Applause (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 2) Read online

  APPLAUSE

  (MARGARET ‘MARGOT’

  THE SECOND OF THE DUDLEY SISTERS)

  By

  MADALYN MORGAN

  Applause @ 2014 by Madalyn Morgan

  Published worldwide 2014 @ Madalyn Morgan

  All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author.

  The moral right of Madalyn Morgan as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Book Jacket Designed by Cathy Helms

  Proofreading by Alison Thompson, The Proof Fairy

  Formatting for Kindle by Rebecca Emin

  Author Photograph: Dianne Ashton

  I thank my mentor Dr Roger Wood for his help and encouragement. Jane Goddard for the photograph of her mother Pamela, aged eight, and Getty Images for the photograph of the three young women. Author friends, Elizabeth Ducie and Jayne Curtis. Pauline Barclay and the authors of Famous Five Plus for their support. Amy McBean-Dennis and the ladies at Oh Lovely in Lutterworth, Joff Gainey and Becky at The BookStop Café Lincoln and Kelvin Hunt of Hunts Independent Bookshop in Rugby for selling my novels. I would also like to thank my soul sister Dianna Cavender, and friends Valerie Rowe and Hilda Clarke – whose faith in me has never wavered.

  Applause is dedicated to the memory of

  my lovely mum and dad, Ena and Jack Smith.

  *

  I also dedicate Applause to the brave servicemen and women of the British, Commonwealth and American armed forces. The home guard, air-raid wardens, nurses, doctors, hospital auxiliaries, volunteers, ambulance drivers, men and women of the fire brigade, factory workers, farmers, land army girls and wartime correspondents.

  To the theatre owners and managers who kept the theatres open. Backstage and front of house staff who kept the theatres running, and the artists who risked their lives to keep the public entertained. To the composers, songwriters and playwrights. The entertainers who worked with ENSA and other entertainment organisations, professional and amateur.

  Last, but by no means least, the mothers, daughters, sisters and wives who kept the home fires burning, so our heroes had a home to come back to.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Look out! Stop!’

  Margaret didn’t look. She didn’t stop until she was pushed into a doorway. ‘What--?’ was all she had time to say before her body slammed into the door. With the wind knocked out of her, Margaret gasped for breath. She struggled beneath the body of a man twice her size until she found a pocket of air, and inhaled deeply. A combination of sweat and brick dust filled her nostrils. Her mouth snatched for air and she began to choke. Her captor didn’t relax his grip. He held her tightly as tiles from the roof of the once quaint Jardin Café on Maiden Lane, in London’s Covent Garden, crashed onto the pavement where Margaret had been standing seconds before.

  The cracking, splintering sound of snapping slates gave way to a heavier, duller sound like rolling thunder. With a vice-like grip, the man shielding Margaret took hold of her wrist and threw himself at the door they were leaning on. The door groaned, and the wood splintered at the side of the antiquated brass keyhole, but it didn’t give way. Still holding her, the man lunged again. This time there was a loud crack and the lock buckled beneath his powerful body. The door burst open, propelling Margaret through its gaping entrance as the chimney from the café’s roof crashed to the ground, missing them by inches.

  Frightened for her life, Margaret stumbled into the darkness, lost her footing, and slid bottom-first down a flight of stone steps. The strap on her handbag snapped and the bag flew through the air, scattering its contents over the ancient flagstones. With the cardboard box of her gas mask digging into her ribs, Margaret came to a halt beneath a huge wooden cross.

  Dazed and bruised, she looked around. She could see by the beam of daylight shining into the small vestibule that she was in the entrance of a church. She could hardly believe her eyes. She had walked down Maiden Lane a dozen times before; she’d had tea in the café, bought postcards from the bookshop opposite to send home, but she had never seen a church. Now she was sitting at the bottom of a flight of steps looking up at a soulful figure of Jesus Christ on the Cross.

  ‘Have you had enough of life, young woman?’ the burly workman bellowed from inside the door at the top of the steps.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Margaret said, coughing and spluttering.

