‘It’s very kind of her.’
‘It is, but she wouldn’t eat ‘em anyway. She’s always on a diet.’
‘He’s not only a gangster, he’s one of Oswald Mosley’s lot. A Nazi,’ Ivy said. ‘And his generosity often coincides with Goldie turning up for work with bruises on her arms, or swollen eyes from crying. It’s when that particular penny dropped that the girls began to give him a wide berth. He’s a bad lot!’
‘You look a bit like her, Margaret,’ Sylvie said. ‘You’ve got a tipped-up nose and your hair’s the same colour.’
‘What, mucky blonde?’
‘No, honey blonde. But you’re right, Sylvie,’ Violet said. ‘How tall are you, Margaret, about five feet seven?’
Margaret nodded. ‘About that.’
‘Here,’ Ivy said, taking a tape measure from the table, ‘let’s see what size you are.’ Margaret lifted her arms and Ivy measured her bust, waist and hips. She consulted her notebook and laughed. ‘Well I’ll be… You’re the same as Goldie Trick.’
‘Good,’ Mrs Horton said, entering the room. ‘Miss Trick isn’t well and won’t be in until later. That bloke of hers has just phoned the stage door. Sylvie, go and fetch Mrs Goldman.’
‘But…?’
‘Don’t argue, Sylvie, do as I ask. We’re not putting Miss Trick’s costume fitting off; Margaret can stand in for her.’ Margaret opened her mouth to say something, but Mrs Horton carried on speaking, as she often did. ‘We’ll have her in next week, but I’m not holding everyone up for her. Pop along to my washroom, Margaret and give your underarms a good wash.’
‘What?’
‘And put some talc on afterwards. Can’t have you perspiring on the costume. You’ll find everything you need in there. Get along. We’re already half an hour behind.’
As she ran out of the fitting room, she heard Mrs Horton shout, ‘Don’t run! You’ll sweat more.’
In the washroom Margaret lifted each arm in turn and sniffed. She wasn’t perspiring. She didn’t much. She took off her blouse and while the basin filled she looked at her reflection in the mirror. She breathed in and lifted her chin. ‘Good Lord,’ she said aloud. ‘I do look like Goldie.’ She turned to the right as far as she could and still see herself in the mirror. Her nose did tip up in the same way that Goldie’s did. Margaret wanted to scream with excitement, but told herself: ‘No, Margaret, you must be professional, and professionals do not screeeeeeeeeeam!’ Quickly she washed, dried, and patted talcum powder under her arms.
Walking back to the fitting room, she suddenly needed to go to the toilet. Blow! She’d gone past the Ladies’. Perhaps she should go back. Was there time? No there wasn’t. If she went back now she’d keep everyone waiting, so she carried on. It’s only nerves, she thought, or wind. Wind? She felt a fluttering in her tummy, or was it a rumble? ‘Please God it’s not wind.’ She stopped again and breathed in. She didn’t want her tummy to stick out when she had Goldie’s costume on, but then the alternative was worse. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said to herself. ‘Nerves, that’s all it is, nerves!’
At the fitting room door, she was met by Sylvie. ‘I’ll take your clothes,’ she said. After helping Margaret out of her skirt and blouse, Ivy and Violet helped her into Goldie’s costume.
Margaret was overwhelmed. One minute she wanted to laugh, the next she thought she’d cry. Having been told it was more than her life was worth to try on the costumes, here she was standing in for Goldie Trick, wearing her ice blue and silver show gown.
‘Lift your arms up, Margaret, so we can check the side-seams.’
Margaret did as she was told, not daring to move any other part of her body, while Mrs Horton and Violet circled her discussing the seams, the beading, the length of the skirt and the trim.
‘How does the dress feel, Margaret?’ Natalie Goldman asked, having just arrived.
‘What?’
‘The costume. How does it feel? Does it feel comfortable?’ Natalie Goldman said.
‘Oh yes. It’s comfortable. It’s very comfortable,’ Margaret cooed.
Mrs Horton looked at Violet and smiled. ‘You can put your arms down now, Margaret,’ she said, stepping away to view the dress from a distance. ‘Turn round so we can see how the skirt falls.’
