A Christmas Gift. Ruby Jackson

room.

      ‘You’d think we’d get used to interrupted sleep,’ groaned a girl who worked in Camden market.

      ‘We will,’ said Liz, immaculately dressed and perfectly made up as usual. ‘My sister says she thought she’d never get a full night’s sleep again after being up half the night nursing her kids, but she says, soon as they’re weaned, everything goes back to normal.’

      ‘Nice to know, Liz, thanks,’ mumbled the others, eating their breakfasts of scrambled eggs with fried bacon bits in them.

      ‘Fantastic breakfast, Mrs B.’

      ‘No more real eggs till next month, probably. Anyone know a nice farmer?’

      Of course Sally knew Alf Humble, tenant of the farm near Dartford where she and her three special friends had played or picked strawberries. Strange to think that Grace had chosen to join the Women’s Land Army. And what connection to farming could a girl like Grace have had? Did enjoy growing her sprouts, mind you.

      Sally’s thoughts went everywhere as she tried to get to the theatre. Here and there was evidence of the previous night’s raid and, like every other pedestrian, she had to watch where she put her feet. Smoke drifted across the city and it was impossible to judge where most damage had been done. Eventually she turned into Catherine Street and stopped dead in horror. Several Auxiliary Fire Service taxis with their trailer pumps stood outside the theatre. A group of rather tired-looking teenage boys, none older than seventeen or thereabouts, straddled their bicycles, feet firmly on the ground but each ready at a moment’s notice to cycle off with a message or a plea for more help from other AFS units. A WVS van was near the grey taxis, and exhausted firemen and some men – three clerics among them – who had obviously been helping, were being offered hot tea. The hard-working members of the WVS seemed to turn up with their tea wagon wherever succour was needed. One reminded Sally of Fedora, every hair still in place. For the first time that morning, she smiled.

      Dirty water was everywhere but from where she stood, Sally could not see exactly what had happened to the theatre.

      And then a mug of tea was pushed into her hand and there was Sebastian. He looked tired and his brown hair was liberally sprinkled with ash.

      ‘You’ve been here all night? How bad is it?’

      ‘Max has been here since around one. He rang me just before he left his apartment – took me half an hour or so to get here. There he is leaning against the wall. And no, his hair didn’t turn grey overnight, it’s ash; I don’t think he’s noticed it. It’s even on his moustache – shows what a handsome devil he’ll be in his sixties. The men with him are the all-powerful gods of this theatre, Sir Seymour Hicks, and, of course you’ll remember Basil and Lesley from your audition. We plebs rarely see them but Seymour has that office at the end of the main foyer and Basil’s is in what was the boardroom. Don’t remember where Lesley is but at least one of them is here every day. As to damage, a bomb, high-explosive probably, crashed through into the rear circle just before midnight. It caused a fire, which has done extensive damage, but they tell me the fire brigade is sure it’s under control. Debris landed everywhere and so we can’t do a thing until we’ve had a massive clean-up. But the good news is that no great or lasting damage has been done to the building.’

      ‘Will we have to wait till the repairs are completed?’

      ‘What repairs, my little innocent? Every builder, slater, joiner, carpenter in Britain is working all out. We’ll fix what we can ourselves. Actors are only one part of a theatre, remember. We have a brilliant back-stage crew who’ll get to work as soon as they’re allowed into the building. Restoration? I’d imagine that is low down on London’s priority list. A year or two at the best, I think.’

      He yawned, and Sally, seeing that the tea in his mug was obviously cold, exchanged it for hers, which he drank gratefully.

      ‘Any … oh Sebastian, was anyone inside?’

      He nodded. ‘Night staff. No fatalities, a few minor injur-ies. What a wake-up call. Sally darling, those boys have been cycling all over London begging for water and carrying it back here. Could you give the WVS a hand getting tea to them and something to eat – if humanly possible?’

      Sally was more than happy to help out and the Voluntary Service ladies were delighted to have an extra pair of hands. ‘Splendid lads,’ said one, ‘absolutely splendid, and look at them, my dear, they’re scarcely more than children, aren’t they?’

      Sally smiled and carried on with her tea serving until all the cyclists, whose tired eyes had brightened immediately an extremely pretty young woman had spoken to them, had been fed. As she returned to Sebastian she saw that the men with Max had shaken hands with him and were walking off in another direction. Max himself came to join them.

      ‘They’ve gone for breakfast and will be back later when they’re told it’s safe to enter the theatre. In the meantime I’m going to bed; I suggest you do the same, Seb. Come back tomorrow, Sally; we’ll be working, even if it’s only sweeping floors.’

      He walked off and they watched him. Usually straight as a guardsman and light of foot, his bent figure seemed to shuffle to the end of the road before disappearing round the corner.

      ‘What about the others?’

      ‘Anyone turns up, they’ll see they have a day off. Max and the general manager will contact as many of us by phone as possible. You’re welcome to come home with me, Sally, but I won’t be great company. I want a bath and my bed.’

      ‘Thanks, but I’ll see you tomorrow. I have letters to write.’

      Sally did try to keep up with her friends, who had all promised to be in touch regularly, but she never seemed to have time. If she had a break, she needed to rest, or there was something for her to learn.

      ‘A letter a day for a week,’ she told herself, and as soon as she reached her digs she sat down at her dressing table and began the first.

      Dear Mum and Dad,

      You’ll probably hear that the theatre was hit by a bomb last night. Don’t worry, I was sound asleep in my digs and didn’t know a thing about it till I got to the theatre. I went up to town as soon as I’d had breakfast; Mrs Shuttlecock serves a good breakfast and you’d like her, Mum, as she tells us every morning that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

      The director says the damage is minimal and we’ll be up and running as soon as the mess is cleared up. Seems the bomb caused a fire and its nose shot off and went straight through the backs of several rows of seats but, thankfully, the safety curtain saved the stage. Would you believe some theatre workers were actually asleep in their offices, and some of the typists, who were working late, put on their tin helmets and went back to work? Incredible people, don’t you think? I hope I’d be half as brave.

      Now I have to write to Daisy as I haven’t heard from her in ages. ’Course, since I never seem to have time to write letters, I can hardly expect to get any.

      Love to you both,

      Sally

       FOUR

       Late 1940

      On the first day that the whole company assembled after the bombing, Max reinforced Sebastian’s comments that it would probably be years before the building was ready to reopen as a fully working theatre.

      There were gasps from all corners.

      ‘Now what? Have the powers that be found us a new venue or are most of us back on the breadline?’

      ‘Neither,’ said Max with a cheery grin. ‘Believe it or not, ENSA is staying put. We don’t use the rear circle; we’ll manage without the pit, and so all we need do is make some adjustments as to availability of dressing rooms and rehearsal space.’

      Everyone