A Christmas Gift

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘No, silly really, but I think, that is, I thought I saw someone I knew, someone from Dartford.’

  ‘How nice. It’s possible, you know. You’re from Dartford and you’re here and who knows where you might sling your hammock before this war is over? Which one is he?’

  ‘How did you know it was a man?’

  ‘The intense look of rapture, my dear.’

  Sally had no time to confirm or deny his supposition as the Three Balladeers and a Trumpet had finished their surprisingly clever and funny performance and were bowing their way off the stage.

  The chair on which Sally now reposed, Sleeping Beauty-style, was wheeled onto the stage. Sybil arranged the skirt of Sally’s lemon gown in as attractive a manner as possible. The curtain went up, the small orchestra began to play a waltz, and Sebastian, astounded, saw the beautiful girl. Elegantly he moved towards her, bent down and kissed her. She, Sleeping Beauty, awoke startled, but allowed herself to be helped up by the handsome man. To thunderous applause they waltzed round the stage and then obeyed the director’s order to ‘Exit, stage right.’

  Sally had to wait through two other acts, the always popular chorus girls and a group of five very clever jugglers wearing Elizabethan costume, whose act consisted of gently tossing one tennis ball back and forth to one another. Somehow, their looks of fierce concentration or perhaps the doublets and their exaggerated arm movements made the simple scene extremely funny. They gained even more applause than the Balladeers.

  The piano was rolled on and Sally, in slacks loaned her by a WAAF, a blouson loaned by a sailor, and an airman’s cap and nonchalantly worn scarf, strolled onto the stage amid the usual whistles and catcalls. She sang several songs made famous by such luminaries as Gracie Fields and Vera Lynn, several light numbers from well-known American films, and ended up with the popular ‘Come and Have a Drink at the Victory Arms’.

  The audience, especially the large male contingent, clapped and whistled. Sally paid no attention but looked for Jon. If he ever had been there he was gone now. Sally remembered her job and ran off blowing kisses all the way. The first person she met was Max.

  ‘Good girl, Sally, leave them wanting more.’

  ‘Max, I’m not a great singer. I want to act.’

  ‘I’ll let you know when and if you’re good enough. Now, you can either go, grab a cup of tea and change for the finale, or go to my room where I’m told a naval officer is waiting to see you.’

  Sally looked at him. Don’t get excited, Sally, maybe it’s Phil Petrie, although Phil’s not an officer, is he? Wouldn’t that be nice?

  ‘You’re sure? Did he give his name?’

  ‘I did ask. He said, “Say it’s John, just John.”’

  ‘Jon.’ She could scarcely breathe with excitement and scarcely heard the directions Max was giving her. She managed to prevent herself from throwing her arms around him – that was not how she wanted to impress the director – thanked him and hurried off.

  Down one corridor, turn left or was it right? No, left and the second door on the right was the one assigned to the director.

  Sally arrived at the door just as it opened and her disappointment was painful. It was not Jon but another officer, older, heavier, shorter.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said as she tried to force back the threatening tears.

  ‘Not nearly as much as Commander Galbraith, ma’am. He had no sooner spoken to your director than he got a telephone call and had to run – and I mean run – but he shouted back, “Ask her to talk to Maudie.”’ He looked at her questioningly.

  For a moment Sally stood silently and then she awarded him her most beautiful smile.

  ‘Mean something, Miss Brewer?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. It certainly does.’

  Sally smiled again and, with mixed feelings, returned backstage. Maudie, Maudie, that’s Maude from the shop. He must mean – what – that she’ll give me his address. Oh, please let it be that she’ll do that, but when will I get back to Dartford to ask her?

  Max met her in the corridor. ‘Well, that didn’t take long. Old friend?’

  ‘Actually no. Just a chap I met once in Dartford. Just wanted to say hello.’

  ‘You don’t look overjoyed, Sal. Something wrong?’

  ‘He had gone by the time I got there.’

