Applause (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 2)

by Madalyn Morgan

  ‘The controller didn’t accept my resignation,’ Bill said, looking at Margot with tears in his eyes, ‘because there’s no need for me to leave.’

  ‘Why? Has Jenny left?’ She rubbed a tear from Bill’s cheek with her thumb. ‘What is it, love?’

  ‘Jenny’s dead.’

  Margot looked into Bill’s eyes, her own filling with tears. ‘When? How?’

  ‘Last night. She went out in my place.’

  Margot’s feelings were in turmoil. She thanked God Bill hadn’t gone out with the ambulance the night before, or he might have been killed, but she was sad and sorry that Jenny had. She felt guilty too, because she’d argued with her, told her she was deluded. It was a cruel thing to say and would have hurt her more because it was true. The truth didn’t matter now. Not the argument, not Jenny attacking her, or trying to steal Bill. None of it mattered any more. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  Bill gently pushed a wisp of hair out of Margot’s eyes. ‘I know.’ The frown lines on his forehead deepened. ‘Because I left early to-- Jenny took my ambulance out to the East End. The controller said Poplar had been given a thrashing and he put a call out asking every available crew to attend. When they got there a row of houses had been blitzed to rubble. Most of the residents had been in the shelter; the rest – minor cuts and bruises – were attended to on site. The firemen thought they’d got everyone out and began to pack up, but Jenny said she could hear someone shouting for help and went to investigate.’ Bill paused and took a drink of his tea.

  ‘Is it cold, love? Shall I’ll make you another?’

  He shook his head and cleared his throat. ‘She found a man trapped beneath an iron girder. She managed to move the girder enough for the man to crawl to safety. It was then, the man said, that they saw the bomb. Jenny said she daren’t put the girder down in case the weight set the bomb off, and she told him to fetch help.’ Bill put his head in his hands again and wept.

  Margot wanted desperately to say something that would help him. ‘She was brave--’

  ‘She was stupid,’ Bill roared. ‘Careless! She knew better than to put her own life in danger. She knew the procedure. We’d gone over it a hundred times. You never go into a dangerous situation alone; you wait for the fire brigade. They’re equipped, trained. They’d have got the man out... Silly, silly girl! Why did she do it?’ he cried. Bill took a handkerchief from his trousers pocket and wiped his face. ‘The man she saved said her fellow ambulance workers were making their way over to her when the bomb exploded.’ Bill broke down and sobbed. ‘She didn’t stand a chance.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Margot turned over. She reached out in the dark, waved her hand about anxiously until she found the lamp on the bedside table and switched it on. She squinted at the clock. It was half past two – an hour later than the last time she looked. Her stomach felt hollow and ached. She was hungry. She hadn’t eaten since…? She couldn’t remember. Tea and toast! That’s what she needed. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she wriggled her feet into her slippers, stood up and yawned.

  By the lamp’s pale glow, she staggered into the small hall and through the sitting room to the kitchen. She struck a match and lit a ring on the stove for the kettle, and then the grill for the toast. After filling the kettle and putting it on the gas, she took the lid off the bread bin. What was left of the loaf was covered in mould. She turned off the grill. Tea would have to do. Putting a couple of spoons of tea in the pot, she took a cup and saucer from the cupboard and a spoon from the drawer and placed them on the work surface before taking the milk from the stone slab in the small pantry. Sniffing it, half expecting it to be off, she smiled. The milk did smell a little rich, but it hadn’t turned.

  While she waited for the kettle to boil, she pulled back the blackout curtain and peered out of the window. The sky, as clear as glass, was dotted with stars. The moon was full with an eerie mustard yellow halo around it. She looked down and shivered. The Mews was full of shadows – some denser than others. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs. Every nerve in her body was jumping. Her chest was tight with fear and she began to panic. She held her breath and waited for the feeling to subside. It didn’t. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly – that didn’t help either.

