by Tania Crosse
When the lights came up for the interval, he stumbled out to the gents’, furiously splashing cold water over his face. When someone clapped him on the shoulder, he nearly jumped sky-high.
‘Bet yer can’t wait ter get home,’ a stranger’s voice came to him out of a fog. ‘Couldn’t’ve won the war without you Yanks. Thanks, mate.’
Saul managed to arrange his face into a smile. People mustn’t know. He nodded. And made his way outside.
His frail hold on his emotions was ready to snap, but he forced himself to watch the second half of the show, breathing heavily to keep calm each time she appeared on stage. He was sure the evening must be drawing to a close as act followed act. And then, somehow, he must hold his nerve to do what he’d come for.
The second pas de deux was announced; Saul could barely breathe. It was to some piece by Wagner, according to the compère, who made some quip about forgiving him for having been born German. And what did it matter anyway now that we’d won the war?
A victory cheer filled the auditorium so that the pair of dancers arrived on stage to vigorous applause even before the music began. Saul could appreciate the difference between this, which he assumed was classical ballet, and the more modern, freer movements of the earlier dance. This time, Cecily Cresswell was dressed in traditional costume – a tutu Saul overhead someone comment – but in a soft peach rather than the white he believed ballet dancers normally wore. For much of the time, she was spinning on her tiptoes, and when she wasn’t, her feet were pointed, her legs lifting in impossible positions, arms floating like lilies on a pond. Saul’s tears flowed unchecked.
The show concluded with another fast-paced number, ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’, in which the entire cast performed. Cecily and her partner had obviously rushed off for a quick costume change since they reappeared halfway through to lead the dancers. The finale ended on a rollicking note and the performers took their bows. But it was Cecily Cresswell who received the loudest, most deafening whoops and cheers from the audience and at whose feet a mat of thrown flowers landed.
When the final curtain call was over and the applause reluctantly died down, Saul waited patiently in the queue to file out of the theatre, though his heart was pounding like a battering ram. The cool of the summer evening was welcome when he stepped outside, calming his burning skin. He drew deeply on the air, dragging it into his lungs. He must do this thing. Was it right? Would it open up the wounds for her? Or would his coming forward allow her the satisfaction of justice? All Saul knew was that if he didn’t do this now, his heart and soul would lie empty and withered in his breast forever.
He would never break free. And so, with his heart rearing in his chest, he made his way to the stage door.
*
‘Ah, my little stars, you were all wonderful tonight, as always,’ Monsieur Clément proclaimed outside the cramped dressing rooms. The dancers were emerging into the narrow corridor, changed and ready for home. Some were aiming for their digs round the corner, while others were heading directly for their permanent homes towards central London. It was, after all, Saturday night, and they weren’t due back at the theatre for class and rehearsals until Tuesday morning. ‘Enjoy your rest, but do not forget to exercise your muscles,’ the dance master instructed.
Cissie was one of the last to appear, buttoning up her cardigan, just as Sean was coming from the other dressing room. Spying them both together, Monsieur Clément turned to them, his face aglow with admiration.
‘And you, my two little doves, you were superbes!’ He brought his bunched fingertips to his lips and launched a pretend kiss into the air. ‘The company is so lucky to have you.’
Cissie felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment. It was lovely that Monsieur Clément praised his dancers. He pushed them hard and could be sharp with anyone who didn’t put their heart and soul into their work, but he was always ready to give credit where it was due. As far as Cissie was concerned, though, she was only immersing herself in her passion for her own sake. For while she was concentrating on giving only her very best, there was no room to remember.
‘I will see you all sharp sharp on Tuesday, then,’ Monsieur Clément concluded with a smart clap of his hands and, giving his quick little grin, turned to strut away down the corridor.
Cissie watched him go, giving an amused shake of her head. She was lucky to be working with such an endearing dance master. But as the other female dancers squeezed deferentially against the wall to let him pass, she caught Deirdre glancing at her with a sour scowl.
‘Superbes!’ she mimicked under her breath, pulling a face at Cissie before turning her back with a deliberate jerk of her shoulders.
