A Christmas Gift

by Ruby Jackson

  There could, however, be no celebration in the Brewer household that night as Ernie was due at the cinema.

  He hugged his daughter to him. ‘I never felt more like – what’s it they say – painting the town red, Sally, but the show must go on, as we showbiz folks say. Can hardly believe my little girl’ll be saying it soon, too. Course we’ll miss you, love, and you know your old dad, I’ll always worry about you, every moment, but you’re a clever, sensible girl and you won’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And remember, you can come home at any time if anything worries you. Just get on a train. Right?’

  ‘Right, Dad.’

  She returned his hug. ‘I’ll come with you and Mum; I’ll sell the potato crisps and the ice cream. Probably be the last time I’ll ever work with you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that, love; that’s sad,’ said Elsie.

  ‘You’d rather I stayed here selling Smith’s crisps, Mum?’ Sally teased her mother.

  Elsie pulled on her coat. ‘Don’t be daft, but I don’t like saying “the last time”.’

  ‘Get a move on,’ teased Ernie, ‘or it’ll be the last time either of you will work for me.’

  Sally enjoyed her last evening as a cinema usherette and next morning went to the theatre to resign.

  ‘Dahling, absolutely the wrong decision,’ Elliott said bluntly. ‘You’ll hate it, and I know they hold up names like Olivier and Richardson before your ambitious little eyes, but they’ll never join that motley crew. Would you take ten quid a week for the tours they’ll offer whenyou could be earning hundreds on the legitimate stage?You can’t believe a world-famous actor like Ralph Richardson will go traipsing all over the country to act in draughty church halls and old barns, and as for following the troops … He’s a star. Good heavens, someone even told me they had snaffled Gracie Fields. I ask you, the Gracie Fields. You’ve more chance of meeting her here, Sally, and besides, only last night we decided to stage a Noël Coward. Bit of a chestnut, Private Lives, but the punters do love it. Believe me, darling Sally, “resting” actors are queuing up like housewives outside the butcher’s , hoping that they’ll be taken on, and face it, sweetie, all with more training and experience than you.’

  He walked round the desk to lay his hand on her shoulder. Automatically Sally tensed and he moved away, smiling at her jovially.

  ‘Sally dahling, we have decided that you will make a lovely Sybil. Now can you abandon that opportunity for something that probably won’t get off the ground?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sally had answered emphatically.

  It was a decision she never regretted.

  The day before she left to live in London, Sally returned to the clothes shop where she had bought her cloak to see if there was anything suitable to wear in her new life, and in the hope of being able to say goodbye to Maude and Fedora. She was delighted to see that both the ladies were in the shop. They were talking to a man in naval uniform.

  ‘Good heavens, here she is,’ called Fedora, and all three turned to look at Sally. ‘Sally, this is …’ she hesitated and then continued, ‘the … original owner of the ring.’

  ‘Former owner,’ said the young man, holding out his hand to Sally. ‘Jonathon Galbraith, or just Jon is perfectly fine.’

  ‘Sally Brewer, Just Jon.’ Sally, surprised by her nonchalance, blushed furiously.

  He smiled and, for the first time in her life, Sally was aware of how much a smile can change appearance. At first sight, Just Jon had been austere, controlled. She would have guessed that he was twice her age but now ten years melted away as quickly as light snow melts under a winter sun. ‘Miss Brewer, I’m just about to rejoin my ship so it’s a happy chance that we should meet here.’ He looked around and obviously came to a decision. ‘Would you have time to have coffee or tea with me? It would only take a few minutes and I really would like to thank you for trying to return the ring.’

  ‘I’m on my way …’ began Sally, but he already had his hand under her elbow. ‘I won’t keep Miss Brewer too long, ladies,’ he said with another charming smile as he propelled Sally out of the shop.

  A few minutes later they were seated at a table in a nearby café, and had ordered tea, which was just as well, for apart from cocoa, tea was almost all the café served.

  ‘The ring is in the safe at the cinema, Mr Galbraith, and my father will give it to you as soon as you ask him.’

  ‘No, I don’t want it, Miss Brewer. Sell it, if you don’t like it.’