  ‘That was a bloody stupid thing to do.’

  ‘You’re the stupid one, for pushing me down these stairs. I could have broken my neck.’ She put her hand up to shield her eyes and peered at him through swirling brick dust. Because the light was behind the man she wasn’t able to see his face, but she could see he was wearing workman’s clothes.

  ‘Didn’t you see that bloody great big sign sayin’ No Entry?’

  ‘I didn’t have time to look.’ Margaret put on her best voice, emphasising the aitch in have. ‘I was on my way to an important job interview and didn’t want to be late,’ she said, in an attempt to justify her stupidity, while biting back her tears.

  ‘You could’ve been killed, never mind late!’ the man hollered, and he stormed off.

  ‘I’m sorry!’ Margaret shouted after him, but he had gone. She could have been killed, and so could he. The workman had put his life at risk to save her and she hadn’t even thanked him. As the reality of the danger she’d put them both in hit her, tears welled up in her eyes. She looked up at the figure of Jesus on the Cross. Engraved above his head were the letters INRI – Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. At his feet was a brass plaque with the words Welcome to the Church of St. Saviour. Margaret burst into tears.

  On grazed hands and knees, Margaret picked up her comb, lipstick and powder compact, which now had a cracked mirror and was covered in brick dust. Returning them to her handbag, she sat back on her heels and looked at her hands. How can I go to a job interview looking like this? she thought. But if I don’t go, the builder who saved my life would have risked his life for nothing. And what would Anton Goldman say? I’ve pestered him to get me the interview for more than six months.

  ‘Anyone would think you don’t want this job in the theatre,’ she said to herself. She did want it. She wanted it badly. Getting a job as an usherette was only the beginning. One day she was going to be an actress and sing and dance in a West End show. It was what she had dreamed of all her life. She was going to be famous and she wasn’t going to let a bit of muck, or a few cuts and bruises, stop her.

  With renewed commitment, Margaret took a handkerchief from her handbag. She spat on it and wiped the streaks of dirt – a combination of tears and brick dust – from her face. She took out the compact. The powder puff was dusty too, but after blowing it and flicking it about, she pressed on the circular gauze and patted her face. Carefully she dabbed extra powder under her eyes to hide the red blotches made by her tears. She then put a dot of lipstick on each cheek and gently rubbed it in to give the appearance of a healthy glow, before applying the cherry red stick to her lips.

  She made her mouth wide, then pressed her lips together, rubbing top against bottom until the colour was spread eve
nly. Satisfied with what she saw in the small mirror, she dropped it back into her bag. She then took off her stockings, gave them a shake, and put them on back to front. The holes, made when her knees met the stone steps of the vestibule, were now at the back of her legs and were less noticeable. ‘Ouch!’ As she twisted her body to check that the lines she’d drawn with her eyebrow pencil on the back of her legs that morning had not rubbed off, an acute pain stabbed at her side, reminding her that she had fallen on her gas mask. Turning again, but slowly, Margaret could see the lines that pretended to be seams were still there.

  Before leaving the church, Margaret took off her jacket and gave it a shake. Minute specks of brick dust swirled through the air. Caught in the beam of light shining through the open door, the particles looked like snowflakes in a Christmas dome.

  She looked at her wristwatch. If she was going to the interview she needed to leave now. Ignoring the pain in her side, Margaret bent down, took hold of the strap of her gas mask and put it over her shoulder before picking up her handbag. Stooping, she made her way to the top of the steps and the door. In the doorway she took a deep breath and slowly stood up straight. With her head held high, she stepped out into the September sunshine.

