The taxi swerved to a halt. ‘What the ‘ell?’ the cabbie shouted out of the window. ‘Not waiting for Gerry then?’
‘What?’
‘Running into the road like that, you could’ve got yourself killed.’
‘Sorry, but there’s so little transport about. Can you take me to the Aldwych?’
‘Sorry love, I’m not going that way. I can drop you off at Trafalgar Square.’
‘That’ll be fine.’ She jumped into the cab and it sped off. It wasn’t fine, but it was better than nothing. ‘How much?’ she said, getting out of the cab on the south side of the square.
‘Have it on me, love. I’ve done for the night. I’m on my way home.’
‘Thank you,’ she shouted above the high pitched wail of the air raid siren as he drove away. She squinted and looked through the drizzle. Trafalgar Square’s landmark in the blackout was Admiral Nelson – if there was enough moonlight to see his silhouette – and if you didn’t walk into a lion first. Margaret crossed at St. Martin in the Fields and ran up to Charing Cross station. From there she walked up the Strand to the Aldwych.
The taxi rank outside the Waldorf Hotel was overflowing with people, as was the bus stop further along. It seemed pointless to queue at either. She looked around, half expecting an ARP Warden to march her across the road to Aldwych underground station. But not tonight. The entrance hall was packed. Two brawling men tumbled out of the station, stopping only when the air raid siren began to wail again. As enemy aircraft roared overhead, Green Park’s searchlights chased them across the sky, followed by the ack-ack of anti-aircraft guns. Men and women who couldn’t get into the underground station turned and ran in every direction. Thankful there wasn’t room for her, Margot walked on. Bill knew her fear of the underground and wouldn’t expect her to be down there anyway.
Before turning into Kingsway, Margot was stopped in her tracks by a thunderous explosion. The docks were being blitzed again. She looked ahead. It wasn’t only the docks; Fleet Street had been hit too. Flames, whipped by the wind, rose hundreds of feet in the air above the roofs of a dozen buildings. Pinkish-white smoke ballooned upward in a great cloud. Margot stared into the sky, transfixed by the tiny bright specks of flashing light as anti-aircraft shells burst, lighting up the barrage balloons, turning them from silver to pink. She put her hands to her ears to muffle the sound of the shells.
She jumped back onto the pavement as several fire engines, bells clanging the warning that they weren’t going to stop, flew past. When the road was safe to cross she ran to the beginning of Fleet Street. She watched as the first engine pulled up in front of the first burning building, the second in front of the next, and so on. As they pumped water onto the flames the buildings hissed and thick smoke billowed into the sky, falling back to earth as black rain. Margot wondered whether she should offer to help, but Bill always said however well-intentioned the public were they often got in the way of the professionals. She decided against it, lifted her scarf over her mouth and nose and walked back to Kingsway. With the gut-churning crump and rumble of exploding bombs ringing in her ears, she suddenly felt frightened. Bill had been sent to Fleet Street earlier in the evening. She prayed he wasn’t still there. She shook the thought from her mind and carried on walking. There wasn’t a bus in sight. She would probably have to walk all the way to Euston to catch one now.
The drizzle of half an hour ago had turned into rain and the smoke from Fleet Street’s burning buildings was making it difficult to see. She stepped into a shop doorway to tie her scarf around her head and stumbled over something bulky. She began to withdraw her foot from what she thought was a bundle of rags when it kicked out. She caught her breath. A man, mumbling to himself in what smelt to Margot like a pub cellar, was slumped against the door. She daren’t move. Suddenly the man belched loudly, jolting himself out of his drunken stupor. His eyes shot open and, seeing Margot, he began to curse. Margot made a bolt for it, knotting her scarf as she ran.
At Russell Square there was a barrier across the road. Margot strained her eyes and could just make out a gaping hole on the other side. Unable to follow the bus route, she followed a faint line on the road that pointed to a sign that read DETOUR.
