‘What happens to the students? Where do they go?’
‘First to Ireland and from there to America. There is a wonderful network of people in New York who find homes for them.’
‘Is that what happened to Goldie?’
‘No. Goldie is living with her aunt in Ireland.’
Margot smiled at the thought of her friend being safe, and began clearing the table.
‘It goes without saying that this conversation stays between us, Margot. We must never speak of it outside this house. Walls really do have ears,’ Natalie said. ‘The network of people, and the escape route out of Germany across the Swiss border, was the reason Goldie’s fascist boyfriend befriended her. He might have killed her if you hadn’t stepped in. That’s why, when he realised it was you who had taken her place on stage, he followed you.’
‘Good God. I’m glad I didn’t know I was in that sort of danger.’
‘You weren’t really. While Goldie’s boyfriend was following you, we had people following him. You were never in mortal danger. Anton made sure of that.’
Margot laughed. ‘A couple of things make sense now. Once when I was lost in the blackout I was followed. And in Oxford Circus underground I bumped into David Sutherland, or rather he bumped into me. I followed him, but lost him on Regent Street. When I saw him again and caught up with him, it wasn’t him, if you know what I mean. The other man told me to go away. Was he one of Anton’s people?’
‘Yes. We wondered whether we should tell you at the time, but decided it would be best if you stayed on your guard. Eventually David Sutherland and his fascist blackshirts must have been satisfied that you didn’t know anything, because he stopped following you. However,’ Natalie said, her tone serious, ‘if they find out you know now, you will be in danger again. Sutherland may be in prison, but there are many others.’
‘I won’t tell anyone, don’t worry. I won’t even let George know you’ve told me.’ Margot finished her coffee. ‘If there’s ever anything I can do, you will let me know, won’t you?’
Natalie put her hand on Margot’s and nodded. ‘Of course.’ After pouring them both a second cup of coffee Natalie said, ‘You’re looking much better today. Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes I did. And I’m feeling better too, so I’m going home.’
‘Are you sure? You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Bill can stay too. It will be like old times,’ Natalie said, smiling at the memory.
‘I don’t want Bill to stay here. And I don’t want him to know I’ve been staying here.’
‘But surely you’ll tell him that you’ve been unwell, Margot?’
‘No, he’ll only worry. Besides, I’m better, so there’s no need.’
At that moment Anton walked in and Natalie went over to the stove. ‘What do you want for breakfast, darling?’
‘Nothing, thank you, there’s no time.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Got a breakfast meeting with the Association of West End Theatre Managers. I’ll see you later,’ he said, taking a drink of Natalie’s coffee, before kissing her goodbye. ‘Ready, Margot?’ he called, leaving the kitchen.
‘Yes, my bag’s in the cloakroom. Thank you for looking after me, Natalie,’ she said, hugging her friend. ‘I appreciate all you’ve done for me this week, but I need to be at home when Bill gets back.’ At the front door, Margot hugged Natalie and thanked her again. ‘You won’t tell Bill I was-- that I’d been drinking and I’ve been staying here with you and Anton, will you?’
Natalie shook her head. ‘It isn’t my job to tell him, Margot, it’s yours.’
‘And I will tell him, I promise, but not just yet. With our workloads we hardly see each other as it is. I don’t want what little time we have together spoiled because Bill’s worrying. Thank you, thank you, and thank you!’ she said, kissing her friend, before running down the path and jumping into Anton’s car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The wireless crackled and spat for a few seconds before sparking into life with the voice of Winston Churchill. “Hostilities will end officially at one minute after midnight tonight, Tuesday, May 8th, but in the interests of saving lives the cease fire began yesterday.” Margot cried with joy. Unable to see through her tears, she brought her attention back to the broadcast. “… celebrating today and tomorrow as Victory in Europe days.”
Switching off the wireless, she grabbed her handbag and house keys, and ran downstairs. She flung open the street door and ran into the Mews to the sound of bells. The bells of St Paul’s Cathedral were ringing for the first time since September 1939. Laughing and crying at the same time, she hugged and kissed everyone who lived or worked in the Mews as they came out of their homes and offices to share the good news.