  The waitress put the cups on the table so forcibly that tea spilled over into the saucers. She did not apologise.

  ‘Everything in the world’s going to pot right now,’ Jon said as he dried Sally’s saucer with a clean handkerchief. ‘I believe Fedora’s told you that I bought the ring for my wife because she liked it. Now my wife no longer wants me or anything to do with me and has sailed for America, I think – she always wanted me to take her there – or possibly she has returned to Malta where her family live. She has not done me the courtesy of telling me. I will not tell you what she said I might do with the belongings she chose to leave but I assure you that the ring is yours.’

  Without warning he changed the subject. ‘Maudie tells me you are to study acting.’ He stopped and, for the first time, really looked at her. ‘I know you find this entire scenario distasteful, Miss Brewer, but I do thank you for trying to return the ring.’

  ‘But of course I needed to return it. It was the proper thing to do.’

  Sally had not really paid attention to what he was saying. Instead she was looking at him, this man she had only just met but who had featured in her thoughts. She could not remember what she had thought he might look like, but she knew, somehow, that he looked just right.

  She liked fair hair, like that of her friend Daisy’s brothers, but now knew that brown hair was perfect especially when matched by brown eyes that revealed sadness. She knew little about uniforms but enough to know that this was a naval uniform. The markings told her that Just Jon was an officer, probably of fairly high rank. She felt sad as reality struck her. She had just met him. How unlikely it was that she would ever see him again.

  He clasped his hands and put them lightly on the table. ‘It is yours,’ he said again, ‘and I’m happy to sign a letter confirming that. If you’ve fallen in love with it, then enjoy wearing it. But my advice would be to sell it; it might make years of study more comfortable.’ He sipped his tea while he watched Sally think about what he had just said and then he stood up. He held out his hand and Sally stood and put her hand in his. She felt a tremor. Was it her hand or his? ‘Again please accept my apologies for my inexcusable rudeness. I should have been congratulating you on your honesty – God knows I’ve seen so little of it lately.’ Still he held her hand as he looked into her eyes. ‘May I wish you all success in your endeavours. I look forward to seeing your name in lights, Miss Brewer.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Galbraith.’

  He smiled and again his face changed. ‘Do you know, I rather like being Just Jon.’

  Sally blushed. ‘I was rude,’ she began.

  ‘No,’ he drew out the syllable. ‘You were enchanting. On this exercise I shall remember a beautiful girl calling me Just Jon.’

  Then, as his gaze continued to hold her own and she saw admiration in his eyes, she suddenly felt shy and had to look away.

  At the door he turned and raised his hand in farewell. ‘Don’t change, Sally Brewer.’

  And he was gone, leaving payment for their tea discreetly beside his saucer.

  Sally sat down for a moment, her mind and body in turmoil. Maudie, not Maude; they must know each other very well. An aunt, perhaps. No, she’s not … not like Fedora. A strange and unrecognised thrill of excitement made her shiver. Just Jon, what have you done to me? She stood up, hoping that her legs would continue to hold her upright. Fortunately, they seemed to have recovered from the shakiness they had exhibited under the small table and she walked quite
easily from the café.

  Just Jon.

  Jon. Somehow that small word seemed to Sally the most perfect possible name for a man. The images of the delightful Sebastian that always seemed to be at the very front of her brain had somehow been replaced – and so suddenly – by the image of a man she had seen once. Again, she felt a pang of real pain. No, that could not be. What on earth had happened to her? Was this what so many of those wonderful films she had watched repeatedly as an impressionable teenager had led her to believe lay in store? One day she would meet a man and fall headlong into everlasting love. This man? He was not as tall as Sebastian but somehow he looked stronger. The width of the shoulders perhaps? Sebastian was beautiful. Jon was not. There was too much strength there for beauty, plus power, and an easy air of command. The film magazines would have called him handsome. Sebastian too, had a lovely voice but it did not set her pulses racing as a few minutes’ conversation with Jon had done. Somehow she knew that his voice would echo in her sleep.

  Sally shook her head and hurried back towards the shop but then she decided that she was incapable of having a sensible conversation with the two ladies and so she changed direction and walked towards the park.