Cissie’s jaw dropped for but a second. She went to step forward to give Deirdre a piece of her mind. The girl had been permanently promoted to soloist, which she might not have been had it not been for Cissie’s prolonged absence. So why should she still hold such a jealous grudge against her?
Before Cissie had a chance to open her mouth, though, she felt Sean’s hand on her arm. ‘Sure, she isn’t worth it,’ he whispered in her ear and laced an affectionate arm about her waist.
Cissie instinctively drew back. At one time, she would have thought nothing of Sean’s gesture, but nowadays… When they were dancing together, she didn’t think twice about his hands about her waist or supporting a leg. But in any other circumstances, physical contact made her cringe, even though she knew it was perfectly innocent, especially given Sean’s persuasions. She cursed herself for it. Dear God, would she ever feel normal again?
‘Yes, you’re right,’ she murmured, making a big effort to pull herself together. ‘So, what are you doing the next couple of days?’ she asked, relieved to think of something to change the subject.
‘Booked meself a little trip to the seaside, so I have,’ Sean grinned back as they followed the others towards the stage door. ‘Sure, it’s grand to see all the miles of barbed wire being taken away.’
‘OK. Have a nice time, then. And don’t eat too many ice creams or fish and chips. Monsieur Clément won’t be happy if you put on too much weight.’
They were still laughing together as they emerged into the lamplit street. As usual, a small crowd had gathered around the stage door, waiting with programmes and pencils at the ready in the hope of getting a signature or two. Cissie noticed that Deirdre was already signing away with a simpering expression plastered on her face.
‘I’ll leave you to your adoring fans, then,’ Sean said with a knowing half-smile. ‘Prefer to escape them meself.’
‘Not sure I can get away with it,’ Cissie chuckled back. ‘Have a good trip.’ And then as a group of admirers recognised her and pushed forward, she nodded a goodbye to Sean and began signing her autograph. It was, after all, what was expected, part and parcel of her job. She smiled politely, asked people their names and put Love from Cecily C followed by kisses to complete strangers. Accepted their praise with modest thanks.
After several minutes, the fans began to disperse, expressing their gratitude and happily clutching their prizes. It was so rewarding that people appreciated her performance to such a degree that they were prepared to hang about at the stage door, but at the end of the week’s run, Cissie was tired and just wanted to get back to the digs, where tea and sandwiches awaited, and then climb into bed. The next morning, she’d be catching the train to Clapham Junction to be with her dear mum and dad, and Zac and the baby. She hoped her dad had been all right and not had one of his turns. She knew that sometimes her mum struggled to deal with him alone.
She was relieved when she had signed what seemed to be the last programme extended eagerly towards her and was able to turn away, duty done. It was only then that a figure stepped towards her out of the shadows. The light GI uniform stood out in the gloom so that Cissie could see that the Yankee soldier was of average height and, although not exactly stocky, was certainly well-built. He wasn’t holding out a programme, so what did he want? Cissie’s forehead squeezed int
o a frown.
The fellow reached up to remove his cap. In the shaft of light from the open stage door, Cissie saw that he was dark skinned, the whites of his large eyes gleaming out of his face. Eyes that were desperate.
Eyes she was sure she’d seen before.
How the hell had he found her? No, it couldn’t be. This was just one of thousands of black GIs still here in Blighty. But his face speared into that memory she’d battled so hard to bury in the secret depths of her mind. And she knew.
She rocked on her feet. Opened her mouth, but the scream died in her throat. She felt herself falling into darkness. The air about her turned red, red with fury and hate and terror, as the memory came back like some slithering evil.
The man’s eyes bore into hers, searching. She reared away from him, a horrible coldness breaking over her as she emerged from the veil of shock, and festering rage boiled up inside her.
‘Get away from me!’ she hissed through clenched teeth, forcing her numbed legs to move her body away from him.
But his hand caught her arm, stinging into her flesh. ‘Please, miss, if ya won’t talk to me, at least take this. It’s mighty little, but it’s the best I could do.’
