Читать книгу A Christmas Gift - Ruby Jackson - Страница 8

October 1940, London

The Theatre Royal. Soon the wonderful old theatre would be as familiar to her as the little house attached to the cinema in Dartford. Each day as she tried to find the safest way to the theatre from the hostel in Camden, where she was now living, Sally cheered herself by remembering that. She assured her concerned parents that her area of London was relatively peaceful, preferring that they not know how many nights she and her fellow residents spent crowding into only marginally safe shelters. She never told her parents how afraid she was of the underground, having decided that travelling under ground was definitely safer and quicker than catching a bus or a tram, even if any were running.

Sally, like thousands of others before her, had fallen completely in love with the magnificence that had been London, and cried inside every time she was forced to see the devastation that months of bombing was causing. These days, she closed her eyes as she travelled and tried not to wince when she found that the gracious church, museum, private house that she had seen only yesterday was today a ruin.

But the Theatre Royal was still there and Sally was now doing what she had always wanted to do. She was being taught how to perform, as she was now a probationary member of the Entertainments National Service Association or ENSA, as it had become known. It was a real acting job, and, better still, it was war work, with the vital role of entertaining His Majesty’s Armed Forces and so keeping up morale. The delicious icing on the lovely cake was that the magnificent world-famous theatre was now her ‘university’. Once she had wept because she could not see a play there and now, a few months later, she walked into and out of that hallowed place five or six days a week. In the first weeks she did not know that several of the offices had once been dressing rooms, or that ENSA would not have constant use of the stage as it was being shared by other groups, and was still needed for auditions. She learned that what had been the Stalls Bar was now a recording studio where at times she herself would participate in ENSA broadcasts to troops abroad and, of course, the first thing she learned was that the theatre had its own air-raid shelter in what had once been the Staff Bar.

‘Wherever you are, you hear the warning, you drop everything and come here. Everyone get that?’ Max Hunter, the director looked, as it seemed, into the eyes of every new recruit and waited until they nodded affirmatively.

Sebastian Brady was only one of thousands of professional actors, singers, dancers, musicians, comedians – many of them world famous – who were prepared to give up their time to entertaining servicemen wherever they were in the fields of war, although a long, tough battle had had to be fought and won before ENSA came into being.

‘Basil Dean and Lesley Henson were the creative brains behind the idea of ENSA, Sally,’ he told her. ‘They both served in the Great War, and had done some entertaining in the field. After the war, they went back to acting and filming and, of course, since they started the film careers of stars like Gracie Fields and George Formby, they had great contacts. But they had to fight to get ENSA off the ground as so much money was needed for actual warfare. Eventually the NAAFI helped out financially and now, I think everyone in Government believes in our work.’

Sebastian had worked with both men and he had recommended Sally.

‘She has natural talent,’ he had told them, ‘and, thankfully, hasn’t had time to develop bad habits by working too long for the wrong people. Some of your training will make a duckling into a little swan and, while we’re talking about ducklings, there’s no ugly one here – she’s a stunner.’

Sally had been called in for an audition.

When, over breakfast at home, she opened the letter requesting she attend, for a minute or two she was excited. Bubbles of joy burst inside her and she pictured them sending out tiny sparkling lights. Then realisation cancelled her euphoria. An audition? What on earth was she to do; how could she impress? Professional, experienced performers would be auditioning – what chance did she stand?

She wondered if she dared contact Sebastian for advice but decided against it. ‘I can’t compete against a professional, Mum; they’ll laugh me off the stage.’

‘Don’t be silly, love. You were really good in the school plays, Shakespeare and Shaw and … writers like that. Besides, you have a nice singing voice. They’ll want to see all your talents so sing a song; one of the ones we hear soldiers asking for on the wireless. “The Nearness of You” is a big favourite, or “I Get Along Without You Very Well”. Your dad loves to hear you singing that around the house. I’d go for that one. Or you could recite a speech. You were so good as Juliet, and you can’t do better than Shakespeare, can you now? Wish I had time to make you a new frock. I thought your white Juliet dress was beautiful, and with your lovely hair hanging down on your shoulders … you’ll be perfect, Sally, you will.’

