by Ruby Jackson
‘Keep your comedy for the war-wounded.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Take a tea-break everyone; we can’t use the stage today since another group has first dibs and so let’s meet in twenty minutes in the storeroom.’ He saw the disgruntled looks and attempted to mollify his tired troupe. ‘I know it’s full of scenery from The Dancing Years, filing cabinets, costumes from everything under the sun, but at least for this afternoon they have promised not to bring in anything else and so we will have some space.’
‘You grab two mugs of tea, Sally, and I’ll beetle off and snaffle two chairs. It’s every man for himself today,’ said Sebastian.
His clever if somewhat selfish plan did get them two comfortable chairs – for once all four legs of each were the same length.
Sally, who had been about to tell him that she’d just heard of the tragic death of Grace’s sister, Megan, in an air raid over Dartford, decided not to spread any misery but concentrate on the morning’s work. ‘I’ve blotted my copybook with Max, Sebastian. What did you think of what I said?’
‘You expressed my exact thoughts, but you are – for the moment – only a tiny spoke in a great wheel. The powers that be say they need you to be two different girls. Can you do a Scottish or perhaps an Irish accent?’
‘Not so I’d fool a native.’
‘Trust me, you’ll be able to fool anyone when Lalita has finished with you.’
‘Who on earth is Lalita?’
‘Lalita Cruz; she’s Mexican. Isn’t that incredibly exotic? She’s fluent in only the Lord knows how many languages and each spoken with the correct accent; frightening woman. She used to do miracles with tenors in the opera, but came to us saying actors were more biddable, and besides, it’s for the war effort.’
‘Is she nice?’
‘Brewer, Sally, Miss, you do ask the most irrelevant questions. “Is she nice?” Who cares, little one? All that is important is whether or not she can teach and, believe you me, she can. But I’ll warn you that she doesn’t take prisoners. So work hard today, get yourself off to bed as early as poss, have a good night’s sleep and you’ll be brilliant at nine tomorrow morning.’
‘Well, look who’s grabbed the best chairs.’ The others arrive en masse. ‘Sally in the alley; the boss’s favourite.’
‘That’s enough—’ began Sebastian but he was stopped by a forceful hand.
‘Shove over, Seb,’ said Ken Whyte, one of the actors, ‘and make room for your elders and betters.’
Obligingly Sebastian removed himself from the chair and went to sit down on the floor with his back against the wall, where he attempted to make Sally laugh by pulling funny faces. Max ignored him, merely stepping over the long legs stretched out, and announced, ‘I’ve agreed to put on shows at two military bases in the south of England, and later in the year, possibly March, a third base in the north-east. Unfortunately none of these bases has one of the fantastic new purpose-built garrison theatres, but never mind. We’ll take what we’re given. Our programme for the next few months will be more or less the same each time, and so by the time we hit Northumberland – if that’s where we’re going – you should be word-, note- and step-perfect. By the end of this bloody war, I’ll have you all on Broadway, the West End, luxury liners sailing to tropical climes; you name it, we’ll do it.’
‘Any real chance of a trip to Europe, Max?’ asked Millicent Burgess, a former member of a professional ballet company, who had joined their ranks just before Christmas.
‘So far only those prepared to lay down their lives for their friends and enemies are being offered European holidays, love, but with some of the greats prepared to chance it, who knows what’ll happen? Any particular holiday resort in mind?’
There was no reply to Max’s sarcasm but Sally saw that the slim young woman looked absolutely devastated. She had turned so pale that the blusher she had put on her cheeks stood out almost like the make-up of a circus clown. Surely Max’s words hadn’t upset her to that extent. Sally waited until they were dismissed and moved in beside Millicent as they returned to the dressing rooms.
‘Max isn’t usually so unpleasant, Millicent …’ she began.
‘Millie’s fine. And Max is a rank amateur where pain-in-the-arse directors are concerned.’
They walked on in silence and Sally was at a loss. She tried again. ‘I’m so looking forward to seeing you dance. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve never been to an actual ballet performance.’
