by Ruby Jackson
‘ENSA needs to recruit Czechs and Poles, Belgians, Dutch, Scandinavians, not to mention Spanish and Italian speakers,’ she said. ‘This language barrier is a huge problem, Max. These poor displaced people haven’t a clue as to what’s going on. Please God, this damned war will be over before they all learn English – and they will learn – but how can we cheer them up in the meantime?’
‘Tell them to be grateful they’re safe,’ came the voice of one of the soubrettes.
Lal rounded on her. ‘Put yourself in their shoes. Have you the slightest idea what these people have gone through?’
Embarrassed, the girl turned away.
‘Language is certainly an enormous problem,’ said Sebastian as they were on their way home later. ‘Perhaps the embassies have lists of people who fit the bill.’
‘Quicker to go to any opera house or concert hall, Seb. There’s hardly an orchestra in the country that could function without its musicians from other countries,’ suggested Millie.
Inspired, Sally added, ‘Land girls. The air force. They’re full of people who’ve escaped from Hitler.’
‘How are your land girls going to entertain, Sally?’
‘Actually, I have a friend who’s a land girl and a Polish girl worked with her, but before she had to flee from Poland, the girl …’ she thought for a moment trying to remember the news at Christmas, ‘Eva, that’s it, her name is Eva and she was training to be a classical singer. I think the family who own the farm are sponsoring her at a prestigious London music school. There are probably other foreigners there too.’
‘Lovely story, Sally, and great ideas. Pass them on to Max and Sybil tomorrow.’
‘I know another refugee, a German one—’ began Sally.
‘Don’t think we’ll take kindly to German refugees, Sal,’ Millie interrupted her.
‘Why ever not? He’s not an entertainer. He’s actually a brilliant scientist working for the Government.’
They had reached the Mansion and there was an awkward silence, broken by Sebastian. ‘I’ve heard of chaps like that, German but probably Jewish or something else that Herr Hitler doesn’t like. I do think Lal, our resident linguist, will be thrilled with all these ideas, Sally. Enough for now, mes amies. Tomorrow is another day and I hate to be ungentlemanly but it is my turn for the bath. I’ll be as quick as I can. Good night, ladies.’
‘He’ll be ages,’ Millie said. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea.’
The telephone rang very early next morning. Sebastian answered it and called Sally.
‘For you, telephone.’
Sally hurried to take the receiver. ‘Hello.’
‘Sally, it’s Jon. Can you possibly get away for an hour or so today to meet me at the Admiralty?’
‘I don’t know, Jon. What is it?’
‘Try, Sally. I’ll be here all day. Just ask for Lieutenant-Commander Galbraith. Tell the Max chap that it’s important. Please.’ The line went dead.
She replaced the receiver and, still in her dressing gown, went into the kitchen. ‘It was Jon. He wants me to meet him at the Admiralty.’
‘When?’
‘Whenever I can get away, if I can. Oh, what will I do if we’re too busy?’
‘We all have to eat, Sally. Go during a break. Is he leaving?’ Millie spoke bluntly.
‘I don’t know; it’s possible, I suppose, but there hasn’t been any warning.’
‘I hardly think they’ll ask even a lord if it’s convenient, Sal. What else could it be?’
Sally said nothing but turned and left the kitchen. The others heard her in the bathroom a few minutes later. Water was running but whether it was to wash in or hide tears, her friends could not tell. They made porridge and tea, had theirs while listening to an early news broadcast, and waited for Sally.
‘Thanks but I’m not hungry,’ she said as Millie offered her porridge but she did accept a cup of hot tea and sipped that slowly.
‘Damn, but it would be so handy to have a banana in the refrigerator. Super fruit. You’ll need to eat something, Sally.’
‘Later,’ she muttered.
She had not even finished the tea by the time they had to leave and she said nothing as they travelled to the theatre.
‘Talk to Max now,’ ordered Millie when they arrived. ‘No point in putting it off.’