Cissie’s eyes flashed at him like rapiers. But as her senses trickled back, she was aware that he’d let go of her and instead had reached into his breast pocket and was holding out a fat envelope. Though her soul blackened with anger, her hand moved forward to take the item from him. She glanced down. It was so stuffed full of banknotes that it couldn’t be sealed.
Money. Did he think money could compensate for what he’d done? She went to tear the notes from the envelope and throw them back in his face. But, somehow, in one of the most appalling moments of her life, she managed to find the courage to remain calm and dignified. An image of her parents, her poor father, struggling to make ends meet, jumped into her mind. And someone having to stay at home to care for the baby the bastard had given her instead of going out to earn a wage had made matters so much worse. This money could make a difference to them.
Reason clawed its way through her anger and pain. The individual that stood before her, cap in hand, hadn’t been the one. Punched to the ground and kicked, knocked unconscious, he’d been as powerless as she had been to stop the thing that had been done to her. She plumbed the depths of her memory. There’d been arguing, his deep voice had been appalled, and in her head swam the wavering image of the black GI being dragged away, blundering and protesting, by the other one.
It felt as if a stone had lodged in her throat, and she had to force her voice to function. ‘If you want to talk, meet me at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,’ she grated. ‘There’s a café just round the corner.’ She pointed briefly in the right direction, and watched as he nodded sharply.
‘I’ll be there, miss. Without fail. And… thank you.’
She could see his face was taut as he lifted his hand to the side of his head in the indication of a salute and then disappeared into the shadows. Would he come? Would she find the strength to go there herself? Just now, there was a knot locked solid in her chest, and a faint, desperate sound escaped her lips.
She looked up. And felt she would break, as suddenly, from out of nowhere, Jake materialised in front of her.
*
Jake found himself perched on the edge of the seat with joyful excitement and had to force himself to sit back comfortably. He hadn’t told a soul that he was going to the theatre to watch Cissie that night. He’d even secreted his best shirt and flannels, carefully folded, in the drawstring bag that normally contained his football boots, so that his family wouldn’t question why he was going off to play footie in his best clothes. Instead, he made his way to Wimbledon, got himself something to eat in a café and changed in the toilet, before going in search of a small bunch of flowers that was now tucked under his seat.
That evening was going to be the most exquisite of his life and he didn’t want to share it with anyone else, not even his family. He knew Cissie was going to be amazing. His heart had felt all tangled up in itself when she’d performed that impromptu dance in the street on the afternoon of his birthday party. How stunning would she be in the stage spotlights, dancing to an orchestra?
He’d been to the flicks loads of times, of course, but never to a theatre. The ticket hadn’t come cheap, but it was going to be worth every penny. He’d been open-mouthed as he’d entered the auditorium. The rich drapes, the gilded work, the complete grandeur of the place overawed him. And the atmosphere was totally different, a sort of electricity buzzing in the air. And perhaps it was because the war in Europe was over, and Japan was expected to give its unconditional surrender any day, that jubilation was about to burst out, accentuating delight in whatever form it took.
The squeaks of sound as the orchestra tuned up, the lights dimming. The breath quickened in Jake’s throat. Any moment, he would see the girl who had unwittingly wrapped herself about his soul. The orchestra struck up and Jake could barely contain himself.
She wasn’t in the opening act, but it didn’t matter. The whole thing was mesmerising and, if anything, the wait brought his nerves to fever pitch. ‘Lili Marlene’ then, a magician and a medley of Irish tunes played expertly on a fiddle. Jake was in his element. It was with Irish music that he’d been introduced to the guitar, of course. The theatre reached out to him like an ephemeral dream that encompassed his very being.
A couple more acts, and then there she was, gliding in front of some other dancers with Sean as her partner, interpreting the singer’s performance of ‘Apple Blossom Time’. She was like an angel, ethereal, her long hair swinging loose down her back. Jake had never seen anything so beautiful, the loveliness of her lithesome figure filling his heart. Oh, he knew from Mildred that she wasn’t ready for romance. But he loved her so much, wanted to be with her, protect her, care for her, that he would wait for however long it took.
