A Christmas Gift

by Ruby Jackson

  Sally did as she was bid. They had enacted this scenario countless times over the years: the twins with Sally and sometimes their friend Grace, drinking cocoa in the kitchen, discussing great secret matters while their parents and brothers remained out of the way. Rose, Daisy’s non-identical twin, wearing a well-worn pink fluffy dressing gown, which was a bit short with her height, and a very damp towel round her long, wet corn-coloured hair, joined them.

  ‘Hello, I thought I heard the door. You don’t mind if I dry my hair in here?’ She carried on as Sally agreed. ‘How was the first day back? Did you skewer the old toad?’

  ‘He’s ill.’

  ‘I bet. No doubt the gorgeous Sebastian warned him off. Are you seeing him again?’

  ‘Get in front of the fire, Rose. Mum’ll explode if she sees your hair dripping all over the floor.’ Daisy plonked down a chair for her sister. ‘Show her the ring while I make her some cocoa, Sally.’

  The next few minutes were taken up with much trying on and oohing and aahing over the ring.

  ‘It has to belong to—’

  ‘Ouch, Daisy. That hurt. And what’s the harm in telling Sally? She’s hardly likely to burgle the place; she wants to take the ring back.’

  ‘Yes, and the way to do it is to return to the shop, speak to the Fedora lady and get her to contact them. Keep your dad happy by letting him put it in the safe, Sally. Fedora whoever will telephone them – they’re bound to have a telephone – and one careless owner will tell her to instruct you to bring it out. Who knows, maybe she loves theatre and you’ll become friends and she’ll help you in your career.’

  ‘You are silly, Daisy, but maybe that is the best way. I’ll handle it tomorrow.’

  ‘Phil and Ron will walk you home.’

  ‘What on earth for? They’ve never done it before.’

  ‘Because, Lady Griselda, thou art wearing the family jewels.’

  ‘Who’s the actress here, Daisy Petrie? But you’re right. I’m off and I’ll tell you what happens.’

  Nothing ‘happened’ for several days and then one lunch hour, Maude was standing outside the shop waving frantically.

  ‘Has Fedora managed to talk to them?’

  ‘At last. Come in and we’ll tell you. You’re a very lucky girl. Proves that doing the right thing is … the right thing.’

  Sally looked at her watch and decided she had just enough time to speak to the ladies and still be at the theatre ready for rehearsal. ‘Very well, but I mustn’t be late.’

  Maude ushered her into the shop.

  ‘Dear Sally,’ Fedora walked over from the counter where she had been making a display of donated hats and gloves. ‘I have some wonderful news for you.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to the owner?’

  ‘Two days ago and Sally, you are such a lucky young woman. The ring is yours.’ She stopped talking but her beaming smile told Sally how pleased she was.

  ‘Sorry, but this doesn’t make sense. I bought the cape …’

  ‘As far as the owner…the former owner is concerned, you also bought everything that was in the cloak, too. It’s yours, Sally, legally.’

  ‘What about his wife?’

  Fedora reached a supplicating hand towards Maude. ‘Maudie, you tell her.’

  ‘It’s an age-old story. A young man buys a ring for his wife whom he loves. A year later she decides that she no longer loves him or anything he gave her. She walked out leaving almost everything behind, clothes, jewellery etcetera.’

  ‘But she probably didn’t know that the ring was in the lining.’

  ‘Trust me, Sally, she doesn’t care. As far as he is concerned the ring means nothing to him either. He values it at less than you paid for the cloak. He was surprisingly rude about that.’

  ‘That makes no sense. It’s obviously valuable.’

  ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, young woman,’ Fedora said sternly. ‘As far as the shop is concerned, the subject is closed. Now you’d best hurry.’

  Sally stood speechless. Even the words ‘thank you’ refused to come. She turned and almost ran from the shop. The ring was hers but did she want it? It meant heartache, at least for the husband. Would she think of his broken dream if she were to wear the ring?

