A Christmas Gift

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘Perfect.’ Millie handed her the matching shoes before Sally could change her mind, took the full-length fur out of their shared wardrobe and almost pushed Sally from the room.

  She stood in the doorway of the drawing room and looked at Jon. Her gaze had gone past him the first time she looked as she had expected a naval officer and he was wearing a dinner suit and, at that moment, she decided that he was much more handsome than any of the actors she had loved as she grew up. Clark Gable, Leslie Howard, even Jimmy Stewart, they disappeared out of her mind to be replaced by a tall, dark Englishman.

  ‘Let me help you with your coat,’ he said and, with a smile, took the fur from Millie.

  ‘Have a lovely time,’ said Sebastian.

  ‘We won’t wait up,’ said Millie with a wicked wink.

  Again Sally could feel a hot flush travelling up her neck and was glad that she could hide it with the fur. A taxi was waiting for them and she gasped at the realisation of the expense. Jon seemed to know what she was thinking and he squeezed her hand with encouragement.

  ‘There are times, darling, even in war, when we say, “Hang the expense.” Besides, it’s not a terribly long drive. The club’s on Piccadilly, not far from the Ritz but on the other side.’

  He was right. They were there in a few minutes. It was a military club, of course, and portraits of famous flyers, sailors and soldiers, both living and dead, kept pace with them as they walked up the magnificently carved staircase. They went into an elegantly appointed drawing room where a uniformed steward took Jon’s order and soon they were sitting in comfortable chairs, sipping champagne. Other officers passed, several stopping to greet Jon, shake his hand and introduce themselves to Sally, but for the most part, they were left alone. They chatted, discovering which letters had turned up, even out of sequence and which seemed lost for ever, and filling in the gaps.

  Sally told Jon about Millie’s search for her husband’s grave.

  ‘Poor girl. I saw her husband dance once before the war, in Birmingham. Very young and unbelievably talented.’

  ‘I think between our reaching Arras and … Sebastian’s kindness, she may be able to move on.’

  The steward came to tell them their table was ready and they moved to the dining room with its portraits, crystal chandeliers and soft music, and there, as they ate delicious food they were able to chat more intimately as no one was seated near them.

  ‘I wish we had more time together, Sally. I had hoped to meet your parents, perhaps to take you and them, if they were free, to my home, but I have a letter to deliver tomorrow and it can’t be late.’

  ‘Next time, Jon. Will you be able to see Maudie?’

  ‘No, and I know she’s unhappy, but I did ring her and I might catch her at the shop before my flight tomorrow.’

  ‘Your flight?’

  ‘Sailors do use planes now and again, darling; they can go to places that ships can’t reach.’

  ‘Tell me about your childhood,’ Sally said, because she could not ask where he was going.

  He told her about his dogs and his favourite pony, and about his parents who had died ridiculously young, in a car crash in Biarritz.

  ‘Oh, Jon, how awful.’

  ‘They were together. Now that I’m an adult, I’m pleased about that because they loved each other very much.’

  ‘The priest is safe, Jon?’

  ‘I think so, darling; there is a worldwide network of people dedicated to helping. They couldn’t save Emmanuel but the priest is safe and, I hope, Jean-Jacques. With you by my side I could help too. They need replacement livestock, farming equipment, and my farms can afford to provide that. In Emmanuel’s memory, I have decided, I will educate both his children and Jean-Jacques’ daughter.’

  And then Jon asked Sally if she would return with him to his flat, instead of staying to dance. ‘I want you to stay with me, Sally, but if you’re not ready then I’ll accept that, and we will stay here until they throw us out, when I’ll take you back to Sebastian and Millie.’

  Sally stood up. ‘Dear Jon, I just couldn’t bear to see you being thrown out.’

  There was no taxi; hand in hand they walked, Jon, like Sebastian, seeming to have an unerring sense of direction. The moon was kind and a few stars twinkled as they made their way through the darkness to Charles Street where Jon had what he called a bachelor flat. It was not as big as Sebastian’s but was beautifully appointed.

  ‘Do look around while I make us a drink.’

  ‘I don’t want anything else to drink, Jon.’

  ‘Then shall we dance? I have dreamed of dancing with you and that pretty frock was made for dancing.’

