by Ruby Jackson
‘Get a letter off to Jon first, I’d say, Sally, and since we have the weekend off to pack and say our goodbyes, you’ll have time to see your parents.’
‘What about you, Millie?’
‘Hardly time to get up north, but I’ll ring Patrick’s mum and dad and I’ll write to mine. You, Seb?’
‘My favourite Russian will keep an eye on the place; he’s completely trustworthy and I won’t worry about it. The only thing Dmitri can’t prevent is a bombing but no one has control over that. It’s not as if we were popping over to the Med for a few days in the sun, is it, ladies? We have to invest quite a bit of faith in this expedition. We don’t know what we’re going to experience and we’ve no idea what we might see when we get back. We’re on Peter Pan’s adventure and it’s probably best to think of it like that.’ As if something had just occurred to him he stood up. ‘I’ll see you both in the morning. I’m going to see Dmitri now; no point in putting it off.’
Sally’s car arrived for her even earlier next morning. ‘His nibs’s here, miss, and so best if we get you there as quick as.’
When they arrived at the studios, Sally was taken straight to wardrobe and make-up. Once again she scarcely recognised herself when all the make-up had been applied. ‘Will my mother know it’s me?’ she asked the make-up artist.
‘Trust me, Miss Brewer. The world will see – and recognise – your beautiful face. I’m merely accentuating what you have for these blasted lights, which absolutely leach all colour from you, honestly. Your mum won’t believe you’ve got make-up on. I’ve done the greats, love: Anna Neagle, Margaret Lockwood, Vivien Leigh, you name her, I’ve done her and not one beautiful lady has complained.’
Sally remembered her favourite costume that had been bought because it looked like ‘something Margaret Lockwood would wear’. It was still in her wardrobe, still wearable, still making her feel elegant and sophisticated. ‘I won’t either, thank you,’ she said, and, seated before a mirror, happily watched the artist at work.
After make-up, the hairdresser got to work and then Sally was taken to ‘Wardrobe’, where she dressed in the perfectly fitted Wren uniform. I’ll scream if it isn’t filmed today, she thought as excitement built up in her stomach where it seemed as if millions of little wings were fluttering.
‘Mr Coward, may I introduce—’
The director got no further before he was interrupted.
‘Sally, how lovely you look and how terrif to meet you at last.’
Sally, finding herself face-to-face with Noël Coward, was speechless. He just could not be real – not the Noël Coward – but the man in naval uniform took her hand and his hand was definitely a warm, human hand.
‘Now, Sally, we’re not in a studio in greater London but on a warship and you and I are going to go up on deck so that I can have one last look at England. We’ll gaze together for a moment and then you will go ashore to wait for me. I know it wasn’t rehearsed but I want you to square your shoulders and walk away; the camera will follow you and when you reach the dock, stop, turn around and raise your hand. Can you do that? Can you pretend that someone you love is going to sea? Imagine how you would feel if you knew the man you love might not return. Can you do that?’
Sally was unable to say a word, but she nodded.
‘Good girl. Let’s get into position.’
From then on it was a repeat of the two days of re-hearsal except that now the great man was there instead of his stand-in. They stood together looking out to the South Coast and then Sally did as she had been asked, squared her shoulders, walked down the ramp to the ‘dock’. At the bottom she stopped, turned and lifted her right hand in a farewell gesture. She heard the word ‘Cut’ and then loud clapping.
‘Told you, sir, she’s a natural.’
Since Sally had received no further instructions, she remained where she was until the director himself walked down to fetch her. ‘We’ll look at it, Sally, but I think it’s a take. Good girl. Come and have a break. Shot of something or a nice cup of tea?’
Sally wanted nothing and after a few minutes’ wait she was taken to yet another room where something called ‘rushes’ was being shown. Everyone but Sally discussed them at great length. Sally was stunned by seeing herself actually in black and white on a small screen, but she was pleased to note that the make-up artist was right for she looked almost exactly like herself.
