Applause (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 2)

by Madalyn Morgan

  ‘Can’t get a word in edgeways,’ Margot said.

  ‘First time for everything,’ Bess laughed.

  ‘Go on you two, scoot!’ Mrs Hartley said, pouring two cups of tea. ‘Go and join your friends while I refresh the pot. You sit yourself down, Mr Porter, and I’ll bring your tea over.’

  ‘Right-ho,’ he said, lowering himself into one of two rocking chairs at the side of the fire.

  Tea was loud and lots of fun. Kitty Woodcock, a cockney sparrow from the East End of London, kept them laughing with stories about her mum and the pub she worked in. Margot asked her if she’d heard from her mother lately and Kitty said she had. Looking relieved, George, who had been talking to a land girl named Sylvia, smiled across the table at Margot. Like Margot, she knew how dangerous it was for anyone living in the East End. One or another borough was blitzed every night.

  After tea, while a couple of the land girls helped Mrs Hartley with the pots, the others took their London friends upstairs and helped them hang up the costumes. The weight of the clothes would pull any creases out overnight, they decided, but the ironing board had been put up in Mrs Hartley’s scullery in case it was needed.

  During supper, sitting around Mrs Hartley’s kitchen table, they discussed the songs they could sing. One of the land girls tuned the wireless into the BBC Home Service, saying it would give them inspiration, while another found a sheet of paper and a pencil to make a list. The type of songs being sung in munitions and engineering factories were uplifting songs; songs that the BBC called “songs to work by”. “Roll Out The Barrel” was a good one. And “We’re Going To Hang Out The Washing On The Siegfried Line” was another. Both were put on the list.

  ‘I heard a new song by Glen Miller and his Orchestra, with Ray Eberle and the Modernaires, on the wireless the other day. Aren’t they just swoony?’ Betsy said, and she launched into “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree with Anyone Else But Me”. Everyone joined in and it was added to the list.

  ‘A song we must sing at the Foundry is “Sing As We Go”,’ Margot said.

  ‘Yes!’ Betsy said. ‘But who’s going to sing the opening lines?’ Betsy launched into her Gracie Fields impression.

  ‘Not you, darling, that’s for sure. Our Gracie is from Lancashire, not Llanglovey.’

  Everyone laughed again and Betsy made a show of pretending to be disappointed.

  ‘What about you, George?’ Margot said.

  ‘Me?’ George guffawed. ‘With my accent, darling, the northern charm of Gracie Fields’ opening lines would be annihilated. No,’ George looked at Margot. ‘Leicestershire is a damn sight nearer to Lancashire than Surrey. Besides, you’re a better actress than me.’

  After supper, Artie went out for a smoke with Mr Porter while the girls, still laughing and singing, trooped upstairs to sort out costumes for the Foundry and Rover engineering factory, and the night at Foxden. Natalie had loaned them some amazing outfits from the theatre’s costume store. Most of them they had worn before, so alterations weren’t needed, and the shoes fitted perfectly.

  After a fashion parade to decide which costumes would be worn at which concerts, the newly formed ‘Albert Sisters’ went downstairs to Mrs Hartley’s kitchen and practised songs with Artie on accordion and the land girls joining in as the orchestra. More laughing was done than rehearsing, which was just what Margot needed.

  The village hall was freezing and the air musty with damp. Margot shivered. A fire had been laid in the small fireplace, in preparation for the next Home Guard meeting. Grinning, Artie took a box of Swan Vesta from his pocket and struck a match. Margot raised her eyebrows and looked the other way as he lit a rolled up newspaper under a handful of sticks and a couple of logs. ‘Got to have heat to dry the keys,’ Artie said, on his hands and knees, blowing the damp paper until it caught. Once the fire had taken hold the girls helped him to move the piano nearer. According to him, the Joanna needed air and heat. The Albert Sisters sat around the fire, coats buttoned up to their chins, while they went over the lyrics of the songs they were going to sing. By late morning the songs and routines, and the order in which they were going to be performed, had been decided. And the piano, whilst it wasn’t yet in tune, sounded better.

  ‘I think you ladies should take a break,’ Artie said, gently pressing the piano keys. ‘Go across to the pub and have a sandwich or something, and I’ll fetch you when I’ve tuned the old girl.’ The three women took no persuading and left for the Crown.

