by Ruby Jackson
The scene brought the house down, as did every other performance they put on that day.
‘The strangest New Year’s Day I’ve ever lived through,’ admitted Sally as, back at the theatre they climbed wearily out of the lorry. Four shows. A few of the experienced professionals, who remembered moaning about having done both a matinée and an evening performance on the same day, made a New Year’s resolution never to moan again.
‘Come on, Sally, let’s get home.’ Sebastian held out his hand for her bag and, for a second, she held it, realising that she had to make a decision.
They spoke little on the way to Sebastian’s flat.
‘Drink, cup of tea?’ asked Sebastian, and Sally refused, explaining that she was too tired even to drink tea.
‘Me too. There should be enough hot water for a bath. Give me a minute to clean my teeth. I’ll probably fall asleep before I even get under my covers. ’Night, darling.’ He made no move to touch her but went quickly into the flat’s generously sized bathroom.
‘Good night,’ Sally called after him as she moved to the guest-room door to undress. Good night, darling. Such endearments, she was learning quickly, meant absolutely nothing in this new world of hers.
Sally woke to the smell of toast. When she had freshened up and dressed, she found her landlord in the kitchen, obviously ready to leave. ‘Two minutes, Sally; I’m afraid breakfast is one slice of rather-stale toast and half a cup of Ovaltine.’
‘Wonderful. I’m still firing on all the good food the bases gave us yesterday.’
He smiled. ‘That’s the British spirit, Sally. Wear the fur. It’s rather frosty outside.’
They left the building, the warmly dressed Sally still eating her slice of bread.
‘Hope we don’t meet anyone who knows Grandmamma,’ said Sebastian. But Sally could see from his face that he was teasing. ‘God knows what she’d have to say about the company I keep. Women eating in the street! Whatever next?’
That was the atmosphere they managed to maintain for the next few days. Work kept them busy and they were alone together only when they returned to the flat. Sally had made it clear that, since her replacement ration book had not yet arrived, she would pay for the food they bought. That solution disturbed Sebastian who had been brought up in the sure and certain knowledge that man was the provider, but Sally was adamant. She paid or she left. She had even considered asking Sir Seymour to allow her to camp out in a dressing room but since she scarcely ever saw him and had never heard him speak, she could not summon up the courage.
For her Scottish routine Sally learned to dance a Highland Fling and recite a funny and slightly risqué piece of modern poetry in her newly acquired Scottish accent. She was given an afternoon off but instead of going home as she wanted to do, she asked her mother to meet her in London and to bring with her some of Sally’s winter clothes. Sebastian assured her that it was perfectly fine for Elsie to be invited to the flat but Sally, full of self-loathing, told her mother that the flat was too far away, and took her to a Lyons Corner House, which was a first and a treat for Elsie.
If Elsie thought that her daughter was rather uncommunicative about her living arrangements, she said nothing, but Sally was not herself during their entire meeting. Aware of her own reticence Sally tried to sound upbeat and talked about the people in the company, their accomplishments, their experience, and their kindness. She explained words that Elsie did not understand such as ‘choreographer’ and ‘répétiteur’, and only stopped when her mother’s eyes glazed over.
She asked about her friends and their families and heard again all about how Megan Paterson had been killed in an air raid and that Grace was working on a farm in Scotland with some Polish land girls.
‘I’m sorry, I did mean to write and tell all about Daisy in the WAAF, too, since you never get home so we can have a good old natter.’ Elsie sounded rather hurt but this time, instead of feeling sorry for her mother, Sally was slightly annoyed.
‘I wish I had time to come home, Mum, and I wish I had time to sit down every day and write letters. I don’t but it doesn’t mean I don’t care. I care very much and I’m absolutely thrilled for Daisy, doing so well. But please try to understand. If we’re not performing, we’re rehearsing and if we’re not rehearsing we’re discussing what we’ll do next.’