She pushed her way through the crowds and made her way to Covent Garden. There was a party in almost every street and Margot was offered glasses of beer or cups of tea at every turn. Eventually she arrived at the Strand. Standing in the doorway of the theatre to protect her ankle from being trampled on, she listened to the horns of the river tugs as they sailed up the Thames. Suddenly they were drowned out by the drone of aeroplanes. Everyone looked up at the sky as five Spitfires roared overhead. The crowd went crazy, cheering and waving.
Margot searched the sea of faces hoping to see her friends. It was impossible to distinguish one face from another as thousands of people poured out of the underground stations. Someone pushed a Union Jack into her hand and pulled her into the crowd. She had no choice but to join the throng and go with the flow. Waving the flag high in the air, she was carried along the Strand, singing and dancing – and praying she wouldn’t damage her ankle.
As Trafalgar Square came into view, Margot gasped. She could hardly believe her eyes. Tens of thousands of people were cheering and waving. Youths were climbing on the lions, draping them in red, white and blue bunting. Others were splashing about in the fountain. The fountain! Margot laughed out loud. When she first came to London in 1939 the fountain had been turned off to conserve water. She had walked through Trafalgar Square hundreds of times and never seen water coming from it. Now, for the first time in six years, people were jumping in it, cheering and laughing, scooping water up in their hands and throwing it over each other as if it were a symbol of freedom. In a way it was.
Suddenly a great snake of people dancing the conga passed and a soldier pulled Margot in. She danced along until she reached the steps of the National Gallery, where she ducked out.
‘Margot?’ she heard someone call. ‘Margot?’
She looked around.
‘Up here. On the steps.’
Looking up, Margot saw three American air force officers. One of them was First Lieutenant Boyd Murphy. ‘Come up!’ he shouted.
Margot wanted to but knew she shouldn’t. Not after…
Suddenly the American film maker was at her side. ‘Hi. Remember me?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘We got orders to go to Hendon in north London.’ He pointed to two other USAAF guys on the steps. ‘We got stuck in traffic,’ he shouted above a sudden burst of hoots and cheers. ‘The roads around Buckingham Palace and the Mall are at a standstill, so we abandoned the jeep and came here to have some fun. We were heading for Rainbow Corner, but got key-holed by some wireless guys. You know the thing. “How do British girls compare to the gals back home?”’
‘Who did you say they were?’
‘BBC wireless guys. Come and say hi.’
Before she had time to answer Murphy’s two pals were at her side. ‘What are you doing?’ she said as they knelt down beside her. ‘Put me down!’ she screamed. The two guys slowly stood up, arms outstretched around each other’s shoulders, with Margot sitting in the middle, as if she was on a swing. With nothing to hold onto to keep her balance she began to scream.
‘They won’t drop you, Margot,’ Murphy shouted, as the two airmen marched through the crowds shouting, ‘Make way for Margot Dudley.’ At the top of the steps,
outside the main doors of the National Gallery, they put her down to calls from the crowd for her to sing.
‘Will you sing for us, Miss Dudley?’ Margot recognised the BBC announcer from his photograph in the Radio Times. He was the “Dig for Victory” man, Cecil Henry Middleton.
‘I’d love to when I stop shaking.’ Middleton handed her his microphone and she asked if there were any musicians in the crowd that would play for her.
A couple of men put up their hands and were helped up the steps by cheering onlookers. An elderly chap dressed in a navy blue doorman’s uniform appeared suddenly with what looked to Margot like a dustbin lid. Taking two spoons from his pocket, he winked at her before rapping them – first on his arm and then the tin lid. Margot laughed, and winked back. In no time, mouth organs and harmonicas were being played, spoons were beating out the rhythm and Margot was singing “Red White and Blue”. The revellers nearest joined in and by the second verse, everyone was singing. She sang “Oh! Johnny, Oh! Johnny, Oh!” to one of the young Americans who had carried her up the Gallery’s steps. Then, instead of singing the last line of the song, Margot turned to the crowd and waved the microphone, encouraging them to sing, “Oh, Johnny! Oh, Johnny! Oh!” Looking into the throng, Margot spotted George and Betsy. ‘They are my friends,’ she called to the GIs. ‘Can you help them to get up here?’
