A Christmas Gift

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘Well said, our Sally.’ Sybil and Lalita had heard the last part of the conversation as they walked back towards the wings where Max was still standing. ‘But you all bring magic and don’t they need some magic here?’

  Sally agreed with that. Their living quarters were basic and it was almost impossible to get enough hot water for a bath or to wash hair, especially long hair like Sally and Millie’s. Again, the engineers did wonders and Sally was grateful but often she wished she was in Sebastian’s beautiful flat with its airy rooms and its constant hot water. She remembered Lal’s comment: ‘Don’t they need some magic here?’ The soldiers’ living quarters can’t be any better than ours and they have to go out on patrols, she told herself. No more complaining, Sally Brewer.

  Next day they saw the first of many poignant reminders of the war. They had gone in a lorry to a small village nearby which was inhabited now by only a few elderly people and some mothers and children. Just as they approached the village Millie, who was looking out at yet another ruined harvest, called out, ‘What’s that on the side of the road? Damn it, it’s behind us now.’

  ‘We’ll have a look on the way back, Millie,’ said Max. ‘Right now we want to do something for the elderly residents here. Youngest man in the village is about seventy-three or -four.’

  The priest spoke some English, as did a doctor who was obviously much too old to be practising still – but was. Sebastian surprised most of the company with his knowledge of spoken French although everyone knew that Lal and Sybil were fluent. In no time at all the five were conversing like long-lost relatives while the mainly black-clad villagers and the rest of the performers listened and smiled occasionally at one another, both groups fully aware that only the villagers had the slightest idea of what was going on. Sally listened carefully to the conversation but grasped little as the speakers spoke too quickly for her. She would not give up, though, telling herself that she had allowed her knowledge of the language to rust and now she was cleaning it.

  ‘Well, that was an eye-opener,’ Sebastian told them when he came back. ‘There are no able-bodied men left in the village. The CO, bless him, knew this, and the soldiers driving us have some supplies for them. Believe it or not, the villagers are insisting on giving us a barrel of cider in return and the colonel is saving it for Christmas, if they’re still in this … Damn it, I was going to say hole, but I mean friendly part of la Belle France. Sally, do you know “Sur le Pont d’Avignon”?’

  ‘The words, yes. I seem to remember dancing to it when I was at Tiny Tots dancing school.’

  ‘Right, you and I are going to walk back along the road and I’ll go over it with you because you’re going to sing it to these lovely people and, Millie, you know the melody?’

  Millie nodded.

  ‘Will you make up some steps and dance?’

  ‘Of course, and I’ll bring in all the children. Sally, you can dance with us, too; we’ll dance in circles and the men, including our two lovely young soldiers and you, Seb, will bow and the ladies will curtsy.’

  Sebastian hugged her. ‘You are a genius.’

  Three hours later they left the village and, looking back, saw most of the women and many of the old men in tears. The children who were still dancing together on the Avignon bridge stopped to wave wildly.

  Not a word was spoken on the way back to the camp, every cast member too full of emotion and recently acquired knowledge.

  Sally and Sebastian were glad to be quiet for they had passed the object that had interested Millie on their way in and had seen that it was a memorial of some kind, a pole stuck into the ground with a British soldier’s helmet hanging on it. Some fresh and some withered wildflowers lay on the ground at the base of the little pole. Much better that Millie not see that sad little memorial.

  The company stayed in the region, although not at that particular camp, for almost six weeks. The parched summer days eventually gave way to the first rains of the autumn. Moving around the camps became more and more difficult. Again, the engineers managed to lay some type of wooden pathways between tents and huts, especially the incredibly limited washing and lavatory facilities. Everyone had Wellington boots and they squelched their way around, evening suit trousers tucked into the boots and evening gowns lifted up by the hems as far as decently possible.

  They moved to Douai, a town on the River Scarpe, and Sebastian hoped that he was the only one of their particular group who knew that Douai was probably no more than fifteen or sixteen miles from Arras, another town on the Scarpe, but more importantly, the place where Patrick Burgess had been killed and was probably buried. Were Millie to find out, he could picture her simply walking out of camp and heading north-west.