‘What if they ask me to dance?’

‘They won’t; they know you’re studying to be an actress. Actresses don’t dance; they speak.’

Sally hoped her mother was right; even with Maggie’s tuition she knew she would never be dancing at Sadler’s Wells.

She scarcely ate and hardly slept in the days before her audition but she did practise a few songs and went over and over Juliet’s ‘Wherefore art thou Romeo?’ speech until she and her parents were all heartily tired of it.

The day of the audition dawned and Sally was appalled to see the length of the waiting line of candidates. Not only was she terrified but she decided that every female in the queue was not only prettier and more sophisticated, but also more intelligent than she. She barely managed to control her terror when she found herself standing on the actual stage where England’s theatrical greats had stood – it was some time before she knew that ‘her’ Theatre Royal was the third to stand on that hallowed spot, the previous ones having burned to the ground – and eventually went home so stricken with nerves that she couldn’t eat for a whole day.

Thankfully they had not asked her to dance, they had asked her to walk across the stage, had listened to a few lines of her well-rehearsed Shakespeare and a verse of the poignant love song, then thanked her and called the next candidate. She had been quite sure that she had failed in every department. And then the letter came. She had been accepted. Somehow, miraculously, Sally Brewer was now a probationary member of ENSA.

There could, however, be no celebration in the Brewer household that night as Ernie was due at the cinema.

He hugged his daughter to him. ‘I never felt more like – what’s it they say – painting the town red, Sally, but the show must go on, as we showbiz folks say. Can hardly believe my little girl’ll be saying it soon, too. Course we’ll miss you, love, and you know your old dad, I’ll always worry about you, every moment, but you’re a clever, sensible girl and you won’t do anything stupid.’

‘Of course not.’

‘And remember, you can come home at any time if anything worries you. Just get on a train. Right?’

‘Right, Dad.’

She returned his hug. ‘I’ll come with you and Mum; I’ll sell the potato crisps and the ice cream. Probably be the last time I’ll ever work with you.’

‘Oh, don’t say that, love; that’s sad,’ said Elsie.

‘You’d rather I stayed here selling Smith’s crisps, Mum?’ Sally teased her mother.

Elsie pulled on her coat. ‘Don’t be daft, but I don’t like saying “the last time”.’

‘Get a move on,’ teased Ernie, ‘or it’ll be the last time either of you will work for me.’

Sally enjoyed her last evening as a cinema usherette and next morning went to the theatre to resign.

‘Dahling, absolutely the wrong decision,’ Elliott said bluntly. ‘You’ll hate it, and I know they hold up names like Olivier and Richardson before your ambitious little eyes, but they’ll never join that motley crew. Would you take ten quid a week for the tours they’ll offer whenyou could be earning hundreds on the legitimate stage?You can’t believe a world-famous actor like Ralph Richardson will go traipsing all over the country to act in draughty church halls and old barns, and as for following the troops … He’s a star. Good heavens, someone even told me they had snaffled Gracie Fields. I ask you, the Gracie Fields. You’ve more chance of meeting her here, Sally, and besides, only last night we decided to stage a Noël Coward. Bit of a chestnut, Private Lives, but the punters do love it. Believe me, darling Sally, “resting” actors are queuing up like housewives outside the butcher’s , hoping that they’ll be taken on, and face it, sweetie, all with more training and experience than you.’

He walked round the desk to lay his hand on her shoulder. Automatically Sally tensed and he moved away, smiling at her jovially.

‘Sally dahling, we have decided that you will make a lovely Sybil. Now can you abandon that opportunity for something that probably won’t get off the ground?’

‘Yes,’ Sally had answered emphatically.

It was a decision she never regretted.

The day before she left to live in London, Sally returned to the clothes shop where she had bought her cloak to see if there was anything suitable to wear in her new life, and in the hope of being able to say goodbye to Maude and Fedora. She was delighted to see that both the ladies were in the shop. They were talking to a man in naval uniform.

‘Good heavens, here she is,’ called Fedora, and all three turned to look at Sally. ‘Sally, this is …’ she hesitated and then continued, ‘the … original owner of the ring.’