‘It’s no time at all when the trains are running,’ Elsie continued as if she had heard nothing that Sally had said. ‘You could bring some friends with you; I’d make this new beef loaf I’ve tried out on your dad. Really tasty. You’ll never believe it’s a tin of corned beef and some onions; it even looks fancy with a top of sliced veggie, potatoes and carrots, nice combination.’
Sally tried not to lose patience. ‘It sounds lovely, Mum, but Mrs Petrie doesn’t expect Daisy home every week.’
‘Daisy isn’t in London, and besides, she’s in the real Forces.’
That hurt coming from her mother. ‘So am I, Mum. I’m on the stage, singing and dancing, yes, but it is certainly an important part of the war effort. Perhaps we don’t man machine guns or fly planes but in our little way we help raise morale and that’s very important. Mr Churchill’s very pleased with us and, believe you me, the journeys are no fun. We travel in army lorries. No one in the army’s ever heard of cushions, and there’s usually so little room for all of us, plus our costumes and musical instruments, et cetera, that we’re crushed like sardines in a tin.’
‘All right, love, but you know your dad misses you something awful. You were with him almost every night in the cinema, you and the twins and little Grace, and now you’re all gone. We’re going to try to get one of them phone things but all they said was, “There’s a war on. Any idea the number of broken lines we’re trying to deal with? New customer; you’ll be lucky.”’
‘I hope you reported him.’
‘It was a her, and no, I didn’t tell her off. Everyone’s under pressure, love, and you’re right, it is easier for me to get away for a few hours but maybe you could send your dad a postcard when you’re somewhere out of London. Remember what he was like when you went off on school trips? Oh, he would like a postcard once in a while.’ Bravely she tried to smile. ‘You know how he liked to stick them up all over the projection room or my kitchen wall.’
Sally was angry with herself that she had not thought of such a simple solution. Her father missed her and she certainly missed him. ‘I’ll start tomorrow, Mum. First post office I pass, I’ll buy some stamps and then I’ll always have one handy.’
*
Sally was in tears and full of self-loathing when Sebastian met her at the station – having promised to carry what he knew would be a heavy suitcase – but only once Elsie’s train was well on its way to Dartford.
‘Good Lord, Sal, what on earth’s the problem? You should have brought your mamma to the flat and given her lunch.’
‘I lied to my mother, a deliberate lie. Have you the least idea how I feel?’ she asked hysterically. ‘They sacrificed everything for me – everything – and I repay them by …’ She could not express herself in words.
Sebastian could and did, and the conversation developed into their first row.
‘Good Lord, Sally, stop being such a child. Isn’t the flat good enough for your mother?’
‘Don’t be such a fool. The flat is beautiful but it’s a man’s flat.’
He tried a little humour. ‘A man who is obviously in training to become a monk. For heaven’s sake, there’s a war on; people find shelter where they can and are grateful for it.’ He reached out his hand to her but she ignored it. ‘Damn it, Sally, I shouldn’t have said that; I didn’t mean … oh blast. As it is, we’re living like brother and sister. You are completely at liberty to show Mrs Brewer your virginal room. I’ve told you that you’re safe with me. Call yourself my war effort.’
‘I can’t stay with you, Sebastian; it’s against my principles.’
‘Well, I’ll move in with him, love, and you can ’ave my share of the
bed I share with my sister who never gets home before three and then she reeks of drink and God knows what else.’ Several interested passers-by had been pretending not to hear as they slowed down to savour every word of the little scene being played out in front of them, and one couldn’t resist joining in.
Sebastian turned to the woman, beaming his handsome smile. ‘We’re actors, love, just doing a bit of ad lib. Thanks for getting into the swing with us. Come along, darling,’ he said quietly to Sally. ‘Who’ll come to the theatre if we give the plot away here?’
This time Sally had no option but to take his extended hand and walk with him. ‘You’re very generous and kind but I can’t. I’ll find a hostel.’
‘Not tonight, you won’t, unless you really enjoy the underground experience.’ He saw her shiver. ‘Come on, let’s get this damned heavy suitcase home before my left arm is as long as my left leg.’
