Ellie (45 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Ambrose stood in the wings watching Ellie and Edward perform and though he knew the script word for word and thought he was beyond surprises he found himself laughing along with the audience.

Ellie, if he wasn’t much mistaken, was another Gracie Fields in the making, but much prettier. Each wiggle, wink and ribald innuendo provoked roars of belly laughter from the audience. Edward was the perfect foil for her comic talent, entirely believable as the naïve jackass Charles De Witt. He hadn’t fluffed his lines once, and they looked so good together, complementing each other in every way.

It was disappointing to see so many empty seats in the theatre, but that would change if they got good reviews in the morning. Besides, a great many people were still recovering from the victory celebrations.

A terrible dress rehearsal was traditionally a good omen, but Ambrose had been beside himself with rage earlier. It had been a shambles: lines forgotten, cues missed, dancers out of step, almost the entire cast listless and puffy-eyed with hangovers. When he’d looked in the girls’ dressing-room an hour before curtain up, three of them were curled up on benches asleep.

Ellie had concerned him most. He had seen her rushing to the lavatories to vomit and when he’d questioned her she seemed distinctly guilty about something.

But now that the show was galloping along without a hitch, Ambrose was appeased. Whatever Ellie’s problem had been she was sparkling now. If she handled her song and dance number with as much vitality, his faith in her would be justified.

Ambrose peeped through the side of the curtain at the audience. Jameson was there in the front row with his wife, along with a group of other people Ambrose didn’t know. The men were all in dinner-jackets, their wives in evening dresses and fur stoles. Clearly not one of them concerned themselves with clothing coupons; those weren’t made-over dresses like his girls had to wear. There were times when Ambrose wished he’d never got involved with Jimbo Jameson. He was the slimiest, cockiest little runt that ever walked: just looking at the man now, his chest all puffed up with self-importance, made Ambrose want to hurl something at him. He had no doubt the creep would take all the glory if the show was a success, but that if the reviews were less than ecstatic, Ambrose would get the blame.

A barrage of wild applause and the curtain moving beside him made Ambrose aware that the sketch was over. Buster was ambling on to the stage from the left in front of the curtain as if he’d lost his way. Ambrose smiled. Buster was a real find, a genuinely funny man who could ad-lib his way through the Bible and make people laugh. He would be the next big name in comedy.

‘Well done, both of you.’ Ambrose turned to Ellie and Edward as they came off the stage, flushed with excitement. ‘You were excellent. Are you feeling better now, Ellie?’

Ellie blushed. ‘Fine, thank you,’ she said, her eyes not meeting his. ‘It was only nerves.’

‘Well run along and get changed for the
Quaker Girl
number,’ he said. ‘Edward, give a hand with the props.’

Edward glared resentfully at Ambrose’s retreating back view. One minute the man treated him like he was special, and the next ordered him about like a stage-hand.

There was no choice but to do as he was told, but the minute the bedroom furniture was cleared from the stage, Edward made his way backstage and shut himself in a storage room.

Sitting on a wicker hamper, surrounded by rails of old costumes, Edward lit up a cigarette. He was elated by the success of his performance tonight and desperately wanted to share it with someone, but it was easier to hide in here than risk a rebuff.

Voices from along the corridor heightened his sense of isolation. Giggling dancers, Riccardo warming up with a few scales, the dresser calling out to Ruth.

Opening night. The sketch with Ellie had been a huge success, but there was no one clamouring to praise his part in it. Why was he always left out?

Riccardo, Lorenzo and even Buster treated him like a simpleton, never including him in drinks at the pub or card games. The girls scared him. In groups they made suggestive remarks, alone they ignored him, and he was frequently acutely embarrassed by the way they flaunted their bodies. Bonny was the worst of all: she’d stripped down to her knickers in front of him earlier today. What had she meant when she said ‘Get an eyeful of this then, Edward’? Was she trying to lure him, as she did every other man in the cast, or was it just as Ellie claimed – that she was merely playfully showing off her new underwear?

Women’s soft bodies repelled him. Riccardo and the stage-hands all seemed to go out of their way to gawp at the girls. Was he unnatural in not getting excited by them?

Only Ellie was different. She kept provocative behaviour for the stage, never wiggling her breasts at him or giggling about him the way the other girls did. She was interested in him in an unthreatening, sisterly way – his only real friend.