‘Former owner,’ said the young man, holding out his hand to Sally. ‘Jonathon Galbraith, or just Jon is perfectly fine.’

‘Sally Brewer, Just Jon.’ Sally, surprised by her nonchalance, blushed furiously.

He smiled and, for the first time in her life, Sally was aware of how much a smile can change appearance. At first sight, Just Jon had been austere, controlled. She would have guessed that he was twice her age but now ten years melted away as quickly as light snow melts under a winter sun. ‘Miss Brewer, I’m just about to rejoin my ship so it’s a happy chance that we should meet here.’ He looked around and obviously came to a decision. ‘Would you have time to have coffee or tea with me? It would only take a few minutes and I really would like to thank you for trying to return the ring.’

‘I’m on my way …’ began Sally, but he already had his hand under her elbow. ‘I won’t keep Miss Brewer too long, ladies,’ he said with another charming smile as he propelled Sally out of the shop.

A few minutes later they were seated at a table in a nearby café, and had ordered tea, which was just as well, for apart from cocoa, tea was almost all the café served.

‘The ring is in the safe at the cinema, Mr Galbraith, and my father will give it to you as soon as you ask him.’

‘No, I don’t want it, Miss Brewer. Sell it, if you don’t like it.’

The waitress put the cups on the table so forcibly that tea spilled over into the saucers. She did not apologise.

‘Everything in the world’s going to pot right now,’ Jon said as he dried Sally’s saucer with a clean handkerchief. ‘I believe Fedora’s told you that I bought the ring for my wife because she liked it. Now my wife no longer wants me or anything to do with me and has sailed for America, I think – she always wanted me to take her there – or possibly she has returned to Malta where her family live. She has not done me the courtesy of telling me. I will not tell you what she said I might do with the belongings she chose to leave but I assure you that the ring is yours.’

Without warning he changed the subject. ‘Maudie tells me you are to study acting.’ He stopped and, for the first time, really looked at her. ‘I know you find this entire scenario distasteful, Miss Brewer, but I do thank you for trying to return the ring.’

‘But of course I needed to return it. It was the proper thing to do.’

Sally had not really paid attention to what he was saying. Instead she was looking at him, this man she had only just met but who had featured in her thoughts. She could not remember what she had thought he might look like, but she knew, somehow, that he looked just right.

She liked fair hair, like that of her friend Daisy’s brothers, but now knew that brown hair was perfect especially when matched by brown eyes that revealed sadness. She knew little about uniforms but enough to know that this was a naval uniform. The markings told her that Just Jon was an officer, probably of fairly high rank. She felt sad as reality struck her. She had just met him. How unlikely it was that she would ever see him again.

He clasped his hands and put them lightly on the table. ‘It is yours,’ he said again, ‘and I’m happy to sign a letter confirming that. If you’ve fallen in love with it, then enjoy wearing it. But my advice would be to sell it; it might make years of study more comfortable.’ He sipped his tea while he watched Sally think about what he had just said and then he stood up. He held out his hand and Sally stood and put her hand in his. She felt a tremor. Was it her hand or his? ‘Again please accept my apologies for my inexcusable rudeness. I should have been congratulating you on your honesty – God knows I’ve seen so little of it lately.’ Still he held her hand as he looked into her eyes. ‘May I wish you all success in your endeavours. I look forward to seeing your name in lights, Miss Brewer.’

‘Thank you, Mr Galbraith.’

He smiled and again his face changed. ‘Do you know, I rather like being Just Jon.’

Sally blushed. ‘I was rude,’ she began.

‘No,’ he drew out the syllable. ‘You were enchanting. On this exercise I shall remember a beautiful girl calling me Just Jon.’

Then, as his gaze continued to hold her own and she saw admiration in his eyes, she suddenly felt shy and had to look away.

At the door he turned and raised his hand in farewell. ‘Don’t change, Sally Brewer.’

And he was gone, leaving payment for their tea discreetly beside his saucer.

