Applause (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 2)

by Madalyn Morgan

  ‘Time to get you into your opening costume, Margot,’ Thelma, her new dresser called from the wings.

  ‘I’m coming.’ Margot jumped up and followed Thelma to the dressing room.

  ‘What do you think of your name on the door?’ Thelma asked, helping Margot out of her jacket. ‘Stan did it while you were on stage.’

  Margot went back to the door, opened it and smiled. ‘That was kind of him, but it’s a bit big. A bit showy, don’t you think?’

  ‘No I don’t! The big star was my suggestion. I thought you’d like it.’ Thelma looked disappointed.

  ‘I do. Thank you.’ Margot secretly enjoyed being in the number one dressing room. It was the only one with a gold star but, more importantly, it had been Nancy’s dressing room. ‘When I was at school,’ she said, laughing, ‘whoever came top of the class at the end of each term was awarded a gold star. I was always near the top, often second or third, but I never came top, so I never got the gold star.’

  ‘Stand still.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She laughed again. ‘I wonder what my teacher would say if she could see me now with a gold star that big on my door?’

  Dressing room one was nearest the stage and was the female lead’s dressing room. Number two was the male lead’s room, except there wasn’t a male lead, so George and Betsy were in it. Artie was in dressing room three with a couple of musicians. And the rest of the orchestra were in room four – the biggest dressing room. Five and six, on the first floor, housed jugglers, magicians and other guest acts. Wardrobe and the white room were where they’d always been and Natalie Goldman’s studio was still in dressing room seven. Eight and nine, which were only used when there was a large cast, were home to the chorus – boys in eight and girls in nine.

  It was a fairly big cast, although there were no glamorously dressed back-drop girls standing at the back of the stage holding elegant poses in picturesque tableaux. Until last summer there had been quite a turnover of young women. They didn’t do much and they didn’t say anything. But dressed as Indian maidens, Greek goddesses, or Spanish flamenco dancers, they looked stunning.

  ‘Your five minute call, Miss Dudley.’

  Margot looked at Thelma. ‘Did he say the five? I don’t remember him calling the half.’

  ‘You had your eyes closed. I thought you were asleep and didn’t want to disturb you.’

  Getting up, Margot looked in the mirror. She bit her bottom lip. ‘This is it then?’

  Thelma nodded. ‘This is it. Get out there and show them what you’re made of,’ she said, hugging Margot. ‘Break a leg.’

  ‘Don’t say that. My ankle has only just healed.’ They both laughed.

  ‘You’ll be fine; better than fine. I’ll see you for your first costume change.’

  George and Betsy, Artie, the entire orchestra, dancers, musicians, everyone backstage and front of house, had wished Margot good luck one way or another. And she was ready. When the stage manager said, ‘This is your cue, Miss Dudley,’ she walked out onto the stage as if she’d never been off it.

  The show was a massive success. It was a series of sketches and songs that were familiar to many people in the audience. They sang along with “Run Rabbit Run” and “Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree” and all the other songs. Artie Armitage had them rolling in the aisles, jugglers on stilts had them gasping, and at the finale Margot, George and Betsy, dressed in their ENSA uniforms, sang their interpretation of The Andrews Sisters’ hit “Bei Mir Bist du Schoen” to rapturous applause and a standing ovation.

  Margot’s dressing room was buzzing with members of the company as well as friends. Natalie and Anton arrived with Bill and Bess but not Ena, who had been refused time off work at the last minute.

  The first night party at the Prince Albert Club was a little subdued, but everyone was exhausted anyway. The bandleader asked Margot to sing, which she agreed to do only if George and Betsy sang with her. The three friends ran across to the stage. They sang, “Putting On The Ritz”, which went down a storm. Margot and Betsy left George on stage to do her new party piece “Burlington Bertie” and she brought the house down.