  From the days when they had first been allowed to play without adult supervision this had been a favourite place for Sally and her close friends. They had loved strolling around the vibrant flowerbeds, or lying on the meticulously mown lawns talking of everything and nothing. Many plans had been hatched here and some of them had even come to fruition. Now Sally walked but the park no longer gave her the solace it had once so easily dispensed. How could she have forgotten the changes war had caused? Where there had been beds of glorious roses, there were now trenches. Sally looked up at the sky and her heart, which had been beating happily only a few seconds before, almost stopped in terror. Any second a German aircraft – Dartford residents knew the names and could recognise most of them – a Heinkel or a Messerschmitt, could come screaming out of nowhere, and if she was not killed immediately she might just have time to jump into one of the trenches.

  ‘Stupid, stupid Sally,’ she said aloud and turning, ran as quickly as she could out of the park and home.

  Life was not always the film with the happy ending but today, her last day at home for some time, had brought something very special and she would allow nothing, not even fear of an air raid, to spoil it.

  She acted, quite perfectly, the part of ‘happy girl who has had one of her dreams come blissfully true’.

  She found her mother rehanging the blackout curtains in the front room.

  ‘Mum, they’re black. Washing them so often is just making work for yourself, but you’ll never guess what happened!’ She waited for a response and none came. ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, I won’t guess so tell me.’

  ‘I’m in …’ Sally could scarcely believe what she had been about to say and quickly recovered herself. ‘I’m in a bit of a pickle. I went to the shop to say goodbye to the ladies but didn’t get a chance. The nicest man was there, a naval officer, handsome, lovely voice, proper gentleman, but, Mum – he bought the ring.’

  ‘From you? How?’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s just like Fedora said. He bought it for his wife but she’s left him. He says she doesn’t want it and that I can keep it.’

  ‘Never.’ Elsie’s facial expression said clearly that she had heard tales of rich men who bought valuable jewels for young girls. ‘And where is he now, Sally?’

  Sally looked at her mother and could see all the doubts and worries running across her pleasant face. ‘I’m surprised at you. Right now he’s rejoining his ship; I told you he was in the navy. I’ll never see him again,’ and she burst into tears and ran to her room.

  Elsie looked after her, shaking her head. ‘Sarah Bernhardt,’ she said, and sighed. ‘Didn’t I say the university would be calmer?’

  Since Sally had not mentioned the ring in some time, her parents had also let it slip from their minds. Ernie saw the box he had put it in each time he opened the cinema safe, but it was as if the family simply hoped that the problem would just go away.

  Sally lay on her lemon and green quilt and looked up at the white ceiling but no answers to her questions were written there. ‘Why?’ she groaned, ‘why did he have to come today? Why did I decide to speak to Maudie? And why didn’t she tell me she knew … Jon, Just Jon, so well?’

  Sally turned over in anguish and buried her face in the quilt and was still there when her mother came in to remind her that she still had packing to do.

  The next morning her parents travelled up to London with her to see her settled in the boarding house where she was to live while she was taking classes at the theatre. Apart from Ernie saying that the ring would remain in the safe until Mr Galbraith was next on leave, the question of whether or not Sally would keep it was not mentioned.

  Sally enjoyed every moment of her training as the year seemed to rush towards its end. Like the other residents, she handed in her ration card, and even though meat, butter, sugar and tea had been rationed for some time, the meals were adequate. In no way were they like her mother’s tasty meals, but they were more than acceptable.

  The other residents were older and had known one another for some time. Although they were polite, even friendly, Sally doubted that she would make any close friends from among them. The ENSA groups training or rehearsing at the theatre became a substitute for her family; she grew closer to Sebastian, whom she had known longest. They held hands as they walked around town; occasionally he would throw his arm round her shoulders. ‘Are you the teeniest bit in love with me yet?’ was a fairly regular question that Sally did not take seriously.

