Читать книгу A Christmas Gift - Ruby Jackson - Страница 9

Late 1940

On the first day that the whole company assembled after the bombing, Max reinforced Sebastian’s comments that it would probably be years before the building was ready to reopen as a fully working theatre.

There were gasps from all corners.

‘Now what? Have the powers that be found us a new venue or are most of us back on the breadline?’

‘Neither,’ said Max with a cheery grin. ‘Believe it or not, ENSA is staying put. We don’t use the rear circle; we’ll manage without the pit, and so all we need do is make some adjustments as to availability of dressing rooms and rehearsal space.’

Everyone heard the collective gasp of relief.

Max seemed to look directly at each and every one of them. ‘Right, so look for notices on doors because what was a storeroom last week may well be a VIP’s office now. At last count there were twelve companies in ENSA but there may well be more as the need grows, and the managerial staff from each one will have to come here for general meetings. So, be thoughtful. I know you’ll give it your best and in a few days we’ll be completely at home again.’

Sally, who had managed to get home for a few hours to put her mother’s mind at rest, was aware that it was a while since she had spent any time with her oldest friends and she missed their closeness. Rose Petrie was still hard at work in the Vickers munitions factory and Grace, according to Mrs Petrie, was working on a farm somewhere in the wilds of Scotland. But the most amazing and exciting news of all was that Daisy – little Daisy, who was always thought to be delicate – had been learning to fly an aeroplane and had actually joined the WAAF. Would any or all be home for Christmas? Would she, or was Christmas without family a very small sacrifice that she would be asked to make?

How strange. A picture of a sailor had come unbidden into her mind. Thousands of sailors, soldiers, airmen, nurses – indeed, everyone involved in this blasted war – would probably not be going home for Christmas.

They’re all in great danger every minute of the day and night and they get on with the job. Grow up, Sally, you’re in no danger, not every day, anyway. I’ll think of them wherever they are: the Petrie brothers, Daisy, the chap who’s teaching her to fly – and … Jon, Just Jon.

Sally did mean to be brave, but during a morning break she found herself asking Sebastian if they might be given a day off during what she had used to call the Christmas holidays.

‘A day off? Sally, you’re not serious. “You’re in the army now”,’ he sang.

Sally, her heart still somewhere in the pit of her stomach, looked up at him and, for once, did not find herself thinking how very beautiful he was, perhaps too beautiful. ‘Does that mean we don’t celebrate Christmas?’

‘Have one of these biscuits; Grandmamma sent them and I swear there’s an egg and a teaspoon of sugar in them somewhere.’

Sally took one of the drab-looking biscuits and dunked it in her tea. ‘Are you ever serious?’

‘Of course. When I tell you you’re practically perfect, I’m serious.’

Sally pretended to believe him. ‘And what do I need to be absolutely perfect?’

He smiled but Sally thought that it was not his usual smile but one with a tinge of sadness. Why should joking with a chum make him sad?

‘I wouldn’t expect you to love me as I love you, Sally Brewer, champion fairy guard of the Tiny Tots dance troupe, but if you could love me a little …?’

‘But I …’ Sally had been about to say, ‘But I do love you, Sebastian,’ when some instinct stopped her. She did love him, of course she did. When close to him or even when apart, she felt somehow different; something in her had changed. How could she not love someone who was kind and gentle, unfailingly patient and polite and amazingly handsome? Again, the image of the man in naval uniform flashed across her mind but melted away as quickly as it had appeared, leaving her somehow frustrated. What is this? He stays in my head like a tune that keeps repeating.

She forced herself to ignore Just Jon. ‘You’re being silly, Sebastian, and haven’t answered my question.’

‘Very well, mon ange, we will acknowledge the advent of Christmas this year but leave is, I believe, totally out of the question. I hear – and should not be telling you so “Mum’s the word” – that we are taking Christmas joy to some casualties of this blasted war. Now, control yourself when I tell you that you are going to be the Christmas fairy dispensing little gifts to children – yes, I know, someone should tell the War Office that children do get hurt when bombs are dropped on their homes – and after what passes for cake and fruit juice, I will, in my Prince Charming satin suit and buckled shoes, waltz you out of Children’s to Maternity – don’t groan, darling, it’s Christmas – and after that we’re doing a slightly naughty little play in Men’s Casualty; Spiced Shakespeare, I think they’re calling it.’

