got away.’

  As they slunk down the garden path, keeping their heads below the level of the privet hedge, the fresh suburban air felt like an instant tonic.

  Cherry trees in full blossom almost hid the neat semi-detached houses. Bunting still hung between them and further down some trestle tables suggested there had been a street party yesterday. The clean scent of lilac and laburnum in the gardens heightened the sense of having stumbled into a middle-class ghetto where people peeped from behind lace curtains.

  Bonny peered out over the gate, but no one was about. She signalled to Ellie, then the pair of them crept out, trying hard not to run and draw attention to themselves.

  They waited until they’d got two blocks away before they stopped for a moment, sitting down on a low stone wall. Ellie handed Bonny a pork pie and the lemonade.

  ‘Suppose the owner of that house calls the police?’ she said.

  ‘They won’t come after us,’ Bonny said with her mouth full. ‘Brad and Steve are hardly likely to give our names, not after what th
ey did to us.’

  Ellie felt so very strange. Dressed in someone else’s beautiful clothes, but feeling bruised and soiled inside. She wanted to know if Bonny felt the same, but she couldn’t ask. ‘What’ve you got in the case?’ she asked instead.

  ‘A smart outfit each. Another set of undies. A nice silver cigarette box and a diamond ring,’ Bonny said casually, her face as angelic as if she’d just left church. ‘We’ll flog the ring and the box and keep the money for a rainy day.’

  ‘I’ve never stolen anything before in my life,’ Ellie said, a tear trickling down her cheek. ‘And I’ve never –’ She stopped, unable to say the words.

  Bonny’s arm slid round her and drew Ellie’s head down to her shoulder. ‘It’s okay,’ she said soothingly. ‘We can’t put the clock back now and it will serve those two jerks right if they get the blame for the nicked clothes.’

  ‘I feel so dirty inside,’ Ellie sobbed. ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I feel stupid, not dirty,’ Bonny said forcefully. ‘I was daft enough to think it was love last night. Steve said he’d take me back with him to the States.’

  ‘I haven’t even got that as an excuse,’ Ellie whispered brokenly, seeing Charley’s face before her. ‘I’m a slut.’

  ‘You aren’t.’ Bonny held Ellie tightly, refusing even to consider what Jack would have thought of her behaviour. ‘It was a moment or two’s madness, nothing more, and we’re going to forget it. The show opens tonight and we’re going to be stars. Nobody else knows about this and we aren’t going to tell them.’

  ‘But Charley!’ Ellie sobbed. ‘I can’t possibly marry him now.’

  Bonny didn’t quite understand that statement, but she was aware Ellie was far more devastated by what had happened than she was. ‘Oh Ellie!’ She mopped her friend’s face ineffectually with her fingers. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  Ellie gave a shuddering sigh. It was easy to blame Brad and make out she was a little innocent led astray, but she remembered kissing him, and that dance routine last night. She deserved what she got.

  Bonny caught Ellie’s distraught face between her two hands and kissed it.

  ‘What’s that for?’ Ellie asked.

  ‘Because I care,’ Bonny whispered. Aunt Lydia had done exactly the same to her the day she’d driven Bonny up to London to start rehearsing at the Phoenix. It was after she was through with giving lectures about visiting her parents regularly and warning her about men ‘taking advantage’. Bonny had found it very comforting.

  ‘We’d better get going.’ Ellie stood up wearily. ‘As my mum always said, “The show must go on.”’

  ‘My mum always said I had to wear two pairs of knickers,’ Bonny said pointedly, a feeble grin suggesting she wasn’t quite as unconcerned as she pretended. ‘I see what she meant now!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ambrose stood in the wings watching Ellie and Edward perform and though he knew the script word for word and thought he was beyond surprises he found himself laughing along with the audience.

  Ellie, if he wasn’t much mistaken, was another Gracie Fields in the making, but much prettier. Each wiggle, wink and ribald innuendo provoked roars of belly laughter from the audience. Edward was the perfect foil for her comic talent, entirely believable as the naïve jackass Charles De Witt. He hadn’t fluffed his lines once, and they looked so good together, complementing each other in every way.

  It was disappointing to see so many empty seats in the theatre, but that would change if they got good reviews in the morning. Besides, a great many people were still recovering from the victory celebrations.

  A terrible dress rehearsal was traditionally a good omen, but Ambrose had been beside himself with rage earlier. It had been a shambles: lines forgotten, cues missed, dancers out of step, almost the entire cast listless and puffy-eyed with hangovers. When he’d looked in the girls’ dressing-room an hour before curtain up, three of them were curled up on benches asleep.

  Ellie had concerned him most. He had seen her rushing to the lavatories to vomit and when he’d questioned her she seemed distinctly guilty about something.

  But now that the show was galloping along without a hitch, Ambrose was appeased. Whatever Ellie’s problem had been she was sparkling now. If she handled her song and dance number with as much vitality, his faith in her would be justified.