Sally, her face so pale that her large eyes looked even darker than usual, approached the office and met Max on his way in.
‘Good heavens, girl. What kind of night did you have? You look like hell.’
Such harshness caused Sally to pull herself together. ‘May I go to see a friend at the Admiralty? It shouldn’t take long.’
He stared into her face. ‘Well, you’re no damn use the way you are. Go, and bring a prettier face back with you.’ He walked into his office closing his door with a crash that echoed through the entire building.
Sally found her way to the Admiralty and, after waiting in an anteroom for four or five minutes, was taken to another room. The sailor who accompanied her knocked on the door, opened it, said, ‘Miss Brewer, sir,’ and invited Sally to enter.
Jon, in uniform, was standing at the window. He turned as she entered but stayed exactly where he was, his arms, in his smart naval jacket, behind his back. He made no move to touch her or even to approach her.
‘Jon?’ Sally knew that he was going away but waited for him to say it.
‘Please, Sally, do sit down. I have so much to tell you.’
‘You’re going away.’
‘That’s only part of it. I have no choice, Sally, I have to go; you wouldn’t expect me to stay even though I want to stay here more than I have ever wanted anything in my entire life. I’m needed.’
‘I need you.’ The words she had vowed never to utter had jumped out of her mouth before she could stop them. ‘Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Please go and I wish you—’
But he did not hear what she wished for him as he crossed the room, pulled her close to him and kissed her feverishly, her eyes, her nose, her lips. He breathed in the clean, fragrant smell of her as she raised her arms and put them around his neck, returning his kisses with as much abandon as he gave them. He held her as if his arms were locked around her so that he was physically unable to release her. ‘Sally, do you mean that? You need me?’
‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘I need you. From the moment you stood there while Maude was trying to introduce you. Poor Maude, she didn’t know whether to use your proper name or not and you said, “Jon, just Jon.” I kept seeing your face and hearing your voice, even before we met at the naval base.’
He held her then as if she were a child, and for a time said nothing and Sally stayed safely in the circle of his arms and wished that she could stay there for ever. But there was a knock on the door and at last he released her.
The same sailor was there but this time he carried a tray, which he put down on the table behind Sally. ‘Coffee, sir, ma’am.’ He saluted and left them.
‘Be mother,’ said Jon. ‘Such a mundane thing to do, drinking coffee. Ordinary life does seem to go on.’
Sally poured coffee, which had the most enticing smell, and Jon sat beside her. ‘Yes, Sally, I’m going away and I have no idea when I’ll be back. Déjà vu.’
‘You’ll write?’
‘Every day, if I can, and let’s hope at least some of the letters turn up. I’ll number the envelopes and then you’ll know if one is missing.’
‘And I will write to you and do the same.’
‘And you’ll tell me every little thing; what you’re reading, what you’re singing, what the weather’s like – terribly important to the British. And, Sally, if you possibly can – and I know you’ll be sent overseas soon – but if you can, will you see Maudie now and again – look after her for me?’
‘Of course, but it won’t last much longer, Jon, it can’t.’
‘When it does end, Sally, if … I’ll leave the Service and
go home to look after … everything. I want you to be a part of that, the major part. But you have your career and I know you’ll make films, be in plays and I’ll be your biggest admirer. I love you but right now I won’t tie you down. I wanted to, dear God how I wanted to. At The Ritz, I thought how blissful it would be to take a room but life is too precarious. Ships sink.’
‘Lightning never strikes twice, Jon; it’s an old saying.’
He laughed and it was the joyous clear laugh of a happy young man. ‘Darling Sally, ask any farmer about lightning strikes.’ He held her to him again, this time as if he would never let her go. ‘A lifetime isn’t long enough to love you, Sally, but it’s time for you to go. You have your career to think of. Tell me all about the film; we’re sent all the propoganda stuff, which always seems a bit like coals to Newcastle, but this time I shall so enjoy watching it with the chaps.’
Again the measured knock. ‘Miss Brewer’s car is here, Commander.’