The rain was sheeting down. The new moon gave little light and without streetlights one house looked much like another. There was always a window or a door that allowed a chink of light to escape, but not tonight – tonight Margot felt as if she was walking through a ghost town. She looked about. Not a soul in sight. She told herself not to panic, that there was bound to be fewer people in the streets now than there had been an hour ago, or however long ago it was since she left the Strand. But she hadn’t reckoned on the streets being completely deserted. She turned into a tree-lined avenue of three-storey terraced houses with tall shuttered windows. ‘Bloody blackout,’ she said under her breath.
Everything about it looked familiar. She stopped for a moment to think. Had she been here before this evening? Without streetlights one city avenue looked much the same as another. Each terraced house was built to the same design. Each had window boxes instead of a garden, and a small paved area between the gate and the steep steps leading up to the front door. What made each house different from its neighbour was the door, windows and curtains, which couldn’t be seen in the blackout.
Margot needed to know where she was, so she opened the nearest gate and ran up the steps. At the door she lifted a brass knocker. It was heavy and shaped like the head of an animal. She put her hand into what felt like a mouth and rapped several times. There was no reply. She put her ear to the door, but there was no sound. She was about to knock again when she heard footsteps. They were coming from the direction that she had come – and they were getting nearer. Margot turned, ran down the steps and was through the gate in seconds. She walked as quickly and as quietly as she was able to the end of the road, and then she flew round the corner to goodness knows where and stopped. Leaning against a wall she held her breath and listened. All she could hear was her own pulse beating.
She waited for several minutes and when she was sure she wasn’t being followed, she walked on. She hadn’t gone more than a few yards when she heard footsteps again – and they sounded closer. Margot stopped, and the footsteps stopped. After a minute’s silence she began to walk again – and she heard the footsteps again. Convinced now that someone was following her, Margot ran for her life, the clip-clip of her heels sounding louder as she pounded the uneven pavement.
At the end of the avenue she saw a derelict builder’s yard and her heart sank. She had seen the yard already this evening. She had gone round in a circle. She was lost. In a frenzy to escape whoever was following her, Margot ran through the open gate. Her left shoe came off in the mud, but she daren’t stop. Praying there were no unexploded bombs in her path, she hobbled across a stretch of wasteland littered with broken furniture and motorcar tyres, a stove, and other discarded objects. She looked over her shoulder to see if she was being followed, tripped and fell. On her hands and knees she crawled to a rusting oil drum and pulled herself up.
Sitting on the drum, covered in mud, exhausted from running in what had turned into torrential rain, Margot burst into tears. She looked up at the sky. The rain was sheeting down. She cuffed a hot tear from her cold cheek and smeared mud across her face. She didn’t care. She was soaked, cold and frightened, and she knew she couldn’t stay there; it was too open, too exposed. Shivering, she hauled herself to her feet and set off across the expanse of mud and puddles.
‘Ouch! Damn! That hurt!’ Margot stubbed the toes of her shoeless foot on something sticking out of the rubble. It happened so suddenly that the momentum carried her forward and she slammed her foot down hard on the ground. She wanted to scream. She stopped for a second. But the footsteps behind her didn’t. In agony every time she put her foot to the ground, Margot hobbled on.
‘Hello? Who’s there?’ she heard someone shout. She ran into a derelict building and hid behind the door. It was
a man that was following her, she could tell by his voice, and he was near. Should she stay where she was and hope whoever was out there would give up and go away, or should she run into the building? She didn’t want to go further in; it was pitch black in there and she could hear water pouring onto what sounded like a corrugated iron roof. If the water pipes had been damaged, the gas ones might have been too. She heard the man call out again, and this time she recognised her name. ‘Margot? Are you there?’
Leaning forward, Margot looked between the rusty hinges of the door and the frame. The man was sitting on the oil drum. He sat sideways on to her and half hidden by shadow, but then he turned and looked in her direction. He was holding her shoe. ‘Margot?’ He sounded like Bill, but… ‘Please God,’ she whispered, ‘please let it be Bill.’ Margot held her breath, not daring to reply. She watched the man stand up and walk away. At the entrance of the yard he stopped, turned and bellowed, ‘Margot? Margot?’
‘Bill! I’m here!’ Margot ran from the building. Managing to avoid a dozen dangerous objects she fell into her husband’s arms. ‘I was so frightened,’ she said, trembling.