Both the star and the director were happy. ‘Fantastic, Sally. We usually have to repeat and repeat.’
‘I’m sure your next screen appearance will be much longer, young lady.’ Noël Coward shook hands with her. ‘Are you joining us for lunch?’
At that moment Sally could think of nothing she would enjoy less. It was just too much to take in. ‘No, thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘The company is off on a European tour next week and I have a million things to do.’
They said goodbye with hugs, kisses and promises; the director himself walked Sally to her car. ‘Welcome to the business, young lady,’ he said as he opened the car door for her and watched her until she was seated. As the car drew away, in the mirror, Sally saw him still standing until they were out of sight.
*
The studio car dropped her at the Theatre Royal and Sally changed into rehearsal clothes and worked with her colleagues on numbers they were preparing for the tour. The few who knew where she had spent the morning said nothing until it was time to finish for the day and then Sally was bombarded with questions, which she answered as honestly as she could. Yes, Noël Coward had been wonderful. Yes, the director was pleased. And since food or lack of it was always a preoccupation in the business, Sally was stared at aghast as she confessed to not having joined the great man for lunch.
‘What an opportunity you missed, Sal. Lunch with a major director and a major star and you said no?’
‘I’m sure they thought Sally absolutely splendid for returning to war work. It is a propaganda film, after all,’ Max reminded them. ‘And you did find out about stills, Sally.’
‘The cameraman said stills would be sent out, Max, but probably when we’re all in France.’
‘To send on or not to send on,’ said Max, ‘that is the question. Think I’ll not trust them to the vagaries of wartime postal services, Sal. We can look forward to a wonderful surprise when we return.’
And that was all that was said.
The next few days were unbelievably busy. Sally went down to Dartford on the Saturday and talked to her parents, who were both upset that she might be deliberately travelling into mortal danger. She tried to reassure them that the danger in France would be no greater than possible danger travelling in England. Her mother made up a parcel of clothes that might be useful as a change from uniform. She added a bar of soap, some tooth powder and a small container of shampoo.
‘I wish there was more to give you, Sally. How will you manage for all that time in a foreign country?’
‘We’ll be fine, Mum; Sebastian speaks French and mine isn’t too bad; it’s all coming back.’
‘That’s something, I suppose, and you did get a prize for French in fifth form; never thought you’d be speaking to real French people though. Will you be able to write to us?’
‘Yes, Mum. Our letters home will go with the military post. It will take longer than a letter from London but I will write as often as I can.’
‘And you’ll be home for Christmas?’
‘I don’t know. My first time in a foreign country; it’s exciting.’
‘I can think of another word for it, but if you must go we’ll see you onto the London train. Can’t you spend the night?’
‘I wouldn’t want to delay getting back, Mum, and besides Sunday travel is a nightmare.’
Saturday evening travel was not much better but at least her travelling companions, sleeping servicemen, were quiet.
The carriage was full but she felt completely alone and it was a pleasant feeling. An only child, even one with many close friends, she had often been q
uite alone and she had enjoyed those moments. She was enjoying this time now. She looked at the men, sprawled along the bench opposite her and beside her. Each had tried, it appeared, to fall asleep tidily but exhaustion had caused their limbs to relax and they lay bundled together like the puppies she had once seen on a farm near Dartford. Some bodies were controlled even in sleep, others lay, mouths open, limbs everywhere, a few snored, some making fluttering sounds, others full-throated rumbles. Sally felt immeasurably sorry for them. Had they been on leave and were now going into action? She counted them and wondered sadly how many empty spaces there would be on the benches the next time they were given leave. Perhaps Jon and the crew of the George Francis had fallen into exhausted sleep on trains on their last leave before their final voyage. Surely each and every one had been loved and missed as she loved and missed Jon, but so few would ever make another voyage. What a stupid thing was war. For the first time, she felt herself looking on the sleeping men with a feeling she recognised as tenderness. I hope they all come safely home, she thought as the train pulled into London.
