Authors: Lynda Bellingham
The Boy I Love
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2014
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Lynda Bellingham, 2014
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Lynda Bellingham to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Hardback ISBN: 978-1-47114-897-2
Trade paperback ISBN: 978-1-47114-901-6
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-47110-286-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by M Rules
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
We are so very proud to be the publishers of Lynda’s fiction. Lynda was brimful of ideas born of her lively imagination and her own experiences. She knew instinctively
how people of every generation interact and had – of course! – a wonderfully keen eye for drama, and for emotion and love in all guises. She wrote of joy and sadness, conflict and
union, old and young, past and present, with tenderness and wisdom.
Tell Me Tomorrow
, Lynda’s first novel, has three generations of women at its heart – a grandmother, a mother
and a daughter – and Lynda dedicated the novel to mothers everywhere. These wonderful characters shone out on every page, to be joined, in
The Boy I Love
, by an equally memorable and
delightful cast. On every page, in every description, in every word of dialogue, readers will hear Lynda’s voice loud and clear. How fortunate we are that Lynda completed her second novel
this summer so that we can all rejoice in the talents of a truly gifted storyteller.
Suzanne Baboneau
Lynda’s editor
November 2014
The boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking now at me.
There he is, can’t you see, waving his handkerchief
As merry as a robin that sings on a tree.
George Ware, 1885, sung by Marie Lloyd
Contents
Enter stage left
Chapter 1
Oh, Mr Porter, what shall I do?
I want to go to Birmingham
And they are taking me onto Crewe.
Send me back to London
As quickly as you can.
Oh, Mr Porter, what a silly girl I am!
September 1982
Sally Thomas swallowed hard and smiled bravely as the whistle blew and the train began to pull out of the station. She gave a final wave to her family, standing at the barrier
and already a blur, and sat down with a bump as the train picked up speed.
‘Oh, Mr Porter, what shall I do . . .’ The old Victorian music-hall song rang in her ears as she gazed out at the beautiful cream stone buildings of Cheltenham, her home town. It
looked so picture-perfect in the early-morning sun. Traces of autumn tinged the leaves in red and gold, and there were flashes of burnt orange from the creepers that draped themselves over the
houses like garlands.
The girl could not help but think how different the landscape would be in Crewe. From gold to grey. Still, she would learn to love the difference between the two and make it her home for the
next six months. Her first professional job as an actress! In July, Sally had managed to get an early audition for the upcoming season by physically taking herself to meet the director in Crewe,
rather than waiting in line down in London with hundreds of other hopefuls. Her temerity had gained her a place in the company, and now as she fell asleep to the rhythm of the train, she dreamed of
bright lights and velvet curtains, and her first introduction to Crewe Theatre just two short months ago . . .
July
She was shaken awake as the train shuddered to a halt at Platform One, Crewe station. As she stepped down from the train, Sally was overwhelmed by the size of the place. High
above her, steel girders rose in Gothic splendour just like a cathedral. Her ears were bombarded with a cacophony of noise: engines grinding, whistles blowing, brakes screeching and the endless
rumble of humanity – a river of people flowing towards the exit or breaking through to platforms to find their trains. Sally began to think she might have misjudged Crewe as just a town
‘up north’. The station, at least, seemed to be the centre of the universe!
She joined the other passengers and was swept along to the exit and out to the taxi rank, where things were much calmer and quieter, thank goodness. She hailed a taxi and asked for the
theatre.
‘Is it far?’ she enquired, hoping the answer would be negative as her finances were tight to say the least.
‘No, lass, just up the hill. Hop in. You working there?’ asked the cab driver, looking at her in his driving mirror as she sat back in the seat.
‘I hope to be, yes,’ Sally replied shyly. ‘I have got an audition today, as a matter of fact. So – fingers crossed.’
‘Well, good luck to you, lass. You will do just fine.’
No more than five minutes later, the taxi slowed and stopped outside a beautiful Victorian theatre. It shone like a beacon to Sally. No matter the street was a little shabby, and next door there
was a very run-down Chinese takeaway, to Sally it was the gateway to all her dreams. She paid the driver and thanked him for his good wishes, then got out and turned to the front doors. Putting
down her suitcase, she pulled on the handle, only to discover that it was locked. She pressed her nose to the glass, shielding her eyes with her hand to peer into the darkness. There were no signs
of life.
‘Great,’ sighed Sally. ‘Now what?’
She looked up the street and was greeted by grey stone terraced houses, and a stray dog checking out a lamp-post. Stepping back from the entrance, she told herself, ‘There has to be a
stage door round the back somewhere.’ Sure enough, she spotted an opening at the end of the front of the theatre building, so picking up her things, she set off to investigate. The gap proved
to be a narrow alleyway, and halfway down was a battered sign hanging from the wall:
Stage Door
.
With a sigh of relief Sally pushed open the door and stepped into a dimly lit corridor. She ventured further in, expecting to meet a stage doorman – or woman, for that matter.
‘Hello? Anybody around?’ she called out. There was a small kiosk with a sliding glass window and an empty chair. It was lit by a table lamp with a red silk shade which had long since
seen better days in someone’s boudoir. Sally thought it looked very incongruous, stuck in this little corner. A two-bar electric fire was glowing gaily and piles of newspapers lay on the
floor – but nobody was there to answer her call.
She followed her nose, and then the sign in big red letters painted on the wall leading down the stairs:
to The Stage. Silence!
The staircase wound round and down, and at the bottom there was a heavy wooden door. Sally pulled on the handle, opened it and stepped into the almost-darkness onstage. She could just make out a
dim light in the far corner, presumably from the prompt corner. She tiptoed towards it, keeping an ear out for any sounds of life. She caught the odd word from someone whispering somewhere nearby .
. . but could not quite make out who was talking. She moved between two black curtains and found herself right out on the stage. Suddenly a light hit her between the eyes like a laser, and she was
completely blinded for a few seconds.