A Christmas Gift

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘A miracle; no other word for it. St Paul’s is still gloriously there.’ Sybil Tapper, choreographer and former ballerina, born, brought up, and trained in the city, brought the latest news.

  Even those who were not Londoners by birth felt the symbolic power of the cathedral’s survival.

  ‘One in the eye for old Hitler; this failure must dent his pride, but I wouldn’t call it a miracle.’ The company’s pianist, Sam Castleton, grey with fatigue under his smoke-grimed face, told them of the hours he and others like him had spent helping the fire service by carrying buckets, wash-basins, anything that could hold water, from any source they could find, forming immense human chains of men, women and even children from every stratum of society. All night they had fought, passing the containers from hand to hand until the water reached the fires that were bursting out in various parts of the great monument.

  ‘Poor old Thames must be near bone dry, and the buggers have hit water mains. God knows how the hospitals are coping.’

  Max stood up and clapped his hands loudly so as to still the chattering. ‘No point in starting anything now. I want everyone home before dark. Go over your pieces at home, try them out in the shelters if we have another night like last night, and tomorrow, if you judge you can’t be here by ten at the latest, don’t even try. We’ll do a show with whoever turns up. Now go.’

  ‘Come on, Sally, you look as if you’re about to drop.’ Sebastian surreptitiously examined Sally as she allowed the wall to support her. She was deathly pale so that her beautiful blue eyes seemed larger and brighter than ever. They made him think of cold spring water coursing down the stream at the bottom of his late grandfather’s orchard. The sun made each clear droplet sparkle and somehow the greyish stones on the bed of the stream changed colour, now green, now blue, and then neither green nor blue. One day, he vowed, he would gaze into Sally’s lovely eyes and discover what colour they actually were.

  ‘Come along,’ he repeated, for all the world like an exasperated schoolteacher dealing with a recalcitrant pupil, ‘I’ll get you home somehow and there must be soup. Grandmamma swears by soup.’

  Sally was not listening; he doubted that she understood one word but she pushed herself off the wall and turned towards the door, unable to do anything but what she was told.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ he yelled. ‘New Year’s Eve. Who’s for the Savoy?’

  ‘Do shut up, Seb,’ the others yelled back in unison but Sally smiled and that was all he cared about. He heard her wince with fatigue as he opened the outside door but she recovered.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Sebastian.’

  He put his arm around her as a prop. ‘Lal worked you too hard today.’

  Lal? That was it. She would ask now – anything to take her mind away from the terrifying events that were taking place all around her. ‘Sebastian, what exactly is a répétiteur?’

  ‘What lively questions you do ask. It’s the brilliant person who repeats everything for the singer or the actor. He/she is a voice coach, and accent coach, but the most sought after are those who are also stunningly good musicians. If a singer or a dancer is having trouble with a particular phrase, the répétiteur plays it over and over until the performer sings or dances or speaks it properly. Invaluable. Some focus on opera or acting; some are all-rounders, like Lal, who can sound as if she’s never left the East End of London one minute and become a sophisticated Russian princess the next.’

  ‘I never realised it was all so difficult.’

  ‘Nothing that’s worthwhile is easy. But perhaps today, two hours of concentrated Lalita Cruz was overkill.’

  She tried to smile. ‘No, Sebastian. She’s amazing. I appreciated so much individual attention.’

  ‘Which Max is getting now.’

  ‘He doesn’t need …’ began Sally and then, aware of Sebastian’s meaning, blushed.

  ‘You didn’t hear the door lock behind us? You didn’t wonder how they managed to reach the theatre early and to find a Primus stove, not to mention sausages?’

  Sally said nothing. Too much had happened and, at this particular moment, all she wanted was to get to her boarding house and fall into bed, preferably after a hot bath.

  How dark it was. Not that daylight in London was a patch on the clear air of the Kent countryside she and her friends had loved to cycle through. In London one always had to peer to find the kerb of a pavement, and now, after all these fires, buildings collapsing in a cloud of dust, it was always dark. There was little or no traffic running. Rubble was being cleared from roads and pavements, frighteningly close to Little Church Lane, where Mrs Shuttlecock’s house was; police and firemen were still much in evidence. Sally’s breath caught in her throat.