The underground took her straight to Green Park and from there it was a fairly easy walk for her, even in the blackout, to Hays Mews. As she walked she told herself that in the past few months she had grown up immeasurably. The trip to France was not a holiday excursion. No, ENSA did not carry guns or drive tanks but they faced danger just the same. She knew that she would try as hard as she possibly could to bring some relief and happiness into the lives of the service personnel she would meet.
But let it all be over soon.
Sometimes she had to think very hard to remember what life had been like before September of 1939. Had there been a time when there were empty seats on trains? Had people always queued for hours for any small ration of meat the butcher was able to find? How deep had her bathwater been before the war and had she always had plenty of sweet-smelling soap and shampoo – oh, lovely fragrant shampoo that one had always taken completely for granted? Had her friends the Petries really collected her on the spur of the moment to drive down to the seaside to swim and picnic? Impossible to do anything without advance planning now, and there was certainly no petrol for a frivolous jaunt to the coast.
Millie and Sebastian hurried to the door when they heard her and Sebastian was annoyed. ‘Why didn’t you ring me? We’d have come down to meet you. The streets aren’t safe these days.’
‘It was fine, Sebastian, honestly, and besides, the only person I know who has a telephone is the vicar.’
‘Ever heard of a telephone box, Sally? Anyway, never mind, we’ve saved two tins of sardines and we’ll have sardines on toast for supper.’
‘Make yourself comfy, Sal, while I do supper. Parents all right about the plans?’
‘I can’t say they’re thrilled but they wished us well. Mum gave me some soap and even some shampoo, Millie, and we can share them. Everything all right with your families?’
‘I left it rather late to write letters, which was probably a bit selfish – I couldn’t bear the thought of my mum coming down to see me off. I imagine we’ll be gone before either my family or Patrick’s get their letters but I’ve made them as loving and reassuring as possible.’
‘Did you say where we’re headed, Millie?’
Millie turned at the kitchen door. ‘I found myself unable to write the word “France”.’
After their simple supper, Sebastian took an elderly atlas from a bookcase in the hall and they looked at maps of France.
‘How strange,’ said Sally as she looked first at the paper on which she had written down a few of the places where Max had said they might perform, and then at the map. ‘Look, not only are these four towns or villages quite close to one another but they could be in alphabetical order; A, B, C, and D. Arras, Bayeux, however that’s pronounced, Caen, and Douai. They’re all in the north or north-west of France and not too far from the English Channel.’
But the only one that interested Millie was Arras.
Her grief and anger when Max told them that their visit was to be delayed indefinitely because France was under German control was tragic to witness. She withdrew into herself, working like an automaton but confiding in no one.
For the troupe it became every week a new venue, yet another uncomfortable journey, new routines to learn. Sally lost count of the number of the remade costumes she wore, the NAAFI canteens where they dined, the scratch suppers in Sebastian’s kitchen. The year ended and the next year came in, bringing with it both the Americans and renewed hope. Every day Sally wrote to Jon and occasionally received a letter – carefully numbered. Each precious missive expressed his feelings for her. Sally treasured them, but at times she feared that the world would be at war forever. Would she ever see him again? Another year came.
‘We’ll know every church hall, theatre, and hospital in Britain if we don’t get out of here soon.’ Even Sebastian was complaining by mid-summer.
The whispers began, ‘The Americans, Normandy, Omaha Beach …’
Then Max was there, smiling broadly. ‘It’s time, my angels; we’re off to France.’