  He wound up a gramophone; together they chose a record and then Sally slipped into his arms. ‘Bliss,’ said Jon as he held her close. They stood in the middle of the room, their arms around each other and they moved their feet in time to the music but it could hardly have been called dancing, and then Jon bent his head and kissed Sally. The music carried on for a few minutes and then there was only the sound of a record going round and round – and of soft sighs.

  Sally woke first and looked at the sleeping Jon. Where their clothes were she had no idea, and neither did she care. There was no regret, no concern. Loving and being loved was absolute perfection. Jon stirred, opened a sleepy eye, smiled and closed it again but his body turned to Sally and they made love again, as fully and as beautifully as before.

  Sally woke later to find Jon wearing a blue silk dressing gown and holding a cup of fragrant coffee.

  ‘Coffee, darling.’

  She took the cup and sipped. ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘Not nearly as beautiful as you. Sally, I love you so much; I want to stay here with you for ever, but they’d find us. Sally Brewer, will you marry me?’

  Sally almost spilled the coffee. ‘Oh, Jon, I love you too.’

  ‘And will you marry me?’

  ‘Yes, Jon, I’ll marry you.’

  He took the cup from her while he kissed her again. ‘I’ll keep my promise, Sally. We’ll do our duty until this ugly war is ended, and then I’ll buy you the most beautiful ring in the world. I’ll tell the jeweller I want a special ring for a special lady, a ring no one else has ever seen, a ring just for Sally.’

  Sally smiled. ‘That’s wonderful, Jon, I will treasure it always.’

  Then she remembered what he thought of as his debt to the two families in Corsica and suddenly she knew exactly what to do with the money from the sale of the lovely ring that was spending the war in a safe in a Dartford Picture House.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Writing this story really brought home to me that this writer, at least, does not write alone.

  My thanks are due once again to Dr Mike Still, Dartford, Dr Andrea Turner, Fortnum and Mason, and helpful staff at The Savoy and The Ritz, London.

  Special thanks to Sylvie and Pascal Iovanovitch for introducing me to Corsica, its history, its beauty, its food and, not to forget, The French Foreign Legion!

  Two members of ENSA definitely inspired me to write as true and as interesting a story as I could. The first was the beautiful Vivienne Hole, the only member of ENSA to be killed during the war – she was only nineteen years old. The second a war widow, Josephine, whose courageous and poignant story inspired the creation of my character Millie.

  The fact-filled story of ENSA, Greasepaint and Cordite, written by Andy Merriman, was a tremendous source of information and inspiration and I enjoyed singing along with the CD’s – ENSA Complete Shows.

  The articles and books I have read on Basil Dean and Lesley Henson are too numerous to mention, but thank you all.

  I am also very grateful for the information available on the internet about London theatres and the story of London during WWII, and I depended very much on the ‘London A to Z’ given to me for Christmas by my eldest grandchild because he liked the colour! Me too, B!

  As always, thanks to my agent, Teresa Chris, my editor, Kate Bradley, and all the other ta
lented people who make the wheels go round. And to my husband and family, I simply could not function without you.

  If you enjoyed this book, why not dip into these other fantastic reads in Ruby Jackson’s series?

  It is 1939 and in the town of Dartford, Grace, Sally and twins Daisy and Rose are determined to do their bit when war is declared.

  Grace signs up for the Land Army. Sally’s dream of stage school is thwarted by the war, but she finds hope in an unexpected place.

  Nothing has prepared the twins for the shock of the nightly raids on their home town. Rose signs on at the local munitions factory, but Daisy is still needed at home in her father’s greengrocer shop.

  When she meets the aristocratic flying ace, Adair, Daisy initially dismisses him as a ‘toff ’. But when Adair encourages Daisy to pursue her ambition of becoming a pilot, it seems all her dreams could be about to come true…

  When war is declared, four plucky girls from Dartford – Grace, Sally, Rose and Daisy – are keen to do their bit on the Home Front.

  For orphan Grace, it’s a chance to start afresh. She’s always had a soft spot for Sam Petrie, brother of Daisy and Rose, but realising that he is in love with their friend Sally, she puts her own feelings aside, and signs up for life as a Land Girl.

