A Christmas Gift. Ruby Jackson

hell did it ever get here? Unforgivable.’

      ‘Can you do something to help it, Gus?’ Sally asked gently. She was surprised by just how upset this burly man was, and, although he was new to this company, she knew that he had managed to survive some gruelling years in the conflict.

      Gus smiled. ‘I sure as hell am not going to plonk out a waltz or anything else on it for you till I’ve had a good look inside. If you can hum a few bars I’ll whistle Cinderella’s waltz from the ballet, Prince Lanky Legs.’

      He did not wait for Sebastian to answer but began to whistle a lovely tune. Gus’s whistle was in a class of its own, a musical instrument.

      Cinderella and her prince waltzed effortlessly round the stage. Sally was quiet when they stopped. She had danced, eyes closed, safe in Sebastian’s familiar arms to music she thought she knew. For a few minutes she had been a world away from war and disaster, dirt and pain.

      ‘Thank you, Gus. That was perfect. Was it the Cinderella waltz?’

      ‘Naw, haven’t heard that. That was vintage Irving Berlin.’ He took Sally into a hold and began to dance with her, singing as they moved.

      A familiar cold splinter pierced Sally’s heart. She tried to ignore it and smile. ‘“What’ll I Do” … lovely old melody, Gus. I do hope you can heal the piano.’

      ‘I’ll do my best – and then I’ll see who I can blackmail into sending it back to Blighty with other equipment.’

      ‘They’ll say it’s not equipment, Gus; hardly the same as a three-ton lorry.’

      ‘It’s Equipment – vital to mental health, His Majesty’s Forces of. Watch me. I can out-argue any barrister.’

      Two weeks later, the company climbed into the cab of a large army lorry to be driven, together with a few lucky soldiers who were being repatriated, to the nearest safe aerodrome. Sally had driven over every type of surface in every kind of weather – over hills, across riverbeds, through swollen rivers – but the trip across the desert was one of the most unpleasant. First, there was no actual road; secondly, it was so hot that it was difficult to breathe, and just touching a metal part of the lorry could cause quite a painful burn. Sally’s preconceptions of Egyptian scenery had suffered several blows on this trip. She had expected miles and miles of sand dunes, with here and there a small oasis, exactly what she seen night after night in the films she loved watching from the projectionist’s booth at the Dartford cinema where her father had worked since his return from the battlefields of the Great War. Yes, there were miles of sand dunes, but to her surprise there were hills – not tall dunes but actual hills – most multistriped by coloured bands of what one of the soldiers told her were minerals. Once she saw a camel, his robed rider seemingly oblivious of their presence as he made his measured, stately way across the sands.

      He has to be able to see us, she thought, but he chooses to ignore us. Whose side is he on?

      The almost biblical figures disappeared from view just as a wind sprang up. In a moment the air was full of stinging grains of sand that invaded everywhere: eyes, hair, mouth, the tiniest uncovered area of skin. It was as if they were being stung by a million malevolent bees. Sally covered her face and her hands were attacked. She was grateful that sensibly she had decided to wear trousers for the journey but how she wished she had worn a long-sleeved blouse.

      ‘Here, miss, take my shirt.’ A young soldier had removed his long-sleeved khaki shirt and was offering it to her.

      ‘Oh, how kind,’ she said, ‘but I can’t take your shirt.’

      ‘I’m used to the sand, miss, and me mum’ll be right pleased with me helping Miss Sally Brewer. She were a cleaner at the Adelphi years ago; always said you was one of the nicest lasses as came through the doors.’

      ‘Write your address on this paper,’ said Sebastian. ‘When we get home, Miss Brewer will send you a signed picture and one for your mum.’

      Sally had been wondering what on earth she could do in return for the soldier’s help, but once again Sebastian had stepped in, knowing exactly how to handle the situation. She had been to see a play at the Adelphi, but had never worked there and so was quite sure that the young soldier’s mother did not know her at all.

      ‘I’ll wear your shirt till we’re aboard,’ she told the young soldier, ‘but then you must take it back. Can’t have you found short of uniform.’ Then she told him stories of her friends Daisy and Rose Petrie, who were both in the women’s services. Neither Daisy nor Rose would have recognised themselves but they would have applauded Sally’s ability to tell believable tall tales.

      Much later than expected, the lorry reached the aerodrome where an Albemarle transport plane was waiting.

      In the notoriously uncomfortable aeroplane, Sally sat huddled in blankets. It was too noisy for her to attempt to sleep, but lulled by the drone of the engines, she allowed her thoughts to wander and memories flooded her mind.

       Monday, 4 September 1939

      Sally was awake long before the bell of her alarm clock shattered the silence. Yesterday had come the terrible news that Britain was at war and she, like thousands of others, had lain awake for hours worrying about the future. But her future, she decided now with rising excitement, was secure. She hurried along the little passageway to the bathroom where she spent some time – and most of the hot water – getting ready for this most important day. She had a new costume to wear, bought for her by her three best friends. The last word in fashion and perfectly suited to her tall slim figure, it was bound to make her stand out, to show the director that she was destined for success. Today Dartford, tomorrow London and … Sally laughed at her own ambition … some day – Hollywood.

      She took out her lipstick and then replaced it in her little purse. Her parents would not approve of bright red lips before breakfast. She could apply it, as she had done time without number, on the way to her appointment. But she could at least apply mascara to enhance the blue of her eyes, and ensure her long blue-black hair was perfectly in place.

      ‘Oh, Sally pet, how grown-up you are,’ her mother, who looked as if she had not slept at all, greeted her as she walked into the little kitchen. ‘Ever so sophisticated,’ she added, shaking her head in happy disbelief.

      ‘I need to impress the director of the school, Mum. I want to come home tonight to you and Dad and tell you about all the opportunities I’ll have.’ Spontaneously she hugged her mother. ‘I want to show you that I was right not to accept a place at a university. You’ll see, Mum, the stage is where I belong.’

      ‘Then eat your breakfast before you head off, our Sally, or you’ll be too weak to make any impression.’ Her father who, like her mother, was still in his comfy old dressing gown, had come in and was sitting in his usual place. ‘You look right nice, but I never heard Margaret Lockwood’s stomach rumble.’

      Sally laughed as she sat down beside him. ‘You’re right, Dad, it would take the bloom off a bit, wouldn’t it? But please, Mum, just toast and a cuppa; I’m too excited to eat.’

      Exactly forty-three minutes later, she was standing before the closed door of Oliver Dantry’s Theatrical Training School, sure that her life-long dream was shattered. On the door was a notice.

      DUE TO UNFORESEEN CIRCUMSTANCES

      CLOSED FOR THE DURATION.

      Below the huge black letters was a small handwritten sentence: ‘I’m sorry and will be contacting all students.’

      It was signed simply ‘Oliver’.

      Sally was so gripped by shock she was scarcely able to breathe. As she collapsed against the forbidding notice, careless of the costume of which she had been so proud, her thoughts were racing one another round and round in her feverishly working brain.

      It could not be true. There had to be some ghastly mistake. What were ‘unforeseen circumstances’? The actual outbreak of war? But what had war to do with a college closing down,