  Work, she decided. She would get to the theatre and forget the ring and her beautiful cloak; she would never wear it again.

  Some of Fedora’s words ran around in her head as she hurried.

  ‘I should have gone through the pockets, I’ll admit that, but I couldn’t somehow. My dear Maude is … known to his family and it would have seemed somehow intrusive. I should have reminded her that I hadn’t done it. We usually go through everything, of course, just in case something’s been forgotten, but I’ve only ever found used bus tickets or soiled handkerchiefs – so unpleasant. I can’t tell you how sorry I am to have put you in an embarrassing position. I do wish I’d been in when you came back first, Sally.’ She stopped, obviously extremely perplexed. ‘I’ve never worked a day in my life until this damned war. Oh, do excuse my language but I made a silly mistake, which then involved you, and I do abhor feeling inadequate to a situation.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Still, it’s turned out fortunate for you. The jewels in the ring are real and the owner was adamant that an honest girl like you should have it. You’re a very lucky young lady and must be sure to insure it.’

  Thinking about this as she returned to the theatre that afternoon, Sally sighed. Her parents would never allow her to keep the ring no matter what the owner had said.

  ‘Heat of the moment, Sally,’ her father said that evening. ‘People say things they don’t mean when they’re angry or upset. She’ll want it back. Give it to me and I’ll lock it away.’

  London – and Dartford itself – were being blitzed by the German air force before Sally heard of the ring again, and by then she had been so busy that she had almost forgotten about it.

  The country was experiencing the reality of war and the entire population of Britain was expected to pull together. Both younger Petrie brothers had joined the Forces. Rose and Daisy continued with their work but complained loudly that they were not doing enough. Grace and Sally took a first-aid class, and then one day, early in 1940, Grace, who had started a small vegetable garden in what passed for a garden behind her sister’s squalid little house, disappeared. Her friends were anxious about her, but they could only think that she had gone to join the war effort.

  In the months that followed, appalling things happened in Europe and night after night that first summer of the war, Dartford residents, like Londoners, sought safety from the fighting that raged above and around them.

  The little theatre decided to put on a revue in an attempt to brighten the lives of the community. Sally was given a starring role, both singing and dancing. Her only claim to being a dancer was that, before she was old enough to go to school, she had attended a Tiny Tots dancing class in the church hall. Her part in the dance class’s production was as ‘Special Fairy Guard’, and she had stood to attention for the entire performance. It was years before she discovered that the teachers had told her distressed parents that their lovely daughter did not know her right foot from her left. Luckily Elliott – who was minding his P’s and Q’s – and a middle-aged actress, Marguerite du Bois (real name, Maggie Wood), who had, at one time, been quite well known, had years of experience of being what they called ‘hoofers’. They had coached Sally when the small troupe had put on entertainments over the Christmas period.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Sally. I’ll go over the routines with you,’ offered Maggie. ‘Heck, I choreographed most of them and, in that dim and distant past, Elliott was a beautiful mover. I know, hard to believe, but it’s true. Come on, show me what you did at Tiny Tots.’

  As yet, apart from standing well, Sally did not have much of a repertoire but she was graceful and elegant and worked hard. She began to enjoy herself as Maggie encouraged her and congratulated her on definite improvement.

  ‘Li
sten to the music, Sally. It will tell you what to do.’

  Sally listened and she learned.

  She was not too happy with one of the outfits she was expected to wear. The shorts were definitely the shortest ones she had ever worn. She tried to picture her father’s face.

  ‘My father will have a fit, Maggie, and while I’m talking about costume, the dress for the waltz is cut much too low.’

  ‘Take it up with Wardrobe, lovey.’

  ‘I am Wardrobe.’

  ‘Then fix it but don’t blame me when Elliott sees – or rather doesn’t see.’

  Sally took the offending gown home and after uttering a few choice words, Elsie agreed to rework the top. ‘And don’t let your father see it till I’m finished or you’ll be out of that theatre before you can say …’ She could not think of what to say but Sally understood her perfectly.