‘Take yourself off to Sadler’s Wells. You won’t get “an actual ballet performance” from me. I think I was hired as a hoofer, not a ballerina. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Goody Two-Shoes, I’m starving.’
She opened a dressing-room door and shut it behind her with an almighty crash. Stunned, Sally stood for a moment looking at the door and then went to the dressing room that she shared with several other women. There she was welcomed warmly.
‘Great Christmas, Sally?’
‘Lovely, thank you. You?’
Still reeling from the surprising dislike in Millie’s voice, Sally was happy to make light conversation.
A day or so later Sebastian caught up with her as they were leaving the theatre.
‘Let’s see if we can find some hot food and then I’ll see you home.’
Immediately Sally felt more confident. Every evening it was becoming more and more difficult to leave the theatre. Bombing raids had intensified, as the enemy seemed determined to destroy the capital completely. Each evening Sally wondered whether it was safer to hide in the theatre and risk being bombed there, or to go out into the street and face the possibility of being caught in an air raid on her way to the hostel.
‘They won’t come till later, will they, Sebastian?’ she pleaded, although she knew it was impossible to guess when a raid might begin. One night it might start as early as seven o’clock and last until two or three next morning, the next night it might not start until much later or, if the sky was clear and bright with stars, raids could begin very early in the evening and last, she supposed, until all the bombs were dropped.
‘I have no idea, Sally darling, but what I do know is that we can’t allow ourselves to live in fear. We must be sensible, not take foolish risks, but live as happily as we can. So, are you game? Shall we defy Jerry and find hand-cut potatoes deep fried in the best imported oil and served with something masquerading as the finest poisson?’
‘In other words, smarty, fish and chips.’
He laughed. ‘My way sounds better. And not rationed either, better still.’
His easy charm cheered her and she tucked her hand into his arm and, almost gaily, walked along beside him as he adapted his slightly longer stride to hers.
‘I always meant to walk around this whole area, Sebastian; find out what’s on the other streets. I sometimes find it hard to believe that I’m actually living in London. I want to see everything: walk along the banks of the Thames, picnic in the parks, go into St Paul’s …’
He laughed. ‘You can pray anywhere, Sally Brewer.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of praying, just seeing it, thinking of all the famous people who’ve been in there before me. London’s amazing. Every street seems to have something famous on it or some great doctor or writer or painter lived there.’ She stopped and looked up at his face. ‘Are you laughing at me?’
‘I was nowhere near laughing at you. I agree with you and was thinking about how much I take for granted. Tell you what, we’ll plan an itinerary. Every free day we’ll visit something.’
‘Ouch.’ Sally stumbled over a small obstacle, a tin lunch box that had lost its lid. Sebastian caught her around the waist so that she did not fall.
They stood like that for a few moments as Sally assessed the condition of her right ankle and Sebastian contented himself by holding her and enjoying the delicate scent of her dark silky hair.
‘I’m fine,’ she said after testing her foot on the ground several times, ‘and if you’re serious I’d love
to walk around London with you.’
‘I’m serious, believe me, but right now I’d better take you home. Probably better to prop it—’
Sebastian did not finish his well-meant advice as the thick foggy atmosphere was rent by the chilling sound of the air-raid warning. His arms were still around her. Sally pushed her face against his ancient cashmere coat and, trembling in terror, threw her arms around his neck. It seemed that only seconds later, the dull, shadowy city was full of a familiar droning sound. It accompanied the sharp trills of whistles as wardens and patrolling policemen tried to shepherd pedestrians towards the nearest shelters.
Sebastian looked around. ‘We’ll find a shelter, Sally. Trust me,’ he said as he swept her up into his arms.
‘Underground’s nea …’ came from the bulky shape of a helmeted bobby, but anything else he said was drowned out by the terrifying roar of aircraft directly overheard. In spite of herself, Sally shrieked and clung even more tightly to Sebastian, who made soothing noises as he stumbled along.