  The soot-stained chimney that had almost killed her lay on the pavement in front of the door. Although it was partially hidden by broken roof slates, cracked guttering, and lumps of plaster, Margaret could see it was two chimneys cemented together. Her legs felt like blancmange. She put out her hand and held on to the doorframe to steady herself. It would definitely have killed her if the workman, who she wouldn’t recognise now if she tried, hadn’t pushed her out of the way. She blinked back her tears and started to step over the debris. Then she stopped. The chimney was too high to climb over, especially in shoes with high heels, and there was so much rubble on either side of it she wasn’t able to go round. She rolled her eyes skyward in exasperation and froze. Half a dozen workmen on the roof opposite were watching her. She hated to admit defeat, but she had no choice. Smiling thinly, she shrugged her shoulders and walked back the way she had come.

  She could still hear them laughing at the corner of Maiden Lane and Southampton Street. Without looking back, Margaret half limped, half ran along the Strand to the Prince Albert Theatre.

  Bursting through the theatre’s main entrance and out of breath, Margaret approached a young man sitting behind the window of the Box Office. ‘I’m here to see the front of house manager, Miss Lesley. My name is Margaret Burrell.’

  The man lifted his head from the book he was reading and looked Margaret up and down. ‘If you’d like to take a seat,’ he said, and went back to his book.

  ‘I have an appointment!’ Margaret said, somewhat put out by his lack of interest.

  ‘I’ll let Miss Lesley know you’re here.’

  Margaret walked across to a maroon-coloured seat that ran the length of the wall on the far side of the foyer and sat down. Looking around, she was hardly able to contain her excitement. The wallpaper was maroon with gold stripes. Regency, it was called. It was like the wallpaper advertised in her magazine – and it was expensive. The paper Dad put up in the living room at home was one and tuppence a roll. This wallpaper, Margaret decided on closer inspection, would be three shillings a roll, if not more. The curtains at the windows and doors were velvet, the same colour as the seat she was sitting on. Running her hands over the seat’s smooth fabric, Margaret saw how dirty they were.

  ‘Excuse me?’ she called to the man in the box office. ‘Is there somewhere where I can wash my hands?’

  He lifted his head from his book and looked at her as if she’d asked to borrow a fiver. ‘Through the door to the Stalls, along the corridor on the right.’

  Margaret nodded her thanks and began to follow his directions. But as she reached for the handle, the Stalls doors opened.

  ‘Mrs Burrell?’

  ‘Yes!’ Margaret stepped back in surprise and a lock of hair fell onto her face. She pushed the offending strand behind her ear and put out her hand.

  ‘Pamela Lesley. How do you do?’ she said, shaking Margaret’s grubby hand.

  ‘Sorry!’ Margaret felt the blush of embarrassment creep up her neck. ‘Perhaps,’ she said rummaging in her handbag, finding her handkerchief and offering it to Miss Lesley, ‘you could…?’

  ‘Thank you, but there’s no need. If you’d like to follow me.’ Looking over her shoulder, the front of house manager smiled her thanks to a now attentive-looking man in the Box Office. Not a book in sight, Margaret noticed.

  Miss Lesley led the way through the door with Stalls written on it in gold lettering. When Bill took Margaret to the Hippodrome in Coventry they always sat in the stalls. She followed Miss Lesley down a carpeted corridor that was the same colour as the front of house furniture. There was a border between the carpet and the skirting that was painted cream like the walls. Margaret looked up and caught her breath. The walls were covered in photographs: Gertrude Lawrence, Jack Buchanan, Beatrice Lillie, Jessie Matthews and Stanley Holloway – all in gilt frames.

  There were film posters of William Powell and Myrna Loy in Double Wedding. Clark Gable and Jean Harlow in Saratoga. And the new Twentieth Century-Fox film Hollywood Cavalcade starring Alice Faye and Don Ameche, which Bill had promised to take her to see.

  On the opposite wall, Charles Laughton in Alibi and Richard Herne in Wild Rose looked down on her. She began to hum the Jerome Kern song Look for the Silver Lining and walked into the back of Miss Lesley.

  ‘Oh! I’m, I’m so sorry,’ Margaret stuttered. ‘I didn’t know you’d-- I was looking at the photographs and--’

  Miss Lesley looked over the top of her glasses, opened the door on her right, which said Front of House Manager, and motioned Margaret to go in.