‘Thank you. One moment.’
‘I don’t have a car, Jon.’
‘The navy takes care of its own. I’ll walk you out, my darling, but one last kiss …’
Sally stared out of the window as the car eased its way through London. A thick mist from the river allowed her to make out only ghostly shapes that seemed to hang in the air and not be rooted in the ancient soil of England. Against them all, though, she saw Jon’s face as he waved goodbye.
EIGHTEEN
Early July 1942
The pain of Jon’s absence was a million times worse this time. Sally felt even more sympathy for Millie as she tried to fathom what pain the death of the best-beloved must bring. It was impossible. She could not imagine anything worse than she was experiencing now.
She seemed to go through the days like a machine and even her appearance in an important British film did not excite her half as much as she had thought it would. On the first day of filming her tiny appearance she was driven to the studios and handed over to ‘Wardrobe’. For Sally it was to be a second appearance in uniform, but this one had been made to measure and the tiniest adjustments were made on set. A very superior director walked and talked her through her few seconds of fame beside the great man but the set was the deck of a battleship and served only to remind Sally of Jon. She did the entire three seconds again but this time with a man in uniform who was the stand-in. Jon will find all this interesting, she thought. Next she went to make-up, where it took longer to arrange her hair and to make up her face than it had taken her to get to the studio.
Next she was posed beside the stand-in and began to feel like a puppet as first she was positioned in one direction and then another while a man with a camera wheeled it to face her. He disappeared behind it and she thought he had gone but a voice from the other side of the room shouted out a comment or an order now and again.
‘Try sad, Sally my angel, not scared. All right?’ A little later: ‘Better, but Zac, put your arm around her waist and pull her closer to you. That’s it. Determined, that’s it. You’re off to war, prepared to give everything for your King and country. Good, but Angel, you’re a Wren, you’re both leaving but in different directions. Who knows what might happen? Look up at him, you may never see him again.’
It was only too easy to act that part.
The ‘great man’ was to be there later and so after standing on the deck, being ruffled by a gentle breeze from a strategically-placed fan, and turned this way and that, they ‘broke for lunch’.
‘She’s not exactly an English rose,’ she heard one man say. ‘Perhaps we should bleach her hair. What do you think, fabulous with those dark blue eyes?’
‘No, she’s classy, just perfect.’
The shooting ended early as the ‘great man’ was suddenly unavailable. Sally was driven home and went through almost the same scenario the next day. More stills were shot, other places on the deck were suggested and tried out.
‘You just can’t take a bad picture, Sally; the camera courts you. You’ll be great in movies. I know you want to do your bit with ENSA but have you planned for after? The war has to end and every studio will want you, even the ones in the States.’
Sally smiled. Once she would have been ecstatic, but she heard again Jon’s words, his promises. She knew what she wanted to do after the war and although the theatre was still an important part of it, and possibly film too, it did not involve moving to America.
Home earlier than the others, Sally washed her face very thoroughly and, having changed into casual clothes, she went into the kitchen to prepare an evening meal. She looked in the larder, which must once, not too long ago, have been full of hanging hams, ripening cheeses, a freshly caught piece of fish on that cold marble shelf, jams and jellies and bottled fruits in serried ranks, but now there remained two eggs, a rather hard piece of cheese – which she thought she could turn into a sauce – if there was anything to serve with it, some potatoes and carrots and a tired piece of cabbage. Hardly ingredients for a feast or even a weekly supper at the Brewer house.
And I have had two super lunches and probably another one tomorrow; I’ll have to do something.
Sally had never been taught to cook. Her mother had been so delighted to have a bright, talented daughter that she had encouraged her to study or, in her leisure time to sit in the projection room and watch the films with her dad. Now Sally looked at her ingredients and felt completely discouraged. ‘But they must smell something tasty as they walk in,’ she told herself, ‘cooking can’t be hard.’
She peeled the potatoes and the carrots, sliced the potatoes and cut the carrots into small pieces.