‘Oh my God,’ Margaret gasped, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, ‘I look beautiful.’
‘Shush, dear,’ Mrs Horton whispered, before turning to Natalie Goldman.
‘Thank you, ladies, Goldie’s costume is perfect. And thank you, Margaret. You do indeed look beautiful,’ she said, smiling. Then to Mrs Horton she said, ‘Betsy Evans and George Derby-Bloom tomorrow?’
‘Two o’clock and three o’clock, if that’s convenient for you?’
‘That’s fine. I’ll see you then,’ Natalie said, and she left.
‘Betsy Evans,’ Ivy told Margaret during their tea break, ‘is from Wales. All the men in her family are coal miners and Betsy didn’t want to spend her life scrubbing coal dust out of everything, like her mum and aunts.’
‘So she left home with her mother’s blessing, but not her father’s,’ Violet added. ‘Still George looks after her. Lovely girls and the best of friends, but they’re chalk and cheese, Betsy and George are.’
‘Why’s that?’ Margaret asked.
‘Well,’ Violet said, ‘Betsy’s an ordinary working class girl and Georgina, or George, is upper-crust, if you know what I mean?’
‘She’s an ex-debutante,’ Ivy said. ‘They say her mother, who died when George was a baby, was a showgirl when she met George’s father, and after a whirlwind love affair they ran away to Gretna Green and got married. Poor George was brought up by a succession of nannies.’
‘George jokes about when her father married again, when she was sixteen. Apparently her step-mother started to introduce her to the sons of her friends. George said she had no interest in men, or in getting married, and told her step-mother so. It was after that she was packed off to finishing school in Switzerland,’ Violet said. ‘“I loved Geneva, but I hated finishing school,” she would say. “I learned deportment and dance, how to apply make-up bea-u-tifully, and how to act like a proper lay-dee – perish the thought. But it’s here, among my friends at the Prince Albert Theatre, that I learned how to be myself.”’
‘They came from opposite ends of society – George from money and knowing the right people, Betsy from working in a café during the day to pay for acting and dancing classes at night. But,’ Ivy said, ‘for both of them the theatre is their world. The Prince Albert Theatre is their home and the people who work here are their family.’
Margaret was no longer needed in the sewing room and was moved – or promoted, as she told Bill – to helping Mrs Horton with the maintenance of the costumes. Between them they made sure the costumes were always clean and in good condition. As ‘wardrobe assistant’ Margaret was responsible for small repairs, sewing up hems and replacing buttons, as well as washing and ironing the gloves and scarves – and making sure each artist had a clean pair of stockings for every show.
‘The artists aren’t allowed to sit around in their costumes, Margaret. And if you see anyone eating in costume,’ Mrs Horton said, ‘you must tell me. Be discreet, but tell me at once.’ Margaret nodded. ‘Not only do most of the costumes crease easily, but stains are impossible to wash out. Costumes with sequins or rhinestones can’t be washed in the conventional way; they have to be taken back to Berwick Street and sent away to a specialist cleaner. Before the war it was often cheaper to make another costume. But now material’s rationed, fabric’s impossible to get, unless you want utility serge.’
Margaret laughed. ‘Kat wouldn’t wear utility serge unless it came from Harvey Nichols.’
‘Kat wouldn’t wear utility anything, full stop!’ Mrs Horton said.
As soon as she arrived in the morning, Margaret washed the small items and hung them over the hot pipes in the boiler room. While they were drying she joined Mrs Horton and Bert for ele
venses. Afterwards, she set about mending and ironing. When the gloves and stockings were dry she sorted them into pairs, folding the stockings and ironing the gloves, ready to take to the dressing rooms after lunch. On matinee days it was at twelve, which gave them time to take the costumes to the dressing rooms before the company arrived.
The artists’ names were sewn into their costumes, which Mrs Horton and Margaret took to the dressing rooms and hung on a rail above the shoe rack. Gloves and stockings, and anything else that had been washed or mended, was put on the relevant artist’s chair. Jewellery and hats were placed on the dressing table in front of their mirror.