  Ambrose peeped through the side of the curtain at the audience. Jameson was there in the front row with his wife, along with a group of other people Ambrose didn’t know. The men were all in dinner-jackets, their wives in evening dresses and fur stoles. Clearly not one of them concerned themselves with clothing coupons; those weren’t made-over dresses like his girls had to wear. There were times when Ambrose wished he’d never got involved with Jimbo Jameson. He was the slimiest, cockiest little runt that ever walked: just looking at the man now, his chest all puffed up with self-importance, made Ambrose want to hurl something at him. He had no doubt the creep would take all the glory if the show was a success, but that if the reviews were less than ecstatic, Ambrose would get the blame.

  A barrage of wild applause and the curtain moving beside him made Ambrose aware that the sketch was over. Buster was ambling on to the stage from the left in front of the curtain as if he’d lost his way. Ambrose smiled. Buster was a real find, a genuinely funny man who could ad-lib his way through the Bible and make people laugh. He would be the next big name in comedy.

  ‘Well done, both of you.’ Ambrose turned to Ellie and Edward as they came off the stage, flushed with excitement. ‘You were excellent. Are you feeling better now, Ellie?’

  Ellie blushed. ‘Fine, thank you,’ she said, her eyes not meeting his. ‘It was only nerves.’

  ‘Well run along and get changed for the Quaker Girl number,’ he said. ‘Edward, give a hand with the props.’

  Edward glared resentfully at Ambrose’s retreating back view. One minute the man treated him like he was special, and the next ordered him about like a stage-hand.

  There was no choice but to do as he was told, but the minute the bedroom furniture was cleared from the stage, Edward made his way backstage and shut himself in a storage room.

  Sitting on a wicker hamper, surrounded by rails of old costumes, Edward lit up a cigarette. He was elated by the success of his performance tonight and desperately wanted to share it with someone, but it was easier to hide in here than risk a rebuff.

  Voices from along the corridor heightened his sense of isolation. Giggling dancers, Riccardo warming up with a few scales, the dresser calling out to Ruth.

  Opening night. The sketch with Ellie had been a huge success, but there was no one clamouring to praise his part in it. Why was he always left out?

  Riccardo, Lorenzo and even Buster treated him like a simpleton, never including him in drinks at the pub or card games. The girls scared him. In groups they made suggestive remarks, alone they ignored him, and he was frequently acutely embarrassed by the way they flaunted their bodies. Bonny was the worst of all: she’d stripped down to her knickers in front of him earlier today. What had she meant when she said ‘Get an eyeful of this then, Edward’? Was she trying to lure him, as she did every other man in the cast, or was it just as Ellie claimed – that she was merely playfully showing off her new underwear?

  Women’s soft bodies repelled him. Riccardo and the stage-hands all seemed to go out of their way to gawp at the girls. Was he unnatural in not getting excited by them?

  Only Ellie was different. She kept provocative behaviour for the stage, never wiggling her breasts at him or giggling about him the way the other girls did. She was interested in him in an unthreatening, sisterly way – his only real friend.

  Until a couple of days ago Ellie had always sought him out during breaks, and they often went for walks in St James’s Park together. But now she seemed to have switched her allegiance to Bonny.

  Aside from missing her company, he was concerned that Bonny would lead her into trouble. He’d gone to Stacey Passage thre
e times yesterday in the hope that she’d be there, but she still hadn’t got home at eleven. When he asked her where they’d been and whether she’d seen Charley, she’d nearly snapped his head off.

  Edward was no stranger to feeling alone. Even before his parents were killed he was always left with a nursemaid while they were out at parties, the races or country house weekends. When he went to live with his grandmother, she was too old to understand he needed other children to play with.

  Edward’s acting had started out of solitude. Pretending to be someone else was a comforting form of escape, but with it came the danger of being unable to identify the real Edward Manning. Was he the stereotyped English gentleman, just like the parts he played? The other lodgers at his digs in Camden Town seemed to think so; he often heard them imitating him behind his back. Or was he, as Ambrose had hinted more than once, a nancy boy?

  A bell jolted him out of his reverie. He stubbed out the cigarette and leapt to his feet. It was the Quaker Girl number and Ellie would be hopping mad if he didn’t watch it.

  Ellie and Edward linked hands as they took their turn to step forward from the rest of the cast and bow at the curtain call. They looked at one another and smiled with delight at the rapturous applause, which to their ears at least seemed louder than for Lorenzo or Riccardo.

  ‘Bravo, Ellie,’ someone yelled from the front row of the dress circle. Ellie glanced up at the familiar voice and to her astonishment saw it was Amos Gilbert. He was standing up, waving his arms in the most uncharacteristic display of exuberance.

  The curtain calls seemed to go on for ever, but Ellie’s eyes were on Mr Gilbert. She could make out that he had a female companion, also fluttering her hands, and though she couldn’t see her face clearly, she was certain it was Miss Wilkins, her old teacher.

  ‘Oh, Edward.’ Ellie clutched his arm as the curtain closed for the last time, her voice a squeak of excitement. ‘I can’t really believe it. The man I was billeted with when I was an evacuee is out there. How can I get to speak to him?’