Applause (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 2)

by Madalyn Morgan

  Bill laughed. ‘I know you do. And there’s nothing to forgive, you silly goose.’

  Margot smiled thinly through her tears. ‘Thank you. Not many men would put up with me, I know that.’

  Bill held Margot by the shoulders and looked into her eyes before putting his hand under her chin and lifting her face to his. ‘You’re not selfish. Maybe a little self-orientated perhaps, but that’s who you are. You’re driven and ambitious, but you’re not selfish.’ Taking a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket, he wiped the tears from her eyes. Then he kissed her. ‘Better?’

  Margot nodded and said again that she was sorry. Bill put his arms around her and pulled her close. ‘You don’t have anything to be sorry for,’ he whispered.

  ‘Thank you for saying that, but I do,’ Margot said, taking Bill’s handkerchief, blowing her nose and then giving it back to him. ‘But I’m going to make it up to you. I’m going to be a good wife. I shall cook all your favourite meals – well, those that I can get the ingredients for. Your slippers will be by the fire and your dinner will be on the table every night as soon as you get home. Oh,’ she said, as an afterthought, ‘I shall keep the house spotless. I’ll wash and iron--’

  ‘No you won’t!’

  ‘Yes I will!’ Margot said, indignantly. ‘I want to and I’m going to. I know I haven’t always had the time, but--’

  ‘Stop!’ Bill shouted, laughing. ‘Stop talking for one minute you silly, beautiful, wonderful girl, and listen to what I’m trying to tell you.’

  Margot began to say she was sorry again, but thought better of it.

  ‘I’ve been trying to tell you about this!’ Putting his hand into his jacket pocket again, he brought out an envelope. ‘It came for you this morning,’ he said, handing it to her. ‘It’s from ENSA. I opened it before I saw it was addressed to you.’

  Margot’s mouth fell open. ‘Why did they write to me?’

  Bill laughed. ‘It couldn’t be because you’ve been pestering them?’

  ‘I only dropped a letter in, and telephoned a few times… Oh Bill! You realise what this means, don’t you?’

  ‘It means the Albert Sisters are officially members of ENSA.’

  ‘Yes, but rehearsals start on Wednesday – 9 am,’ she said, in a subdued whisper.

  ‘What’s the matter? It is what you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘Give me your hankie,’ she said, as tears rolled down her cheeks. After wiping her face Margot looked up at her husband. ‘What about you? What about all the promises I just made you? About being a proper wife, being there when you get home at night, cooking your dinner?’

  ‘And you will, when you come back. It’ll only be for a few months – six at most. When the theatre re-opens you might not have to go out with ENSA again. Then everything will be back to normal. If you can call being bombed nightly normal,’ he said, trying to make light of the situation.

  Margot looked at the letter in her hand, and then at Bill. ‘I don’t know what to say. I don’t deserve you.’

  Bill shook his head and laughed. ‘Then say yes! I’ve asked for tomorrow off. Passionate leave,’ he said, passing Margot her helmet. ‘I thought a lie-in, breakfast in bed, and…’

  Climbing onto the pillion seat, Margot put her arms around her husband and held him tight. ‘I love you, Mr Burrell.’

  ‘I love you too, Mrs Burrell,’ Bill shouted over his shoulder as he drove the motorbike away from the curb and into the traffic.

  Dear Bill,

  I’ve never been so cold in my life. We’re billeted at the local lord’s place – Compton Marsh Hall. It’s nothing like Foxden Hall. It’s more like a derelict, but big, estate worker’s cottage without heating. It’s unbelievably cold and the old skinflint who owns the pile – and it really is an old pile – won’t let us build a fire. Last night we slept in our clothes, but still couldn’t get warm. Betsy’s recovering from a cold, which has left her with a husky voice. Last night she sang George’s melodies and George sang hers. It was so funny. It didn’t work, but the lads didn’t notice. George is fit and as uncomplaining as ever, but I’m worried about Artie. He’s had a chesty cough. The poor chap had a serious bronchial illness when he was a child, which is the real reason he isn’t in the forces. Please God our billet next week is warmer, or he’ll be ill again.