  So did Elliott, and as opening night drew closer, Sally blossomed.

  Sebastian Brady sent her a ‘Break a Leg’ card, perhaps not the best choice to send someone dancing on stage for the first time, but Sally was thrilled and wondered how he had known. He enlightened her when he came backstage to see her after the last performance of the revue.

  ‘The world of the theatre is surprisingly small, Sally. We keep an eye on one another. I didn’t manage to see you in your first show – was involved in a war film – but I do read the reviews, as, of course, do others more important than I. You’re gathering good press. The frock in the last number was a tad virginal but I must say that the skirt was perfect for movement. How are you enjoying the work?’

  ‘Even appearing in a Shakespeare play seems such a long way off.’ Sally looked at him through the dressing-table mirror. He was real, though as tall, dark and handsome as any fairy-tale prince. His presence was not a figment of her imagination. She hadn’t seen him since he’d brought her home from that ghastly after-show party, but she’d thought of him often. But had he come especially to see her or was he merely on his way somewhere else? She leaned forward to study her face closely as she wiped off the greasepaint, and suddenly he was standing behind her, cotton wool in his hand.

  ‘You’re not stripping down the old door in the hall, darling. Gently. Rubbing on the delicate skin under the eyes like that will lift the make-up, yes, but it will stretch the skin.’ He smiled into her mirrored eyes naughtily. ‘You don’t really want to look like old Maggie years before your time, do you?’

  She said nothing, every atom of her being signalling furiously that it was aware of his presence. And he knew how she felt; somehow she could tell. What was he going to do? Was he another Elliott? Somehow, for one crazy moment, she did not care.

  Sebastian finished the gentle cleaning and stood back. ‘There, that’s better. And now, is there a hostelry in this town that will give us a pot of tea and a sandwich? I want to discuss a new project with you and then I really must tootle back up to town. Haven’t quite used all my petrol coupons, thank God. No idea how I’ll exist when they run out. I shall have to emulate the hobos during the American Depression.’ He looked at her, sadly shaking his head. ‘You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you? Didn’t you do any American history or lit?’

  ‘Of course: the Civil War, the War of Independence, and I’ve just finished reading Gone with the Wind.’

  He laughed. ‘Read backstage, Sally, not just plays, but novels by writers from all over the world, and read history. Now, if you’re coming for a cup of char, change your frock, although you’d be a sensation walking into the Copper Kettle or whatever in that.’

  He went off and Sally changed into a white silk cowl-necked sweater and black trousers, thrust her feet into high-heeled black sandals, grabbed her jacket and her handbag, and turned off the lights.

  THREE

  October 1940, London

  The Theatre Royal. Soon the wonderful old theatre would be as familiar to her as the little house attached to the cinema in Dartford. Each day as she tried to find the safest way to the theatre from the hostel in Camden, where she was now living, Sally cheered herself by remembering that. She assured her concerned parents that her area of London was relatively peaceful, preferring that they not know how many nights she and her fellow residents spent crowding into only marginally safe shelters. She never told her parents how afraid she was of the underground, having decided that travelling under ground was definitely safer and quicker than catching a bus or a tram, even if any were running.

  Sally, like thousands of others before her, had fallen completely in love with the magnificence that had been London, and cried inside every time she was forced to see the devastation that months of bombing was causing. These days, she closed her eyes as she travelled and tried not to wince when she found that the gracious church, museum, private house that she had seen only yesterday was today a ruin.

  But the Theatre Royal was still there and Sally was now doing what she had always wanted to do. She was being taught how to perform, as she was now a probationary member of the Entertainments National Service Association or ENSA, as it had become known. It was a real acting job, and, better still, it was war work, with the vital role of entertaining His Majesty’s Armed Forces and so keeping up morale. The delicious icing on the lovely cake was that the magnificent world-famous theatre was now her ‘university’. Once she had wept because she could not see a play there and now, a few months later, she walked into and out of that hallowed place five or six days a week. In the first weeks she did not know that several of the offices had once been dressing rooms, or that ENSA would not have constant use of the stage as it was being shared by other groups, and was still needed for auditions. She learned that what had been the Stalls Bar was now a recording studio where at times she herself would participate in ENSA broadcasts to troops abroad and, of course, the first thing she learned was that the theatre had its own air-raid shelter in what had once been the Staff Bar.