  Mucking out and early morning milking come as a big shock and life is harder than she expected. But Grace is nothing if not determined and though their lives will never be the same again, the four girls know they will always have each other – no matter what the war throws at them …

  Find out how it all started for Daisy, Rose, Sally and Grace in Churchill’s Angels – available now. Read on for an exciting extract …

  8 January 1940

  The alarm clock woke Daisy. She groaned, as usual, burrowed even further under the counterpane, as usual, and then, remembering her promise, threw back her covers and jumped out of bed. It was cold, so cold that, completely forgetting her sleeping sister, she did a little war dance right there on the strip of carpet between the beds. A quick look proved once again that Rose Petrie could sleep through anything.

  Daisy slipped past her bed to the window and pulled the curtain back sufficiently to let her see out. ‘Crikey.’ She could see nothing but beautiful paintings by one Mr Jack Frost on the window-pane. Daisy breathed on the glass and rubbed it with the sleeve of her nightgown until she had a peephole.

  Outside lay a frozen world. The year had blasted in accompanied by snow storms that seemed determined to maintain their icy grip. The snow that had fallen over the weekend and been churned into muddy heaps by the traffic was now frozen solid. Daisy grabbed her clothes, washed her face and such parts of her neck as she thought might be seen, dressed and slipped out. She looked towards the kitchen door. No time to boil the kettle for some scalding tea. She crept down the stairs, pulled on her heavy outdoor coat and the cheery hat and now-finished scarf that her mother had knitted for Christmas, grabbed her hated gas mask – there weren’t going to be gas attacks; there was no sign of any attacks – and hurried out.

  Her breath seemed to freeze in her throat and, for a second or two, she panicked. It was cold, colder than she had ever known. Then she pulled herself together and began to stumble over the frozen sculptures to a stretch of fairly clear road.

  Slithering and sliding, Daisy battled on to the little cottage where Grace lived with her half-sister. Grace opened the door and ushered her in. It was obvious that she had been crying.

  ‘What’s up, Grace? Ever so sorry I’m late; road’s treacherous.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘Doesn’t matter. They’re all ruined. Come on through.’

  In her hurry, Daisy put her gas mask haphazardly on a chair. It landed on the wooden floorboards with a loud thump. Daisy winced and looked towards the ceiling.

  ‘She didn’t come home last night and, anyway, takes more than a noise like that to wake our Megan.’

  Daisy followed her friend through the cold little house. Grace was almost fanatically tidy but Daisy had time to see at least three pairs of fully fashioned pure silk stockings hanging from a wire across the fireplace in the kitchen. She looked down at her lisle-covered legs. ‘Bet they feel ever so wonderful on, Grace.’

  ‘Much, much too expensive for me, Daisy, and you an’ all, I should think, if you get my meaning. I saw some in Kerr’s Stores. Three shillings a pair.’

  ‘Nine shillings spent on stockings. Who’s got that kind of money, Grace?’

  Grace said nothing but opened the door to the back garden, and she and Daisy stood for a moment looking at the disaster that had been their pride and joy, their garden. Even Sally had risked her precious long scarlet-painted fingernails to work there.

  ‘It’s froze solid, Daisy. Not so much as a sprout fit to eat.’

  The previous evening Grace had gathered two cabbages, one for the Brewers, one for the Petries. She had admired the amazing number of plump firm Brussels sprouts that were still on the stocks. Now, less than twelve hours later, she saw disaster. ‘Damn it, Daisy, it weren’t that great to start with but look at it now.’

  ‘We’ve had lovely fresh veggies for weeks, Grace, and I’m sure Mum will make soup with this lot. It’ll be delicious.’ She looked at Grace, wondering how to read the expression on her face. ‘What is it, Grace? It’s not just a few frozen sprouts.’

  ‘No, I suppose. It’s just … I was really happy working here, Daisy. It were special somehow, a good feeling, being in touch with the soil, putting in a little seed and weeks later frying up my own cabbage. I planned to be really serious this year: better beds, deeper digging and not just doing the safe old stuff like cabbage, but peas – can you imagine fresh peas, Daisy. And why not rhubarb and strawberries?’

