Applause (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 2)

by Madalyn Morgan

  She kept him in sight as they went down the steps and into the ticket hall, but lost him in a crowd of people heading for the moving stairs and the trains. ‘Damn! Gone again!’ Margot looked at the clock above the ticket office. She had missed her hair appointment, so she made her way through the crowd to the Regent Street exit. There he was, at the top of the steps that she was about to mount. She pushed her way out of the station and looked around. She couldn’t see him. She climbed onto the bottom rung of the railings and scanned a crowd of people crossing Regent Street – and there he was. Keeping him in sight, she ran across the road. A lorry screeched to a halt. She put her hand up to say sorry and stepped back onto the pavement. When she looked again, he had gone.

  She had almost given up when she saw him looking in a shop window. ‘Got ya!’ She wasn’t going to lose him again so, as soon as the traffic eased, she zigzagged her way south determined to catch up with him.

  ‘Blast!’ For a second Margot couldn’t see him – but there he was, just a few yards ahead. She watched as he took off his trilby and ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair. She froze, shocked. She was sure this was the man who’d been following her – the man she thought was Nazi Dave – but this man’s hair was light brown; Dave’s was almost black. He stopped suddenly and looked over his shoulder. Fearing he would see her, Margot ducked into a bus shelter. She lifted her hand so her arm partially covered her face, and pretended to check the timetable. She watched him take a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches from his pocket. He put a cigarette between his lips and struck a match. After lighting it, he inhaled deeply, blew out the flame and flicked the match into the street. Margot was confused. She felt sure the man who had bumped into her in the station was Nazi Dave. If it was, who was she following along Regent Street?

  She needed to speak to the man, but he was on the move again. He began to walk quickly. Margot walked faster. ‘Excuse me!’ she shouted. ‘I want to talk to you.’ The man ignored her and carried on walking, but Margot stayed with him. She grabbed hold of his sleeve. ‘Who are you and why have you been following me?’

  The man didn’t turn round. He pulled away from her and began to walk away at speed.

  Margot ran after him and caught hold of his arm, and he spun round. Her heart was pounding. She looked up at the man’s face and her heart sank. ‘You’re not… I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

  The man said nothing. At first he looked angry. Then he bent down until his face was so close to hers she could smell cigarettes on his breath and said, ‘Go away! Now!’

  Shaking, Margot stumbled into a nearby café, ordered a cup of tea and sat down. She hadn’t seen Dave, or anyone resembling him for weeks, until today. The last time was at the Prince Albert Club. She shuddered at the memory.

  When her tea came she wrapped her hands around the cup and drank absentmindedly. Refreshed, she paid at the counter and left. Buttoning up her coat in the café’s doorway, Margot examined the face of every male that passed. She sighed with relief. She couldn’t see either man. At the end of Regent Street, in Leicester Square and again in Covent Garden, Margot stopped and looked back. She’d taken a roundabout route to get to the theatre, but it was worth it, because she knew she hadn’t been followed.

  After the first air raid the safety curtain came down and when the girls had changed into their own clothes, they came back on stage, stood in front of the curtain, and began to sing “Roll Out The Barrel”. In no time the audience were singing and cheering. “There’ll Always Be An England” followed, and then “We’ll Meet Again.” When the second raid began, wave after wave of German planes roared overhead, drowning out the sing-along. As soon as the all clear sounded the audience were shown to the exits and the company went home.

  Grateful for the lift, Margot sat in the passenger seat of Anton Goldman’s car while he navigated his way around a huge bomb crater at the top of the Strand, which, with capped lights, took ages.

  ‘Your sister Bess telephoned earlier. She sent her love.’ Margot turned to hear more clearly what Anton was saying. ‘She rang to let us know the children are safe after the bombing of Coventry. We were a little concerned, with Foxden being so near to two RAF aerodromes, but she assured me the cellar walls are five feet thick and will protect the Foxden residents if the bombers return. Have you heard from Bill?’