  Sitting in front of the pub’s roaring fire, George with a tankard of beer and Margot and Betsy with glasses of sherry, they began to thaw out. George put her feet up and rested them on the corner of the inglenook. ‘This is the life. I could get used to this,’ she said, relaxing back in a big old armchair.

  ‘Too quiet for me,’ Betsy said. ‘Reminds me of the village I was brought up in in Wales. Give me London every time.’

  George closed her eyes. ‘I feel like Lord what’s-his-name sitting in this chair.’ She tapped the padded arm. ‘It’s like a throne.’ Lifting her tankard she took a long drink. ‘I’m surprised he asked a woman to run the estate,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Must be a forward thinker.’

  ‘Lord Foxden’s always thought a lot of our Bess, but it wasn’t him who asked her, it was his son, James. Bess was a teacher in London and when the children at her school were evacuated James asked her to come back to Foxden and turn the estate into arable land.’

  ‘Crikey,’ Betsy said. ‘That’s a hell of a lot of work.’

  ‘And responsibility,’ George added.

  ‘Talking of responsibility,’ Margot said, ‘shouldn’t we be getting back to Artie?’

  In a slightly warmer rehearsal hall with an almost perfectly tuned piano, the Alberts rehearsed the song they were going to open with at the factory the following day, which they decided would also be the best song to do for Basil Dean and ENSA next Tuesday. Once satisfied that “Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree” was the right song to perform they added the other songs. Each song and dance routine needed to be perfect, because after the initial song for ENSA, they didn’t know which of their repertoire Basil Dean would ask them to perform next. There was no guarantee he’d ask them to perform another number, but if he did they wanted to be prepared.

  By mid-afternoon the Albert Sisters had an audience. As people walked past the village hall and heard the music they stopped and came in – and with only a few hours to perfect their act they welcomed the feedback. After a final run-through, the audience of local ladies and customers from the Crown pub, who had wandered across the road at closing time, cheered and clapped for more.

  The following day at twelve o’clock, the Albert Sisters performed their show in the canteen of the Lowarth Foundry where Margot’s father worked and later, during an extended tea-break, at the Rover where Ena, Margot’s younger sister worked. Both workforces sang along with the popular songs and some of the women danced. For the Albert Sisters it was a taste of what performing with ENSA would be like, if they got through the audition.

  That evening Margot took George, Betsy and Artie up to the Hall to meet the men in the hospital wing. She took them round the room and introduced them, as Bess had introduced her earlier in the week. Exhausted after performing two shows that day, they made their excuses and left after an hour, promising to return the following night to entertain them. And true to their word, at eight o’clock the next night, dressed in WAAC, WAAF and WREN uniforms, Betsy, George and Margot marched into the hospital wing at Foxden Hall and stood to attention. Artie had arrived earlier and was seated at Foxden’s grand piano. ‘From the top!’ he shouted in his best Sergeant Major’s voice, whereupon the girls saluted before bursting into song with “Run Rabbit Run”. During the evening they performed their entire repertoire to cheers and applause. Thanks to the men and women in the factories at Lowarth and the servicemen at Foxden Hall, the Albert Sisters were ready for ENSA.

  The following morning, after a tearful farewell with her paren
ts, Margot joined Bess and the land girls at Foxden Hall for breakfast. Artie, having brought the cases down some time before, had finished his breakfast and was on his second cup of tea. George arrived ten minutes later. She’d been to say goodbye to the Goldman children, who had given her letters and drawings that she’d promised to deliver to their parents in London. As Mrs Hartley heaped scrambled eggs onto Betsy’s plate the land girls went off to work and Artie and Mr Porter took the cases out to the truck.

  By the time Margot and the girls were ready to leave the drive was lined with servicemen. Some had walked down with the aid of sticks or crutches, some were sitting on top of the semi-circle of stone steps outside the Hall’s main entrance in wheelchairs, and those who weren’t mobile had their beds pushed in front of the ballroom’s French windows.

  Mr Porter waved to Margot, indicating that he and Artie were ready to leave. Having said goodbye to Mrs Hartley and the Goldman children – who had come out to wave them off – George and Betsy walked down the steps to the car, shaking hands and saying goodbye to the servicemen.