Until a couple of days ago Ellie had always sought him out during breaks, and they often went for walks in St James’s Park together. But now she seemed to have switched her allegiance to Bonny.

Aside from missing her company, he was concerned that Bonny would lead her into trouble. He’d gone to Stacey Passage three times yesterday in the hope that she’d be there, but she still hadn’t got home at eleven. When he asked her where they’d been and whether she’d seen Charley, she’d nearly snapped his head off.

Edward was no stranger to feeling alone. Even before his parents were killed he was always left with a nursemaid while they were out at parties, the races or country house weekends. When he went to live with his grandmother, she was too old to understand he needed other children to play with.

Edward’s acting had started out of solitude. Pretending to be someone else was a comforting form of escape, but with it came the danger of being unable to identify the real Edward Manning. Was he the stereotyped English gentleman, just like the parts he played? The other lodgers at his digs in Camden Town seemed to think so; he often heard them imitating him behind his back. Or was he, as Ambrose had hinted more than once, a nancy boy?

A bell jolted him out of his reverie. He stubbed out the cigarette and leapt to his feet. It was the
Quaker Girl
number and Ellie would be hopping mad if he didn’t watch it.

Ellie and Edward linked hands as they took their turn to step forward from the rest of the cast and bow at the curtain call. They looked at one another and smiled with delight at the rapturous applause, which to their ears at least seemed louder than for Lorenzo or Riccardo.

‘Bravo, Ellie,’ someone yelled from the front row of the dress circle. Ellie glanced up at the familiar voice and to her astonishment saw it was Amos Gilbert. He was standing up, waving his arms in the most uncharacteristic display of exuberance.

The curtain calls seemed to go on for ever, but Ellie’s eyes were on Mr Gilbert. She could make out that he had a female companion, also fluttering her hands, and though she couldn’t see her face clearly, she was certain it was Miss Wilkins, her old teacher.

‘Oh, Edward.’ Ellie clutched his arm as the curtain closed for the last time, her voice a squeak of excitement. ‘I can’t really believe it. The man I was billeted with when I was an evacuee is out there. How can I get to speak to him?’

Edward felt warmed by her delight. Although there was no one out there for him tonight, the joy in her face was infectious. ‘Tell Jim on the stage door to let him in,’ he said, wishing he had the nerve to hug her. ‘He’s bound to come round there.’

As Ellie ran up the stairs to take off her make-up and change, her head was reeling with conflicting emotions. The first night had exceeded her expectations and it was absolutely wonderful to think Mr Gilbert had seen it. Yet, besides being puzzled about how he came to be here when she hadn’t written for three years, his sudden appearance brought back a rush of painful memories. Could she really cope with a reunion tonight when she was exhausted and riddled with guilt and anxiety?

Bonny had shrugged off the events of last night. By the time they’d arrived back at Ellie’s room at ten this morning she was her usual cocky self, thinking of nothing more than how she was going to get through the day with a hangover.

It wasn’t so easy for Ellie. A curt little note from Charley was waiting for her on the mat. He said he’d called round several times on VE Day, and suggested rather sarcastically that if she was ‘free’ perhaps she could meet him at Lyons Corner House on Thursday at eleven. There was no good luck message for the show, although he knew full well it was opening tonight.

What was she going to say to him? Just the sharpness of the note suggested he knew she’d been out all night. What excuse could she possibly offer for not telephoning the fire station yesterday? Now, instead of going home to prepare herself for their meeting tomorrow, she had to slap on a brave face for Mr Gilbert.

The dressing-room was a further poignant reminder of the past. It looked exactly like the scenes Ellie remembered so well in the Empire: all the chorus girls talking at once, flinging down costumes, tossing headdresses carelessly in one direction, shoes kicked in another, a hot pungent smell of sweat, greasepaint and cheap scent – all that was missing was Polly battling to bring order from chaos. Ellie made her way into the corner, slipped silently out of her
Quaker Girl
dress and pulled on her old skirt and jumper.

‘You’re very quiet,’ Frances commented, her eyes shining like two lumps of jet, stage make-up streaked across her face from emotional tears. ‘You were marvellous, Ellie, everyone’s talking about you. Are you still feeling ill?’

‘A bit,’ Ellie lied. Everyone knew she’d been sick several times during the day and although she was over that now she was in no mood for chatter.