Sally sat down for a moment, her mind and body in turmoil. Maudie, not Maude; they must know each other very well. An aunt, perhaps. No, she’s not … not like Fedora. A strange and unrecognised thrill of excitement made her shiver. Just Jon, what have you done to me? She stood up, hoping that her legs would continue to hold her upright. Fortunately, they seemed to have recovered from the shakiness they had exhibited under the small table and she walked quite easily from the café.

Just Jon.

Jon. Somehow that small word seemed to Sally the most perfect possible name for a man. The images of the delightful Sebastian that always seemed to be at the very front of her brain had somehow been replaced – and so suddenly – by the image of a man she had seen once. Again, she felt a pang of real pain. No, that could not be. What on earth had happened to her? Was this what so many of those wonderful films she had watched repeatedly as an impressionable teenager had led her to believe lay in store? One day she would meet a man and fall headlong into everlasting love. This man? He was not as tall as Sebastian but somehow he looked stronger. The width of the shoulders perhaps? Sebastian was beautiful. Jon was not. There was too much strength there for beauty, plus power, and an easy air of command. The film magazines would have called him handsome. Sebastian too, had a lovely voice but it did not set her pulses racing as a few minutes’ conversation with Jon had done. Somehow she knew that his voice would echo in her sleep.

Sally shook her head and hurried back towards the shop but then she decided that she was incapable of having a sensible conversation with the two ladies and so she changed direction and walked towards the park.

From the days when they had first been allowed to play without adult supervision this had been a favourite place for Sally and her close friends. They had loved strolling around the vibrant flowerbeds, or lying on the meticulously mown lawns talking of everything and nothing. Many plans had been hatched here and some of them had even come to fruition. Now Sally walked but the park no longer gave her the solace it had once so easily dispensed. How could she have forgotten the changes war had caused? Where there had been beds of glorious roses, there were now trenches. Sally looked up at the sky and her heart, which had been beating happily only a few seconds before, almost stopped in terror. Any second a German aircraft – Dartford residents knew the names and could recognise most of them – a Heinkel or a Messerschmitt, could come screaming out of nowhere, and if she was not killed immediately she might just have time to jump into one of the trenches.

‘Stupid, stupid Sally,’ she said aloud and turning, ran as quickly as she could out of the park and home.

Life was not always the film with the happy ending but today, her last day at home for some time, had brought something very special and she would allow nothing, not even fear of an air raid, to spoil it.

She acted, quite perfectly, the part of ‘happy girl who has had one of her dreams come blissfully true’.

She found her mother rehanging the blackout curtains in the front room.

‘Mum, they’re black. Washing them so often is just making work for yourself, but you’ll never guess what happened!’ She waited for a response and none came. ‘Mum?’

‘Yes, I won’t guess so tell me.’

‘I’m in …’ Sally could scarcely believe what she had been about to say and quickly recovered herself. ‘I’m in a bit of a pickle. I went to the shop to say goodbye to the ladies but didn’t get a chance. The nicest man was there, a naval officer, handsome, lovely voice, proper gentleman, but, Mum – he bought the ring.’

‘From you? How?’

‘No, of course not. It’s just like Fedora said. He bought it for his wife but she’s left him. He says she doesn’t want it and that I can keep it.’

‘Never.’ Elsie’s facial expression said clearly that she had heard tales of rich men who bought valuable jewels for young girls. ‘And where is he now, Sally?’

Sally looked at her mother and could see all the doubts and worries running across her pleasant face. ‘I’m surprised at you. Right now he’s rejoining his ship; I told you he was in the navy. I’ll never see him again,’ and she burst into tears and ran to her room.

Elsie looked after her, shaking her head. ‘Sarah Bernhardt,’ she said, and sighed. ‘Didn’t I say the university would be calmer?’

Since Sally had not mentioned the ring in some time, her parents had also let it slip from their minds. Ernie saw the box he had put it in each time he opened the cinema safe, but it was as if the family simply hoped that the problem would just go away.

Sally lay on her lemon and green quilt and looked up at the white ceiling but no answers to her questions were written there. ‘Why?’ she groaned, ‘why did he have to come today? Why did I decide to speak to Maudie? And why didn’t she tell me she knew … Jon, Just Jon, so well?’