  Her personal life suffered some blows as her friends in Dartford dealt with one tragedy after another. How, she wondered, could dear Mrs Petrie cope with the death of Ron, her youngest son, and the always nagging possibility that her eldest child, Sam, was also dead? She looked forward to at least one day at home, possibly as far away as the Christmas period; a letter was nice, yes, but a warm hug would be much better. Maybe she could get away some Sunday. If trains were running she should have time to get home, see the families and get back before Mrs Shuttlecock, her landlady, locked up.

  Having made this decision, it was with lighter steps that Sally made her way back to her digs one autumn evening after a strenuous dance workout. She, like her Dartford friends, had always been fit and active, but dancing had uncovered muscles she had never known she had – and every single one ached.

  Supper was a deep bowl of delicious vegetable soup – every vegetable grown in Mrs Shuttlecock’s garden – followed by a thick slice of toast and cheese and a cup of tea.

  ‘My Henry laid out all the beds and planted vegetables and strawberries too before he joined up. Didn’t need to as he had a job what was on the special list that could easy have kept him out of the Forces – reserved occupations, that’s it, reserved – but “It’s my duty to King and country,” he said, and they’ll give him his job back when he comes home.’ Mrs Shuttlecock related this story to each new arrival.

  Sally had just begun to undress for her weekly bath when the air-raid warning sounded. No time to dress again and so she pulled her pyjamas on over her underwear, grabbed a cardigan and a coat, shoved her feet into her short, lined boots and headed for the door.

  ‘Remember your gas mask and papers, Sally,’ yelled one of the other residents as Sally passed the pile of bags at the back door without picking up her bag. She smiled her thanks and retrieved her bag of important documents, her birth certificate, the letter from Oliver Dantry, the acceptance letter from ENSA, a few pictures of her childhood friends, and her gas mask, and ran out into the neatly ordered garden. (Mrs Shuttlecock, of course, had all the ration books in her very large bag.)

  There was no time to admire the chrysanthemums or the fine crop of cabbages camouflaging the roof of the Anderson shelter. Inside, Mrs Shuttlecock had made it as comfortable as possible with cushi
ons and blankets, and Thermos flasks full of tea or cocoa, which sometimes returned unopened to the kitchen but which more often lately had been a late supper in the shelter as the bombers roared overhead. There was an elderly wireless, which seemed to sound better when it was set on the specially painted orange box that the local greengrocer had traded for some home-grown potatoes and a jar of Mrs Shuttlecock’s strawberry jam. Nothing seemed to be able to mask the damp smell of earth that permeated the papers, blankets, cushions, and even their clothes if they stayed there any length of time as, unfortunately, they often did.

  They tried to keep themselves amused by reading, listening to the wireless, playing cards and even listening to the tales – most of them probably with little truth in them – that were told them by Liz Sweep, who worked in a very expensive West End department store. She always started in the same way: ‘Wait till you hear this, girls, and sparing your blushes, Mrs S,’ and then she would carry on, using, naturally, her everyday voice instead of the highly affected one she adopted when dealing with surprised or amused customers.

  ‘Me and Doreen was having a chat; worked off our feet all morning, we were. Would you believe the Christmas goodies is coming in and we make such a lot of money in the weeks before but everything’s got to be just so. Anyways, we were taking a breather and this funny little foreign woman grabs my arm and says, “Stop with trivial chatter” – cheeky cow – “and be so kind as to tell me where English Christmas crackers are being.”

  ‘Neither of us had the slightest – in the Christmas department they was setting up, I suppose, but I says – trying to be helpful – “I’m sure you’ll find them over there, Modome,” and I stretched out my arm to point her in the right direction.’ Liz stopped to make sure that her audience was spellbound. Pleased with what she saw, she carried on. ‘And would you believe I knocked over our entire arrangement of Christmas “suggestions for the lady in your life” work what we’d spent the entire morning making look fabulous. Ever so artistic, Doreen is. The blo— sorry, Mrs S, things went everywhere, behind us, beneath us; they rolled under counters, one really lovely Limoges compact fell out of its box and rolled off, heading for the front door. If no one stopped it, it’ll be in Richmond by now. The foreign woman shrieked and ran and the floor manager comes over and gives us a ticking off. Doreen’s crying and her mascara’s run so far down it’s on her chin and he says to her, “Clean yourself up. And get back here immediately.”’