Bert brought up any telegrams, good luck cards and flowers that had been left at the stage door. He was like everyone’s granddad. He’d been the stage doorman and first-aider at the Prince Albert Theatre for over forty years. He could have – should have – retired several years before, but the theatre was his life. He was the first to arrive in the morning and the last to leave at night. He spoke to everyone with respect, including Margaret, although she could tell by the way he smiled at Nancy Jewel that she was his favourite. She was Margaret’s too.
Until she got to know the artists Margaret decided to keep her opinions to herself. She worked hard and saved her chatter for Bill when she got home.
CHAPTER FOUR
Annie’s words came into Margaret’s mind. “Don’t volunteer for nothing, they’ll take advantage of you.” Margaret sniffed – as Annie did – at the pile of ironing and mending she’d volunteered to do while she waited for Bill. She sniffed again at the underarms of Kat and George’s costumes. ‘Phew!’ After sponging them with rose water, she took them to the boiler room and hung them up to dry. On her way out she heard a ping, and suddenly it was dark. A bulb had gone. Looking along the corridor, she felt a sudden and icy chill. She rolled her shoulders, but couldn’t shake off the feeling. Annie had said the theatre was haunted by the spirit of a young girl. She said there was a cold spot on the landing, where the girl had stood before throwing herself down the stairs. Margaret wondered if she was standing in the spot and shivered. The stairs were steep and winding and made of stone. She looked over the banister and caught her breath.
She ran back to Wardrobe, flew through the door and slammed it shut. Leaning on it, she exhaled slowly. When she was sure no one had followed her, she stopped shaking. She arched her back and pushed herself off the door. ‘Bert’s downstairs, you silly goose,’ she said, ‘so get on with your job!’
Banishing all thoughts of Annie’s ghost and cold spots from her mind, she started on the repairs. After replacing a button on Betsy’s shirt, she took Goldie’s costume from its hanger and laid it across Mrs Horton’s sewing table. Goldie must have caught her heel in the hem; it had come down in two places. In the sewing drawer she searched the reels of cotton until she found one the same colour as Goldie’s dress. Five minutes later the dress looked as good as new.
Margaret ran her hands over the blue and silver beaded bodice. She had sewn the tiny round beads so neatly and close together that they felt level beneath her fingers. It had taken her hours. She grinned as she recalled the expression on Violet’s face when she asked her if seamstresses were allowed to try on the costumes “Not on your life!” she’d said, with a scowl that could have curdled the milk, yet just a few weeks later Margaret had been used as a dummy, because she was the same height and size as Goldie. Coveting the costume, she sighed. She would love to try it on now it was finished, but… But what? Who would know? No one!
In one movement she pulled her own dress over her head and threw it across the ironing board. She kicked off her shoes – she didn’t want to risk catching her heel in the hem – and stepped into the costume. She didn’t do it all the way up; she wasn’t able to reach all the small buttons at the back. She twirled and caught her breath. The dress looked as good on her as it did on Goldie.
Her heart began to pound. If she was caught trying on costumes she would get the sack. As quickly as she’d taken off her own dress, but with a great deal more care, she took off Goldie’s costume and hung it up.
She put on her own clothes and looked at her wristwatch. Bill was late. The washing basket was full to overflowing. There was nothing she could do about it at this hour, but she could iron while she waited. After plugging in the iron, she sorted through the pile of garments, putting those made of delicate fabrics to one side for Mrs Horton in the morning. As she turned back to the ironing board she caught her reflection in the mirror and jumped. Perhaps being up here alone wasn’t such a good idea. Even in the daytime it could be eerie when no one was around. She looked across at the dummies and mannequins in the costume room. The ghostly shadows they cast made her shudder.
Forcing all thoughts of the supernatural from her mind, Margaret picked up the iron and spat on her finger. She was about to test it to see if it was hot enough when she heard knocking coming from the costume room. She froze. She put the iron on its stand and tiptoed over to the entrance. She strained her eyes and looked in. The mannequins, standing in rows, looked like soldiers preparing to march. With the light behind her, Margaret couldn’t tell the difference between Kat’s mannequin and Nancy’s.
