Seven Dials (27 page)

By the time Jayne with a ‘y’ had been admitted to the ward and had waited long enough for her evening meal to have been digested, so that she could have an anaesthetic, it was gone two in the morning, but Charlie was lively and ready. This was the first real plastic surgery case she could call her own, the first she would do without knowing McIndoe was available to help out if necessary. It was a challenge, but not one she feared. She knew with a solid certainty that she could make this girl’s pretty, if rather commonplace, little face look as good as it ever had.

And she also knew that doing this case would help her to be ready for Brin’s operation. She was sure in her skill, confident of her ability in every way, but all the same, it was good to be able to limber up, as it were, to get herself into a surgical rhythm. By the time she picked up her first pair of scissors to trim the jagged tears in the skin, she was as relaxed and alert as
she could possibly be, in spite of the lateness of the night.

It took her almost three hours to set the fine stitches, for the jagged nature of the wound demanded a delicacy of repair that was considerable, but slowly, as the face reformed under her fingers, her conviction in her own skills grew and stretched. When she had left East Grinstead she had felt herself to be a tolerably good plastic surgeon. By the time she had finished with Jayne Dorning she knew herself to be an exceptional one.

It was already full day when she at last saw her patient safely tucked up in bed on the ward and could go off duty, and she pulled off her theatre dress and climbed into her own slip of a cotton summer one and set out to go back to the doctors’ quarters and bed, but as she went through the big waiting-room of the Casualty Department to collect the bag she had left there, she saw the man in the evening clothes sitting sleeping heavily in a corner chair, his head thrown back against the wall and his mouth open in an unlovely gape.

She looked at her watch; almost six in the morning. She shook her head over the man’s silliness, and went to sit beside him to shake him gently awake.

‘You’d better go home, hadn’t you? Won’t your wife start to get a little - shall we say worried? - if you aren’t there when she wakes up?’

He stared at her wildly for a moment, clearly having no memory of where he was and then rubbed his stubbled chin as recollection hit him.

‘Oh, my God, you are right,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It is late - it is early - I must go - the little girl - she is all right?’

‘She’s fine,’ Charlie said. ‘Absolutely fine. She’ll wake up some time in the middle of the morning and you can come and see her. The scar will be fine, I promise you. I’ve done a really good job, one I’m proud of. In a couple of weeks’ time, when she can put a little makeup on it, she’ll be as good as new. In a few months even the makeup won’t really be needed.’

The man seized her hands gratefully. ‘What can I do to say thank you? You are so good to me, so very good - what can I do to be - tell me your name, doctor. I send you dresses from my factory, the best I have -’

‘No need,’ Charlie said and laughed, as she disentangled herself from his damp hot grip. ‘I need nothing. I’ll tell you what, though - if you want to be grateful - take your wife to
see the Benefit. The tickets are expensive but it’s a good cause - and your wife deserves a treat, I suspect.’

He grinned suddenly, an impish grin that made him look a good deal less battered and a good deal younger than he clearly was.

‘You are wise as well as clever - a good doctor. At least you should tell me your name so that I can know who is my benefactor -’

‘I’m Miss Lucas,’ Charlie said, knowing he could find out from Jayne anyway. ‘But remember, no presents! I don’t accept them. I’m glad to have had the chance to repair so difficult an injury. Now, home with you! It’s time you weren’t here.’

And that is how it was that Charlie was able to be at the Stoll Theatre for the Nellie’s Benefit on that Saturday night in July in 1947. She had meant what she had said when she had told the elderly Pole that she never accepted presents from patients, but when she found in her post an envelope addressed in spidery handwriting and containing a front stall ticket for the show, she knew where it came from; and because the money that had been spent on it was to be of use to Nellie’s, somehow it seemed a present she could in all conscience accept. So she did.

