A Christmas Gift. Ruby Jackson

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СКАЧАТЬ so do thousands of other people all over the country, even you, love, if you ever need it.’

      Sally looked at him pityingly. ‘Daddy, I’ve got a chance to become an actress, but if you need me on my days off I’ll come in and give you a hand.’

      ‘And get to watch the film in return, little minx. Bet in a thousand years you’ll never guess what film we’ve been promised soon as it’s available.’

      Sally stood up. ‘Let me get you more cocoa.’

      ‘Sorry, love, duty calls. You two, don’t wait up.’

      ‘What film?’ called Sally, but the only reply was a laugh and the sound of a closing door.

      Next morning Sally went to the little theatre to find the few surviving members of the company sharing a bottle of sparkling wine. Elliott Staines, the director and – usually – leading man, introduced Sally and even gave her a small glass of wine. Everyone was in a state almost of euphoria. Three young actors had joined up as soon as war was declared, two box office staff had been evacuated; the cleaning staff had been dismissed when the order to close had been received and so the company was sadly depleted.

      ‘It’ll get worse,’ Paul Ridley, the second director complained. ‘No offence, Sally, but that’s why we were so glad to get you. I doubt we’ll keep you long – Churchill will want you in the services – but while you’re here, we’ll work you to death. Believe me, a rep is the best place to learn your craft.’

      Sally believed him and, for some time, had never been happier. She loved the smell of the theatre. Without the cleaning staff, dust and dirt were everywhere. Their smells mingled with the lingering perfumes of stage make-up, stale sweat, coffee, cigarette smoke, even beer, and Sally, newest member not of the cast but of the workforce, spent hours cleaning. It was not as she had pictured her first position but she reminded herself that at least she was actually working in the theatre.

      She could smile now when she remembered her first theatrical experiences, those early days of endless hours of ironing frilled shirts or lace jabots, hours of cranking out pages of scripts on the ancient stencil duplicator, and of finding, to her stunned surprise, that she had a talent for designing and painting scenery. Less productive hours were spent making and serving endless cups of tea that in time grew weaker and weaker as rationing marched across the land.

      It wasn’t too ghastly, she mused now. I read every script and memorised almost all the words. I learned to judge what was good and what was so-so and what was just plain bad acting. I must have been the best-read skivvy in the history of English theatre. And I met Sebastian, and I fell in love.

       Early December 1939

      ‘The Theatre Royal?’ she repeated.

      Elliott Staines smiled at her. ‘Of course, darling. The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Actually, my chum Connie Marshall has a teeny part – vitally important, naturally.’ He held up an envelope. ‘And she’s sent me two tickets. Do come; vitally important for you to see and be seen.’

      ‘Vitally important’ – Elliott’s favourite words.

      ‘Elliott, you are kind. I’d love to but … my parents tend to worry, especially if I’m out late. We’d be really late getting back, wouldn’t we?’

      He looked at her sadly. ‘Dahling, was I misinformed? They assured me that we were hiring an adult, a woman of the world. Come on, London’s not very far away. We’ll take my car; up and back in three shakes.’

      Sally felt deeply embarrassed: a child who needed Daddy’s permission to do anything. Her parents had heard of Elliott. When she had told them excitedly that a real actor, who had been in a film and had acted in theatres in London, was both the senior actor and co-owner of the theatre, her father’s tone told her nothing of his opinion of the actor.

      ‘Well, what d’you think of that, Elsie? Elliott Staines, of all people? Goodness, he used to be famous; come down in the world a bit, hasn’t he?’

      Elliott’s sarcasm had made her blush but she promised to ask her parents’ permission. Knowing perfectly well that she would get it, she decided to run around in her lunch break looking for a dress suitable for a visit to the Theatre Royal, on Drury Lane, a theatre whose name she saw in huge capitals in her mind. Elliott hadn’t exactly said, but surely his friend would say hello. There were one or two experienced actors in Dartford Rep but Constance Marshall, Elliott’s chum, was known worldwide. As a young actress, Constance had been famous for her portrayal of Shakespearean heroines; in later years she had played queens but now she tended to appear in small character parts. To meet her would be so exciting and Sally was sure that there was absolutely nothing in her very well-stocked wardrobe elegant enough to be worn in a London theatre.

      She was passing the second-hand clothes shop on the High Street that had recently been opened by the WVS when, in the large picture window she saw, not a dress but a cloak. A cloak designed for magical evenings, for nights at the opera, for moonlit strolls, and certainly it was perfect for wearing by an aspiring actress who wanted – needed – to be noticed.

      ‘Mum’ll have a fit,’ said Sally to herself as she walked in. She had never been in the second-hand shop where her friend Grace’s sister worked but she knew immediately that this was a very different place. The single room was large, airy and spotlessly clean. The clothes were hanging on racks that were not too crowded, the better to show off each item. Even the two women who stood one behind the counter, the other primping a rather dashing hat on a stand near the window, were different. It was obvious that neither would ever need to buy from a second-hand shop.

      ‘May I help you?’ asked the one behind the counter and her voice reinforced what Sally had just been thinking. She wondered now if she could learn to speak like the lady. That accent would be perfect for some parts.

      ‘I’d like to see the blue cloak in the window, please.’

      ‘Exquisite, isn’t it? Maude, you’re closer. Be an angel and bring the young lady the evening cloak.’

      ‘In a jiff, Fedora.’ Maude’s voice was pleasant but not in the same league as that of the elegant Fedora.

      Sally tried to memorise the sounds – as well as the strange name.

      And then, somehow she was before a mirror and the cloak was on her shoulders. The blue of the velvet made her eyes appear bluer, deeper and brighter than ever. Whatever it cost, she had to own this wonderful cloak.

      ‘What a picture,’ said Fedora. ‘Honestly, Maude, doesn’t it look as if it was made for her?’

      Maude looked at Sally, seeing her neat skirt, well-ironed blouse and hand-knitted cardigan. ‘Not frightfully practical, but yes, very lovely. For something special, may I ask?’

      Sally had been bursting to tell someone, anyone. ‘I’m going to London, to the Theatre Royal, actually; it’s more or less on Drury Lane. I’m a guest of Miss Constance Marshall.’

      ‘Good heavens, surely all theatres closed a few days after war was declared?’ said Maude. ‘And as for Connie Marshall, I thought she retired years ago.’

      ‘Obviously not.’ Fedora turned to Sally. ‘Forgive Maude, she’s decided not to read the newspapers until the end of this ghastly war.’ In a louder voice she added, ‘The theatres have been reopened, Maude.’ She turned back СКАЧАТЬ