Sally turned over in anguish and buried her face in the quilt and was still there when her mother came in to remind her that she still had packing to do.

The next morning her parents travelled up to London with her to see her settled in the boarding house where she was to live while she was taking classes at the theatre. Apart from Ernie saying that the ring would remain in the safe until Mr Galbraith was next on leave, the question of whether or not Sally would keep it was not mentioned.

Sally enjoyed every moment of her training as the year seemed to rush towards its end. Like the other residents, she handed in her ration card, and even though meat, butter, sugar and tea had been rationed for some time, the meals were adequate. In no way were they like her mother’s tasty meals, but they were more than acceptable.

The other residents were older and had known one another for some time. Although they were polite, even friendly, Sally doubted that she would make any close friends from among them. The ENSA groups training or rehearsing at the theatre became a substitute for her family; she grew closer to Sebastian, whom she had known longest. They held hands as they walked around town; occasionally he would throw his arm round her shoulders. ‘Are you the teeniest bit in love with me yet?’ was a fairly regular question that Sally did not take seriously.

Her personal life suffered some blows as her friends in Dartford dealt with one tragedy after another. How, she wondered, could dear Mrs Petrie cope with the death of Ron, her youngest son, and the always nagging possibility that her eldest child, Sam, was also dead? She looked forward to at least one day at home, possibly as far away as the Christmas period; a letter was nice, yes, but a warm hug would be much better. Maybe she could get away some Sunday. If trains were running she should have time to get home, see the families and get back before Mrs Shuttlecock, her landlady, locked up.

Having made this decision, it was with lighter steps that Sally made her way back to her digs one autumn evening after a strenuous dance workout. She, like her Dartford friends, had always been fit and active, but dancing had uncovered muscles she had never known she had – and every single one ached.

Supper was a deep bowl of delicious vegetable soup – every vegetable grown in Mrs Shuttlecock’s garden – followed by a thick slice of toast and cheese and a cup of tea.

‘My Henry laid out all the beds and planted vegetables and strawberries too before he joined up. Didn’t need to as he had a job what was on the special list that could easy have kept him out of the Forces – reserved occupations, that’s it, reserved – but “It’s my duty to King and country,” he said, and they’ll give him his job back when he comes home.’ Mrs Shuttlecock related this story to each new arrival.

Sally had just begun to undress for her weekly bath when the air-raid warning sounded. No time to dress again and so she pulled her pyjamas on over her underwear, grabbed a cardigan and a coat, shoved her feet into her short, lined boots and headed for the door.

‘Remember your gas mask and papers, Sally,’ yelled one of the other residents as Sally passed the pile of bags at the back door without picking up her bag. She smiled her thanks and retrieved her bag of important documents, her birth certificate, the letter from Oliver Dantry, the acceptance letter from ENSA, a few pictures of her childhood friends, and her gas mask, and ran out into the neatly ordered garden. (Mrs Shuttlecock, of course, had all the ration books in her very large bag.)

There was no time to admire the chrysanthemums or the fine crop of cabbages camouflaging the roof of the Anderson shelter. Inside, Mrs Shuttlecock had made it as comfortable as possible with cushions and blankets, and Thermos flasks full of tea or cocoa, which sometimes returned unopened to the kitchen but which more often lately had been a late supper in the shelter as the bombers roared overhead. There was an elderly wireless, which seemed to sound better when it was set on the specially painted orange box that the local greengrocer had traded for some home-grown potatoes and a jar of Mrs Shuttlecock’s strawberry jam. Nothing seemed to be able to mask the damp smell of earth that permeated the papers, blankets, cushions, and even their clothes if they stayed there any length of time as, unfortunately, they often did.

They tried to keep themselves amused by reading, listening to the wireless, playing cards and even listening to the tales – most of them probably with little truth in them – that were told them by Liz Sweep, who worked in a very expensive West End department store. She always started in the same way: ‘Wait till you hear this, girls, and sparing your blushes, Mrs S,’ and then she would carry on, using, naturally, her everyday voice instead of the highly affected one she adopted when dealing with surprised or amused customers.