‘The bastards,’ he shouted, almost dropping Sally. ‘They’re after St Paul’s.’
Sally struggled until he set her carefully on the ground muttering, ‘Max needs both your little feet.’
‘Never mind my feet, do something.’
Later Sally and Sebastian were to laugh together over what Sebastian called ‘the silliest thing said by anyone on that ghastly night’.
‘Do something, she says, as if I was being lazy, not trying hard enough. Do somsing, you fool,’ he shouted in an appallingly poor German accent. ‘Order zat Heinkel to go home zis very minute.’
At the time he said nothing and merely guided her as quickly and as safely as he could towards the nearest underground station. They stopped several times, ducking their heads each time as if that would make the slightest difference to the death-dealing monsters prowling above them in the night sky. They would choose to drop their cargo where they were convinced the worst damage would be done and woe betide anyone below them.
‘Not sure where we are, Sally; I always thought I could find my way blindfolded around London but the damned flames and smoke combined with fog and smoke …’ He shook his head. ‘No real idea, could be Blackfriars or St Paul’s itself, maybe even Bank. They could be after the Bank of England. Think of what that would do to international finance.’
‘And if they destroy St Paul’s? Oh, I feel so helpless, Sebastian. Couldn’t we get out and walk to the cathedral? Maybe we could be helpful.’
He looked down at her. ‘My brave little Sally. What could we possibly do? I’m a not-too-awful actor and you – well, you’re a beautiful girl who will one day be very good. If you survive, Sally, if you survive. To walk out there into carnage is just too bloody stupid; we’d be in the way.’
They stumbled hastily along, others crowding around them and, with relief, made it into an underground shelter. Sally had automatically taken a deep breath as they entered. She would never like being underground where the walls and roof seemed to press down upon her, but she accepted that here was their best chance of safety.
She hardly cared where they were as long as there was some shelter, some relief from the relentless droning, from the chilling sound of exploding bombs. Explosions spoke loudly of death and destruction. Better to flock together like sheep or starlings and take comfort from the proximity of another human being. Better to sing, to proclaim ‘There’ll Always be an England’, or to listen to that good-looking young fellow, who looked slightly familiar, declaiming speeches from Shakespeare’s plays, mixing them up, quite hilariously, with bits from Ivor Novello or Noël Coward.
Sally saw the admiration in even elderly eyes as they looked at Sebastian. ‘You’re wonderful, Sebastian, absolutely wonderful,’ she said.
‘I know he’s in pictures; seen him, I have. Even had a picture from a magazine pinned on the kitchen calendar. Can’t think; it’ll come.’
Sally listened and smiled. She could list Sebastian’s credits for them but knew that for the petrified woman in the shelter, trying to remember them was so much better than wondering if the little terraced house or shop would still be there when the all clear sounded. It never occurred to Sally that her or Sebastian’s could be the house that would disappear into a gaping hole.
They stayed in the underground until nearly five next morning. Sebastian had exhausted not only his voice, but also his long list of speeches and poems committed to memory. Others in the shelter had contributed in whatever way they could; children had slept; old men had tried, but at last it was over and they were safe to leave. They hesitated, like blind moles with their snouts at the edge of a hole, before taking their courage in both hands and stumbling out into …
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’
Startled exclamations rang across the landscape of flame and smoke, the noise of fire engines, the sudden thundering of stone on stone as parts of exhausted buildings collapsed. A sudden silence fell, followed almost immediately by joyful shouts.
‘It’s still there; they didn’t get it.’
‘It’s on fire,’ came a voice filled with horror.
‘No.’ Sebastian’s tired voice still had authority. ‘Trust me. Those flames are behind the cathedral.’
So it proved. St Paul’s Cathedral, that magnificent Wren creation, had sustained damage, but its world-famous dome still stood defiantly among the burning ruins around it.
Eyes stinging from the clouds of drifting acrid smoke, Sally and Sebastian began to walk. Again Sally stumbled over some debris and clutched at Sebastian’s coat. ‘I feel dirty, Sebastian, and I’m chilled. I’m going back to the boarding house for a bath and a change of clothes.’
