by Edwards, Eve
‘Would you be a brick and keep the sister company while I escort the Venus to supper after the show?’
‘Des –’
‘I’ll be eternally in your debt.’ He grinned, showing a tiny chip in his front tooth, given him on the cricket pitch years ago. ‘I think she might be the one, you know.’
Every girl Des fell for was ‘the one’ according to him. Sebastian doubted very much that a chorus girl would make the finish line, not if Des’s stockbroking father had anything to say about it. He’d be after a young lady with a private fortune from the Home Counties for his son. ‘Do I have to, Des?’
The expression in Des’s eyes took on a steely glint. ‘I’ll let you borrow my motorbike while I’m at sea. I know you’ve always lusted after it.’
‘By George, you must be serious if you’re willing to let me near your pride and joy.’ Sebastian made a quick calculation: an evening of small talk in exchange for weekends of freedom roaring round the countryside. Surely he need not be shy of charming a girl unused to attention; his own social ineptitude with the opposite sex might not be noticed by such an undemanding audience. ‘All right, I’ll be your second.’
Des stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Good man. We’d better hurry. I wouldn’t want to miss Flora’s first entrance.’
Helen fastened the last hook and eye on Flora’s costume and patted her sister on the back. ‘You’re ready.’
Flora turned, surveying her appearance in the mirror, pursing her lips critically. She looked like a calla lily, shapely and slim in her pale, skin-tight costume, long blonde wig covering her golden curls. Tonight’s theme was the recruitment drive: Britannia surrounded by Valkyrie maidens encouraging the boys to go off to war – in other words, scantily clad Viking girls wearing strategically draped furs and carrying toy weapons. Helen considered the whole parade to be in very bad taste, but knew better than to offer her opinion to Flora. Her sister was still in love with the idea of performing before an adoring public and had few demands when it came to artistic standards. It wasn’t Shakespeare, that much was certain.
‘Do you think he’ll be here tonight?’ Flora leaned towards the mirror to apply a fresh coat of red lipstick.
‘He’, of course, was Desmond Packenham, the young naval officer who had been showering her sister with lovelorn letters. Flora had fallen for the idea of being the girlfriend of a noble suitor in one of the services and even quite fancied the chap himself, as far as Helen could judge. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here if he can.’
‘Sandy dear, could you do something with this dratted feather for me?’ Toots Bailey called from the other side of the dressing room.
All the chorus called Helen ‘Sandy’, having picked up the nickname from her sister. Helen didn’t mind: it made them feel like family. She waved that she was coming, picked up her sewing kit and hurried over to deal with the last-minute costume emergency. A couple of stitches and the headdress was saved from disaster. Toots, a vibrant brunette, kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you, sweetie. Oops, now I’ve smudged you.’ She delved in her beaded clutch bag to find a handkerchief, but there wasn’t time. The stage manager was already calling for the chorus.
Helen ushered her out. ‘Don’t worry, Toots, I’ll sort it out while you’re onstage.’
The dressing room emptied as rapidly as suds from a bath, a swirl of peach-toned girls in sequins and feathers spinning away for their opening positions.
Helen took a deep breath and sat down on her sister’s chair. She liked the dressing room at these moments. A sense of life happening close by, but not sweeping her away. She could find her feet, centre her spinning self like a child wobbling on shaky legs in the school playground after a vigorous attempt to get dizzy. For weeks now she had felt she was lurching from one shock to another.
Picking up after her untidy sister, Helen cleared a space on Flora’s eighteen inches of shared dressing table, tucking the spare hairgrips into the Chinese box Lord Gordonstone had sent the older girl, tigers growling on the tail of the one in front. She then inspected the lipstick smear, rubbing it away with a smidge of cold cream. Her fingers lingered on her cheek for a moment. Her complexion had cleared up over the summer. She could date that happy fact from the moment Flora had finally packed their bags and marched them both to the station to find their fortune in London, like a latter-day Dick Whittington, as Flora had optimistically put it.