  When they had finished and were back in their seats a waiter gave Margot a card and pointed at the bar. It was from Bernard Rudman, the manager of The Talk of London, asking her if she would consider working for him. Margot looked over her shoulder. Bernard Rudman was easy to spot. He wore a black tuxedo with a satin grosgrain shawl collar and an overcoat with an astrakhan collar draped over his shoulders. Margot smiled and nodded. Performing at The Talk of London would be good. She dropped the card into her handbag. Topping the bill was what she wanted.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘I have the newspapers, Miss Margot.’

  Margot laid her hand on the new stage doorman’s arm. ‘Thank you, Stan.’

  Margot meant more than thank you for the newspapers, and saw in Stan’s kind eyes that he knew. ‘Congratulations, Miss,’ he nodded, handing her half a dozen dailies.

  ‘Anyone in yet?’

  Miss Betsy and Miss George. Both weighed down with papers,’ he laughed.

  ‘Thank you, I’ll join them.’ With her own bundle of newspapers tucked under her arm, Margot ran to George and Betsy’s dressing room.

  ‘You’ve hit the headlines,’ Betsy said, throwing her arms around Margot as soon as she stepped through the door.

  ‘Damn right too,’ George said.

  ‘You were spectacular last night. Considering-- I mean, how upset you were before the show.’

  George handed Betsy The Stage and the Evening Standard. ‘Find the reviews in these while I look through The Times and the Guardian. Then lay them open on the table. What have you got, Margot?’

  ‘Telegraph and Mirror.’ Dropping the rest of the papers on the floor, she laid the Mirror on the table and began to read the Telegraph.

  ‘Right, let’s see what the critics have to say! Come on, you two,’ George said, ‘don’t be shy.’

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘What is it?’ Seeing tears in Margot’s eyes, George went to her and looked over her shoulder. ‘Let me see what it says.’

  ‘“No one could take the place of the wonderful Nancy Jewel…”’ Margot burst into tears. ‘I wasn’t trying to take her place. I wish she was here more than anyone.’

  ‘We know,’ George said. ‘Hang on; what you read was out of context.’ She took the paper out of Margot’s hands. “‘No one could take the place of the wonderful Nancy Jewel, the toast of London and star of The Prince Albert Theatre in London’s West End, except the equally talented Margot Dudley. It must have been hard for the relatively unknown actress, Nancy Jewel’s protégée, to take over her mentor’s role, but she did and she did it brilliantly. We toast you, Miss Dudley. Theatreland is agog!”’

  ‘I’m sorry. When I read the opening sentence it made me feel as if I was stepping up on Nancy’s coat tails. Made me feel--’

  ‘Oh I think you’ve earned your stripes, Margot. I think the theatre critics and reviewers know it too.’

  “‘Margot Dudley stole the show. Not the first time and it won’t be the last, I hope.’”

  ‘It says in The Stage, “Regional actress Margot Dudley, who arrived in London a couple of years ago and began her life at the Prince Albert Theatre as an usherette, stole the show.”’

  “‘A star performance!” the Guardian says. “The Prince Albert Theatre at its very best,” from the Evening Standard, and The Times, “Margot Dudley gave the performance of her life.” Do I need to go on, Margot?’ Margot shook her head and put her arms around George. ‘I think Nancy would be proud of what you did last night-- what we all did.’

  At that moment Richard Smiley came into the room. ‘Does anyone around here have time to rehearse, or should we just go up tonight in the slip-shod fashion we went up in last night?’

  The three girls turned and glared at him. Unable to keep up the pretence, he broke into a broad smile and ran across the room. Lifting Margot off her feet
he swung her round, before dropping her and putting his arms round George and Betsy. ‘Stars! You’re all bloody stars!’

  ‘Does that include me, Mr Smiley?’ Artie said, entering the dressing room.

  ‘You’re all included,’ the director said. ‘But we have to keep up the standard. Today we enjoy our fame. Tomorrow we start re-working the opening number. I want it tighter, sharper and more energetic.’ Richard Smiley left to good-humoured protests and sounds of mock rebellion.

  ‘Shush everyone,’ Betsy shouted. ‘Shush, listen!’ she shouted again.

  ‘What is it, Bets?’ Margot said.

  ‘That Dave. Goldie’s ex-bloke. That’s him, isn’t it?’ she said, taking the Daily Mirror from the table and passing it to Margot.