‘Me and Doreen was having a chat; worked off our feet all morning, we were. Would you believe the Christmas goodies is coming in and we make such a lot of money in the weeks before but everything’s got to be just so. Anyways, we were taking a breather and this funny little foreign woman grabs my arm and says, “Stop with trivial chatter” – cheeky cow – “and be so kind as to tell me where English Christmas crackers are being.”

‘Neither of us had the slightest – in the Christmas department they was setting up, I suppose, but I says – trying to be helpful – “I’m sure you’ll find them over there, Modome,” and I stretched out my arm to point her in the right direction.’ Liz stopped to make sure that her audience was spellbound. Pleased with what she saw, she carried on. ‘And would you believe I knocked over our entire arrangement of Christmas “suggestions for the lady in your life” work what we’d spent the entire morning making look fabulous. Ever so artistic, Doreen is. The blo— sorry, Mrs S, things went everywhere, behind us, beneath us; they rolled under counters, one really lovely Limoges compact fell out of its box and rolled off, heading for the front door. If no one stopped it, it’ll be in Richmond by now. The foreign woman shrieked and ran and the floor manager comes over and gives us a ticking off. Doreen’s crying and her mascara’s run so far down it’s on her chin and he says to her, “Clean yourself up. And get back here immediately.”’

‘Did you tell him what really happened, Liz?’ asked one of the older women. ‘Or did you blame it on the customer?’

Liz had the grace to look a little shamefaced. ‘Thought about it for a second – can’t afford to lose my job, can I, and it were an accident but you have to watch out for the dead posh ones or the foreign ones – they’re usually duchesses or ambassadors’ wives and they can tell you round is square and Management tells you to agree with them. Doreen and me’s got to pay for the breakages but I’ll do it since she never really done anything.’

With mixed feelings about the story, the women were delighted to hear the all clear soon after. Gratefully they made their way along the garden path to the house. Less than fifteen minutes later everyone was sound asleep.

Mrs Shuttlecock woke them up early and they staggered downstairs, still half asleep but appreciating the smells coming from the pretty dining room.

‘You’d think we’d get used to interrupted sleep,’ groaned a girl who worked in Camden market.

‘We will,’ said Liz, immaculately dressed and perfectly made up as usual. ‘My sister says she thought she’d never get a full night’s sleep again after being up half the night nursing her kids, but she says, soon as they’re weaned, everything goes back to normal.’

‘Nice to know, Liz, thanks,’ mumbled the others, eating their breakfasts of scrambled eggs with fried bacon bits in them.

‘Fantastic breakfast, Mrs B.’

‘No more real eggs till next month, probably. Anyone know a nice farmer?’

Of course Sally knew Alf Humble, tenant of the farm near Dartford where she and her three special friends had played or picked strawberries. Strange to think that Grace had chosen to join the Women’s Land Army. And what connection to farming could a girl like Grace have had? Did enjoy growing her sprouts, mind you.

Sally’s thoughts went everywhere as she tried to get to the theatre. Here and there was evidence of the previous night’s raid and, like every other pedestrian, she had to watch where she put her feet. Smoke drifted across the city and it was impossible to judge where most damage had been done. Eventually she turned into Catherine Street and stopped dead in horror. Several Auxiliary Fire Service taxis with their trailer pumps stood outside the theatre. A group of rather tired-looking teenage boys, none older than seventeen or thereabouts, straddled their bicycles, feet firmly on the ground but each ready at a moment’s notice to cycle off with a message or a plea for more help from other AFS units. A WVS van was near the grey taxis, and exhausted firemen and some men – three clerics among them – who had obviously been helping, were being offered hot tea. The hard-working members of the WVS seemed to turn up with their tea wagon wherever succour was needed. One reminded Sally of Fedora, every hair still in place. For the first time that morning, she smiled.

Dirty water was everywhere but from where she stood, Sally could not see exactly what had happened to the theatre.

And then a mug of tea was pushed into her hand and there was Sebastian. He looked tired and his brown hair was liberally sprinkled with ash.

‘You’ve been here all night? How bad is it?’