  Saved by the kettle whistling, Margot turned and let the curtain fall back into place. In the kitchen she made a pot of tea and riffled through the cupboards for something to eat. Nothing! Pouring tea into her cup, she remembered the Christmas present that Mrs Horton had given her. She went into the sitting room, knelt by the small fir tree and dragged the prettily wrapped gift from under it. Like an excited child she ripped off the paper and prised off the lid to find a tin of assorted Peak Frean’s biscuits. She picked out her favourites - custard creams and the round ones with jam in the middle – and ate them hungrily while she drank her tea. Then she ran to the bathroom and was violently sick.

  ‘OK! Take ten, everyone,’ Richard Smiley called from the stalls. ‘Not you, Margot,’ he said, beckoning her with his forefinger.

  Walking to the edge of the stage, Margot looked into the auditorium. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she saw the director walking towards her. He mounted the steps at the side of the orchestra pit and stood on the apron with his hands on his hips. ‘What the hell is going on with you, Margot? Are you ill?’

  ‘No. I’m just a bit tired. I’m not sleeping well. You know how it is; stuff goes round in your head...’ Smiley didn’t look convinced. ‘I’ll be as right as rain after a good night’s sleep,’ she promised.

  ‘Then go home and get some. You’re no good to me as you are.’

  She began to protest, but Smiley turned his back on her and flicked his hand as if he was brushing away a fly.

  Exhausted, Margot took off her coat, kicked off her shoes and went into the bathroom. She opened the door of the cabinet and took out a small brown bottle. Trembling, she unscrewed the cap, tipped a couple of pills into her hand, tilted her head back and threw them into her mouth. There wasn’t a glass for water and the bitter tang as the pills began to dissolve made her heave, so she turned on the tap and put her head under it. Balking, she gulped water until she had swallowed the tablets. Wiping the back of her hand across her face, she stumbled into the bedroom – and, fully dressed, dropped onto the bed. She was asleep in seconds.

  The following morning, Margot forced herself to get up. She washed and dressed, and went to see her doctor. Sitting in the waiting room she thought about the first time she’d seen him. He said there was nothing wrong with her, that all she needed was a good night’s sleep. He prescribed pills for the pain in her ankle, which she took three times a day, and sleeping tablets that she took half an hour before she went to bed. They worked for a while, but then she started waking up after seven or eight hours feeling shattered, as if she hadn’t slept at all. She couldn’t face getting up. When she did eventually drag herself out of bed, it was often with a blinding headache. She felt sluggish, irritable, had no energy. She was repeatedly late for rehearsals and would argue with the choreographer and the director. But the worst was not being able to remember her songs and routines. She made excuses, blamed other people, but she knew it wasn’t them. Even Lena, the choreographer, who had become a friend, accused her of not listening. But she had listened. She’d heard every word. She just couldn’t remember.

  The receptionist was suddenly standing in front of her. ‘The doctor will see you now, Miss Dudley.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Margot followed her along a short corridor to the consulting room. Sitting down in front of his desk, Margot told the doctor that the effects of the sleeping tablets he’d prescribed for her lasted too long. She overslept most mornings. And when she did eventually wake up, she felt as tired as she had done before going to bed. It wasn’t until mid-morning that she was able to function properly. ‘Should I stop taking the sleeping tablets? They make me feel…’ She searched for the right words. ‘Lifeless,’ she said at last, ‘and ir
ritable. I’m having bad dreams and headaches, and I can’t concentrate.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, leaning across his desk and looking sympathetically at her. ‘It isn’t advisable to just stop taking tablets that your body has become used to. I’ll lower the dosage and give you something to help you feel livelier in the mornings. Fifteen minutes after taking one of these,’ he said, writing the prescription, ‘you’ll feel as bright as a button.’

  Margot took the prescription and read it. It meant nothing to her. ‘I wish I didn’t have to take more tablets. Can’t I go back to taking just one, for the pain in my ankle?’

  ‘Yes, in time, but you have to reduce the dosage of the other tablets first. Coming off medication too quickly can be harmful. There are side effects--’

  ‘Side effects?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s nothing for you to worry about. You’re a very special patient, Margot, and I’m going to look after you personally. In time I shall have you as fit as a fiddle,’ he said, walking her to the door. I’m sure you will, Margot thought. As long as I keep paying, you’ll keep looking after me. ‘Book Miss Dudley in for the next six weeks at around this time,’ he said to the receptionist.