  ‘Poor girl, I’m dreadfully sorry. He did come across as a really nice chap, certainly seemed to have all the time in the world. He laughed and said he owed you a decent cup of tea.’

  And Sally remembered the ghastly little café and the waitress who had almost thrown the tea at them. She was disappointed not to have seen him but she was happy too and smiled brightly at Max. ‘Not your fault, Max; there’s a war on, they tell me, and he had to go. He left a message.’

  ‘About tea?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Sally with a cheeky grin, and with a lighter, happier heart she left the director and returned to her dressing area to prepare for the next show.

  Conscious of her promise to her mother, she took one of her newly bought collection of picture postcards of Rural England out of her handbag and sat down to write a few lines to her father.

  Dear Dad,

  I’m doing a show ‘oop north’ as our very funny comedian says. Still not acting but I do recite poetry, and Max, our director, says I sing quite well. Miss you and Mum lots.

  Love, Sally

  ‘Sally, are you asleep?’ Millie had thrown open the door. ‘Come on, you’re late for debriefing.

  Sally was amazed at how long it had taken her to think up two lines that would please her father. ‘Sorry,’ she said and ran.

  Max, Lalita, Sybil, Jessie Dunbar and Sam Castleton, who was in overall charge of musical requirements, were very pleased with the reception the company had received in the North-East. When they were all assembled next morning, before loading the huge green monster of a lorry that was at their disposal, Max announced that, after much discussion, caused by the positive reception to one or two of the more high-brow acts, they had decided to rework the entire programme.

  ‘Some ENSA companies only do straight theatre and they’re not always well-received; got to be sure of your audience. Now, I’m not saying, as had been said in some of the lighter press, that the lower ranks can’t appreciate Beethoven, or classical ballet, or plays that are more literature than light entertainment. We think we’re doing a nice mixture but …’ He stopped talking and looked at the company. ‘Anyone got any idea what I was going to say?’

  There was an embarrassing silence for a moment or two and then Humph raised his hand. ‘I watch the faces,’ he said. ‘Only way to really know how my idea of humour is going over. Three shows, three different lots of lads. To be honest, some of them didn’t think much of me and some didn’t think much of the play, but another audience looked to me, just some of them, mind, that they might have liked a bit more of the Shakespeare, or maybe instead of Millie dancing more or less like a “almost-ready-for-stardom chorus girl” – not that you ladies aren’t well worth watching – some of ’em might have liked something like The Dying Swan, something really beautiful, and your lot can play anything, can’t they, Sam?’

  The leader of the musicians nodded.

  ‘The dying swan, what on earth’s that?’ asked Allan Fordyce.

  ‘Surprised an educated man like you not knowing, Allan,’ Humph said with something very like a smirk. ‘It’s the most beautiful piece of classical ballet I ever saw in my life. Bet you do it beautiful, Millie.’

  Max, with his glance swiftly moving from face to face said, ‘Thank you, Humph, very well spotted. Your ability to read faces is part of what makes you such a good comedian.’ This last was heavy with sarcasm as Max had been reading Millie’s face while Humph had been speaking and had seen her close her eyes as if that might shut out the word ‘dying’.

  ‘I certainly was thinking we might strengthen our classical offerings and I’ll discuss your suggestion with the team. Anyone else have anything to say ab
out the audience reception, their participation in the sing-along or your own particular performance? Any suggestions at all?’

  ‘Lunch,’ called one of the dancers and everyone laughed, thus lightening the atmosphere. Max was not the only one who had been observing Millie.

  ‘Bit early,’ laughed Max, and the suggestions and observations began to come thick and fast from members of the company.

  Sally said nothing during the sometimes heated debate. She had seen Millie fight to keep tears at bay. Mention of anything dying was just too much, but she didn’t blame Humph. He had meant no harm. She had never heard of The Dying Swan either and was ashamed that she was surprised that a man like Humph had. Just shows, you can’t judge a book by its cover. Maybe I’ll ask him – or I could ask Sebastian.