Not only the theatre was bustling with excitement and glitter; so was a large section of Kingsway and the central curve of the Aldwych, for not since the War had begun had there been quite so glittering a London occasion as this. Every well-known actor and performer in town who wasn’t on stage tonight was in the audience, as were large numbers of the sort of people who generally had their photographs in the
Tatler
. Lords and ladies, earls and honourables and every other version of county aristocracy had turned out in force, as had City people more famous for their money-making skills than for their birth, and well-heeled manufacturers and traders who had found the War less onerous than profitable. The committee the Board of Governors of Nellie’s had put in charge of selling tickets had clearly done a superb job, for not a seat was to be had even at these exorbitant prices, and Charlie felt herself to be very fortunate indeed as with muttered apologies she pushed her way through the gawping crowds to get into the theatre.

She almost gave up the attempt at one point, so intimidated did she feel by the sort of people with whom she found herself surrounded as she broke through to the front; face after face was a deeply familiar one, even to someone who went to the cinema fairly rarely, and only read the
Tatler
at the dentist’s, and voices too were familiar, for many
BBC
people were there. But then she lifted her chin and told herself not to be so silly; she had as much right as anyone else to be there, for wasn’t she part of Nellie’s, for which the whole occasion had been created?

And then she almost burst into laughter, for as she stood there uncertainly hovering on the edge of the pavement outside the big theatre, someone pushed past her and she turned her head to see her elderly Pole accompanied by a lady
of his own age who was so round and so firm of figure that she looked as though she had been upholstered. He looked at her with his eyes wide and limpid and as though he had shouted it aloud she heard him begging her not to recognize him. She looked casually away, her face quite expressionless, and he went gratefully on his way, and she stood there staring after him, glad to see he had taken her advice. It was agreeable to see his elderly wife so happy - for the round face was beaming with excitement - while Jayne with a ‘y’ lay bored and irritable in a ward at Nellie’s waiting for her pretty little face to heal. There is, Charlie told herself philosophically as at last she made up her mind and pushed her way into the chattering crowd of theatre-goers, a sort of rough justice in this world after all.

Her seat was a superb one in the centre of the sixth row and she settled into it comfortably, glad to be on her own so that she could look around her at all the magnificently dressed people instead of talking. For all that the country was in the grip of Attlee’s austerity programme, everyone in the auditorium looked exceedingly well off, showing how deeply they had dug into pre-War wardrobes to shake out sequined frocks and feathered wraps and well-cut tailcoats. There were wide expanses of starched linen on chests which had for the past seven years been wrapped in khaki or airforce or navy blue, and an air of genuine frivolity everywhere which quite banished the faint odour of mothballs. Only the most churlish, Charlie told herself, could fail to find it all enormous fun. And she opened the brochure she had bought for the massive sum of ten shillings, because she had felt the need to make her own contribution to the evening’s fundraising success, and wondered how they were all coping backstage.

Was Brin as excited there as everyone on this side of the curtain seemed to be? she wondered idly and considered the possibility of going round afterwards to see him. That could be fun, she thought, and her spirits lifted even higher as she contemplated so agreeable an end to her unexpected treat.

The hubbub backstage was almost at hysteria level. The wings were big and roomy, but the massive sets of the show currently running there occupied much of the available space, so the dancers, who numbered over fifty - Letty and Peter had
decided from the start that lavishness was to be the order of the day for
Rising High
- were crushed and cross as the sweating stage staff tried to get them into some sort of logical order ready for their first entrance.

Brin was swearing as much as any of them as he physically pushed people into their right positions, checking them against the clip-boarded papers he held in one hand, but he was clearly enjoying himself all the same.

Peter, who was anxiously checking the lighting cues with the man on the board, because several of the smaller floodlight bulbs had blown earlier that day and been irreplaceable in spite of frantic searching in all the usual warehouses and shops, looked happy too in spite of the way minor problems were building up. One of the singers had had an attack of screaming fury because someone, he swore, had stolen his music (it was eventually found in the lavatory where he had left it), a dancer had twisted her ankle and the whole line had had to be rearranged in consequence because as luck would have it she had been one who had a small speciality section to deal with, and two actors who lived together had not turned up, sending notes to announce dolefully that they both had chickenpox, which necessitated the cutting of one sketch altogether, and led to an attack of acute bad temper from the actress who therefore found herself unwanted after all despite all the months of rehearsal and expectation. But Peter had dealt with it all, his face showing no sign of strain, dealing with each problem one at a time and refusing to be made frantic.