  ‘Six weeks?’

  ‘If I’m going to wean you off the sleeping tablets, as you’ve asked me to do, I need to monitor you every week. First we’ll see how you get on with the new tablets. Then, if everything’s satisfactory, we’ll lower the dosage of the old ones.’ Smiling, the doctor shook Margot’s hand and returned to his office.

  The receptionist wrote Margot’s name in the appointment book, then handed her a card with the times and dates of her appointments written on it. ‘We’ll send the bill,’ she said. Then she got up and went into the waiting room, presumably for the next patient, and Margot left.

  The following week Margot cancelled her appointment. She was no longer going to line the private doctor’s pockets. He’d had enough money out of her and as far as she could see, done very little for it. She would take herself off the sleeping pills and pick-me-ups when she was ready. Besides, she was too busy to take the time off. She was rehearsing in the day, performing at night and after doing cabaret at the Albert or The Talk of London she was going to parties, or jitterbugging into the early hours at Rainbow Corner, the American canteen in Piccadilly. One small pill put her to sleep at night, another woke her up in the morning, and one took away the pain in her ankle. She had never felt better.

  ‘Margot? What on earth’s the matter?’ Natalie Goldman said, seeing Margot on the floor in the corner of her dressing room. With her eyes shut, clutching her knees and rocking back and forth, Margot began to shake her head and cry. ‘Would you take Margot’s other arm, Miss Lesley and we’ll help her to her feet?’ Natalie said. She nodded her thanks to Stan, who had alerted Miss Lesley to how ill Margot looked when she arrived at the theatre, and he left the dressing room, closing the door quietly.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ Margot hissed, resisting help from the two women. ‘He mustn’t know I’m here, or he’ll-- Shush! If he finds me he’ll kill me.’

  ‘Who’ll kill you, dear?’ Pamela Lesley asked.

  Margot’s eyes narrowed, darting round the room like a frightened child. Breathing in short, sharp gasps she said, ‘Listen! Can’t you hear him? He knows I’m here. Please God, save me.’ Her eyes flashed from Pamela Lesley to Natalie Goldman. ‘Natalie?’ Margot said, as if she was seeing her for the first time. ‘You won’t let him hurt me, will you? Say you won’t. Say it!’ she begged.

  ‘I won’t let him hurt you. I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you, Margot. Nor will Miss Lesley, will you, Pamela?’

  ‘No, Margot dear. You’re safe with us.’

  Reassured, Margot allowed the two women to help her to her feet. ‘I’m so tired,’ she said as they steered her across the room to the chaise longue.

  ‘Why don’t you have a lie down?’ Natalie put a pillow under Margot’s head. A second later she closed her eyes. Natalie Goldman motioned to Miss Lesley to move away. ‘I don’t want her to hear… Thank you for coming to me, Pamela. And thank you for helping me now. I couldn’t have managed her on my own.’

  ‘I’m very fond of Margot,’ Pamela Lesley said, ‘very fond indeed.’ For some time the two women stood without speaking and watched Margot sleep. It was Pamela Lesley who broke the silence. ‘What I’m about to tell you is for your ears only, Natalie.’

  ‘Of course. Go on.’

  ‘As you know, there is always chit-chat and gossip in the theatre – and most of it is harmless. However,’ Pamela Lesley said, ‘I overheard the usherettes talking about Margot last night. They were saying she drinks in the dressing room.’

  ‘There is always a bottle of champagne, brandy, or some sort of alcohol in the cupboard--’

  ‘She brings it in and hides the empty bottles, one of the casuals said.’ Natalie’s eyes widened. ‘But don’t worry. The girl gave me her word she wouldn’t tell anyone. I promised her a job as soon as there’s an opening to make sure. But that’s by the by,’ she said, turning to look at Margot. ‘What people do, or don’t do, is their business, but Margot has worked so hard to get where she is, it would be a terrible shame if she threw it all away.’

  Natalie sighed. ‘It would. I wonder if Bill knows?’

  ‘No! And he mustn’t,’ Margot shouted, reaching out to Natalie. ‘I’ll stop. I won’t drink any more, I promise. I’ll do anything, but please don’t tell Bill,’ she begged.