I suppose that made me the cat. Helen smiled and smoothed her hair back with a feline flick.
Their departure had happened the morning after their father had given Helen a black eye. Flora had refused to be witness to any more abuse and anyway, she had told Helen, snapping shut her suitcase, she had always planned to leave for the big city so now was as good a time as any to put that plan into action. Being away from the threats and fists of her father had worked wonders for Helen’s well-being. Though they were as poor as church mice, at least she didn’t have abuse raining down on her at unpredictable intervals. She owed her sister for so much.
The music began outside, the gust of audience applause beating against the door, a storm heard from under the covers. Helen sniffed at the bottles of perfume on the table, finding she liked Toots’s light lavender scent more than Flora’s heavy French concoction (another gift – Helen forgot from whom). She dabbed the smallest amount behind her ear, knowing Toots wouldn’t begrudge her the luxury. As Helen had only just turned sixteen, all the chorus girls treated her like a little sister that needed mothering. They’d plucked her brows into a more pleasing shape, advised her on her clothes and even dressed her hair – not that they could do anything about the fact that she just did not have their sparkle. It was a tough test for an ordinary-looking girl to be dresser to a gaggle of the most gorgeous women in London. The only thing she had to match theirs was her generous figure which made her seem older than she was – an asset that had enabled her to get herself a place on nurse training without a blink at her claim to be eighteen.
Seized by a sudden impulse, Helen ran her fingers down the row of costumes and grabbed a feather boa from the costume basket. She draped it over her shoulders, adjusting it to hang just so. Mincing before the mirror, she did a little shimmy as she’d seen the girls do. It didn’t work in her practical high-necked gown. She just looked a fool.
A door banged behind her. Mortified to be caught prancing about, Helen dropped the prop and spun round, expecting a sniggering stagehand. What she saw was much worse. A large man with dark hair slicked ruthlessly in place blocked the door. He was wearing his old evening suit, spats polished to a high gloss, the middle-class man’s attempt at appearing well-to-do. He said nothing, just fixed her with his vicious hunting-dog glare.
Helen found her voice. ‘Dad!’
‘Surprised to see me, Helen?’
She could feel herself shaking in her shoes – until now, she hadn’t known that this could be a literal description of the effects of fear. ‘How … how did you find us?’
Harvey Sandford invaded the room and looked around with puzzlement at the gaudy trappings, the silks and satins of a lady’s boudoir. Did he know that his golden girl was onstage at that moment wearing not very much at all? He’d be livid if he found that out. ‘Flora wrote to your mother to tell her how you were managing. Didn’t want to worry her, she said.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Helen had thought they had agreed to withhold their address from their mother, but it seemed Flora had forgotten that Geerta never kept anything from her spouse, or conveniently overlooked the fact, which would be more in character. Their mother was from the strict school where wives obeyed their husbands no matter what.
‘Where’s your sister?’
Helen could tell from the way he avoided meeting her gaze as he prowled that he was trying his utmost to keep his temper in check. He had to be furious with her for depriving him of his favourite daughter, but this was not the privacy of their home where there was no one to remark on his violence. Just beyond the door were witnesses aplenty. ‘She … she’s singing. There’s a recruitment drive tonight.’ There, he should approve of that.
He smiled briefly, teeth showing. ‘That’s my girl. I knew she would fall on her feet. Talent like hers won’t let her down. Even when she defied me by leaving home, I admired her spirit. She’s a true Sandford.’
Helen dared to let go of a little of her fear. He seemed mollified by news of Flora’s success; perhaps this visit could pass off peacefully. ‘Yes, she’s very … um … popular.’ Helen did a quick calculation as to how long they had before the chorus would sweep back in wearing their scanty costumes. ‘But this is a shared dressing room, Dad, they’ll be along for a change any moment now, the girls, I mean. Men aren’t allowed. You’ll have to see her after the show.’