‘All right, all right, you’re safe now.’ Bill wrapped his arms around his young wife and rocked her. ‘Shush… I’ve got you.’
‘Oh Bill,’ Margot said, collapsing in tears, ‘I thought you were the Nazis.’
‘You silly goose,’ he said, lovingly. ‘What would Nazis want with you? He handed Margot her shoe. ‘Come on. The bike’s round the corner. Let’s get you home.’
Margot kicked off her other shoe, picked both up by their heels, and threw them into a pile of rubbish. Trembling from the cold, she looked up at Bill, her eyes sparkling with fear. ‘I was being followed, Bill. We need to get out of here now!’
‘That imagination of yours will get you into real trouble one day.’ Bill bent down. ‘Put your arms around my neck and hold on tight.’ He picked Margot up as if she was a doll and she leant her head on his shoulder. His coat was wet and cold. She didn’t care, she was wetter and colder. Bill held her tightly. ‘Nazis indeed!’ he said, kissing her on her forehead. ‘It’s a good job you’ve got me to look after you.’ Bill carried Margot out of the gate and along the avenue to his motorbike. ‘It’s a bit wet,’ he said, and they both laughed.
Bill put Margot down and after mounting the bike he put out his arm for her to hold, and she climbed onto the pillion seat. ‘Next stop Hampstead,’ he said, kicking the stand from beneath the bike.
Margot looked back into the darkness, relieved that it was her husband’s footsteps that she’d heard and not someone out to do her harm. As she turned to face the way they were going, she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. In the shadows, coming from where she had been hiding, she saw a match flare. A second later there was a red glow. It brightened as if air was being sucked through a cigarette.
Margot tightened her arms around Bill’s waist and in a hoarse voice cried, ‘Get us out of here!’ As they drove away, Margot laid her head on Bill’s back. She felt safe for the first time since she’d left the theatre, five hours earlier.
CHAPTER T EN
Kat’s dances had been modified several times over the last few months. She no longer did high kicks. Nor did she perform pirouettes, or stand on her points when she was the black swan in the tableau of Swan Lake. And her costumes had been let out as much as they could be. Some even had the same, or contrasting, fabric sewn in at the sides.
‘There’s nothing more we can do, Miss Kaplinski,’ Mrs Horton said. ‘The seams won’t hold for much longer. They’ll split one of these nights and then what shall we do?’
Kat looked at the strained stitching on her costume and nodded. She knew, as wardrobe did, that it was time she hung up her dancing shoes.
‘If it wasn’t that fabric was so hard to get,’ Violet said, ‘we might be able to make new costumes, but--’
‘It isn’t hard to get,’ Mrs Horton said, ‘it’s impossible. And even if it wasn’t, I’m afraid we wouldn’t be able to conceal Miss Kaplinski’s condition for much longer.’
Kat laughed. ‘My condition will no longer need to be concealed, Mrs Horton. Thank you for all the work you have done to keep my secret, but this week will be my last as a dancer – at least for a while. My doctor says that although I no longer do strenuous work on stage I must rest more. I will tell Mr Goldman and the director tomorrow. I think they will understand.’ Standing sideways on to the mirror, with one hand on top of her tummy and the other beneath it, Kat proudly exaggerated her baby-bump and everyone laughed.
On Kat’s last night the show was a great success, although the company, backstage staff, and orchestra were aware that some scenes were a little subdued. The tradition when one of the Prince Albert’s leading ladies leaves was for Anton Goldman to join the cast on stage for the last curtain.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘It is with sadness that tonight we say goodbye to one of the Prince Albert Theatre’s leading lights.’ Anton turned, smiled at Kat, and offered his hand. Kat, smiling graciously, joined him. Slowly Anton led her to the front of the stage, bowed, and then stepped back, leaving her on the apron to enjoy the applause. A couple of minutes later a pageboy appeared from the wings holding a bouquet. The audience stood up and cheered. And as the company gathered round Kat, kissing her and wishing her well, the curtain was slowly lowered.