  My ankle nips now and again, but I’m taking care of it. I’m putting it up whenever I’m not on stage. I’m eating properly and sleeping well, so stop worrying about me. I don’t have much more to report, so I’ll get on with ironing the costumes.

  Look after yourself, my darling. I miss you too.

  Your loving wife, Margot. xxx

  PS We’re going to Leominster tomorrow. So my next letter will be from somewhere in Herefordshire. x

  Margot flexed her ankle. She couldn’t feel any pain. The pills she’d been given the week before by a medic at Blackmore Park in Worcester seemed to be working. Sighing with relief, she put the top on the small brown bottle. It was half empty. She wasn’t sure how she’d cope when they’d gone. But she didn’t have time to worry about that now. Her priority was to get to the tent which had been erected at the end of a rutted track a hundred yards away in the middle of a waterlogged field.

  ‘Ready when you are,’ Margot called, knocking on Betsy’s bedroom door.

  ‘Coming! And I have a voice.’ Betsy trilled to prove it. ‘Not bad, eh? I’ve been gargling with the old man’s port. He might be stingy with his coal, but he’s generous with his booze. The lonely old love is more than happy to share a tipple with anyone who’ll listen,’ she said, following Margot downstairs.

  ‘I have the shoes and Artie has the frocks,’ George said when Margot and Betsy arrived. ‘Put your wellingtons on and let’s get going.’

  ‘Look sharp, ladies or we’ll be late,’ Artie said, opening the back door of Compton Marsh Hall. ‘Thank God it’s our last night here,’ he said, trudging out into the muddy lane. ‘I don’t think my chest could take any more of this damp old place.’

  ‘Tomorrow night,’ George said, ‘if our billet is anything like this one, my father will foot the bill for a hotel.’

  ‘That’s lovely,’ Betsy said. ‘When did he tell you that?’

  ‘He didn’t. It’s a surprise,’ George said, and they all laughed.

  ‘Doing our bit is one thing, but this is ridiculous,’ Betsy said, mud squelching almost to the tops of her wellingtons.

  They were met at the main gate by the entertainments officer. ‘Tonight you’re starting with Tommy Trinder,’ he told Artie. ‘His warm-up man’s gone down with the flu – all right?’

  ‘Yes!’ Artie said eagerly. He winked at the girls. It was better than all right, it was a great opportunity. The more people he worked with and the more experience he could get the better the chance of him finding work in a theatre when the ENSA tour ended.

  Artie was fantastic and Tommy Trinder took to him straight away. The Alberts also went down a storm. ‘All the way from the Prince Albert Theatre in London’s West End… Please give a great big welcome to the Albert Sisters,’ Artie shouted into the microphone. As the girls entered the stage in their short uniforms, the boys whistled and threw their caps in the air.

  At the end of the concert, Tommy invited them back to his hotel.

  ‘Does your hotel have a fire?’ Betsy asked.

  ‘Yes? Doesn’t yours?’

  ‘Come on!’ Betsy shouted, and The Alberts piled into the back of Tommy Trinder’s car.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The train from Durham was a troop train, which Margot had been given special permission to travel on because of her ankle. Packed in like sardines, the servicemen – Royal Engineers in full kit – were on their way to Kitchener Barracks in Chatham for their final three months’ training. They looked very young.

  In pain because the pills she’d been taking were wearing off, and tearful because she’d had to leave George, Betsy and Artie to finish the tour without her, Margot
limped across the platform at Kings Cross. ‘Oxford Mews, please,’ she said, falling onto the back seat of the cab.

  ‘It’s Miss Dudley, isn’t it?’ the cabbie asked, looking at Margot through the reversing mirror.

  Usually excited that she had been recognised, she forced a smile. ‘Yes. I’m surprised you recognised me looking like this.’

  ‘The papers have been full of the ENSA shows, the flicks too. You was on last night, Miss, singing “We’re In The Army” with two other ladies.’

  Margot hadn’t thought about the cine cameras actually putting the footage on at the pictures. Suddenly feeling happier, she began to wonder if she might one day have a career in films.

  ‘We’re here Miss. Miss Dudley?’