Harvey Sandford nodded, the female unmentionables scattered on every surface a better defence of their territory than any number of barricades. ‘I’ve got a seat in the gallery. Just wanted to check you were both here.’
‘Yes, yes, we’re here.’ He was going to watch? This was a disaster.
Then he lobbed his grenade on his way to the door. ‘Flora may be old enough to leave home without my permission, but you forget, Helen, you are still under my authority. You’d better get used to the idea of coming back to Haverhill tomorrow.’
‘But … but I’ve a place training as a nurse. I can’t just leave.’
Harvey Sandford snorted. ‘You, a nurse? God save your patients. Anyway, your mother wants you. She’s had a fall and needs some help around the house. You can nurse her.’
A fall or had been knocked down? It wouldn’t be the first time. But Helen wouldn’t put herself back in that house just to give him another target for his fists, even to help her mother. She knew how that would end – her running away again, but with no Flora to aid her. ‘But Flora needs me too, Dad.’
He frowned. ‘We’ll talk about it later. Tell Flora I’ll meet her at the stage door after the show.’ He and half of Flora’s admirers, but he wasn’t to know that. Saints alive, this was a Titanic of an evening heading full speed towards the iceberg.
‘Yes, yes, I will.’ She’d have to warn Flora, stop her appearing in the second half. Perhaps they could leave early, say Flora had been taken ill?
Hand on the doorknob, he paused. ‘You’re looking well, Helen. I see that you’ve grown up a bit. Flora was right to let you spread your wings a little.’
Of course it would be Flora’s doing, not hers. ‘We’ll see you later then?’ Why was her voice always so weak around him? ‘Bye, Dad.’
Harvey Sandford closed the door behind him.
Still trembling, Helen backed up against the wall and wrapped her arms round her waist, imagining she was folding her wings like the hawkmoth dropping from the path of a predator. This was not fair, so not fair! She could not go back with him – would not. Once upon a time, she had hoped her father had depths of compassion she would eventually access, some place where a meeting of minds might be possible, but the years had disappointed her. He had no hidden depths. He lived a life where only he could be king; he was cock of the walk, top dog. Flora would have to persuade him she needed Helen in London. Yes, he would listen to her.
But not if he was incensed at Flora’s unsuitable occupation. He mustn’t see her. Helen’s head spun with the horrible dilemma.
The rapid fire of heels on the stairs warned her that the chorus was stampeding back for their costume change. Helen stood frozen to the spot. This was too awful.
Flora glided in, discarding her fur tunic with a practised hand. ‘Helen, he’s here!’
She closed her eyes. ‘I know. He called by while you were onstage.’
‘Don’t be silly. I saw him sitting in the stalls. We exchanged one of those glances – the significant sort. He’ll ask me out tonight, I’m sure of it.’ Flora placed her wig on a peg by Helen’s head, the strands brushing her in passing, then ran her fingers through her own hair to fluff it up. ‘Where’s my Grecian robe, Helen? Weren’t you altering the hem for me?’
Yes, from short to barely there. Helen shook herself and took it off the hanger. ‘Flora, Dad’s here.’
Her sister paused in brushing her hair, face leached of colour. ‘You saw Dad?’
‘He knows you’re performing. You told Mum where to find us.’ Helen clenched the white fabric in her fist, wishing she could scream her complaints at her sister, but she owed Flora too much and could not be so brattish.
Flora’s hand shook as she replaced the brush on the table. ‘I wrote in German and I told her not to tell him. You can’t blame me.’
This wasn’t an argument worth pursuing right now. ‘He has a ticket for the show. He’ll be watching the next song. Please, you can’t go on.’
Flora tugged the robe out of Helen’s grip. ‘Don’t be a fool. I have to work or we won’t make enough for the rent. I’m not ashamed of what I do. Dad will just have to lump it.’