Artists came and went regularly at the Prince Albert, especially the girls in the back row who didn’t sing or dance, but filled in as handmaidens and servants, or held poses in friezes. It was an occupational hazard of war that women as well as men were called up to fight for their country. The Phoney War, as the politicians called it, had come to an end with the blitzing of the East End. Since then the turnover of women employees had doubled. To the audience, Kat leaving was just another artist moving on. To the company at the Prince Albert Theatre, her leaving was not only sad, it presented a huge problem. When Goldie left, Margot was able to take over her role. But there was no one waiting in the wings to take over from the feisty Russian.
Getting anywhere on time in London had become almost impossible. With more air raid warnings since the Luftwaffe had stepped up their assault on the East End, two understudies had been employed to go on at short notice when artists were delayed. They were both professional dancers and had agreed to understudy if they were given the chance to take over when a member of the company left. Richard Smiley had promised to audition them for Kat’s roles. He hadn’t even considered Margot.
Kat hadn’t been able to stand on her points for months, nor had she been able to spin or perform pirouettes, which Margot could do if the routine wasn’t too complicated. She smiled, remembering when she took dance classes on Saturday mornings in Woodcote’s village hall. She didn’t have the shoes needed to learn some of the dances, so the dance teacher brought in her older daughter’s ballet and tap shoes for her to borrow. She said she was too good a little dancer to miss out. Margot’s eyes filled with tears. It was so easy then, not only because the dance teacher recognised she had talent, but because she liked her for being confident. Not so now. Richard Smiley didn’t seem to notice her talent and resented her confidence. Margot dried her eyes. She knew she could do Kat’s dances – she was as good an actress and her voice was better than Kat’s. But it didn’t matter how good she was if Smiley wouldn’t consider her.
Before she left on Saturday night, Margot went to see Nancy. She knocked gently on the door of dressing room one and heard Nancy say, ‘Come in.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Margot said, opening the door and seeing the choreographer, Lena Di Angelo, sitting on the chaise. ‘I didn’t know you had anyone with you.’ She smiled at Lena. ‘I’ll come back.’
‘We’re only chatting. What can I do for you, Margot?’
Margot looked from Nancy to Lena and, as they were the two people who could help her the most, launched straight in. ‘I’d like to take over from Kat.’
Nancy smiled. Lena looked
surprised. ‘Have you spoken to Richard?’
‘No. He kind of doesn’t see me. He hasn’t forgiven me for stepping in without telling him when Goldie left.’ Margot looked at the floor. ‘I thought – hoped – you might put a good word in for me with him. Then he might consider me.’
Lena looked at Nancy. ‘I think we can do better than that. Kat’s dances were modified during her pregnancy, so there aren’t many ballet moves to learn. Richard will expect some, but he doesn’t expect Kat’s replacement to be a ballet dancer.’ Margot exhaled with relief. ‘I’m guessing you have ballet shoes?’
Margot scrunched up her shoulders and nodded. ‘I borrowed a pair from the wardrobe store.’
Lena smiled. ‘How’s your balance?’
‘Good.’
‘Fluidity and grace, like in the Adagio?’
Margot thought for a moment and nodded. ‘Yes. Good.’
‘And how are you on the small quick steps of Couru?’
‘I’ve been practising since I knew Kat would be leaving, and I’m confident I’m good enough. I can stand on demi points, and I’ve learned the fast steps of the Deboulé.’
‘I’m impressed,’ Lena said.
‘Don’t be. My Deboulé leaves a lot to be desired. I’m fine doing half turns, stepping onto one leg and completing the turn by stepping onto the other, but I find it hard to step high and keep my legs together. And I can only travel in a straight line.’
Lena laughed. ‘We’ll soon put that right. What are you doing tomorrow?’
‘Nothing. With Bill and me both working long hours we just eat and sleep on Sunday.’
‘Good. See you here at ten o’clock. I won’t be able to turn you into a prima ballerina, but I’ll have you dancing a damn sight better than the girls Richard has lined up to audition on Monday.’
Margot put her hand to her mouth. ‘I can’t tell you what this means to me, Lena,’ she said. ‘See you at ten.’ She looked at Nancy and bit her bottom lip.
Applause (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 2) Page 12