Sally stayed on at the flat, helping with the limited cooking and cleaning that was needed. She still felt that she had lied to her mother but in fact she had said nothing at all about her arrangements, except that she was sharing a flat with a friend, which was true.
Mum never asked so she must have had an idea. If Sebastian was a girl, I’d have told Mum everything about her, and the flat, but all I said was it’s a big flat and I have my own room. I have to tell them and I must try harder to find somewhere else to live.
As for thoughts of love, she persuaded herself, with some justification, that her dreadful experiences of that day, the ghastly reality of the burned-out house, the knowledge that several people she had known were now dead, had made her reach for intimacy. She would be careful not to get so close again. What Sebastians’s rationale was, she had no idea.
But ENSA ensured that they were constantly travelling and on the few days that Sebastian and Sally did stay in the flat together, they were usually so exhausted that often they collapsed, fully dressed, on their beds and slept like logs till Sebastian’s alarm clock woke him and he woke Sally.
One evening they were returning to London after performing near Chichester, many of the troupe dozing, when the world around them was suddenly full of menacing, muffled roaring. The sky was a speedway of death-dealing aircraft. Yet again the city was the target of an air raid. Heart pounding, Sally thought of her friend Rose, who worked at Vickers, but wanted more than anything to be a driver in the ATS. Occasionally Rose delivered groceries in the family van and Sally prayed that Rose was safe at home where her family had a specially prepared room where they sheltered during air raids. Thinking about one twin made her think of the other. Hadn’t something been said during those precious hours when her mother had visited about Daisy staying with a WAAF friend in a London apartment and going to the theatre with the friend’s father? Sally hoped that if Daisy was in London, that she and her friend were safe. Was it safe to be in London on any night these days? She vowed that she would write Daisy a letter or just a postcard – had she sent the twins a Christmas card? Had she sent anyone a card?
It never occurred to Sally that she herself received few letters or that, like her, her friends had no time for writing anything but the most important letters.
The drivers of the ENSA vehicles were obviously ex-perienced in air raid situations for all lights had been turned off and the vehicles separated so as not to form a worthy target. When every aircraft had passed over and all were engaged in yet another attempt to flatten London, Sally peeped out and found that their lorry was off the road and under a tree in a field, not that the tree afforded much protection as its leaves had long since fallen.
Complaints and worries began once it was obvious that the planes had gone to richer pastures.
‘How long will we be here?’
‘We’re sitting ducks, for Pete’s sake.’
‘Helluva lot safer than driving on accompanied by what looks like the entire German air force.’
‘Call of nature.’ Everyone recognised Humph’s voice. ‘I’m gettin’ out. Those of a delicate constitution—’
He got no further. ‘Stay where you are, everyone,’ Max instructed. ‘The military will decide the best course of action. Try to rest. It won’t be long. We would have been ordered to scatter if there had been the risk of strafing or bombs being dropped. The blighters will junk unused bombs on their way back.’
Max was right. The military drivers had been ordered to find safer routes, ones that were less likely to be under the path of any aircraft returning to Germany. One by one, the engines were started and, rather than converging, the lorries took individual paths to an army base as far away as they could get from London.
‘Join ENSA and see the world.’ Max tried to cheer his tired, disgruntled company.
‘Thanks a lot,’ said one of the dance troupe, ‘but I’m waiting for the luxury yacht you promised.’
‘After the war, God willing.’ Max smiled at her. ‘Let’s hope not too much damage has been done.’
SIX
The raid had destroyed most of Bank underground sta-tion, killing a large number of people.
Later that day, having worked hard for several hours, some of the ENSA artistes took a trip to Sadler’s Wells to view some old costumes and props they’d been told were going spare. On the way back they passed the latest scene of destruction and were astounded by what they saw. An enormous crater had been created where a busy station had stood. Entire buildings had disappeared.