  ‘Yes, he telephoned the stage door. His mum and dad are all right, thank goodness. They live quite a long way away from the centre of Coventry and apart from having their windows blown out, there’s not a lot of damage done. It’s the city centre that’s been blitzed to smithereens. The cathedral has been gutted. It’s a shell, Bill said.’

  Anton clicked his tongue. ‘I suppose they were after the aircraft factory.’

  A cold shiver took Margot by surprise and tears welled up in her eyes. ‘Oh my God. I used to work there, before I came to London. I’ve got friends who still do. I hope…’

  Anton glanced at her briefly. ‘I’m sorry, Margot, I didn’t think. But I’m sure your friends would have finished work for the day and been at home, or in shelters, when the bombs fell.’ The night shift wouldn’t have been, Margot thought. They drove in silence for some time, and then Anton said, ‘What are you and Bill doing for Christmas this year?’

  ‘I’m not sure. We’re staying in London,’ she said, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘We thought about going up to the Midlands, but it isn’t possible. Travel’s bad now, but Bill says it’s going to get worse. The MoD has asked anyone who doesn’t have to travel not to. They want to keep the roads clear for the emergency services and the trains for moving troops.’

  ‘We’ll miss the children, with them being at Foxden. We don’t celebrate Christmas,’ Anton said, ‘but we take the holiday. It’s an excuse for a rest!’ he laughed. ‘Why don’t you and Bill come to us for your lunch on Christmas Day?’

  ‘Thank you, Anton, I’ll ask him.’

  ‘And I’ll ask Natalie.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Listen to that, sweetheart,’ Bill said, opening the window. Margot pulled on her cardigan and joined her husband. Hampstead was a long way from the City of London, further still from the East End, but they could usually hear the distant rumble and crump of falling bombs. ‘Silence. I’d forgotten what it sounded like. And tonight,’ Bill said, ‘no bombs and no ambulance work.’ Margot whooped. ‘The married chaps have been given Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off. So,’ he said, closing the window, ‘did wardrobe give you any chocolates this year?’

  ‘Yes. And they’re mine,’ Margot shouted, jumping on Bill’s back in an attempt to stop him from reaching her present. Bill fell sideways, rolled over, and pulled Margot on top of him. Laughing almost hysterically, Margot pulled at his shirt. Bill grabbed her and kissed her. Then, lying on his back, he gently pushed her until she was sitting up, straddling him. He took off her cardigan and blouse. Margot undid his belt and the buttons on his trousers. He pulled her down again and, holding her with one hand, slipped the other inside her slacks. As he caressed her, Margot arched her back and moaned with desire. Unable to wait any longer, Bill picked her up and carried her to the bedroom – all thoughts of the chocolate forgotten.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Betsy screamed. ‘Damn, I’ve dropped my lipstick. Who switched the bloody light off?’

  ‘No one,’ George said. ‘There must be a power cut.’

  ‘Stay where you are, girls, I’ll get a candle.’ Margot felt her way to the old chaise longue. To the left of it was a small cupboard. She opened the door and, feeling around, found the medicinal brandy. She then found a box of matches and half a dozen candles. ‘Got them,’ she said, lighting one. By its pale light she returned to the dressing table and lit candles for George and Betsy. There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Company on stage please, ladies,’ Bert said, entering the room with a torch in one hand and several candles in the other. ‘Mr Goldman is making an announcement.’


  ‘What’s happened, Bert?’

  ‘Power cut. The electrician’s checking now. He says it isn’t the fuse box and there’s nothing wrong with the wiring. External, he reckons, caused by heavy bombing across the river.’

  ‘Bloody Luftwaffe,’ Betsy said. Crawling around on the floor she found her lipstick. ‘It’s been every bloomin’ night for the last six months.’

  ‘Follow me, ladies, and bring your candles. I don’t want you falling down the stairs. But please blow them out before you go on stage. There’s so much wood and paint – and it’s as dry as tinder. We don’t want the place going up in flames, do we?’

  Anton Goldman and Pamela Lesley were on stage by the time the artists arrived. Without lights it felt cold. Margot nudged Betsy, and shivered. Betsy exhaled loudly, forcing the air to reverberate between her lips indicating that she was cold too.

