A Christmas Gift. Ruby Jackson

minute.’ Just as quickly he changed back to serious. ‘I can hear the clumping of the great clods already, Sal, and we have to get the number right.’

      ‘The only thing that can be heard approaching over sand, Sebastian, is an armoured vehicle. These men are not clods, and I have the dratted number right.’

      ‘Darling,’ he held out his arms in supplication, ‘it’s not my fault we’re doing panto in the desert in January. I think the CO sounds like a really decent chap. Imagine some of the permanently constipated officers we’ve met over the years suggesting a pantomime. And Father Christmas. Wait till you see me as Santa Claus.’

      ‘They’ll never believe that you’re Santa, Sebastian, you’re too tall and too thin.’

      ‘Picky. Let me tell you, Cinderella, that when the engineers and two of the nurses from the hospital have finished with me, Father Christmas himself will have doubts about his authenticity. Think, Sal. Some of these boys have been away from home for two, even three, Christmases. Realistically, odds are that more than one of the youngsters who follow you around like puppies will never see another Christmas. Lovely idea to have a late one and it is only January. Pretty please, I’d rather not dance by myself. One does look rather a fool.’

      The ENSA company was stationed in an abandoned settlement somewhere, they believed, in the Egyptian desert. Apart from a half-finished aircraft hangar, their accommodation consisted of a ruined, deconsecrated church, its dilapidated hall and several barely standing wooden huts. There was one rather tired-looking date palm growing, or perhaps not – they could not be sure.

      One of the young soldiers from the army base had told Sally that the presence of the tree showed that there was, or at least had been, water there. ‘All you need to survive in the desert,’ he had assured her almost gleefully. ‘Perfect food, the date; it’s got everything one needs to sustain life.’

      Fervently Sally prayed that his theory would never have to be put to the test.

      Now, as even the usually sunny Sebastian began to growl, she uncoiled herself from the rather elderly armchair and stretched. ‘All this agony and it’s not as if there’ll be even one child in the audience.’

      ‘Au contraire, mon ange, some of those boys aren’t twenty yet. The hangar will be packed with children in uniforms, and all of them needing a good laugh or to ogle a gorgeous girl. Come along, let’s give it a twirl – and show a bit more leg this time.’

      ‘Show yours; they’re better than mine, and besides, it’s a waltz. Millie’s instructions were decorum, decorum and … and decorum.’

      ‘Come on, Cinders, wrap that shawl round your waist as if it’s your ball gown. Then – with decorum – use your thumb and middle finger to lift your skirt oh so frightfully genteelly. That’s it. Gadzooks, I saw some calf there. Scrumptious.’

      ‘You are an idiot.’

      ‘But lovable. You, Cinderella, were lifting the wrong side; left hand for skirts while dancing, right hand for while climbing stairs. Good rule.’

      ‘Whose rule?’

      Sebastian smiled rakishly. ‘Grandmamma’s. A truly terrifying woman, as you know, darling, so please don’t force me to send for her.’

      Sally said nothing. She had heard of her co-star’s formidable grandmother many times before but whether the lady actually existed she still, after almost four years, had no knowledge.

      They left the hut styled ‘Stars’ Dressing Room’ and moved to the war-scarred hangar, which was serving as a theatre.

      ‘The engineers, bless them, have made this place almost presentable,’ Sally said, looking round admiringly.

      ‘The boys will be pleased. We should cut down the date palm and decorate it.’

      ‘Don’t even think about it, Sebastian. The lads I was talking to yesterday swear they’ll get dates from it soon.’

      In the surrounding area, several companies of Allied troops were stationed and too many of them were in the makeshift wards. Most waited for orders and trained for who knew what day after day. Some would be repatriated, possibly in the plane that would take the ENSA company home. Some were still too ill to move and would be forced to remain until the overstretched medical team got them well enough to travel.

      It was the wounded whom Sally thought of most often and for whom she worked. As leading lady of this small troupe, she would star as Cinderella but she would also be expected to sing and dance in choreographed short pieces and, since both she and Sebastian had acted on stage and had appeared in film – he was a former child star – and were quite well known, they would take part in several selections from popular plays or films.

      Sally loved every minute of her work with ENSA. She knew just how much a favourite song, a smile, a touch of the hand, a blown kiss meant to so many of these men and she worked just as hard on a hastily knocked-up stage – thanks to the Corps of Engineers – as she did on the London stage. She knew Sebastian well, having worked with him in several productions and shared his London flat. At another time, he could have been an Academy Award contender. Perhaps he would be some day. And so to the waltz of the handsome prince in his satin suit and his mysterious princess in her glorious gown and dazzling glass slippers.

      ‘Let’s try to work it out with my hand on your shoulder,’ Sally suggested. ‘Once we’re in sync I’ll try hitching up poor old Cinders’ magic frock. You hum something.’

      His right hand immediately found its way to the top of her hip. Once that touch would have set her on fire but that was long ago now. Sally smiled, not at all sad to acknowledge it now meant only that her partner was ready to dance.

      For once he did not begin.

      ‘Hum, Sebastian.’

      ‘I hate being asked to hum. All I can think of is “Rum and Coca-Cola” and I’m sure that’s not three-four time.’ He hummed the calypso.

      ‘Where’s the dratted pianist when you want him?’ Sally muttered in exasperation.

      ‘Do you know, my angel, that your frown has just reminded me that one of the Russians, Tchaikovsky perhaps, wrote a ballet, Cinderella?’

      ‘Bound to be a waltz in it and that would be rather terrif, wouldn’t it? Hum it.’

      Sebastian saluted. ‘I would, mein Führer, but the old brain must be slipping a gear because nothing is coming.’ He looked at her face and saw signs of an impending storm. ‘I’ll just count. Right, one two, three, one two three …’ He stopped counting and dancing and incidentally stood on Sally’s foot at the same time.

      ‘Good Lord,’ he yelped.

      ‘You called, m’lord?’ came a voice from behind the stage, and a burly man in an elderly overall walked across to the piano.

      ‘Gus, my angel, just when we needed you. Cinderella can’t waltz, comes of doing nothing all day but sitting by the fireside poking the cinders. Can you produce a waltz, perhaps from Tchaikovsky’s ballet?’

      Gus pulled up the ramshackle stool that stood near the piano. He and Sally looked at it rather doubtfully. ‘How’s this theatre’s insurance cover, Seb? These little beauties are worth a fortune.’ He wiggled ten short, stubby fingers before them.

      ‘What’s left of my entire Christmas and blessed New Year’s Day alcohol allowance,’ said Seb by way of answer. ‘Even in sunny downtown Egyptian desert there appeared the odd bottle of something to go with the turkey. Rather an odd bouquet, like pressed dates.’

      ‘I put my faith in the army,’ said Gus, tentatively approaching the stool. He pressed down on it. There was a crack like the sound of a pistol shot. ‘Solid as a rock,’ he lied, and sat down. He played a few notes and stood up. ‘This hasn’t been tuned since it was built and the bloody thing’s a Bechstein. Should be shot, whoever owned it.’

      ‘It’s