  ‘Wherever you are, you hear the warning, you drop everything and come here. Everyone get that?’ Max Hunter, the director looked, as it seemed, into the eyes of every new recruit and waited until they nodded affirmatively.

  Sebastian Brady was only one of thousands of professional actors, singers, dancers, musicians, comedians – many of them world famous – who were prepared to give up their time to entertaining servicemen wherever they were in the fields of war, although a long, tough battle had had to be fought and won before ENSA came into being.

  ‘Basil Dean and Lesley Henson were the creative brains behind the idea of ENSA, Sally,’ he told her. ‘They both served in the Great War, and had done some entertaining in the field. After the war, they went back to acting and filming and, of course, since they started the film careers of stars like Gracie Fields and George Formby, they had great contacts. But they had to fight to get ENSA off the ground as so much money was needed for actual warfare. Eventually the NAAFI helped out financially and now, I think everyone in Government believes in our work.’

  Sebastian had worked with both men and he had recommended Sally.

  ‘She has natural talent,’ he had told them, ‘and, thankfully, hasn’t had time to develop bad habits by working too long for the wrong people. Some of your training will make a duckling into a little swan and, while we’re talking about ducklings, there’s no ugly one here – she’s a stunner.’

  Sally had been called in for an audition.

  When, over breakfast at home, she opened the letter requesting she attend, for a minute or two she was excited. Bubbles of joy burst inside her and she pictured them sending out tiny sparkling lights. Then realisation cancelled her euphoria. An audition? What on earth was she to do; how could she impress? Professional, experienced performers would be auditioning – what chance did she stand?

  She wondered if she dared contact Sebastian for advice but decided against it. ‘I can’t compete against a professional, Mum; they’ll laugh me off the stage.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, love. You were really good in the school plays, Sha
kespeare and Shaw and … writers like that. Besides, you have a nice singing voice. They’ll want to see all your talents so sing a song; one of the ones we hear soldiers asking for on the wireless. “The Nearness of You” is a big favourite, or “I Get Along Without You Very Well”. Your dad loves to hear you singing that around the house. I’d go for that one. Or you could recite a speech. You were so good as Juliet, and you can’t do better than Shakespeare, can you now? Wish I had time to make you a new frock. I thought your white Juliet dress was beautiful, and with your lovely hair hanging down on your shoulders … you’ll be perfect, Sally, you will.’

  ‘What if they ask me to dance?’

  ‘They won’t; they know you’re studying to be an actress. Actresses don’t dance; they speak.’

  Sally hoped her mother was right; even with Maggie’s tuition she knew she would never be dancing at Sadler’s Wells.

  She scarcely ate and hardly slept in the days before her audition but she did practise a few songs and went over and over Juliet’s ‘Wherefore art thou Romeo?’ speech until she and her parents were all heartily tired of it.

  The day of the audition dawned and Sally was appalled to see the length of the waiting line of candidates. Not only was she terrified but she decided that every female in the queue was not only prettier and more sophisticated, but also more intelligent than she. She barely managed to control her terror when she found herself standing on the actual stage where England’s theatrical greats had stood – it was some time before she knew that ‘her’ Theatre Royal was the third to stand on that hallowed spot, the previous ones having burned to the ground – and eventually went home so stricken with nerves that she couldn’t eat for a whole day.

  Thankfully they had not asked her to dance, they had asked her to walk across the stage, had listened to a few lines of her well-rehearsed Shakespeare and a verse of the poignant love song, then thanked her and called the next candidate. She had been quite sure that she had failed in every department. And then the letter came. She had been accepted. Somehow, miraculously, Sally Brewer was now a probationary member of ENSA.