  ‘Have they worked all day too, Sebastian?’

  ‘Probably. But they may have a rota system – two-hour breaks or whatever. They’re not automatons.’

  Sally desperately wanted Sebastian to accompany her all the way to her boarding house but his sensitive remarks about the long hours worked by the rescue services reminded her that he too had been awake through the fraught hours of the air raid. She straightened up. ‘I’ll be fine from here; it’s not too far. You should get home before there’s another air raid.’

  He pretended to be hurt. ‘How can you not allow me to play knight in shining armour? Grandmamma will be delighted to hear that her strenuous efforts paid off. I’ll deliver you to your door in one perfect piece. Then I’ll trot off home feeling rather pleased with myself.’

  What could she say?

  ‘Then let’s hurry; you must be home before sunset.’

  He took her hand and together they walked as quickly as they could, avoiding rubble wherever possible. What a prolonged battering the city had suffered!

  A heavy layer of smoke and dust hung over the approach to Sally’s street. Foreboding filled her as she turned onto Little Church Lane. The bus stop was still there outside the garden gate. The pole leaned precariously, almost pointing to the rubble-filled crater into which the boarders’ house and the garden, which only yesterday had boasted the last of a fine show of Michaelmas daisies, had fallen. Sally turned as if expecting to find the house on the other side of the street. Houses did stand there, some windowless, two without front doors, most without chimneypots. These looked as if some giant hand had swept them off the roofs, tossing them down to smash to smithereens on the road.

  ‘Sal …’ Sebastian tried gently.

  ‘Know the people in the ’ouse, miss? Them as lived there, I mean? Mrs Shuttlecock ’ad lodgers and none of ’em survived – far as we can see. Rotten luck.’ A police constable, his kind but tired eyes looking out of a prematurely aged face, had appeared from one of the surviving gardens.

  ‘Watch ’er,’ he croaked, hours of smoke and dust having filled his throat, but Sebastian had already caught Sally before she fell.

  ‘Miss Brewer was a resident of number eleven,’ he said. ‘Last night she was caught in the raid on St Paul’s and sheltered in the underground.’

  ‘Everyone?’ asked a tremulous voice.

  ‘All as was in the ’ouse, miss. I’m so sorry, but it’s lovely for me to cross one off my list.’ He licked the point of his pencil and crossed out ‘MISS SALLY BREWER’. ‘Any family, miss? They know you’re safe, do they? And the ’ousing officer’ll find you a place for the night, washing things an’ that.’

  ‘Miss Brewer will stay with me, Officer, and will be able to contact her parents from there. It’s all right, Sally, I have a ridiculously large flat.’

  Sally scarcely heard him. She was numb, felt nothing. She could smell death and destruction, though, and so when Sebastian put his arm around her and turned her back towards the centre of London, she stumbled along beside him. He was talking, but she seemed to have no understanding of his words.

  After a while they stopped. ‘I’m sure your parents wouldn’t be too thrilled with this hotel, Sally, but you need a brandy.’

&nbs
p; Sally’s mind was still full of the noise of destruction and her nose with the smell of cordite. She walked with him to the bar, oblivious of the looks of disdain on the faces of some customers.

  ‘Brandy, two,’ Sebastian ordered tersely.

  ‘Looks like she’s already had enough,’ said the barman. ‘You’ll want a room?’

  ‘Don’t be offensive, and bring the brandy in clean glasses.’

  ‘Yes, yer lordship, at once yer lordship,’ answered the barman sarcastically, but Sebastian did not react and simply watched him wash two glasses and half-fill them with brandy.

  Sally coughed as the unfamiliar liquid ran down her throat.

  ‘Drink it, sweetheart. We still have quite a walk unless we can find a taxi.’

  Sally straightened her spine and sipped again. Sebastian saw the colour slowly return to her face.