‘Just the two of us?’

‘Of course.’

He saw her expression of abject dismay and took pity on her. ‘No, silly, everyone in our group will be there and, with luck, a few more seasoned performers will join us. It’s for our war wounded and I know they’d prefer George Formby, but quite a few of them will feel much better after a discreet glimpse of your lovely legs.’

Her heart beating with excitement, Sally smiled. At last she had a starring role – as a fairy – but at least she was the only fairy. She decided that it would be quite fun to dance with Prince Sebastian along the hospital corridors. What she would be required to say in a spiced-up version of something from the huge canon of the Swan of Avon, she shuddered to think, but it was in a good cause.

‘I’m actually going to be billed as a member of an ENSA troupe, Sebastian?’

‘You are indeed. Eventually we will all have uniforms, just like the other Services.’

‘Uniforms? For actors and singers, comedians and hoofers?’

‘For ENSA and, unlike the other services, we automatically become officers.’

‘Officers? I rather like the sound of that.’

‘It simply means you can use NAAFI canteens. Now to work.’

Sally was no Vera Lynn but she created what the director termed ‘a pleasant sound’ and as a result of concentrated professional teaching she was improving in every way. Besides, she was pretty, taking her loveliness for granted so that few of her female colleagues resented her. She knew that she had a great deal to learn and was determined to improve, and the more established performers basked in her admiration.

Having little knowledge of children, her ability to play the ‘good’ fairy worried her, but the young patients recognised her genuine kindness and they loved her appearance.

‘You’re a perfect Christmas fairy, Sally,’ Sebastian congratulated her as they left the children’s ward. ‘All the little girls want to look just like you when they grow up, and, Deo volente, they will grow up. Now glide with me down the corridor on fairy gossamer wings and we’ll enchant all the new mothers.’

Sally climbed into bed that night with her hot-water bottle and her writing case, put her cold feet on the not-quite-hot-enough bottle and wrote first to Daisy, both to congratulate her on her exciting life and also to ask her all about the mystery flying teacher, and then to her parents.

She had been told that she would be allowed to go to Dartford for at least a few hours over the holidays, but she wanted her parents to know about her first ENSA performance as quickly as possible.

My frock was every little girl’s dream, and I had a ‘diamond’ crown made of silver paper we’d been collecting for weeks. Don’t worry, every piece has been straightened out and will be delivered to the collection points after Christmas. Sebastian and I danced – he did look perfect as Prince Charming – and all the new mothers in Maternity loved him. He is a dear, walked round the ward and kissed every patient and at least two of the nurses. Then we did a bit from The Taming of the Shrew. Max spiced it up a bit although I remember it quite well from school and I didn’t think it needed spicing; don’t worry, Mum, I was the sister and really all I had to do was look pretty. But I have a credit in a Shakespeare play to put on my CV. Yippee.

Sebastian took me to an actors’ club for lunch and I had a glass of champagne – very sophisticated.

See you soon, I hope, but ENSA is part of the Forces and we have to obey orders. Give my love to everyone.

Sally

On Christmas Day, the company visited a convalescent home in what had been, just a few months before, a stately home. She was to remember the luxury of the house with grateful nostalgia many times in the years ahead. The wards in this hospital were like no ward she had seen before. The ceilings had carved cornices, and exotic birds and flowers rioted across the walls. Dark green holly with vibrant red berries nestling among the leaves covered the mantelpieces; candles, red, silver, gold stood among the holly leaves and in the hall an enormous Christmas tree proclaimed the glories of Christmas past. In the late afternoon, after their prepared performance and their spontaneous carol singing, the troupe joined ambulatory patients, medical staff and even a few family members in a paneled dining room where they enjoyed a Christmas tea.

They returned to London on Boxing Day and Sally found herself working harder than ever.

Max, having received more requests for performances than they could possibly handle, was not in the best of moods, and after the barest of civilities brought them up to date with his immediate plans.

‘I’ve sketched out a few new ideas. Everyone’s thoughts are welcome – if you have an idea, share it. It seems musicals are the things to cheer the troops, comedians, of course, and divinely lovely girls – that’s you, Sally. What do you think you’d look like in a blond wig?’

‘An idiot in a blond wig.’

‘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.

‘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.’

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 …