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away. How much is it?’

  ‘Three and six, please.’

  Margot gave the cabbie five shillings and thanked him, before taking her gas mask and carpet bag from the seat next to her. Stepping carefully from the taxi, she bent down and looked under the plant pot at the side of the door. The spare key was still there. If Bill was at home she’d surprise him. If he wasn’t he’d be more surprised to see a meal on the table when he came in. That’s if there was any food in the larder, she mused.

  Unlocking the door, Margot mounted the stairs. Careful not to put weight on her right foot so she didn’t stress her ankle, she took the stairs one a time, bringing her right foot up to meet her left. Music from the wireless and the smell of cooking met her as she opened the door at the top of the stairs. Bill was in. Just the thought of seeing her kind and caring husband brought tears to her eyes. Relieved to be home, Margot dropped her bag and gas mask on the floor of the small hall.

  ‘Hello?’ Bill called from the sitting room. ‘Who’s there? What on earth?’ he said, opening the door and seeing Margot leaning against the wall. ‘Margot, why didn’t you let me know you were coming home?’

  ‘It was a last minute thing. My ankle’s been playing up. It started to swell, and then it became too painful to dance.’

  ‘My poor darling. Let’s get you inside.’ With Bill’s help she limped into the sitting room and slumped onto the settee. Kneeling in front of her, Bill began to take off her shoes. ‘My God Margot, how long has your ankle been like this?’ She didn’t tell him; she daren’t tell him. Holding her right calf with one hand, he eased her foot out of her shoe with the other. ‘There!’ he said, giving it one last gentle tug. ‘It’s off. I’m sorry if I hurt you.’

  Margot smiled at his concern. ‘You didn’t.’ Resting her head against the back of the settee, she closed her eyes. ‘Something smells good,’ she mumbled, before drifting off to sleep. Aware that her leg was being lifted up and placed onto something soft, Margot smiled. She was home. And with Bill looking after her, her ankle would be better in no time.

  The sound of a woman whispering penetrated Margot’s conscious and nudged her awake. An uncomfortable feeling swept over her and she opened her eyes. Jenny – her friend and Bill’s colleague – was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, wearing Margot’s towelling bathrobe and smiling up at Bill.

  ‘Bill?’ Margot stood up without thinking, put her foot to the floor, screamed with pain and fell.

  ‘Margot!’ Bill ran across the room. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ He helped her back onto the settee.

  ‘You need to keep your foot up, Margot,’ Jenny said, following Bill and bending down as if she was going to lift Margot’s leg.

  Margot’s eyes glistened with anger. ‘Get away from me!’

  Startled, Jenny jumped back. ‘I – I was only trying to help.’

  Help yourself to my husband, Margot thought. ‘I don’t need your help. What are you doing here? Why were you in my bedroom with my husband, wearing my bathrobe?’

  Jenny didn’t answer. Instead she looked at Bill. ‘I’m sorry, Bill,’ she whimpered. ‘I didn’t mean to…’

  ‘Jenny’s lodgings were bombed last night, so she stayed here.’

  ‘In our bedroom?’

  ‘Well, yes. It was late and the spare bed wasn’t made up, so I gave Jenny our bed and I slept in here on the settee. I’d just changed the sheets and was about to make up Jenny’s bed when you arrived.’

  Jenny appeared tearful and her voice was shaky. ‘After my shift I went home and the house where I had rooms was gone. It had taken a direct hit. An ARP Warden said it was too dangerous for me to look for my belongings and he moved me on. The only clothes I had were what I was wearing. I didn’t know what to do,’ she said, and she broke down in tears.

  ‘So she came back to the station and I said she could stay here until she finds somewhere else to live.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’d have done if Bill hadn’t been there,’ she said, with a catch in her throat. She smiled up at him.

  ‘I see.’ Margot didn’t see at all. Jenny had a sister who lived a damn sight nearer to St. Thomas’s than she and Bill. ‘Was your sister’s house bombed too?’

  ‘What? I – I don’t know. I was in shock. I just ran to the bus stop and caught the late bus to Westminster Bridge. I thought I’d go and see her before my shift tonight. Perhaps I should go now,’ she said to Bill in a little-girl-lost voice. ‘Give you and Margot time to discuss things.’