  Once more she had returned to the problem of living in Sebastian’s apartment. Try as she might, their relationship was not the same as before she had moved in. Being out on the road was actually a relief, for she rarely saw Sebastian alone and he rarely sought her out. If anything, he seemed to be spending any free time he had talking to Millie. A small spear of jealousy went through her and made her angry with herself.

  Why am I jealous? Because he’s my friend. Childish Sally. Millie needs friends too. And she needs Sebastian more than I do. I shouldn’t object to their little chats.

  She determined to concentrate on her performance and to criticise every note or every step, but all that filled her mind was the face of a smiling sailor and a verbal message, and she yearned to be at home in the little house next door to the cinema in Dartford.

  As close as Dartford was to London, the chance of having a few hours to get there and back seemed particularly slim. She had been able to go home for a few hours over Christmas; most of the company, including Sebastian, had stayed to entertain and so Sally was determined to ask no more favours.

  Their costumes and props were packed and loaded with military precision and the company headed back to London. Mentally and physically exhausted, Sally and Sebastian returned to his lovely flat. Sally changed into her night clothes and went into the kitchen to see if there was at least one tin of soup in the depleted larder. Luxury. She unearthed a tin boasting that it contained, not soup, but Phillips Delicious Beans, opened it and called to alert Sebastian, who was splashing around in the bath.

  She had just finished heating the beans and dividing them between two small bowls when the air-raid alarm sounded. Sally banged on the bathroom door, yelling, ‘Air Raid,’ as loudly as she could and rushed to pick up her gas mask.

  Few people forgot their gas masks these days as huge signs all over London and, no doubt, the rest of the country assured them, ‘Hitler will send you no warning – so always carry your gas mask.’

  There were no important documents for her to save this time as none had, as yet, been replaced. The originals lay at the bottom of a huge pile of evidence of broken or destroyed lives in another area of the city.

  And then Sebastian, his ancient cashmere coat over his pyjamas, was there with the fur coat Lalita had given her. ‘Put your shoes on and come, now, Sally.’

  For a moment she wondered if she could pick up the plates of rapidly cooling beans to take them to the nearest shelter but Sebastian grabbed her hand and pulled her along, stopping only to pull the door closed behind him.

  ‘Not that closing the door will make a wit of difference if we get a direct hit,’ he said almost cheerfully, and she realised that once again he was making light of something so as not to worry her.

  ‘I’ll reheat them when we get back,’ she said with a smile

  ‘Brave girl,’ he said and kissed her cheek. It was the first time he had been at all intimate with her since that night she first stayed and she took comfort from it. She could never be his lover but she hoped that they would always be friends.

  They were not the only oddly dressed couple making their way to the shelter. An elderly man carried his tweed coat over his arm while wearing what Sally and Sebastian decided naughtily was his wife’s second-best fur. She was wearing a magnificent full-length mink. As it opened to allow her to see where to put her feet they saw what is commonly called ‘a king’s ransom’ in jewellery around her wrinkled neck: diamonds, sapphires, even emeralds, and strands of creamy pearls that Sally later decided were the only things in her entire life that she had ever coveted. The owner pulled her coat firmly around her as if she thought Sally and the obviously young and strong Sebastian might wrest some of them from her.

  ‘I’d rather have my baked beans,’ said Sebastian pointedly to Sally and they unconsciously decided to sit as far away from the frightened couple as possible. That was not difficult as the shelter had filled quickly with local residents, most, but not all, in their night clothes.

  They were barely seated when the all clear sounded and, gratefully, the residents of the flats made their ways home.

  ‘My grandmother would take pictures of my dad with her to an air raid shelter,’ said Sebastian as they climbed the stairs.

  ‘None of you?’

  ‘Well, I’m – so far – still in good health. My father was a casualty of the Great War.’ He rushed on as if he did not want to talk too much about his family. ‘What would your parents take?’

  ‘No real idea; their wedding photograph and my christening one, I suppose. Why, I don’t know. I look like a squeezed sausage in frills.’