Helen was aware they had only a minute to settle this and she had so much to say. ‘He’s come to fetch me. Says Mum is ill again and needs me.’
‘Damn the man: can’t he keep his fists under control?’ Flora shook open her powder compact and took the shine of perspiration off her nose. ‘Well, he’s not having you back, you needn’t worry about that.’
‘But legally he’s my guardian.’
Flora dropped the compact back in her cosmetic box. ‘Sod the law, Sandy. I’ll make such a fuss, he’ll creep back to Haverhill with his tail between his legs.’ She patted Helen’s cheek. ‘Don’t worry. That man has no power over us any longer.’
Flora flounced out, leaving her area in its usual mess. Helen forced herself to pick up and lay out the next costume as if nothing unusual was happening onstage. Would their father hang on in the gallery until the last song or would he storm back in here as soon as he realized what kind of performer Flora had become? Well, there was something Helen could do about that. Slipping out of the dressing room, she passed word to the doorman that Flora Sandford wanted no more visitors, friends or family, backstage that night.
3
THE SOMME, 1 JULY 1916, 5.15 A.M.
Sebastian checked his kit for the last time before emerging from the dugout that he had shared with Captain Williams. He did not have much with him as they had been ordered to leave all spare belongings and private correspondence behind in anticipation of marching to the front yesterday morning. He had dumped everything but his notebook from which he refused to be parted and he certainly did not want it to survive if he went down in the attack. Better it perish with him than be sent to his family and cause them distress. There were too many personal thoughts inside. Pruned of the stuff of his private life, his pack was weighed down with rations and water, his belt heavy with ammunition and grenades.
A real little soldier, he thought wryly, picking up his Lee-Enfield rifle. He preferred this to his revolver as it did not mark him out as an officer to sharp-eyed German snipers, unlike the sidearm. Both sides targeted senior officers. A thread of remembered music drifted through his mind, passing across it like one of the swifts swooping above the Somme on the hunt for flies, the carnage below none of its business. Now your country calls you to play your part in war. The tune returned, refusing to give up its hold, trilling as it snagged another line out of his memory. We don’t want to lose you, but we think you ought to go.
&n
bsp; Sebastian crackled with impatience. Yes, thank you, brain, you can shut up now. He had thought that, when facing extreme danger, his mind could have come up with something loftier than a foolish musical-hall song, but no, he would have to face death with a tuppenny ditty meandering through his head. Had other war heroes had this lowering experience? Had Nelson really been thinking of his breakfast, or a sea shanty, or the itch he couldn’t reach on his back when he had died expecting every man to do his duty?
Not that I’m putting myself in the same bracket as Nelson, Sebastian quickly amended. God, just listen to me – or don’t, please. I need to get my head straight or that bullet will find me before I even get halfway to the German lines. Inadequate to the task doesn’t even begin to describe it.
Sebastian pushed the sacking aside and blinked in the half-light, dazed like a bear coming out of hibernation. In a moment the sun would rise, sending its beams streaming horizontally across the fields.
‘Stand-to!’ came the order from Captain Williams. All the men lined up at their positions, weapons ready. It was a ritual observed at dusk and dawn and could last for an hour or more. Sebastian was conscious that every soldier, from the Swiss border to the sea, stood to attention at this time, like some vast religious ceremony, their nerves strained, eyes and ears bent on the enemy. It marked the beginning of the new day – one that would be murderous and hellish but unavoidable. He inspected his own little contingent, finding no fault in their preparations. Guns were clean even if the men were not.
At last the order to ‘stand down’ came – a brief pause before the hour allotted for their big push forward; time enough for a quick breakfast. The sun sat full on the horizon. One thing was bloody obvious: attacking eastwards, they would be blind in their assault while the Germans would have them spotlighted. Had the commanders thought of that? Daylight raids were always carnage.
No sooner had he framed the question than the first British smoke bomb exploded in no man’s land.