He patted her hand protectively. ‘The theatre’s closer, Sally. We’re already late and we have only two days of rehearsal left. We’ll find the Red Cross or the WVS – remember the blessed WVS turned up at the theatre – and I bet we’ll find them at this disaster zone.’
They encountered a WVS tea van almost immediately.
‘See, Sally, the WVS are out with their vans. If it’s true that they’re at every underground station almost before the all clear has stopped sounding we should suggest to Max that we do a fund-raising concert for them.’
Sally took the roll with its scraping of – probably – home-made marmalade; the WVS, like housewives all over Britain, expected that soon jam would join the growing list of rationed goods. He handed her a cup of tea and she was surprised by how quickly she finished it.
‘Probably the best cup of tea I’ve ever had,’ she said. ‘What do they put in it?’
‘Relief,’ he said. ‘And a sprinkling of brotherly love. Come on, let’s take the cups back and make our way to work.’
Sally stayed where she stood for a moment, somehow unable to move.
‘Come on, old girl. We’re alive and we’re needed.’
Still she stood. ‘I’m terrified, Sebastian. Look around. Oh God, it’s terrible. There must be people lying dead or injured all over London.’
He shook her until her eyes filled with tears and then he held her tightly against him. ‘We have a job to do, Sally. Sobbing in the street won’t help anyone. The injured, the bereaved – they need cheering up. Our remit, remember, is to do our level best to raise the morale of our fellow man – or woman. Come on, Sally, square shoulders and let’s do what we’re good at.’
He took her hand and almost pulled her along, tripping over unnoticed, unexpected debris; a door, which they managed to avoid, a chimneypot, bricks, two leather-bound books, large and small fragments of sometimes still-burning wood, and bizarrely, a well-used frying pan with a fried egg welded to it by even greater heat than that which had originally cooked the egg. Each sad sight only added to Sally’s grief. Had Sebastian released her hand for a second she would have taken flight but, mercilessly, he clung to her, ignoring her sobs.
They reached the old theatre to find only Max and Lalita in possession.
> Sally was both frightened and delighted to meet the répétiteur, although she was unsure what the word meant. She was also very much looking forward to meeting a Mexican as she had no real idea of what a Mexican woman would look like, all her knowledge of the country having come from American cowboy films. She had expected that she might be of medium height, plump with tanned skin, shiny, long, black hair, and flashing dark eyes. Lalita was tall and slender, her skin was lightly tanned and her thick, dark hair was fastened into a gleaming knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were as blue as Sally’s own. Probably somewhere in her fifties, she retained some of the stunning beauty she must have had as a young woman.
‘Thank you both for coming,’ said Max gravely. ‘We have discovered a Primus stove, two bottles of beer, some rather stale bread and three sausages. I suggest we eat, drink and be as merry as we can be until the others arrive – if they do. If they don’t arrive, Lal will work with you, Sally darling; I want to turn you into a nice wee Scotch lassie for a heather-in-the-hills number.’
Lalita’s skills were more than adequate to the task. First, she questioned Sally as to her knowledge of Scottish accents, pointing out that they were many and varied. She learned that Sally had spent only a few days in Scotland and that her knowledge of accents was taken from wireless broadcasts.
‘I can say “Och aye the noo,”’ she told Lal who laughed.
‘Best forget that one, Sally; we’re not doing pantomime. Now, vowel sounds. Repeat after me …’
And so began a gruelling crash course, repeating or trying to repeat the sounds that Lal was making. She had taken French at school and so could ‘roll her r’s’ quite well but had to learn how to modulate them. In the limited time available Lal strove to teach Sally to create a sound that could be recognized as vaguely Scottish.
Two hours later, both were exhausted but rather pleased with Sally’s new accomplishment.
Despite the traffic restrictions, almost every member of the troupe had managed to reach the theatre, each and every one with alarming, often hair-raising tales of their difficulties.
