A Christmas Gift. Ruby Jackson

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СКАЧАТЬ sound of exploding bombs. Explosions spoke loudly of death and destruction. Better to flock together like sheep or starlings and take comfort from the proximity of another human being. Better to sing, to proclaim ‘There’ll Always be an England’, or to listen to that good-looking young fellow, who looked slightly familiar, declaiming speeches from Shakespeare’s plays, mixing them up, quite hilariously, with bits from Ivor Novello or Noël Coward.

      Sally saw the admiration in even elderly eyes as they looked at Sebastian. ‘You’re wonderful, Sebastian, absolutely wonderful,’ she said.

      ‘I know he’s in pictures; seen him, I have. Even had a picture from a magazine pinned on the kitchen calendar. Can’t think; it’ll come.’

      Sally listened and smiled. She could list Sebastian’s credits for them but knew that for the petrified woman in the shelter, trying to remember them was so much better than wondering if the little terraced house or shop would still be there when the all clear sounded. It never occurred to Sally that her or Sebastian’s could be the house that would disappear into a gaping hole.

      They stayed in the underground until nearly five next morning. Sebastian had exhausted not only his voice, but also his long list of speeches and poems committed to memory. Others in the shelter had contributed in whatever way they could; children had slept; old men had tried, but at last it was over and they were safe to leave. They hesitated, like blind moles with their snouts at the edge of a hole, before taking their courage in both hands and stumbling out into …

      ‘Bloody hell.’

      ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’

      Startled exclamations rang across the landscape of flame and smoke, the noise of fire engines, the sudden thundering of stone on stone as parts of exhausted buildings collapsed. A sudden silence fell, followed almost immediately by joyful shouts.

      ‘It’s still there; they didn’t get it.’

      ‘It’s on fire,’ came a voice filled with horror.

      ‘No.’ Sebastian’s tired voice still had authority. ‘Trust me. Those flames are behind the cathedral.’

      So it proved. St Paul’s Cathedral, that magnificent Wren creation, had sustained damage, but its world-famous dome still stood defiantly among the burning ruins around it.

      Eyes stinging from the clouds of drifting acrid smoke, Sally and Sebastian began to walk. Again Sally stumbled over some debris and clutched at Sebastian’s coat. ‘I feel dirty, Sebastian, and I’m chilled. I’m going back to the boarding house for a bath and a change of clothes.’

      He patted her hand protectively. ‘The theatre’s closer, Sally. We’re already late and we have only two days of rehearsal left. We’ll find the Red Cross or the WVS – remember the blessed WVS turned up at the theatre – and I bet we’ll find them at this disaster zone.’

      They encountered a WVS tea van almost immediately.

      ‘See, Sally, the WVS are out with their vans. If it’s true that they’re at every underground station almost before the all clear has stopped sounding we should suggest to Max that we do a fund-raising concert for them.’

      Sally took the roll with its scraping of – probably – home-made marmalade; the WVS, like housewives all over Britain, expected that soon jam would join the growing list of rationed goods. He handed her a cup of tea and she was surprised by how quickly she finished it.

      ‘Probably the best cup of tea I’ve ever had,’ she said. ‘What do they put in it?’

      ‘Relief,’ he said. ‘And a sprinkling of brotherly love. Come on, let’s take the cups back and make our way to work.’

      Sally stayed where she stood for a moment, somehow unable to move.

      ‘Come on, old girl. We’re alive and we’re needed.’

      Still she stood. ‘I’m terrified, Sebastian. Look around. Oh God, it’s terrible. There must be people lying dead or injured all over London.’

      He shook her until her eyes filled with tears and then he held her tightly against him. ‘We have a job to do, Sally. Sobbing in the street won’t help anyone. The injured, the bereaved – they need cheering up. Our remit, remember, is to do our level best to raise the morale of our fellow man – or woman. Come on, Sally, square shoulders and let’s do what we’re good at.’

      He took her hand and almost pulled her along, tripping over unnoticed, unexpected debris; a door, which they managed to avoid, a chimneypot, bricks, two leather-bound books, large and small fragments of sometimes still-burning wood, and bizarrely, a well-used frying pan with a fried egg welded to it by even greater heat than that which had originally cooked the egg. Each sad sight only added to Sally’s grief. Had Sebastian released her hand for a second she would have taken flight but, mercilessly, he clung to her, ignoring her sobs.

      They reached the old theatre to find only Max and Lalita in possession.

      Sally was both frightened and delighted to meet the répétiteur, although she was unsure what the word meant. She was also very much looking forward to meeting a Mexican as she had no real idea of what a Mexican woman would look like, all her knowledge of the country having come from American cowboy films. She had expected that she might be of medium height, plump with tanned skin, shiny, long, black hair, and flashing dark eyes. Lalita was tall and slender, her skin was lightly tanned and her thick, dark hair was fastened into a gleaming knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were as blue as Sally’s own. Probably somewhere in her fifties, she retained some of the stunning beauty she must have had as a young woman.

      ‘Thank you both for coming,’ said Max gravely. ‘We have discovered a Primus stove, two bottles of beer, some rather stale bread and three sausages. I suggest we eat, drink and be as merry as we can be until the others arrive – if they do. If they don’t arrive, Lal will work with you, Sally darling; I want to turn you into a nice wee Scotch lassie for a heather-in-the-hills number.’

      Lalita’s skills were more than adequate to the task. First, she questioned Sally as to her knowledge of Scottish accents, pointing out that they were many and varied. She learned that Sally had spent only a few days in Scotland and that her knowledge of accents was taken from wireless broadcasts.

      ‘I can say “Och aye the noo,”’ she told Lal who laughed.

      ‘Best forget that one, Sally; we’re not doing pantomime. Now, vowel sounds. Repeat after me …’

      And so began a gruelling crash course, repeating or trying to repeat the sounds that Lal was making. She had taken French at school and so could ‘roll her r’s’ quite well but had to learn how to modulate them. In the limited time available Lal strove to teach Sally to create a sound that could be recognized as vaguely Scottish.

      Two hours later, both were exhausted but rather pleased with Sally’s new accomplishment.

      Despite the traffic restrictions, almost every member of the troupe had managed to reach the theatre, each and every one with alarming, often hair-raising tales of their difficulties.

      ‘A miracle; no other word for it. St Paul’s is still gloriously there.’ Sybil Tapper, choreographer and former ballerina, born, brought up, and trained in the city, brought the latest news.

      Even those who were not Londoners by birth felt the symbolic СКАЧАТЬ