‘George? Betsy? Over here,’ she shouted through the microphone. Her friends waved and, chaperoned by the two Americans, pushed their way through the crowds and up the steps.
‘Want a couple of sisters to sing with?’ George asked when she and Betsy reached her.
‘You bet!’ Margot said. And after huddling together for a couple of seconds to decide which numbers to sing, the reformed Albert Sisters lined up as they had done when they toured with ENSA and sang “Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree” followed by “Rule Britannia”.
As if on cue, Big Ben began to chime and everyone in Trafalgar Square cheered.
‘Bets and I are off, Margot,’ George shouted, articulating the words.
Margot looked at her watch. Motioning for her friends to wait for her, she shouted, ‘I’ll come with you.’ She waved and mouthed ‘Thank you!’ to Cecil Middleton, the BBC technicians and the musicians, and then kissed Murphy’s pals goodbye.
Murphy smiled and Margot found herself looking into his eyes. She stretched up to kiss him on the cheek, but he turned his head and she kissed him full on the lips. Shocked, she leaned back but he leaned forward and held her tightly. Margot’s heart was thumping in her chest and she felt excitement stirring in the pit of her stomach. She pulled away. ‘I’m sorry, I must go.’
‘Do you have to leave? We’re going to Rainbow Corner for an hour. Won’t you come and jitterbug with me?’ he shouted above the cheering and singing.
For a split second Margot wanted to say yes. She wanted to dance and have fun. But she didn’t trust herself to leave after an hour. She shook her head. What the hell was she thinking? Today of all days she should be at home when Bill came in from work. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m at The Talk of London later. I have to get ready.’
He put his hand on his heart, pretending to be hurt. ‘Just one more number then?’ he said, taking in George and Betsy, who both nodded. They stood shoulder to shoulder on top of the steps and, holding their hands high in the air, made Winston Churchill’s trademark V for Victory sign. Cecil Middleton handed them the microphone and they sang “There’ll Always Be an England”. When the song ended the crowd went mad. For fear they would be mobbed, a couple of BBC wireless technicians huddled the three women – waving and blowing kisses – into the National Gallery where the doorman, Margot’s spoon playing drummer, showed them out of a side door. Ending up in Charing Cross Road, Margot accompanied George and Betsy to the Prince Albert Theatre.
‘Do you miss being in the show, Margot?’ Betsy asked.
‘Yes. I miss you and George too.’
‘Well, don’t worry, darling,’ George said, ‘I’m only keeping your dressing room warm until you’re ready to come back.’
‘From what I hear, you’re doing a fantastic job.’
George laughed. ‘I wish! See you later at The Talk.’
‘Have a good show,’ Margot said, kissing George and then Betsy.
She watched her friends enter the theatre and, as the streets were still swarming with people and there would be no chance of getting a cab, walked the short distance home.
Margot took off her coat and shoes and looked in the hall mirror. Her hair was dry, her eyes dull, and her complexion sallow. She leaned forward and pulled at her eyelids. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot. Her tongue felt furry. She studied it in the mirror. It was coated in a white film. She was out of sorts.
Singing in Trafalgar Square on VE Day had been an honour. It was the day Germany’s planned domination of Europe officially ended. The day Britain and her allies defeated Germany and brought peace to Europe after six years of bloodshed. And with a bit of luck the name Margot Dudley would go down in history after singing on such an historic day. But that wasn’t important. Being in Trafalgar Square on the day the war ended with George and Betsy – and with people from all over London, as well as soldiers, sailors and airmen, from Britain, America and all the Empire countries – that was important.
Margot ran a bath, dropping in a rose-scented bath cube. Bill wasn’t back from the MoD. He would have celebrated in Whitehall while she was a stone’s throw away in Trafalgar Square. Margot wondered if he’d heard her on the wireless. She hoped he had. There was still three hours before the taxi was due to pick her up to take her to The Talk of London for another Victory celebration. Plenty of time for a long soak.