  ‘Looks like him. Oh my God!’ Margot began to read. “‘Three men taken into custody for their own protection were later arrested. At Speaker’s Corner in Hyde Park, three men were heckling an elderly Jewish man speaking about the plight of Jews in Germany. Several people in the crowd recognised the hecklers from an earlier confrontation in the East End and set about them, accusing them of having been members of the disbanded British Union of Fascists.”’

  ‘So was Nazi Dave one of them arrested?’ Betsy asked.

  ‘It doesn’t give names,’ Margot said.

  ‘Let’s see if there’s anything in The Times.’ George flicked through the paper. ‘There’s a short report here. “Ex-BUF members David Sutherland, Harold Alsop and Richard McCauley, taken into custody for their own protection after being attacked in Hyde Park, were later charged with membership of an illegal organisation, failing to answer the call up and resisting a constable in the execution of his duty. All three men have been kept in custody pending a court hearing.”’

  ‘Woo-hoo!’ Betsy hooted. ‘He’s in the clink.’

  ‘Well! That’s one to celebrate.’

  ‘And we should. Let’s go to the club after the show. Margot, you won’t have to look over your shoulder ever again,’ Betsy said.

  ‘Depends on how long they give him.’

  ‘It won’t matter, Bets. He’ll be interned until the war ends, like Mosley,’ George said.

  Margot felt conspicuous sitting in the court, but she was determined to see Dave Sutherland put away. With a guard, he was first up from the cells. The other men followed. He wore a brown shirt buttoned up to the neck. His hair was greased down and he’d grown a stupid moustache like Adolf Hitler. When he entered the dock he stood to attention and looked straight ahead.

  ‘What does he look like?’ George shook her head. ‘God knows what Goldie saw in him.’

  ‘Or why she stayed with him for so long,’ Betsy said.

  ‘Fear,’ Margot whispered. ‘She was scared to leave him. Frightened for her life in the end. She told me he was really nice to her in the beginning. It was after she found his BUF membership that he began to show his true colours.’

  ‘The bastard!’ George said. ‘I hope they throw away the key.’

  There were the normal questions about name and address. And then the Clerk of the Court read out the first charge, failing to answer the call up. All three admitted their guilt. What else could they say?

  The judge asked them if his information was correct – that they continued to support the aims and principles of the British Union of Fascists, even though it had now been disbanded. Dave Sutherland brought his heels together and shouted, ‘Guilty as charged and proud of it!’ His two mates nodded.

  The judge slammed his gavel down on its block. ‘Eighteen months on the first charge. If the war is not over by the time you have served your sentence you will be interned under Section 18B until it is. Take them down.’

  The judge stood up and the court followed. Margot, George and Betsy, holding hands, gripped each other tightly as Dave Sutherland and his cronies were escorted down to the cells.

  For a moment the three women stood as if frozen, speechless. It was George who broke the silence. ‘Thank God the pathetic bully got what he deserved.’

  Margot nodded. ‘He’ll be in jail until the war ends at least. That’s a much longer sentence than he’d have got for beating Goldie up.’

  ‘And they won’t be given an easy time by the other inmates,’ George said, ‘or the prison warders. No one likes traitors and cowards.’

  George put her arms round Margot and Betsy. ‘Let’s go. We’ve got a show to do.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘It’s been a year since the theatre re-opened and we’re still getting fantastic reviews,’ Margot said, drinking tea and eating toast while reading the reviews in the newspapers. ‘They’re still walking out of Sherwood’s There Shall Be No Night at the Aldwych. Don’t know how it keeps going. It says here that it’s too tragic, too close to what’s going on in real life. Well it would be, wouldn’t it?’ she said, more to herself than to Bill. ‘Bob Hope’s still in London. There’s a lovely photo of him with a crowd of GIs. Look, Bill...’ Margot pushed the newspaper under her husband’s nose. ‘I’d love to see him while he’s here. Not much chance of that though. Vera Lynn’s been in town too; in Trafalgar Square, entertaining the Navy. Good Lord, the BBC’s complaining about Strike A New Note at The Prince of Wales. They’re saying that, because Zoe Gail sings “I’m Gonna Get Lit Up When The Lights Go Up In London” she’s encouraging people to get drunk.’