She stood still and listened. She couldn’t hear anything. Ah! There it was again – knock, knock, knock – and it seemed to be getting louder. Convinced someone was hiding among the dummies she shouted, ‘I know you’re in there. Come out and show yourself!’ She ran back and unplugged the iron. Picking it up with the hot plate facing forwards she wound the flex around her wrist and put the plug in her pocket. Slowly she made her way into the room, weaving in and out of the mannequins. As she ducked under a rack of jackets her hair caught on something. She lifted her free hand and lashed out at the attacking garment. It turned on its hanger but didn’t release her hair. Another swipe sent the jacket spinning to the floor with strands of Margaret’s hair coiled round a button.
It was unusually cold. She wondered if she was standing in a cold spot like the one on the landing. Fingers of ice inched their way up her spine and she shuddered. Too frightened to stay any longer, she turned to leave. It was then that she saw the reason for the knocking. A small window at the back of the room had been left open and with every gust of wind the weights in the bottom of the blackout blind banged against a wooden belt rack.
Relieved, Margaret slammed the window shut. ‘I’ll wait for Bill downstairs,’ she told one of the dummies as she passed. She returned the iron, standing it upright because it was still warm, and made her way to the door. She looked back. Everything was safe. Switching off the lights, she ran along the passage and down two flights of stairs. Halfway along the last passage she heard footsteps. They weren’t Bert’s: his were heavier, and Bill’s gait was quicker. She held her breath. The building creaks when it begins to cool down, she thought, but it didn’t stumble as these steps had just done. Scared out of her wits, Margaret ducked into dressing room two.
She had been standing in the dark dressing room for what felt like minutes, but could only have been a seconds, when the door flew open and someone staggered in. Without putting on the light the person turned, pushed the door shut, and screamed. Startled, Margaret screamed too.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
Margaret recognised the voice. ‘It’s me, Miss Kaplinski. Margaret,’ she said, switching on the light.
‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ Katarina Kaplinski shouted. The hostile Russian dancer staggered across the room clutching her stomach and dropped onto the old chaise longue. Her face was as white as a sheet and contorted with pain.
‘Are you all right, Miss Kaplinski?’
‘Do I look as if I’m bloody all right?’
Margaret recoiled. She’d said the wrong thing to Kat again. She was always doing it. Kat had that effect on her; made her feel stupid. Margaret knew she shouldn’t be in the artist’s dressing room and wanted to leave, but she could see there was something very wrong with Kat. ‘Can I get
you anything?’
‘Yes, a drink!’
Margaret filled a glass with water and offered it to her.
‘What the hell is this?’ she said, pushing the glass away. ‘I want something stronger!’
‘I don’t think you should have anything stronger.’
‘I don’t care what you think.’ Kat clutched her abdomen. ‘Bloody wardrobe girl telling me what I can and cannot have.’ She pulled herself to her feet and staggered across the room to the old stand-alone cupboard, where Margaret knew a bottle of brandy was kept for medicinal purposes. Before she had time to open it, she doubled over again. ‘Argh!’
Margaret ran to her. ‘All right, all right, I’ll get you a brandy, but let me help you back to the chaise first.’
‘Leave me alone!’ Kat pushed Margaret away, opened the cupboard and took the brandy from it. As she turned she began to sway. She took several deep breaths, which seemed to help her regain her balance, but then she clutched her stomach again. ‘You are right, Margaret,’ she whispered, ‘I will be better lying down. I cannot fall down then, can I?’
Margaret had just settled Kat back to the chaise when there was a knock at the door.
Anton Goldman called from the corridor: ‘Margaret, if you want a lift home, I’ll be leaving in ten minutes.’
Margaret opened her mouth, but Kat shook her head. ‘Do not answer and he will go away,’ she hissed.
‘I have to,’ Margaret whispered. ‘He knows I’m in here.’
‘Please do not tell him I am here,’ Kat begged, gripping Margaret’s arm as if her life depended on it.
‘I won’t, but if I don’t say something he’ll come in.’ Margaret ran across the room and, putting on a smile, opened the door and stepped into the corridor. ‘Thank you, Mr Goldman ... Anton,’ she said, in a carefree voice. ‘I’ve got a bit of mending to finish, so I’ll wait for Bill.’
Applause (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 2) Page 5