  ‘I won’t tell him, if you let me help you.’

  Margot looked at Natalie for a long minute, and then nodded. ‘All right,’ she said, leaning heavily on Natalie and Pamela as they helped her to stand up.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want us to tell your husband, Margot?’ Pamela Lesley asked.

  ‘No!’ Margot shot the front of house manager a frightened look. ‘No. Please don’t tell him. He’s visiting his parents in Coventry. He’ll come back, and it’s not fair. Besides, there’s no point. I told you. I won’t drink again, I promise. I just need a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Which you won’t get on the floor of your dressing room. Come on, let’s get you out of here before someone comes in. Pamela, would you mind having a look round?’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ Pamela said. ‘I’ll make sure nothing’s been left behind.’

  ‘Margot, how long will Bill be away? When will he be back?’

  ‘I can’t remember… I think another week.’

  ‘Right! You’re not going home to an empty apartment. You can stay with Anton and me.’

  ‘But I don’t have any clean clothes.’

  ‘That’s the least of your worries, dear,’ Pamela said, helping Margot on with her coat.

  ‘We’ll call at the apartment on the way and pack a bag.’

  Margot nodded and let Natalie and Miss Lesley take her by the arms. ‘What about the show?’

  ‘You’ve got an understudy. She’ll be only too happy to go on for you.’

  ‘But--’

  ‘No buts, Margot. You know you can’t work in this state.’

  Margot took a shuddering breath as great almond-shaped tears spilled onto her cheeks.

  ‘Come on now, you’ll soon feel better,’ Natalie said, putting her arms around Margot and walking her to the dressing room door. ‘The Prince Albert Theatre can’t do without you, you know that.’

  Margot smiled through her tears, but she said nothing.

  The week Margot spent with Natalie and Anton passed quickly. She went to bed at a reasonable time and slept until she woke up naturally, getting up when she felt like it – sometimes it was mid-morning before she bathed and dressed. Natalie took the week off and together the two friends went for long walks over Hampstead Heath. Most days they called at a small coffee shop on their way home, drank Camp coffee by the fire to warm up, or went shopping for food – such as it was.

  On Saturday morning Margot was mixing powdered egg when Natalie arrived downstairs.

  ‘Mm, can I smel
l coffee?’

  ‘Yes. Just made it,’ Margot said. ‘I hope it’s all right. It’s been a while since I made real coffee. Where did you get it from?’

  ‘Germany. The last time I visited my parents I persuaded a local shopkeeper to sell me a couple of packets. He had cupboards full of the best coffee beans, packaged and priced, but the SS had been to his shop and ordered him not to sell it to anyone, except them. Not that they would pay him for it. The SS take what they want. If they had even suspected the shopkeeper had sold me some, a Jew, he would have been--’ Natalie shuddered. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw your mother and father?’ Margot asked, placing a plate of scrambled egg on toast in front of Natalie, before sitting down with her own.

  ‘Eighteen months ago – longer. After the Luftwaffe intensified the bombardment of vessels sailing across the Channel it became impossible to travel to Germany. I don’t know where my parents are now. They were planning to go to Switzerland, to stay with relatives of George--’

  ‘Our George?’ Margot said. ‘George Derby-Bloom?’

  ‘Yes.’ For some minutes they ate in silence. ‘George and I have been helping Jewish students to escape the Nazis,’ Natalie said, when they had finished eating.

  ‘How did George get involved?’

  ‘When she was at finishing school in Switzerland she got to know people in a Jewish organisation that helped students cross the German border. To cut a long story short, George persuaded her father to finance getting the students out of Germany, and asked Anton if he would hide them when they got to England.’

  ‘Is that what dressing rooms eight and nine are for? To hide Jewish students?’

  ‘Yes, but after the children and their nanny and nurse had been evacuated to Foxden with your sister Bess, the students were able to stay here. There were only two or three at a time. A couple of house guests every now and then went unnoticed. It was the same at the theatre. With young women being called up on a regular basis no one noticed that there were more walk-ons one week and fewer the next.’