‘You’ll turn into a mermaid if you stay in there much longer.’
‘Bill?’ Margot looked up to see her handsome husband standing beside the bath. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. How long have you been home?’
‘Half an hour. Come on,’ he said, holding up a large towel. As Margot stood up, Bill folded the towel around her and lifted her out of the bath. After kissing her, he rubbed her dry playfully, as if she was a child, before helping her into a bathrobe and leading her by the hand into the sitting room.
Margot stood open mouthed as she looked at the spread on the table. ‘What on earth--?’ She caught her breath. ‘Are these real eggs?’ She touched one and squealed. ‘Oh my God, they are real! Where did all this food come from?’
‘The MoD. I wasn’t the only one called in before dawn. Everyone was. And because we knew we wouldn’t get out until after Churchill’s speech, we each took something to eat. I took the tin of salmon you were saving for a special occasion.’
Margot laughed. ‘I can’t think of a more special occasion than the end of the war. But eggs?’ she said again. ‘I haven’t seen an egg since Foxden.’
One of the ladies lives on a farm in Surrey. She keeps chickens, so she brought a dozen in – boiled, of course. There was a lot of food left over, so she gave a couple of us blokes bags to bring home. I think she feels sorry for me because you’re always working.’
The excitement drained from Margot’s face and she gave Bill a hurt look. ‘She doesn’t, does she? Please say that’s not true. I couldn’t bear it if anyone thought I didn’t look after you.’
‘I’m joking, you silly goose. Come on, sit down and tuck in. I don’t expect you’ve had time to eat with all the singing you did in Trafalgar Square.’
‘You heard me?’ Margot jumped up and threw her arms around Bill’s neck.
‘I wish I had. One of the chaps told me.’ Margot put on a frown and pushed out her bottom lip in a pout. ‘I’m on the lowest branch of the MoD tree. I wasn’t privy to a wireless, except to hear Churchill’s speech.’ Bill walked round the table and pulled out Margot’s chair. ‘I’ll hear you sing tonight at The Talk of London. They won’t!’ As she sat down Bill kissed her. ‘Now eat!’
Entering through the double doors of The Talk of London always took Ma
rgot’s breath away. The floor of the foyer was marble, the ceiling a mirror and the walls were adorned with framed posters by Frederick Charles Herrick, prints from the Paris Exhibition in 1925, and portraits and illustrations of beautiful women in elegant evening gowns by Erté and Georges Barbier. A reminder that there was glamour before utility clothing – and hopefully would be again, now the war was over.
The Talk of London was the biggest night club and restaurant in London and VE night was the biggest occasion. It was no surprise to Margot that every table in the fashionable club had been reserved. She walked slowly round the room and marvelled, as she always did, at the gilt framed signed photographs of Ivor Novello, Joyce Grenfell and Noel Coward. A smile crept across her face, making her eyes sparkle, as she passed her own photograph, which was next to Tommy Trinder. She liked that; she liked Tommy. Vera Lynn and Gracie Fields were separated by George Formby.
She looked up. A net above the dance floor held dozens of red, white and blue balloons. This was going to be a night to remember.
Bill sat at the bar with their friend Salvatore and the Talk’s owner, Bernard Rudman. Salvatore had popped in to ask Margot if she would do an hour at the Prince Albert Club the following night. Margot said she’d love to, and after kissing him goodbye she dashed off to change into her evening dress.
The dress she had bought for this, the most important night of the last six years, was stunning. And so it should be. She had spent her and Bill’s entire clothes ration, plus dozens of clothes coupons that she’d bought on the black market for 2/6d each. She slipped the dress over her head and knew immediately that it was worth every coupon and every penny she had spent. The royal blue skirt, soft and flowing, was made of parachute silk and fell from her hips gracefully when she moved. The bodice, strapless and in the design of the Union Jack flag, was covered in red, white and blue sequins.
Applause (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 2) Page 26