Letty, watching him even in the middle of her own frantic busyness, had relaxed. She had been genuinely worried that the whole thing would prove to be too much for him after all, and had been fully prepared to step into the breach and take over his work for the evening if necessary, but clearly it was not going to be. Good for Sophie, she found herself thinking, and then shook her head at what she regarded as her ridiculous tendency to behave like a mother hen and had gone off to help the heavily taxed old actress who was acting as wardrobe mistress for the night to kit out the
corps de ballet
.

Somehow, in spite of the hubbub and a sudden fuss over mislaid props for a comedy act and an episode of sulks from a couple of singers who had expected to be later in the bill than they actually were, everyone was ready when the orchestra at
last struck up its overture music. Brin, now as ready as he was ever likely to be, had a moment to lift the small flap that covered a spyhole in the great front curtain and he peered out and felt a sudden pang as he saw the serried rows of eager faces turned towards the front. The sound of the chatter and laughter that came to him was muffled by the weight and thickness of the wall of velvet, and the music too sounded thin and tinny as it struggled past its heavy folds, but the excitement in the house came through as powerfully as though it were electricity and he tried to imagine how it would be to be poised on the edge of the stage, not to ensure others got on to it, but in order to appear himself. To face that audience, to show his own skills, his own presence - he took a deep breath and let the cover fall, blotting out the tiny vignette of a full house, and lifted his chin. ‘Soon,’ he whispered. ‘Soon. When my face is right’ - and then turned as Peter touched him on the shoulder.

‘Ready?’

‘Very ready,’ Brin said and lifted his clipboard in a sort of salute. ‘If they get anything cockeyed so help me, it won’t be because of anything I’ve got wrong -’

‘I’m sure,’ Peter said. ‘You’ve done a great job so far - I’m sure you’ll finish it the same way. Right, two minutes to beginners - get the dance line on -’ And the show slid into gear as at last the work and the worry and the fretting and the organizing of the past months gathered itself into a peak and
Rising High
exploded into reality.

It was amazing how well it went. The dance line was faultless, the long hours of drilling they had been put through - not only by Irina Capelova but by Peter and Brin too - paying handsome dividends. They moved as one elegant sinuous animal, their long legs in glittering tights working with a military precision, and their feathered heads above faces on which wide toothy grins were fixed as with glue snapping from side to side like clockwork. The music clattered and brayed and tapped from the pit below as the audience roared its appreciation and Brin, standing near the lighting box at stage left, caught Letty’s eye and grinned with huge relief. After such a start, what could fail?

And for a while it seemed nothing could possibly go wrong, that all the problems had been dealt with well in advance as act
followed act, linked by the sketches that told the story of Nellie’s history and which followed the introductory dance routine, delivered in the rich and sonorous voice of Theo Caspar, who had arrived from America only the day before to make his own contribution to the evening. The audience, clearly enchanted to see so famous a cinematic face in the flesh, hung on his every word in an entranced silence and then burst into applause after every act with so much enthusiasm that all the performers came off stage scarlet with excitement and pride. And so it went on as the atmosphere backstage became ever more euphoric, with everyone loving everyone else with a fervour that even for stage people was remarkable.

They were just two acts away from the first half finale when the whole fragile edifice of excitement and confidence and success threatened to fall apart. The callboy had been sent to get Katy and Rollo into the wings ready to do their wooing scene from
The Taming of the Shrew
and she arrived first, her face under its makeup tight and closed with some sort of unreadable emotion. Brin looked at her and frowned, for even he had never seen her looking quite so bad-tempered. And then, as applause again broke out he turned to be ready to see Theo Caspar come off stage, his hand out to take from him the big red book within which his script had been cunningly hidden. Theo was grinning lazily as he reached him and nodded affably as Brin took the prop from his hand and then stopped short, staring over Brin’s shoulder at Katy.