‘An onion?’ She wished now that she had spent more time in the kitchen with her mother and less with her father in the cinema. Sally seemed to remember that her mother had almost always used an onion in a main-meal recipe. ‘When did I last see an onion?’ she asked herself, and had no idea. Nor could she remember if they had fallen into the rationed category.
She fought with her desire to throw the cabbage away. It certainly was not at its finest but she washed it and cut it up, before putting it into a pot with cold water and some salt.
She layered the potato slices into a casserole and enjoyed herself sprinkling colourful carrot cubes on each layer. She whisked the eggs with some milk, grated the cheese, which was so hard that it took her ages, and she was not pleased when she snagged a nail on the grater. After attending to the nail she sprinkled the cheese on the top layer of the vegetables and then whispering, ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ she poured the egg and milk mixture over the top of the casserole.
Time was marching on and she remembered that her mother had always dotted potatoes with butter. The refrigerator contained no butter at all but there was a small block of margarine and she used that instead, saving a little for breakfast toast. Her watch informed her that her friends were probably making their way home and she turned on the oven at a lowish heat, turned on the gas jet under the saucepan and went off to lay a pretty table.
Not long after she had finished preparing what she hoped would be a beautiful and welcome surprise, Sally smelled burning. The cabbage pot was almost burned dry but the cabbage still resembled cabbage and she grabbed the handle and pulled the pot to the side. She yanked open the oven door only to be met by a wall of smoke, convincing her that the oven was on fire. She looked around helplessly. What on earth was she to do?
‘Turn it off,’ yelled Sebastian as he hurried across the kitchen. He propelled Sally out of his way, turned off the oven, and picking up a tea cloth, painfully manoeuvred the browning casserole out of the oven.
Millie joined them in time to hug Sally, who had burst into tears.
‘I didn’t mean to set it on fire,’ she sobbed. ‘I wanted to surprise you both.’
‘You did, Sal, and it’s not on fire, just a little browned.’ Millie hesitated for a moment before asking, ‘What is it, actually?’
Sally was on the point of more tears when Sebastian started to laugh. �
�Oh, Sally, my angel, you are absolutely priceless.’ He poked a fork into the dish. ‘Whatever it is, Sal, it’s redeemable. Just the top got a little …’
He started to laugh again and that, of course, made Sally angry. ‘What it is, is every single thing we had to eat in the house, totally destroyed, everything, potatoes, eggs, everything.’
‘You did put some liquid into the potatoes?’
‘Of course, well, two beaten eggs and a little milk.’
Sebastian turned to Millie who was stirring the boiled cabbage. ‘Any ideas, Mil?’ he whispered.
‘Don’t fret, Sally, it was lovely to smell cooking when we were coming upstairs.’ She glared at Sebastian, who looked as if he was going to laugh again. ‘The top, the eggs, cheese and milk just got a little too brown, that’s all.’ She checked the milk in the refrigerator. ‘We have plenty of milk so let’s have a cup of tea while we moisten the potatoes and put them back in for a few minutes.’
‘I shall scream if I have another cup of tea,’ said Sebastian. ‘And you really don’t want to hear that. There’s a presentable bottle of claret at the back of the larder. I was saving it for tomorrow but let’s have it now and Sally can tell us all about her day; I, for one, am all agog.’
Since Sebastian had appeared in several films, both as a child actor and as an adult, the girls knew that filming was not new to him but his suggestion was typically generous.
‘You are a fibber, Sebastian Brady,’ said Sally, ‘but the nicest fibber I know.’
‘I’ll fetch the vino,’ he said, and went off, returning a few minutes later with the bottle and three of his grandmother’s crystal glasses. ‘Hey, it’s a French wine. I think that’s a good omen.’
They drank the wine and toasted one another and their hopes for the future, and the wine helped them find the burned potatoes edible. Sally told them all about her second long day and when they were washing up they broke the news to Sally that they were leaving for France in the middle of the following week; just enough time to pack and to inform everyone they wanted to know.