‘Max has been here since around one. He rang me just before he left his apartment – took me half an hour or so to get here. There he is leaning against the wall. And no, his hair didn’t turn grey overnight, it’s ash; I don’t think he’s noticed it. It’s even on his moustache – shows what a handsome devil he’ll be in his sixties. The men with him are the all-powerful gods of this theatre, Sir Seymour Hicks, and, of course you’ll remember Basil and Lesley from your audition. We plebs rarely see them but Seymour has that office at the end of the main foyer and Basil’s is in what was the boardroom. Don’t remember where Lesley is but at least one of them is here every day. As to damage, a bomb, high-explosive probably, crashed through into the rear circle just before midnight. It caused a fire, which has done extensive damage, but they tell me the fire brigade is sure it’s under control. Debris landed everywhere and so we can’t do a thing until we’ve had a massive clean-up. But the good news is that no great or lasting damage has been done to the building.’

‘Will we have to wait till the repairs are completed?’

‘What repairs, my little innocent? Every builder, slater, joiner, carpenter in Britain is working all out. We’ll fix what we can ourselves. Actors are only one part of a theatre, remember. We have a brilliant back-stage crew who’ll get to work as soon as they’re allowed into the building. Restoration? I’d imagine that is low down on London’s priority list. A year or two at the best, I think.’

He yawned, and Sally, seeing that the tea in his mug was obviously cold, exchanged it for hers, which he drank gratefully.

‘Any … oh Sebastian, was anyone inside?’

He nodded. ‘Night staff. No fatalities, a few minor injur-ies. What a wake-up call. Sally darling, those boys have been cycling all over London begging for water and carrying it back here. Could you give the WVS a hand getting tea to them and something to eat – if humanly possible?’

Sally was more than happy to help out and the Voluntary Service ladies were delighted to have an extra pair of hands. ‘Splendid lads,’ said one, ‘absolutely splendid, and look at them, my dear, they’re scarcely more than children, aren’t they?’

Sally smiled and carried on with her tea serving until all the cyclists, whose tired eyes had brightened immediately an extremely pretty young woman had spoken to them, had been fed. As she returned to Sebastian she saw that the men with Max had shaken hands with him and were walking off in another direction. Max himself came to join them.

‘They’ve gone for breakfast and will be back later when they’re told it’s safe to enter the theatre. In the meantime I’m going to bed; I suggest you do the same, Seb. Come back tomorrow, Sally; we’ll be working, even if it’s only sweeping floors.’

He walked off and they watched him. Usually straight as a guardsman and light of foot, his bent figure seemed to shuffle to the end of the road before disappearing round the corner.

‘What about the others?’

‘Anyone turns up, they’ll see they have a day off. Max and the general manager will contact as many of us by phone as possible. You’re welcome to come home with me, Sally, but I won’t be great company. I want a bath and my bed.’

‘Thanks, but I’ll see you tomorrow. I have letters to write.’

Sally did try to keep up with her friends, who had all promised to be in touch regularly, but she never seemed to have time. If she had a break, she needed to rest, or there was something for her to learn.

‘A letter a day for a week,’ she told herself, and as soon as she reached her digs she sat down at her dressing table and began the first.

Dear Mum and Dad,

You’ll probably hear that the theatre was hit by a bomb last night. Don’t worry, I was sound asleep in my digs and didn’t know a thing about it till I got to the theatre. I went up to town as soon as I’d had breakfast; Mrs Shuttlecock serves a good breakfast and you’d like her, Mum, as she tells us every morning that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

The director says the damage is minimal and we’ll be up and running as soon as the mess is cleared up. Seems the bomb caused a fire and its nose shot off and went straight through the backs of several rows of seats but, thankfully, the safety curtain saved the stage. Would you believe some theatre workers were actually asleep in their offices, and some of the typists, who were working late, put on their tin helmets and went back to work? Incredible people, don’t you think? I hope I’d be half as brave.

Now I have to write to Daisy as I haven’t heard from her in ages. ’Course, since I never seem to have time to write letters, I can hardly expect to get any.

Love to you both,

Sally