  Margaret whispered, ‘Thank you,’ and entered.

  ‘Take a seat, Mrs Burrell.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Margaret said again, sitting on a straight-backed chair in front of a big walnut desk.

  Pamela Lesley, in a smart navy-blue skirt and jacket, sat behind the desk. She was a tall woman, but the chair’s high brass-buttoned back almost dwarfed her. Behind her were more posters and more photographs. The posters looked older than the ones in the corridor. Most had faded and some were brownish-yellow in colour, but the photographs looked as if they’d been taken recently. They were clear and well-defined, and the people in them were dressed in modern clothes.

  ‘Tell me about yourself, Margaret,’ Miss Lesley said suddenly, making Margaret jump. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘A small village called Woodcote, near Lowarth, on the borders of Warwickshire and Leicestershire.’ Miss Lesley nodded, but said nothing. ‘My father was a groom on a country estate.’ Margaret sat up straight, which she always did when she was trying to impress. ‘Head groom actually, at Foxden Hall, until the war. I was born on the estate. I’ve got three sisters, one older and two younger, and an older brother.’

  ‘And what about school? Did you like school?’

  ‘Oh yes! I loved it!’ A slight exaggeration. ‘I went to the C of E junior school in the village until I was eleven, then to the Central School in Lowarth until I was fourteen.’ Margaret wondered whether she should tell Miss Lesley that she’d passed the Eleven Plus. She wanted to, but if she did the front of house manager was sure to ask why she hadn’t gone to the Grammar. So, because she didn’t want to admit her family couldn’t afford the uniform, she said nothing.

  ‘And have you worked since leaving school?’

  ‘Yes!’ Margaret was surprised that Miss Lesley could think it possible that she hadn’t worked in six years. ‘My first job was as a clerical assistant in the office of a factory in Lowarth. When I married Bill last year... Oh, it was a lovely day. The newspapers said that July the first 1939 was the hottest day since records began. Oh!’ she said, suddenly aware that her chatter wasn’t relevant to the conversation. She cleared her throat. ‘When I married Bill, I moved to live with him at his mum a
nd dad’s house in Coventry. The company I worked for didn’t want to lose me, so they gave me a job in the wages office of their aircraft factory.’

  ‘And what brings you to London?’

  ‘My Bill had been poorly when he was little and didn’t pass any of the armed forces medicals, so he couldn’t join up. He was really upset that he couldn’t fight for his country, so Dad had a word with Lord Foxden.’

  ‘Lord Foxden?’

  ‘Yes, who Dad worked for before the war. Lord Foxden’s something high up in the Ministry of Defence--’ Margaret stopped abruptly. ‘Bill said it’s all very hush-hush. Walls Have Ears,’ she whispered. ‘I hope it doesn’t matter me telling you.’

  Miss Lesley smiled. ‘I promise not to tell anyone.’

  ‘Well, Bill went to see Lord Foxden and his Lordship said that because Bill could ride a motorbike and had a clean driving licence, and because he’d never been in trouble with the police, which he hasn’t, Bill would be ideal as a special courier for the MoD here in London. Even before war was declared Bill was taking top secret documents from London to-- other parts of the country. Mam and Dad didn’t want me to come down at first. Mam was furious. She said London would be the first place the Germans would bomb. Dad was angry because I’d given up a good job. But I’d only been married for a few months and I wanted to be with my husband. I came down to spend Christmas with him and except for going home to fetch my clothes, I’ve been here ever since.’

  ‘And you’re staying with Mr and Mrs Goldman?’

  ‘Not with them, exactly. We have our own cosy little sitting room and kitchenette, bedroom and bathroom. Our rooms are part of the house, but we have our own stairs. I expect they were where the servants lived in the old days. If it wasn’t for my sister Bess we wouldn’t have such a lovely home. She’s a friend of Mr and Mrs Goldman. She met them when she was at college in London. They were very kind to her.’