  Margot hauled herself to her feet. ‘I’m going to my bedroom.’ Bill tried to take her arm. ‘I can manage.’

  ‘Don’t you want something to eat, love? Jenny’s made a stew.’

  Margot flashed an angry look at her husband, and another at Jenny. ‘Would you bring me a glass of water please, Bill?’

  ‘I’m sure there’ll be enough for you as well,’ Jenny said sweetly, taking Margot’s arm.

  ‘No thank you, I’ve lost my appetite.’ Snatching her arm away, Margot limped into the bedroom, collecting her bag on the way, and closed the door behind her.

  She lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She needed to relax, to calm down. If she hadn’t left the sitting room when she did she might have hit the lying little-- She hadn’t been in the bedroom long when the door opened.

  ‘I’ve got your water,’ Bill whispered.

  ‘Put it on the bedside table, will you,’ Margot said, sitting up. ‘Would you pass my bag, please?’ Rummaging in it, she found the small bottle of pills.

  ‘What are they for?’ Bill asked, taking the bottle from her and turning it over in his hand. ‘There’s no label.’

  ‘They’re to help me sleep.’

  ‘Sleeping pills?’

  ‘No! They take away the pain in my ankle so I can sleep. I’ll go to my own doctor now I’m back, but tonight a couple of these will do. So please,’ she sighed, holding out her hand, ‘give me the bottle and go and entertain your house guest.’ Margot unscrewed the top, shook two pills into her hand and then threw them into the back of her mouth, before washing them down with half a glass of water. ‘I’m tired,’ she said. Lying down, she turned her back on Bill.

  Bill left the room, closing the door quietly and Margot buried her head in the pillow and sobbed. She felt guilty, angry and confused, and she wished she hadn’t come home.

  As the bus approached The Cut, Waterloo, posters of Sybil Thorndike and Ann Casson caught her eye. Standing ten feet tall alongside Bernard Miles and Frank Petley, they advertised a tour of The Old Vic’s production of Medea. The theatre had been damaged in an air raid in May of that year, but it was soon to reopen.

  The bus turned at Elephant and Castle and trundled up through Borough. Once over Tower Bridge Margot could see the devastation the Luftwaffe had wrought on the East End. Row after row of blitzed and burned out buildings. Shops that once served a close-knit community, proud to be born within the sound of Bow Bells, had been gutted. Businesses stood empty and homes derelict. A single wall of a wet fish shop stood erect among buildings that had been reduced to rubble. On its facia, covered in brick and plaster dust, a sign said “Whitechapel Fish”. Beneath it, “Closed until further notice”.

  She couldn’
t remember exactly where Jenny said she lived. She wasn’t interested and consequently hadn’t listened. She wished now that she had. When they worked together as usherettes, Jenny had lived near Margot in Hampstead. She moved to Whitechapel when Margot and Bill moved to Oxford Mews. She said she wanted to be near her sister, whose husband had been called up. Margot wasn’t sure now if that was the reason. Jenny had made a joke about King Henry VIII, but that wasn’t what the avenue was called. Margot consulted the A to Z and found Tudor and Wolsey Avenue.

  ‘Tudor Avenue!’ the bus conductor shouted.

  Margot took her handbag, gas mask and stick from the seat next to her and, with the help of the conductor, left the bus.

  Tudor Avenue wasn’t tree-lined, like the avenues in North West London, but from the little that was still standing, she could see it had once been a pleasant place to live. Houses at the beginning of the avenue were inhabited – curtains twitched as she passed and washing hung on stretched clothes lines. Further down the avenue houses that were still in one piece had some of their windows boarded up. Further down still, solitary walls stood amid rubble and beyond that was wasteland.

  Margot walked the length of the avenue. The houses that were unsafe through bomb damage looked as if they’d been like it for some time. She walked along Wolsey Avenue and, like Tudor, the houses that were severely damaged had been damaged months before, not days.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Margot called to a couple of boys playing football on the wasteland. ‘Do you live around here?’