  ‘You couldn’t look like a sausage, squashed, squeezed or otherwise, if you tried, Sally. Ah, here we are and all safe. I think I’m a tad tired for beans. You go ahead but I think I’ll leave mine for breakfast.’

  Sally felt exactly the same and a very few minutes later they were both sound asleep.

  The ENSA programmes were being welcomed and enjoyed whole-heartedly all over Britain. As more and more countries were swept up into the war, discussions began about the possibility of taking ENSA units overseas. Every day British civilians read foreign names in their newspapers or heard the strange names on their wirelesses. In July they read that Britain and the USSR – and Ernie Brewer was not the only reader who had to look up in an old school book to remind himself what country those letters represented – had signed what was called a mutual assistance agreement. Neither nation would enter into a separate peace agreement with Germany.

  ‘I’m sure it’s a fancy name for Russia,’ said Elsie as she scraped margarine on her morning toast.

  Ernie disappeared and returned from Sally’s bedroom carrying a much-used geography jotter. ‘Union of Soviet Socialist Republics,’ he read out to Elsie, who said simply, ‘Exactly, Russia.’

  ‘Can’t win with women,’ complained Ernie as he sat down to enjoy his toast.

  A few weeks later newspapers announced that British forces had invaded Iran, a country with massive oil supplies, much needed by the Allies. Their remit was to protect Iran’s railways so that quantities of war materials, including oil, could be safely transported.

  Ernie and Elsie brought out Sally’s old geography notebook again and again over the weeks and months.

  It reappeared as the appalling story of the murder, by German troops, of thirty thousand Jews outside a town called Kiev, in a far-away place called Ukraine, leaked out and into British newspapers.

  ‘If this is true, then all the stories about extermination camps in Germany might be true too,’ suggested Ernie.

  ‘Nobody would treat fellow human beings like that,’ said Elsie.

  ‘If they didn’t think the people were fellow human beings, Elsie love,’ said Ernie, sadly, ‘they just might.’

  SEVEN

  During the spring of 1941, Sally and other members of the ENSA company were discovering that there were two main arguments over the possibility of ENSA companies taking their programmes overseas and each was valid. Exhausted military personnel, wherever they were, needed and deserved rest and some fun and in the absence of anything else, Forces units were trying to handle entertainment themselves. After all, hundreds of actors, sin
gers, comedians and musicians had not tried to avoid enlistment or conscription but had joined up as soon as war was declared. All were prepared to fight but also to do whatever they could to lighten the burden of their fellows, and so many of them formed small entertainment groups within their own squadron or battalion. The other valid argument was that it was exceedingly dangerous to bring civilian groups, no matter how talented or how welcome, into combat zones. Transportation, too, was costly and many voices said that if much-needed money was going to be spent on sending entertainment to war zones, it should be used to send the best entertainers.

  ‘And that’s not us,’ Max told his company gloomily. ‘Some of you were great and one or two of you are getting that way but we have to face facts. It’s the George Formbys and the Vera Lynns and,’ he added with a small bow to Sybil and Millie, ‘the Sadler’s Wells quality dancers that will be sent.’

  And so, as they waited to hear what the powers that be would eventually decide, Max and others like him rewrote their shows and accepted as many invitations as they could possibly squeeze into their engagements diaries.

  A visit home?

  ‘Maybe next week, next month, just as soon as you can be spared.’

  Sally, with a very guilty conscience, continued to live in Sebastian’s comfortable and elegant flat. She began to relax into a fraught-free platonic relationship with Sebastian and a pleasant, slowly-growing friendship with Millie, who was also rebuilding her life under the influence of Sebastian’s easy humour. Often all three of them spent their free time together and could be found at Sebastian’s flat, the girls reading magazines like Woman – especially if there was a story in it by Millie’s favourite author, Lyn Arnold – sharing a tin of Pascall’s Saturday Assortment, or playing fiendishly competitive games of Freddie the Fox – the game of choice – Snap or Tiddlywinks.