  ‘Sally, there must have been a tremendous loss of life in London last night and I don’t know, but it is just possible that, by this time, your parents have been told to expect the worst. Do you have a number for them? We’ll try to find a call box; I have some coppers in my pocket.’

  Sally was shaking her head but whether in denial of the situation or acknowledgement that her parents had no telephone, he had no idea. He squeezed her hand and walked on, hoping against hope that a taxi would magically materialise but there was only emergency traffic.

  ‘Some of the underground trains might be running, Sally. Shall we—’ he began but she pulled herself out of his arms.

  ‘No, no, I couldn’t. Never again, never.’

  ‘I live in Mayfair, Sally,’ he said, but as she said nothing and merely stumbled on he decided that either she scarcely cared how far she had to walk or had no idea where Mayfair was.

  ‘Let me at least hold you up,’ he said, slipping his arm around her waist and, in absolute silence they continued their trek. She had wanted to see some of the sights of London and that night she passed several of them, completely oblivious of their beauty or fame.

  At last they arrived at Hays Mews and the inaptly named Mansion where his flat was situated.

  ‘Rather a lot of stairs, I’m afraid.’

  Still she made no sound and wearily they climbed three flights of stairs and Sally almost fell in head-first as he opened the door.

  ‘I think you should sleep for a bit, Sally. I’ll put a match to the fire, make some cocoa, but if you can tell me the name of anyone you know in Dartford who has a telephone – the police would do – we’ll ring them and they’ll pop over and tell your parents that you’re safe.’

  Sally was not so fraught that she did not know that a visit from a uniformed policeman would shock her parents and she cudgelled her brain. ‘The vicar, Mr Tiverton,’ she said at last. ‘We’re not the most regular attenders but he does know us. I hate to ask but they’ll know about the bombing now, won’t they?’

  ‘The world’ll know, darling,’ he said, and then turned his attention to his telephone.

  It took only a few minutes for him to be connected to Mr Tiverton, who was relieved to know Sally was safe and, when Sebastian handed the phone to her, assured her that he would visit her parents with the good news immediately.

  ‘Tell them I’m staying tonight with a friend from ENSA, Mr Tiverton, and I’ll be down to see them as soon as I can. The show must go on,’ she said, heard him say, ‘God bless you, my dear,’ replaced the receiver and burst into tears.

  Immediately Sebastian sat down beside her, enfolded her in his arms and rocked her back and forth until at last she recovered.

  ‘Oh, dear Sebastian, what would I have done without you?’ she said looking up at him, smiling, her eyes sparkling with tears. He looked down and, as he had dreamed so often, lost himself in those shimmering pools. He held her closer. She relaxed against him and he stroked her back, as if she were a baby.

  ‘Oh Sally, Sally …’ his voice was a moan.

  She raised her head, aware that every nerve end in her body was tingling with both fear and excitement. He would kiss her now, she knew it, just as Rhett Butler had kissed Scarlett O’Hara, and …

  ‘Good Lord, Sally, look at the time. What am I thinking of? Sleep, you need sleep. Max will kill me if you’re too tired tomorrow – today.’ He stood up abruptly and his movement was so unexpected that Sally almost fell back against the cushions. ‘You take my room. There is a guest room but when it was last aired, I haven’t the foggiest.’ He was leading her to the door. ‘See, the door on the right is the bathroom and the bedroom leads off it. Everything you might need is there, except a nightgown …’ He stood looking at her for a moment. ‘Tell you what, while you’re washing I’ll nip into the bedroom and find you a clean pyjama top.’ He was moving restlessly from one foot to the other as if he were about to start running. ‘Good night, Sally.’ And then he kissed her. At least, his lips brushed against her face.

  Sally stood for a moment, almost dazed and then a tidal wave of embarrassment washed her through the open door of the bathroom. She closed the door and allowed it to hold her upright until the nausea churning in her stomach had calmed down. She moved to the mirror and examined her face. Tears began to stream down her cheeks and she turned on a tap to hide the noise of her sobs. What had gone wrong? What had she done, or was there something she had not done? She had been so sure. From everything she had read or heard, she had been positive that he wanted, that they wanted …

  Now she wanted only to run from the flat, to never be seen again by Sebastian. Dear God, what did he think of her? She needed to get away but where could she go?