  ‘Ah! What’s that?’ Betsy hissed. ‘Something as cold as ice just touched me on the shoulder. Was it you, Margot?’

  ‘No. Stay where you are,’ Margot said, straining to see in the dark and stretching out her hand in the direction of Betsy’s voice. ‘I’ve lost you.’

  ‘Ah! There it is again. George?’ Betsy hissed. ‘If you’re playing silly beggars...’

  ‘Ooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Betsy Evans, I’m coming to get you.’ George flicked on a torch and held it under her chin. Her face, illuminated grotesquely, made Betsy squeal.

  ‘Found you,’ Margot said, following the light of George’s torch. ‘Let’s hold onto each other.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Betsy grabbed George’s hand with the torch.

  ‘Spoil sport,’ George laughed.

  ‘What’s that grinding noise in the wings?’ Margot said. ‘It sounds as if someone’s dragging an iron bedstead across wooden floorboards.’

  ‘Portable overheads,’ George said. ‘About time too.’

  From both sides of the stage stagehands appeared holding large round battery operated lights. They walked so slowly and carefully they might have been carrying coffins. Margot felt the hairs on her arms stand up. At the front of the stage the lads lifted the lights onto their shoulders – leaving the artists in the dark again – and pointed them above the heads of the audience. The usherettes did the same with their torches.

  ‘Oh my God! I didn’t realise the curtain was up. How embarrassing,’ George said. ‘I hope they didn’t hear us.’

  ‘Hear you, you mean. It was you being daft, not me and Margot,’ Betsy said.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Anton Goldman shouted, but the audience didn’t hear him. Half a dozen ladies in the middle of the stalls got up and began to push their way past people who had remained seated. From the wings Bert handed Anton a loudhailer. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he boomed. A hush spread through the auditorium and at last he had their attention. ‘There has been a power cut. It is not internal, therefore we are unable to do anything about it.’ There was a rumble of muted comments. ‘Would you please remain seated and the usherettes will guide you, one row at a time, to the exits. Once you have left the auditorium members of the front of house staff will show you out of the theatre. The fire doors and the main entrance will be open, so please use the nearest exit. Goodnight. Have a safe journey home.’

  As the audience began to leave the curtain came down and Anton turned to the artists. ‘As almost half the house has been sold for tomorrow night’s show, we’re hoping the electrical problem will be resolved and we can open as usual. The matinee has very few bookings, so Miss Lesley and I think it would be prudent not to open in the afternoon, but to be here at six o’clock prepared to do the evening show. If everyone is happy with that, I’ll say goodnight and see you all tomorrow.’

  The artists made their way from the stage into the wings, and then to their respective dressing rooms with the help of Mrs Horton and the wardrobe assistants, who shone torches on the floor and stairs for the artists to follow. Back in the dressing rooms, candles were lit again and the wardrobe department went down to help the usherettes and front of house staff to clear the theatre.

  George passed Margot a coat hanger and she hung up her costume. The cliché that theatre people were like family was true, she thought, remembering how they helped one another and how the girls had looked after her when Dave the Nazi was around. She swallowed and forced back a tear. There was a knock on the door and as she was nearest she opened it.

  ‘Come in, Bert.’

  ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’ George said. ‘Thought you’d be front of house.’

  ‘Not until I’ve seen you ladies off the premises safely,’ he beamed. ‘Make sure you’ve got all your belongings and your candles are out – we don’t want the place going up in smoke.’

  ‘How are we going to see to get downstairs without candles, darling?’ George asked.

  ‘Like magic, Miss George,’ he said, producing a torch. After switching it on he pushed it between the belt of his trousers and the arch of his back. ‘This way, if you please?’

  Holding onto each other, the human convoy descended the stairs one tentative step at a time until Bert’s small candle-lit office came into view. ‘Just a couple of steps and we’re down. There! Hang on a minute,’ he said, taking the torch from his belt. ‘Hold on for just a second longer.’ Turning, he pointed the torch at the stairs and backed down the last few steps. ‘Right! Follow me,’ he said, crossing to the stage door.