‘Ambrose reckons we’ll get rave reviews,’ Sally shouted from the doorway, peeling off her glittering costume at the same time. ‘We’ll be playing to a packed house every night soon and Mr Jameson has invited us all down to his club to celebrate.’

The noise level grew even higher, with cries of disappointment from some of the girls that they hadn’t thought to bring something smart to wear, shrieks of excited laughter and bursts of song.

‘Are you coming, Ellie?’ Bonny pushed her face through a rack of costumes. She had received two good-luck telegrams during the day, from her parents and from her Aunt Lydia. Jack had posted her a teddy bear wearing a tutu, and sent her a long, loving letter. All of them were planning to come and see the show in the next few days, yet Ellie thought she seemed remarkably indifferent to their loving support.

‘I can’t come,’ Ellie replied. She didn’t think she ever wanted another alcoholic drink again as long as she lived and even if Mr Gilbert only stayed to chat for a few minutes, she had no desire to spend another evening with Bonny for a while.

Bonny pouted. ‘But you must. We’ve got to celebrate.’

Ellie explained briefly about Mr Gilbert, adding that she wasn’t feeling well enough to meet up later and urging Bonny to go with the other girls.

Bonny’s peeved expression seemed to say that she didn’t like Ellie having other friends.

‘Come with me, Bonny,’ Frances piped up impulsively, sensing a prickly atmosphere. She thought Bonny had become marginally nicer since she’d palled up with Ellie, and was generous enough to want everyone to have a good time tonight.

Ellie stopped short on the stairs down to the stage door, stunned for a moment. Mr Gilbert was waiting by Jim the doorman’s desk and he really was accompanied by Miss Wilkins. She had never expected to see either of them again; she had tucked her memories of them both away, along with all the other people connected with her childhood, and drawn a curtain over them. But now, as she looked into their beaming, upturned faces, everything they had once meant to her came flooding back.

They looked so different. In her memory Mr Gilbert was a giant of a man, with rolled-up sleeves, smelling of wood shavings. Miss Wilkins had always had tightly drawn back hair, a hand-knitted cardigan and a lace-trimmed blouse. These two people looked so much smaller and very city-fied.

‘So it
was
you,’ Ellie said weakly. Mr Gilbert was only an inch or two taller than herself, wearing a grey suit with a fancy waistcoat beneath. Miss Wilkins had a Marcel perm and a brown velvet evening coat with a corsage of rosebuds pinned to it. They were both greyer, with more lines on their faces, yet in some strange way they looked younger.

‘Oh, Ellie.’ Miss Wilkins moved first, stepping forward and taking both her hands. ‘It’s been such a thrill. All the time I was watching you I could hardly believe you were the same girl I taught six years ago.’

A lump came up in Ellie’s throat; she could hear emotion crackling in Miss Wilkins’s voice, and sensed that her old teacher was reminded vividly of their last day together.

‘Did you like the show?’ Ellie didn’t want memories of that dreadful day and night to overshadow this reunion. She didn’t know whether she should kiss them, hug them, or shake hands and she was staggered that an undertaker and a schoolmistress from the depths of the country could suddenly metamorphose into two such sophisticated city people.

‘Like it?’ Mr Gilbert chuckled. ‘We loved it. Especially you. We just couldn’t get over how good you were.’

‘But how did you know I was in this show?’ Ellie asked, her feelings veering between delight, suspicion and confusion.

‘We didn’t, not until today.’ Miss Wilkins looked at Amos and then back to Ellie, brown eyes warm with pride and pleasure. ‘We were just walking down Charing Cross Road this afternoon and we saw your name on the poster outside. We were intending to go and see a play at the Criterion. But of course we changed our plans that very moment.’

*

Pleasure took the place of confusion as Ellie sat between them at a table in a little Soho restaurant. It was so strange to hear their soft Suffolk accents after a diet of harsh London ones, but somehow also very warming to see these two people through adult eyes and to find the good things she remembered about them still very much in place: Miss Wilkins’s empathy and warmth; Mr Gilbert’s quiet strength. They had believed in her when she was just another cockney kid, encouraged her and taught her so much. Their presence here tonight proved Ellie had been special to them too. That knowledge was truly comforting. But better still was to see the couple were more than mere friends now: the looks they exchanged, the way they touched each other’s hands as they chatted, all spoke of love and romance.