  ‘Well, getting lit up is modern slang for getting drunk,’ Bill said.

  ‘It might be,’ Margot said, laughing, ‘but no one’s going to get “lit up” on a ration of one bottle of gin every eight weeks, are they? I like Zoe Gail, she’s fun. So,’ Margot said when she’d finished reading, ‘the Prince Albert Theatre is still at the top of the West End theatre listings.’ She folded the last newspaper and added it to the pile at the side of her chair. ‘You’re quiet,’ she said, looking up at Bill. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I was thinking. Well, wondering really.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Whether or not you’re going to do The Talk of London?’

  ‘I’d forgotten about it. Bernard Rudman hasn’t been in touch for ages.’

  ‘What if he gets in touch?’

  Margot knew Bill wouldn’t like what she was about to say and wished he hadn’t asked. ‘I’d probably do it.’

  ‘I knew it!’

  ‘How could I turn it down?’

  Bill wasn’t listening. ‘Seven shows a week, two late spots at the Albert Club and a late night at The Talk. You’ll be ill again.’ He got up from the table, picked up his wallet and went into the hall.

  ‘Where are you going? You haven’t finished your breakfast.’

  ‘To work.’

  That night when she got home from the club, Margot took off her coat and tiptoed into the flat hoping Bill was in bed, but not asleep. She needed to speak to him, persuade him that a spot on Saturday night at The Talk of London wasn’t going to be too much for her. Also, they hadn’t made love for goodness knows how long. She opened the bedroom, but Bill wasn’t there. A surge of panic rose from her stomach. She felt nauseous and swallowed hard. What if he’d been injured in a raid? Had she pushed him too far this morning and he’d left her? Margot’s heart began to thump against her ribs. If he talked to Jenny, she’d do her best to persuade him to leave. She ran into the sitting room. ‘Bill!’ she shouted, feeling relief and anger at the same time when she saw him asleep on the settee. ‘What are you doing in here? Why aren’t you in bed?’

  ‘Must have fallen asleep,’ he said, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He squinted at the clock on the mantle shelf. ‘Good God, it’s one o’clock. I’ve got to be up at six.’

  ‘You should have gone to bed.’

  ‘I did go to bed, but I couldn’t sleep for worrying about you. Where the hell have you been until now?’

  ‘Working! It’s Friday night. I do a late night spot at the Albert Club on Fridays, remember?’ As Margot dropped onto the settee Bill pushed himself up. ‘You’re obviously not intere
sted in what I’ve got to tell you,’ she said, as he made his way to the bedroom.

  ‘What’s so important it can’t wait until morning?’ Bill said, turning in the doorway and yawning again.

  Margot felt like saying nothing, but that would cause another argument. ‘Bernard Rudman was at the club with Salvatore tonight.’

  ‘Is that what you’re keeping me from my bed to tell me?’

  ‘No!’

  Sudden realisation crept across Bill’s face. He hit the doorframe with the flat of his hand and shook his head. Margot jumped, but said nothing. ‘He’s asked you to do a spot and you’ve said yes, haven’t you? Well, am I right?’

  ‘Yes! You’re right! Are you happy now you’ve spoilt it for me?’ Margot screamed.

  ‘I’m tired. Don’t wake me when you come to bed,’ Bill said, closing the bedroom door.

  The following morning when Margot got up, she was pleased to see Bill had already left for the MoD – she didn’t feel up to another argument. Bill said it was because of her health that he didn’t want her to take on any more work, but it was because when the war ended – and those in the know were saying it would be sooner rather than later – he wanted her to leave London with him and go back to the Midlands to start a family. She had managed to change the subject every time he brought it up, but she wouldn’t be able to do it for much longer.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Miss Margot Dudley.’

  Margot stood up to overwhelming applause. After kissing Bill on the cheek, she made her way across the room, elegantly weaving through tables of diners, smiling and greeting them.