  ‘Come on,’ Bess said, linking her arm through Margot’s, ‘or you’ll miss your train.’

  As they began their descent a cheer went up and Margot waved. She shook hands with some of the lads wishing them good luck and to get well, and promising them that she would come back as soon as she was able. To those in the distance she waved and blew kisses.

  ‘You’ve made a big difference to the lives of these lads,’ Bess said.

  ‘Not half as big a difference as they’ve made to mine.’ Margot stopped for a moment to take in the scene. She looked back and waved to Mrs Hartley and the Goldman children – and she blew kisses to the servicemen looking out of the ballroom’s windows.

  As she lowered herself onto the passenger seat of the car, tears that had threatened all morning filled her eyes. She took a deep breath and smiled bravely. Following the farm truck along the drive, Bess reached over and squeezed Margot’s hand. Margot wiped her tears and nodded that she was all right.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Stretching all the way down Catherine Street to Aldwych one way and back up to Drury Lane the other, the queue to the stage door of The Theatre Royal Drury Lane appeared endless. For what seemed like an age Margot, George, Betsy and Artie inched their way from one paving slab to the next behind jugglers, comics, belly dancers and other singers and dancers. After three hours they entered the theatre through the stage door. After another hour they were invited to sit on wooden benches in a backstage corridor.

  Betsy wriggled, transferring her weight from side to side on the bench. ‘My bum’s sore. I never dreamt there’d be this many people trying to get an audition.’

  ‘Me neither,’ George agreed. ‘But it shouldn’t be long now, Bets.’

  It was twenty-five minutes past six when a smartly dressed woman appeared from a door marked Private. ‘Mr Dean will see one more act today.’ She looked around. ‘Miss Derby-Bloom?’

  ‘I’m Derby-Bloom.’ George jumped up, beckoning the others.

  ‘That’s it for today,’ the woman said, turning to the disgruntled queue. ‘Interviews will resume tomorrow at nine o’clock. The doors will open at eight.’ Without waiting for a reply the woman turned, opened the door to Basil Dean’s office and stood to the side.

  Margot followed George into Dean’s office with Betsy behind her and Artie bringing up the rear. Basil Dean, sucking on a pipe, sat behind a large desk. As he lifted his head to acknowledge them the telephone began to ring.

  ‘I’ll take it, Mr Dean,’ his secretary said, leaving the office.

  Basil Dean nodded, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired. He was older than Margot thought he’d be. Or perhaps it was that he had a receding hairline. He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit and waistcoat over a white shirt and blue tie. He pulled at the collar of his shirt and loosened the tie. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, picking up something Margot thought could be their letter of introduction. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, directing the question at Artie.

  It was George who replied. ‘We are part of the Prince Albert Theatre company. I’m sure you know the theatre was damaged some months ago and is being repaired. Anton Goldman had hoped to be up and running before Christmas. Unfortunately the work has been delayed, which has put the opening back until March or April of next year. So we would like to offer ENSA our services until the Prince Albert re-opens.’

  ‘We can provide our own costumes and props,’ Betsy said.

  ‘And we have Anton Goldman’s support,’ Margot added.

  Basil Dean picked up the letter again. ‘Yes, Anton has been in touch. So has your father, Miss Derby-Bloom. He has made a substantial contribution to-- Most unusual, but I’m in no position to turn down such a generous offer. I wish we had more sponsors like him,’ he said. ‘Be in costume and ready to show me what you can do at three o’clock tomorrow.’

  As if on cue, the door opened and Dean’s secretary appeared. ‘Thank you,’ George said. But by then Basil Dean had his head down and was busy writing.

  The theatre was buzzing with artists, both professional and amateur. Illusionists, jugglers, singers, dancers, comedians – it seemed everyone who had ever trod the boards was there. And the worst of it was, after each act had performed they went into the audience and watched the other acts.

  When the Albert Sisters were called, Artie entered the stage first in top hat and tails. Walking over to the piano, he took a bow. He flicked the tails on his evening jacket and flexed his fingers several times. Everyone laughed when, instead of sitting down to play, he stood to attention. Then he shouted as loud as any sergeant-major: ‘Please give a big welcome to the Prince Albert Theatre’s conscripts, Misses WAAFY, WAACY and WREN.’