  The girls trailed out one after the other, discussing whether the club would have electricity. ‘We could call round and have a look,’ George said.

  Betsy turned her nose up, but changed her mind. ‘All right, but I’m only staying for one drink. Are you listening to me, George?’

  ‘Darling, I cling on your every word. Ta-ta everyone. See you tomorrow.’ Linking her arm through Betsy’s, George dragged her playfully along the Lane.

  ‘Hang on for me, you two,’ Nancy shouted. ‘I’m seeing Salvatore later anyway, so there’s no point in going all the way home. Are you coming, Margot?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ll hang on for Bill. I don’t expect they’ll have electricity at the ambulance station with it being so close. He’ll probably be here soon.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’ Nancy said, and blew Margot and Bert a kiss before running off to join Betsy and George.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help here, Bert?’

  ‘No, Miss. Now the backstage is clear, I’m going to lock up and go through to the front of house, see if I can help Miss Lesley.’

  ‘Goodnight, then. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t like leaving you out here on your own, Miss.’

  ‘I’ll be all right. If Bill isn’t here in the next ten minutes, I’ll come and find you. Or I’ll go and find him,’ Margot said cheerfully.

  ‘Make sure you do. Goodnight.’ Returning to the theatre he closed the stage door.

  ‘Damn!’ It had started to drizzle and Margot had left her umbrella in the dressing room. She turned, but before she had time to knock she heard the bolt clunk into place.

  She sheltered in the doorway for ten minutes, and then another ten, before walking round to the front of the theatre. The double doors were already locked and sandbags had been stacked in front of them. Arthur Armitage, the night watchman, must have secured them and returned to the theatre by the fire exit. She expected the audience to have been evacuated by now, but she thought Bert and Miss Lesley might still be inside. Balancing on top of the sandbags she began to knock. No one came.

  She looked up. The sky above the docks was a palette of oranges and reds. Every night for almost six months the Luftwaffe had bombed the East End. Margot thanked God she worked and lived on the north-side of the Thames – though the bombs were getting closer every night.

  Several ambulances sped past as Margot walked down the Strand. She waved down the only black cab she’d seen in twenty minutes. ‘The ambulance station at St. Thomas’s, please.’ The cabbie nodded and pulled out into the traffic. By the time s
he arrived, Bill and his crew had been called out to Fleet Street.

  ‘Will you give him a message when he gets back? Tell him I’ve gone home.’ The controller cupped his ear. Margot shouted above the scream of sirens and the ringing of the ambulances’ bells as they raced through the gates. ‘Tell him not to go to the theatre. We haven’t got any power, so I’m going home.’

  ‘There aren’t any buses going your way from here, Mrs Burrell. I’ve just been told nothing’s going north over Waterloo or Westminster Bridge. Gerry’s been targeting buildings along the river. Fleet Street’s been hit--’ The controller’s two-way radio began to buzz and crackle.

  ‘I’ll walk until I see one.’

  ‘It’s too dangerous to walk. Get yourself down the underground. It’s the only place you’ll be safe in London tonight.’

  ‘I suffer from claustrophobia,’ Margot shouted, which was a slight exaggeration. But the thought of spending the night with hundreds of strangers huddled together like sardines, not knowing when or if they’d get out, sent an icy ripple up her spine. If one of the underground stations close to the river took a direct hit the whole network would flood. She shuddered. ‘I hate the thought of being trapped in an underground station.’

  The ambulance controller looked at her as if she’d brought something unpleasant in on her shoe, and shrugged. ‘It’s up to you. But it is the sensible thing to do!’

  ‘You’re right, but there’ll be city buses going to Euston and North London from Kingsway – I’ll pick one up there. Will you tell Bill, please?’

  The controller nodded. ‘Be careful,’ he shouted after her, but before she had time to reply she heard a shrill whistle followed immediately by an earth-rocking explosion. It was too close for comfort, so when the controller’s two-way radio console began to buzz like a hive of demented bumble bees, she made a bolt for Westminster Bridge. ‘Taxi!’ she called, running into the road.