He itched for her next appearance, and when the compère at last announced that the first half would finish with Cissie and Sean dancing to ‘Rhapsody in Blue’, he found himself holding his breath in anticipation. He gasped as the music started and she floated onto the stage, enchanting, wondrous, and he knew then that he loved her with a passion beyond his understanding. His heart was skittering about, totally absorbed by this delicate, fragile, endearing creature.
It was over all too soon, but after the interval, she appeared in several acts, to take the lead briefly either as a soloist or with Sean. Jake’s breath became trapped in his throat when the second pas de deux was announced. It was pure classical ballet this time, Cissie spinning impossibly on her toes and turning in Sean’s supporting hands about her waist. Jake was utterly bewitched, as if under a spell. Which he supposed he was.
When the entire show was over, Jake sat for some moments, his heart glorying and lifted high on a wave of utter wonderment. He only got to his feet when he realised with embarrassment that he was blocking the row of spectators waiting to exit the auditorium. He mumbled an apology and joined in the exodus from the theatre.
But for him, it wasn’t over. He was going to the stage door to surprise Cissie and present her with the flowers. He prayed she’d be delighted to see him. But if she only wanted to be friends for now, he didn’t mind. They were both young and he understood how her dancing and the theatre were her life.
He waited almost breathlessly outside the stage door. Other dancers emerged first. The entire evening had dazzled him, so it would be a superb memory to collect some other autographs. And perhaps Cissie would be happier to think that he’d come to enjoy the whole event, which he had, rather than having eyes only for her. And so he held out his programme to the girl he recognised as the one who’d danced to ‘Lili Marlene’.
‘Is Miss Cresswell coming out, d’you know?’ he couldn’t stop himself from asking.
The blonde dancer’s face twitched with annoyance. ‘I expect so,’ she snapped as she handed back the signed programme.
‘Amazing to th
ink she was off for so long with her ankle and yet she’s back to dancing like this,’ Jake went on, taken aback by the girl’s attitude and wanting to soften the conversation.
‘Ankle?’ the girl almost scoffed. ‘She hurt her ankle last year and was off for a few weeks, but then she was off for months because she had TB.’
Jake jerked back in surprise. TB? He shook his head in confusion.
‘She had TB? Are you sure?’ he mumbled. ‘I thought—’
‘I should know. I filled in for her while she was away, and now all I get is one flipping solo.’
‘Er, oh,’ Jake stuttered. ‘Oh, I must’ve heard wrong. Never mind. Thanks for your autograph, er, Deirdre,’ he said, glancing at the programme, but his voice faded in a trail of bewilderment.
Off with TB for months? So what was this story about Cissie’s ankle? It didn’t make sense. Jake stood back, his emotions fraying at the edges. The world seemed to fall away as he spied Cissie coming through the stage door with Sean at her side. They spoke a few words and then Sean slunk off into the night while Cissie stepped forward to meet the group of admirers wanting her autograph, a radiant smile on her face.
Jake couldn’t bring himself to join them. What was going on? He’d always felt that there was some mystery about the Cresswells, but he’d forced it to the back of his mind, his feelings for Cissie had been so strong from the very beginning. Now, suspicion and dismay tore through him. Those times when they’d gone up to central London first to see Big Ben lit up again, and then later on VE day, he’d constantly asked Cissie if her ankle was holding up. Had she been lying to him all along? And… why?
He waited, his heart numbing with pain, as the fans dispersed. The flowers slipped unnoticed from his fingers. What could he say to her? What words could he find?
And then something extraordinary happened. A GI, clearly of African descent Jake had noticed in the audience, stepped forward and grasped Cissie by the arm. She glared at the Yank, eyes blazing, and they exchanged a few heated words. Then the Yank gave her something, a small package, an envelope, maybe. She took it, her face like granite, spoke briefly again and pointed to the corner of the street. The American nodded, gave a half salute, and then strode off into the darkness.