  Margot marched in first dressed in a short WAAF costume and high heels, followed by Betsy and George in army and navy costumes.

  ‘Halt!’ Artie called, when they were level with him. Artie was the smallest of the Alberts so, leaning backwards as if it was an effort to look up at them, as well as accentuate the difference in their height, he shouted, ‘About turn!’ and the girls turned and faced the audience. ‘At ease!’

  As Artie played the opening bars to “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B” the girls began to swing their hips. The song went well. Just before the end, Margot stepped forward and sang, ‘In the army now!’ George barked ‘In the navy now!’ and Betsy followed with ‘RAF!’

  When they had performed their three songs Artie stood up and shouted, ‘Atteeeeeeeeention!’ and the girls stood to attention. ‘About turn!’ They turned so their backs were to the audience. ‘And… Left, right. Left, right.’ Marching off, the girls looked over their right shoulders, saluted, and held the pose until they were in the wings. A second later Artie took his bow and marched off behind them.

  Back stage the three women danced round Artie. Betsy shushed them. ‘Listen! They’re clapping.’ She looked round the flats separating the stage area from the wings. Then, turning back, she said, ‘Basil Dean’s nodding and writing something in his note book.’ She looked again. ‘Now he’s saying something to the bloke sitting next to him. Oh my God,’ she said, ‘it’s Tommy Trinder! And he’s smiling. They’re both smiling.’

  ‘I think the big man like us,’ Artie said, mimicking Basil Dean. The girls huddled round him, hugging and kissing him – and purposely leaving red lipstick kisses on his cheeks.

  ‘Where have you been, Margot?’

  ‘The telephone box,’ she said, going to the oven and taking out a small joint of brisket. Holding the roasting tray with an oven cloth, Margot carefully placed it in front of Bill before passing him the carving knife and fork. ‘I phoned George to see if she’d heard anything. She hadn’t, so I telephoned Basil Dean’s office.’

  Bill carved the joint, putting a couple of slices onto Margot’s plate before putting the same onto his own. ‘And?’

  Margot shook her head. ‘Dean wasn’t there. I left
my name and address again. It’s been two weeks since we auditioned. Anyway, I’m going down to see George tomorrow.’

  ‘All the way to her father’s house in Essex?’ Bill asked, concerned.

  ‘Yes. Betsy’s already there, she’s lodging with them – and George is going to get in touch with Artie. We’re meeting to discuss what we’re going to do if ENSA don’t want us.’ Margot strained the vegetables. ‘Apparently there’s an independent theatre group starting up. George’s dad is looking into it for us. Oh, and there’s Stars in Uniforms. Not sure we fit the bill, but if all else fails...’

  ‘Promise you’ll leave before it gets dark, Margot? The train will be coming through the East End. The stations are always being targeted. And the raids are starting earlier.’

  ‘Of course I will! But I have to go, Bill.’ She spooned a couple of roast potatoes onto her plate and the rest onto Bill’s before putting the oven dish on the draining board. After adding vegetables and gravy to both plates, Margot sat down to eat her Sunday lunch.

  The following morning Margot caught the 11.45 train from Liverpool Street to Ongar, promising to catch the 3.20 back so Bill could meet her and take her home when he’d finished at the MoD. That way they could have an early supper together before he went to Tommy’s.

  For once – probably because it was to do with show business – Margot was as good as her word and arrived back as promised. She ran across the platform and out through the exit. Bill, sitting astride his motorbike, had seen her and was waving. Out of breath, she fell into his arms. ‘We’ve got to think of something else to keep us together until the theatre re-opens.’

  ‘You don’t have to, Margot, I--’

  ‘I know,’ she said, stopping him from speaking further by kissing him. ‘I know you’ll look after me.’ She kissed him again. ‘And I’m going to let you. I’m going to stop trying to prove myself – and stop being so selfish. My poor Bill,’ she said, looking into her husband’s soft brown eyes. ‘I didn’t consider what you were going through when I was in hospital. All I could think about was Nancy and how I was going to miss her – and of course whether or not the hospital would be bombed. And when I got back from Foxden, all I could think about was how I wanted to join ENSA – and how George, Betsy and I could stay together. I’ve been so selfish! Am so selfish! I don’t mean to be,’ she cried. ‘I do love you, Bill. Can you ever forgive me?’