Sally knew that sailing across the English Channel was often unpleasant as the sea could be boisterous and choppy; it didn’t seem to her that it was much better to travel by air. The plane was a military one, not a passenger plane complete with fairly comfortable chairs and a smart steward. Indeed, it seemed to dip and rise on the wind much as a boat would dip and rise on the turbulent waves below. She was not the only passenger to be extremely relieved to find herself bouncing down onto a runway. Neither could they leave the airport, suitcase in hands, as easily as if they were arriving at a London railway station. There were endless formalities to be gone through and it was some time before they found themselves trundling across a rain-swept pathway, while the icy rain seemed to find as many ways of making them uncomfortable as it possibly could. They were in uniform and the rain trickled off their hats onto their hair and down inside their collars. There was some muttered swearing but mostly they walked in silent misery to the great military lorries that waited to take them to their first base.
Once on board, they huddled in damp and silent misery, incapable of changing the situation in any way and merely hoping that life would improve.
It did. Several hours later they were wakened from their restless dozing to find themselves in familiar surroundings. Nothing they could see told them that they were in France.
‘We’ll unload, get ourselves to our quarters, dry off a bit and Major McConnell here says that the best soup outside Bolton is waiting for us in the mess hall. Come on, everybody; we can’t have the troops trying to cheer us up, and please, no one is to miss the meal; it’s rude and also silly. We deserve a good hot meal and it’s been prepared for us. Right, bienvenue à la belle France.’
‘Can’t see a bloody thing belle about it so far,’ said Humph, but after his little grumble he set himself to doing as he had been told.
NINETEEN
Late August 1944, a Military Base in the Calvados Prefecture, North-West France
Sally was bitterly disappointed in her first sight of France. She had harboured ideas of how it would look: miles and miles of vineyards, for was not French wine famous? Even the Prime Minister had been known to praise French wines. And it was August. The fields around Dartford would be in the middle of a golden harvest. Where were the farmers? And there should be castles or châteaux, as they were called, exquisite buildings with lots of towers and windows, surrounded by parklands where lakes and ponds were scattered among soaring but disciplined trees, and flowerbeds were aglow with colours and perfumes. There would be picturesque villages with ponds where ducks and geese swam and sun-tanned children paddled. They would have boats, or was it only English boys who played with boats? She didn’t know but had looked forward to finding out.
The reality was very different. There were orchards, but bombs had blown great holes between the burned-out rows of apple trees. Occasionally she saw a few desu
ltory apples hanging listlessly on broken branches. She did see castles, two with boarded-up windows and one where the windows were not boarded-up but blown out, and where broken fire-stained walls had crumpled into what might have been a moat. An unhappy silence hung over all three. The damage done by bombs and bullets to once picturesque villages was horrifying and in one village street they saw the rotting bodies of dogs, cats, and poultry. A cow, bloated in death, lay almost on the doorstep of a bombed church that, from the little that remained, Sally thought was possibly the same age as their lovely, historic church in Dartford. The smell of rotting flesh overwhelmed the perfume of the flowers that were trying so hard to bring some beauty into this sad land.
They had been in the north of the country for almost three weeks and Sally wished herself back in England. Jon would write to England. He could not know that she was in France, not yet.
They had done several shows and, as always ‘the boys’ made it all worthwhile; applauding everything, sending ear-piercing whistles after the dancers as, in their skimpy red, white and blue skirts and tops, they high-kicked their way off the hastily erected stage, joining in when they sang old favourites like ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ or ‘MacNamara’s Band’. They listened attentively when there was a scene from a well-known play: Shakespeare, Shaw, Coward, Wilde; it did not matter, they loved them all, and the whistling and cat-calls when Millie danced were deafening.
‘They’re applauding my legs,’ said Millie mildly. ‘I wonder how many have ever seen a ballet.’
‘I’d be more eager to know how many will go to a theatre now that they’ve had a taste,’ said Sebastian. ‘Of course they like your legs – what red-blooded man wouldn’t – but you can’t see their faces when you’re dancing and we can. Most of them are simply spellbound.’
‘Not so much as when Sally is singing.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Sally. ‘I’m more normal, Millie, ap-proachable, if you like, just a pretty girl in a nice frock; you bring us … magic.’