Mum – he bought the ring.’
‘From you? How?’
‘No, of course not. It’s just like Fedora said. He bought it for his wife but she’s left him. He says she doesn’t want it and that I can keep it.’
‘Never.’ Elsie’s facial expression said clearly that she had heard tales of rich men who bought valuable jewels for young girls. ‘And where is he now, Sally?’
Sally looked at her mother and could see all the doubts and worries running across her pleasant face. ‘I’m surprised at you. Right now he’s rejoining his ship; I told you he was in the navy. I’ll never see him again,’ and she burst into tears and ran to her room.
Elsie looked after her, shaking her head. ‘Sarah Bernhardt,’ she said, and sighed. ‘Didn’t I say the university would be calmer?’
Since Sally had not mentioned the ring in some time, her parents had also let it slip from their minds. Ernie saw the box he had put it in each time he opened the cinema safe, but it was as if the family simply hoped that the problem would just go away.
Sally lay on her lemon and green quilt and looked up at the white ceiling but no answers to her questions were written there. ‘Why?’ she groaned, ‘why did he have to come today? Why did I decide to speak to Maudie? And why didn’t she tell me she knew … Jon, Just Jon, so well?’
Sally turned over in anguish and buried her face in the quilt and was still there when her mother came in to remind her that she still had packing to do.
The next morning her parents travelled up to London with her to see her settled in the boarding house where she was to live while she was taking classes at the theatre. Apart from Ernie saying that the ring would remain in the safe until Mr Galbraith was next on leave, the question of whether or not Sally would keep it was not mentioned.
Sally enjoyed every moment of her training as the year seemed to rush towards its end. Like the other residents, she handed in her ration card, and even though meat, butter, sugar and tea had been rationed for some time, the meals were adequate. In no way were they like her mother’s tasty meals, but they were more than acceptable.
The other residents were older and had known one another for some time. Although they were polite, even friendly, Sally doubted that she would make any close friends from among them. The ENSA groups training or rehearsing at the theatre became a substitute for her family; she grew closer to Sebastian, whom she had known longest. They held hands as they walked around town; occasionally he would throw his arm round her shoulders. ‘Are you the teeniest bit in love with me yet?’ was a fairly regular question that Sally did not take seriously.
Her personal life suffered some blows as her friends in Dartford dealt with one tragedy after another. How, she wondered, could dear Mrs Petrie cope with the death of Ron, her youngest son, and the always nagging possibility that her eldest child, Sam, was also dead? She looked forward to at least one day at home, possibly as far away as the Christmas period; a letter was nice, yes, but a warm hug would be much better. Maybe she could get away some Sunday. If trains were running she should have time to get home, see the families and get back before Mrs Shuttlecock, her landlady, locked up.
Having made this decision, it was with lighter steps that Sally made her way back to her digs one autumn evening after a strenuous dance workout. She, like her Dartford friends, had always been fit and active, but dancing had uncovered muscles she had never known she had – and every single one ached.
Supper was a deep bowl of delicious vegetable soup – every vegetable grown in Mrs Shuttlecock’s garden – followed by a thick slice of toast and cheese and a cup of tea.
‘My Henry laid out all the beds and planted vegetables and strawberries too before he joined up. Didn’t need to as he had a job what was on the special list that could easy have kept him out of the Forces – reserved occupations, that’s it, reserved – but “It’s my duty to King and country,” he said, and they’ll give him his job back when he comes home.’ Mrs Shuttlecock related this story to each new arrival.
Sally had just begun to undress for her weekly bath when the air-raid warning sounded. No time to dress again and so she pulled her pyjamas on over her underwear, grabbed a cardigan and a coat, shoved her feet into her short, lined boots and headed for the door.
‘Remember your gas mask and papers, Sally,’ yelled one of the other residents as Sally passed the pile of bags at the back door without picking up her bag. She smiled her thanks and retrieved her bag of important documents, her birth certificate, the letter from Oliver Dantry, the acceptance letter from ENSA, a few pictures of her childhood friends, and her gas mask, and ran out into the neatly ordered garden. (Mrs Shuttlecock, of course, had all the ration books in her very large bag.)
There was no time to admire the chrysanthemums or the fine crop of cabbages camouflaging the roof of the Anderson shelter. Inside, Mrs Shuttlecock had made it as comfortable as possible with cushions and blankets, and Thermos flasks full of tea or cocoa, which sometimes returned unopened to the kitchen but which more often lately had been a late supper in the shelter as the bombers roared overhead. There was an elderly wireless, which seemed to sound better when it was set on the specially painted orange box that the local greengrocer had traded for some home-grown potatoes and a jar of Mrs Shuttlecock’s strawberry jam. Nothing seemed to be able to mask the damp smell of earth that permeated the papers, blankets, cushions, and even their clothes if they stayed there any length of time as, unfortunately, they often did.
They tried to keep themselves amused by reading, listening to the wireless, playing cards and even listening to the tales – most of them probably with little truth in them – that were told them by Liz Sweep, who worked in a very expensive West End department store. She always started in the same way: ‘Wait till you hear this, girls, and sparing your blushes, Mrs S,’ and then she would carry on, using, naturally, her everyday voice instead of the highly affected one she adopted when dealing with surprised or amused customers.
‘Me and Doreen was having a chat; worked off our feet all morning, we were. Would you believe the Christmas goodies is coming in and we make such a lot of money in the weeks before but everything’s got to be just so. Anyways, we were taking a breather and this funny little foreign woman grabs my arm and says, “Stop with trivial chatter” – cheeky cow – “and be so kind as to tell me where English Christmas crackers are being.”
‘Neither of us had the slightest – in the Christmas department they was setting up, I suppose, but I says – trying to be helpful – “I’m sure you’ll find them over there, Modome,” and I stretched out my arm to point her in the right direction.’ Liz stopped to make sure that her audience was spellbound. Pleased with what she saw, she carried on. ‘And would you believe I knocked over our entire arrangement of Christmas “suggestions for the lady in your life” work what we’d spent the entire morning making look fabulous. Ever so artistic, Doreen is. The blo— sorry, Mrs S, things went everywhere, behind us, beneath us; they rolled under counters, one really lovely Limoges compact fell out of its box and rolled off, heading for the front door. If no one stopped it, it’ll be in Richmond by now. The foreign woman shrieked and ran and the floor manager comes over and gives us a ticking off. Doreen’s crying and her mascara’s run so far down it’s on her chin and he says to her, “Clean yourself up. And get back here immediately.”’
‘Did you tell him what really happened, Liz?’ asked one of the older women. ‘Or did you blame it on the customer?’
Liz had the grace to look a little shamefaced. ‘Thought about it for a second – can’t afford to lose my job, can I, and it were an accident but you have to watch out for the dead posh ones or the foreign ones – they’re usually duchesses or ambassadors’ wives and they can tell you round is square and Management tells you to agree with them. Doreen and me’s got to pay for the breakages but I’ll do it since she never really done anything.’
With mixed feelings about the story, the women were delighted to hear the all clear soon after. Gratefully they made their way along the garden path to the house. Less than fifteen minutes later everyone