  ‘And lovely fresh lettuce, maybe even tomatoes.’

  ‘You are going a bit far,’ smiled Grace, and Daisy was pleased to see her looking happier, but she was serious.

  ‘I think I saw tomatoes growing down The Old Manor once,’ she said. ‘You’ll do it, Grace, and I’ll help you. We’re stronger than we look, you and me. Come on, let’s put these ruined sprouts in the bag with any of the kale worth keeping.’

  ‘Glad we finished the spuds at Christmas,’ interrupted Grace. ‘Frozen spuds are the worst. They fall apart and they smell something awful.’

  ‘Where did you learn that?’

  ‘Dunno, musta read it somewhere.’ Grace sliced a stock bearing several sprouts off at the base and popped it into Daisy’s bag.

  Since Grace was due at the munitions factory where she worked in the office, Daisy left her to close up and she walked home with the bag.

  Flora was in the shop. She ignored the bag. ‘Who was it said something about rationing, Daisy, love?’

  ‘The vicar, I think, Mum. Why?’

  ‘Why’s sugar so scarce? Between that and the shortage of butter and bacon, some customers is saying they’ll take their custom elsewhere.’

  ‘One thing at a time, Mum. Sugar’s scarce because it’s shipped into this country – we don’t grow it. Ships are needed now for other things – munitions, soldiers, I don’t know – but there’s no space for sugar. Same with bacon and butter.’

  ‘We know Nancy Humble makes lovely butter up at the farm and there’s two farms near her as keeps pigs.’

  ‘Not enough to feed the whole country. I don’t know where these things come from, but could be as far away as New Zealand; the Commonwealth, you see. But, Mum, more important right now, can you do something with poor Grace’s veggies?’

  ‘’Course, waste not, want not, and are we not going to be singing that song a lot more? If that freeze was all over the country last night and not just in poor old Kent, then there’ll be greengrocers closing faster than you can run upstairs with those vegetables.’

  Daisy picked up her shopping bag of unpleasantly defrosting vegetables and, two stairs at a time, soon reached the kitchen where she dumped them unceremoniously in the sink.

  ‘Porridge on the back of
the fire,’ her mother’s voice floated up to her, and so Daisy helped herself to a bowl of porridge. She put a scraping of Nancy’s Christmas butter on top to melt and pulled her father’s comfortable chair up to the fire. What a lovely smell a fire had; simply smelling wood smoke made Daisy feel warm.

  A few well-fed minutes later, Daisy, washed properly in hot water, dressed in a warm woollen skirt and a fairisle jersey, descended to take her turn in the shop. In the short time that she had been upstairs, the store had filled with people all talking and gesticulating. At first Daisy thought there must have been an accident.

  ‘You all right, Mum?’

  ‘’Course I am, love. Vicar’s just brought some unwelcome news.’

  Daisy looked around until she could see the kindly, wrinkled face of the local Church of England vicar. ‘Good morning, Mr Tiverton, bad news, is it?’

  He smiled, a particularly sweet smile, and Daisy smiled back. She couldn’t help it; there was something about that smile – the smile reserved, according to Sam, for saintly Church of England vicars.

  ‘Well, my dear,’ said Mr Tiverton, ‘that will really depend on how we deal with it. Rationing came into force this morning: sugar, butter and bacon. From today we are officially allowed four ounces each of butter and bacon or ham, and twelve ounces of sugar, per adult per week. We will each be given a jolly little ration book that must be registered with local shops. I’m quite sure that soon everything but the air we breathe will be rationed.’

  ‘If there are indeed to be gas attacks, Vicar, we won’t want our air.’

  Daisy and Flora stared at each other in disbelief. Miss Partridge had a sense of humour. Who’d have thought it?

  Fred, who had been stocking up at the strangely empty wholesalers, came in the back door just as the last customer went out the front. As wife and daughter began to speak Fred held up his hands. ‘I saw ’em leaving as I slithered down the street. Telling you they was looking for the best deal, was they? Well, if they don’t trust us enough to know our prices are the best we can do, Flora, love, then they can take their custom elsewhere. The ’alt, the lame and the lazy will stay with us, and we’ll deliver to our ’ousebound any time they needs something delivering.’