  Of course, Millie was perfectly well aware how close they were to Arras. She too had studied the map and had every intention of getting there somehow. Fate had brought her so close but for now she was prepared to wait to see if it took her even closer.

  They were doing a show for the garrison at the Douai camp and Sebastian was sitting in the tent he shared with Humph and Allan Fordyce when a soldier brought him a note from the colonel.

  Startled, he read it and stood up. ‘Golly, I’ve never been summoned by a colonel before; he wants to ask me a favour. What on earth would a colonel want with me?’

  Allan was practical. ‘You know the quickest way to find out, mate.’

  Sebastian smiled wryly and went with the soldier.

  The colonel was sitting at a desk, a large pile of documents in front of him. He stood up when Sebastian was ushered in. ‘Apologies for disturbing your rest period, Mr Brady, but I have an enormous favour to ask of you and I do want you to know that you are free to accept or refuse.’

  ‘Do my best to help, sir,’ said Sebastian, who remembered feeling almost as nervous when he had been summoned to his headmaster’s study.

  ‘Feel a bit silly, actually, but I did hear you do the great Agincourt speech a few years ago.’ He stopped and Sebastian waited.

  ‘Do you want to hear it this evening, sir? I was going to do Hamlet but Henry can slot in perfectly easily.’

  The colonel said nothing but handed Sebastian a book, which obligingly opened at the page where an elderly train ticket had been inserted. Each of the pages had a poem and Sebastian smiled. He was sure he knew which poem the experienced soldier wanted. ‘Beautiful poem,’ he said.

  ‘You have a good voice,’ said the colonel in some obvious embarrassment. ‘It’s one of my favourite poems and I’d love to hear you recite it, but it might not fit in with your plans.’

  ‘It’s perfect, sir; it will be an honour to recite it.’

  ‘No need to say …’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I’ll get the book back later.’

  ‘No need, sir. I know it well.’

  He walked back to his tent thinking about soldiers and of others’ impressions and preconceptions of them. Colonel Ingram was what was commonly called ‘a man’s man’; he was not public school, not elegant, but craggy like a much-eroded cliff, and he liked poetry. I’ll give it all I’ve got, Colonel, Sebastian vowed.

  Later that same evening, in his evening suit, his shoes almost as shiny as those of the soldiers, he walked across the stage to the microphone. ‘Slight change of plan, ladies and gentlemen’ – for there were nurses present. ‘I’m not doing Shakespeare at this point in the programme but reciting the work of a poet who didn’t publish much, if anything, other than the one I plan to recite, a poem that I think is one of the finest in the English language. It’s by a young man always known simply as C. Wolfe, a young man who read the report of a military funeral in a newspaper and was so stunned by it that he wrote these beautiful and immortal lines: “The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna”.’

  There was absolute silence in the large tent when Sebastian had finished and then, as one, the audience rose and clapped until their hands and everyone’s ears were sore. Sebastian, tears in his eyes, bowed, and walked off, but th
e clapping went on for some time.

  Those backstage heard Max’s voice: ‘Get the girls back in, or Sally. Damn it, Seb, where did that come from?’

  The skimpily clad dancers tapped their way onto the stage, the audience calmed down, and eventually the programme finished as it was supposed to finish.

  As always, the cast were then entertained by the troops in the Officers’ Mess.

  ‘Read that poem in sixth form, Mr Brady, sir, absolutely superb.’

  Sebastian coloured faintly. ‘Seb’s fine, glad you liked it.’

  ‘I’ve never heard that poem before, Sebastian,’ said Sally. ‘How brilliant of you to remember it, actually on a military base.’

  ‘Never heard that silence for an actor before, Seb; great compliment, but is it true? Was he real?’ Millie was looking at him with huge eyes in a very pale face.

  ‘Yes, Millie, it’s all true.’