  She splashed water on her face, rubbed her fingers across her teeth and tentatively opened the door to the bedroom. It was empty. A nondescript blue pyjama jacket lay on the dark maroon counterpane that covered the large bed. The room lay in shadow as it was lit only by a small bedside lamp. The room was almost as large as the drawing room where they had been sitting and Sally hesitated for a moment as she looked towards the door.

  No, no need to look for keys. She would be left alone.

  A light knock woke her. Sally, who had climbed into the comfortable bed expecting to toss and turn all night, was surprised to find that she had slept soundly.

  Sebastian was outside. ‘Are you all right, Sally? I’ve made coffee, rather weak but it’s hot.’

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’ She hoped her voice did not show her utter dejection.

  ‘Take your time. I’m ready to leave; bathroom and kitchen are all yours.’

  Less that fifteen minutes later, wearing the same clothes as she had been wearing for the last two days, Sally was in the kitchen. There were two cups and saucers on the table; one containing cooling coffee. Sally forced herself to drink it but could not think of trying to eat the slice of bread on the matching plate. And then Sebastian joined her and there was an awkward silence.

  ‘We’re running late.’ They said the words together and although neither laughed, they did manage to smile.

  Wordlessly they communicated that, until they had done their day’s work, they would not talk about Sally’s homelessness. The reality of war had become even more real yesterday but, in their own way, they were soldiers and, before weeping over what was lost, they must do their best to brighten the lives of needy others.

  When they arrived at the theatre, they said nothing of what had occurred. ‘Sorry we’re late, Max. Talk later,’ said Sebastian tersely, and Max looked at their faces and growled, ‘Transport will be here in about thirty minutes.’ He looked at them again. ‘Get yourselves something to eat and drink and then find Lal and have her do something with Sally’s face and hair. I won’t ask, but you look like hell and you’re no romantic lead either, Seb.’

  Fourteen hours later, when they had returned from a base on the south coast, having done three back-to-back shows, he called them into his office.

  ‘The last of my Christmas sherry,’ he said, handing each a small glass. ‘Now tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘You
poor kid,’ he said when Sally, with encouragement from Sebastian, had finished telling him about the bombing. Max jumped up and hugged her. ‘Thank God you’re alive. Your family? They know you’re not hurt?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Sebastian phoned the local vicar who went to see them.’

  Max waved his arm towards the large black telephone on the immaculately tidy desk. ‘You can use this, Sally, or tell them to ring you here. Emergency calls only, of course. My God, your clothes … everything you own, poor kid. Thank heavens the costumes and shoes are all here.’ He looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Apologies, sounds awful, but I have to think of finance. The NAAFI funds us, you know, and they’ve been incredibly generous, but their purse is going to be empty very soon with all the demands that have been made on it.’

  He stood up; Sally and Sebastian got to their feet and all three moved to the door and then stopped in a huddle as Max thought of something else. ‘You do have somewhere to stay?’

  Sally blushed furiously. She had absolutely no idea what to say. Sebastian could not want or expect her to return to his flat? But a whole day had gone by and she had done nothing about finding a hostel or a room. Her brain went round and round, conflicting thoughts and feelings confusing her.

  ‘For as long as she wants, Sally is welcome to stay with me, Max.’

  Max, much older and more experienced, stared at Sebastian for a long moment before saying, ‘That’s fine. None of my business. Would have contacted the housing officer had something been needed. But what about replacing clothes, Sally, and your ration book and any other important papers? The WVS or the Red Cross will know how to go about it, and I’m sure the other girls will help out till you can get back to Derby. No shops open tomorrow.’

  ‘Dartford,’ said Sally automatically.

  Max smiled. ‘Knew it began with a D. Now be off, my children, and we’ll expect you here bright and early tomorrow. Another day, another base, another show, or, in this case – and I hate to break it to you since you signed on with a contract that said two to three shows a month – another four shows.’