‘Was it planned, Sally, to bomb the station where they knew there were so many lines and so many underground shelters, or did they mean to hit the Bank of England?’ Sebastian, usually so controlled, was shaking as he pointed out the Bank’s great edifice that stood undamaged no more than a few steps away. ‘The smell, the mess, the dust, the unbelievable destruction. They’re still looking for bodies and I heard a policeman say he doubts they’ll ever find out how many died down there.’
Sally looked at the piles of rubble and twisted wires that had been Bank underground station. She had always hated being down there and could scarcely believe in the genius of the engineering feat that had tunnelled down, down and even further down into the bowels of the earth. Any time she had been compelled to use it, she had felt like a trapped rabbit or a mole – it seemed so dark, so claustrophobic – but the people who had slept there night after night had seen it as a place of refuge. Surely they had believed that it went so far into the bowels of the earth that the enemy could never find them. But they had.
A few of the men walked with great care a short distance around the hellhole that stretched from one pavement to the other of the famous Threadneedle Street. Sebastian spotted some twisted steel stairs liberally coated in sawdust, sawdust that had obviously soaked up … he could not even think the words, and turned away, anxious that none of the young women should see. For a moment he thought he could not breathe; there was no air around him and then he remembered those who had fought for breath just a few short hours ago in the fumes and dust, and he managed to pull himself together. Near him two policemen carried a stretcher. The broken bodies of the dead were being brought up as gently and in as dignified a manner as possible. He signalled to Max.
‘We are in the way here, friends,’ said Max. ‘Let the professionals get on with their jobs and we’ll get on with ours.’
As quickly as they could, not speaking, heads down to watch the uneven ground beneath their feet, the company returned to the theatre.
‘Rehearsal stage, three minutes, and if anyone can find Millie Burgess, yell loudly. Tell her we’ll need her today.’
The cast dispersed to change into rehearsal clothes and hurried to the appropriate stage. Sally, who very much wanted to see a trained ballerina dance – even if just a few jazz steps – was pleased to see Millie approaching with some of the others, who were talking animatedly.
‘What is it today, Max, Tristan and Isolde or Tommy Trinder?’ someone asked.
Before anyone could yell, ‘Trinder, please, Max,’ a succession of soul-destroy
ing screams rang out and Millie stood, tears streaming down her face, as she uttered one scream after another. The cast looked at her. It was obvious that no one had the slightest idea of what to do.
‘Don’t stand there gawping, you idiots. She’s had a shock. Brandy and a blanket or coat, now, quickly.’
The lightly accented voice stopped and there was the sound of a sharp slap, followed by a gulp and then complete, shocked silence from Millie.
‘Meet Lalita at her finest,’ whispered Sebastian.
‘You don’t need to tell me how wonderful Lalita is, Sebastian.’ The generous gift of a fur coat was keeping Sally very warm on uncomfortable journeys in army lorries.
‘It’s over, querida, and you are quite safe.’ Lalita was talking quietly to the distraught young woman.
Max had rushed back from his office with an almost empty bottle of brandy. He poured the contents into a teacup, which he handed to Lalita. ‘Sorry, that’s all there is, Lal; haven’t bought any since ’39.’
Lalita ignored him as she took the cup and held it to Millie’s lips. ‘Drink it. Now. It’s medicinal and we have a show to prepare. Good girl.’ She turned to Sebastian. ‘You look like hell,’ she said without emotion. ‘Finish what she doesn’t drink, make yourselves comfortable and join us on stage when you’re feeling better.’
She shepherded the rest of the group up to the main stage where Max, Sybil, the choreographer and – too often – teacher, and Jessie Dunbar, the conductor, sometimes accompanist and right-hand woman to Sam Castleton, the company’s senior pianist, waited for them.
Sally tried to concentrate but, for some reason, her mind was on Sebastian back in the dressing room with Millie. She wondered why the former ballerina had screamed so horrifyingly at whatever the group had been saying – obviously it had something to do with the night raid. There was trauma there but if Millicent did not choose to share it, there was surely nothing that Sally could do or say to help her.