  ‘What a ballet it would make,’ she said calmly, for all the world as if they were strolling down Piccadilly. ‘Are we going to Arras? It was on our alphabetical list.’

  ‘I’m not in charge, Millie, and the venues change according to circumstance. Max is the one to ask. But, dear one, what do you hope to find?’

  She looked at him and smiled. ‘I don’t … hope to find anything, but Patrick died there and I must say “Sleep well”. If we’re not scheduled to visit, then I’ll have to think of something else. We’re so close, Seb, so close. Please, Sally, you’ll help me, won’t you?’

  Sally looked straight at Sebastian. ‘We can talk to Max; he has the schedule, not Sebastian, but we’re on your side, Millie, aren’t we, Sebastian?’

  ‘I don’t want either of you doing anything stupid, Sally, getting yourselves into danger. Talk to Sybil and Lal; they’ll talk to Max.’

  Sally and Millie looked immediately for the two senior women and found them involved in serious conversation with a few of the senior officers.

  ‘Not a good time, Millie,’ began Sally, but they had been spied by one of the officers who asked them to join their group.

  An hour and two glasses of French wine – not from the barrel from the village, Sybil was delighted to point out – later, all four women walked back to their quarters together.

  ‘Now’s the time, Millie.’

  And, for the first time, Millie opened up to someone other than her two best friends.

  ‘You should have told us earlier, Millie; perhaps we could have worked from top to bottom instead of the other way round.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sybil; it’s not you or Lal or Max, it’s me, but I must and I will get to Arras, even if I have to walk.’

  ‘That would be rather foolish since we’re going there anyway, but listen to me, and listen carefully. I will not tolerate your putting yourself or anyone in the company in danger.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then a little more patience, child. We will do our duty in Bayeux and after that, we will travel on, according to the schedule, to Arras.’

  With that promise, Millie said she was content.

  A few days later Sally returned to her tent to find three letters: one rather crumpled and stained envelope and two blue aerogramme letters on her camp bed.

  ‘Millie,’ she shouted, ‘It’s Christmas. The postman’s been.’

  ‘Fab. Something from Jon?’

  ‘Two – these blue airmail ones – and one from my dad. It’ll be from both but it’s his writing.’ She examined the light-weight blue papers. ‘A and B, clever Jon. What about you?’

  ‘A fat one from Mum.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Sally. She smiled across at Millie, took her nail scissors out of her handbag, slit the first letter open and settled down to read.

  Somewhere at Sea, 4 July.

  ‘Millie, would you believe it? Jon wrote this letter at the beginning of July. Where has it been?’

  ‘At sea, obviously,’ said Millie, and went back to her own mail. Sally followed her example.

  My darling Sally,

  We went ashore a few days ago and I tried to ring you. A pleasant chap at the theatre told me that you were in France. I hope you are well and enjoying the experience. I’m so sorry not to have had time to write before but we have been rather busy in one way or another.

  We can be at sea for weeks and then we must put in at a safe port for refuelling, provisions, fresh water, et cetera. That’s when we are able to pick up mail too and you can imagine how happy everyone aboard is to see that fat bag stuffed with envelopes.

  Do you have a photograph of yourself for I would so love to have one? Of course, I remember how beautiful you are; you are, after all, safely tucked away in my heart, but it would be lovely to have an actual photograph to talk to or to show proudly to friends. Why did I never think of it when we were together?

  Next time we are ashore I’m sure there will be letters from you in the post bag. At the moment I am trying to picture you in France. Our radios keep us up to date with news and I feel that the France that you are seeing is not the country I knew so well as a student. When the war is over I would like to show you the beautiful little village where I lived for a year and introduce you to the delightful people who made me feel that I was part of their family. They visited me in 1938 but I haven’t seen or heard from them since. I hope they are safe.

  Occasionally we are able to listen to broadcasts from London, not only the PM but a few days ago we had Myra Hess, the concert pianist, playing in the National Gallery. Many of the lads had never heard a great pianist play before and it was a joy to watch them listening. She played Mozart and Bach, lovely way to start, don’t you think, if you’ve never heard classical music. And, of course, we have catholic tastes and sat roaring with laughter – well, some of us as someone has to look after the ship!! – listening to Tommy Trinder. Two of the lads were actually weeping, a combination, I think, of fear and hope and memories. So, we send enormous thanks to each and every one of you in ENSA. Keep up the good work.

  Jon, just Jon

  The letter marked B was much shorter.

  Darling Sally,

  I forgot the most important part of my letter. I should have said this in dear old Blighty but I was afraid – of so many things; failure mainly. Sally, I love you as I have never loved before. I want to marry you when this war is over. There, I’ve said it. I can’t tell you how much I wanted to take you to Bond Street, to a decent jeweller, to watch you choose a beautiful ring meant for Just Sally but we’re at war and who knows what will happen? God willing, I will survive.

  I asked Luisa too quickly and she accepted and I didn’t realise that, poor child, she loved the title and only thought she loved the man. You are free, my darling, to be yourself with no ties, no burdens. I will never interfere with your talent or your career.

  All my love,

  Jon

  Sally started to cry and immediately Millie was there with an affectionate hug. ‘What’s wrong, Sally? Is Jon all right?’

  ‘He loves me and wants to marry me.’

  Millie continued to hold and soothe while Sally tried to stifle her sobs. ‘That’s a problem?’ Millie asked at last.

  ‘Oh, Millie, he’s so noble. He wants to marry me but he says I’m free. I don’t want to be free. Damn it, he’s reminding me of that idiot Hamlet: too much thinking.’

  Millie tried very hard but eventually could not control her laughter. ‘This education lark is a bit of a double-edged sword,’ she said when she had stopped laughing.

  ‘Sorry, Millie, what about your post?’

  ‘Yes, one from Patrick’s mother enclosed in Mum’s. She’s unhappy that I’ve gone to France. She’s worried about me, poor dear, but can’t understand why I’m dancing for soldiers in the country that, according to her, killed her son.’

  ‘What can you say to that, Millie? Remind her that the soldiers are British.’

  ‘No, it’s not worth it. I won’t even refer to it when I answer her. If I find anything in Arras, that will make he
r forget everything else – except that her only son is dead.’

  ‘Let’s hope we find something.’

  Millie smiled. ‘Dear Sally, you and Seb are such good friends. Patrick would have loved you both too.’

  Nine days later they climbed into a lorry and headed north-west. They had hoped not to find the sad markers every few miles but they were there and added to Millie’s distress. The first time she saw one she yelled, ‘Stop, stop,’ at the top of her voice and banged as hard as she could on the barrier between passengers and the soldiers. Everyone heard a disgruntled ‘What the hell was that?’ as the lorry slowed to a halt.

  The military driver was at the tarpaulin. ‘What’s the problem?’

  Millie made her way over the others, apologising as she moved to the back of the lorry. She poked her head out and came face to face with a rather annoyed driver.

  ‘He recognised my legs as I climbed out,’ Millie told them when she had climbed back into the lorry, ‘and he showed me the marker. The helmets aren’t all British; there are French and German ones too and he can’t stop at them all but if he spots a British one fairly close to Arras, he’ll “Gie me a shout”, whatever that means.’

  ‘He’ll tell you,’ put in Lal, the linguist.

  But they did not stop again until they were at their new base.

  It was not where Patrick Burgess had served but it was close. Max took the unprecedented step of coming to a female hut and sitting down quietly with Millie.

  ‘I can’t let you wander at will, Millie; there are mines in the area. We have to stick as much as possible to the camp, but be aware that your husband must have been familiar with this area. Can that be enough for you? He saw these fields, that river; he breathed this air.’

  ‘Thank you, Max; I actually hadn’t thought of that and it does help. I won’t do anything stupid but the letter said he was buried where he fell. They sent me his identity tags – I have those – but just to see what might be his grave …’

  ‘I do understand; all your friends do, but take no senseless risks.’

  Millie promised and their work of preparing for a concert began.