Ruby Jackson - A Christmas Gift

Fervently Sally prayed that his theory would never have to be put to the test.

Now, as even the usually sunny Sebastian began to growl, she uncoiled herself from the rather elderly armchair and stretched. ‘All this agony and it’s not as if there’ll be even one child in the audience.’

‘ Au contraire, mon ange, some of those boys aren’t twenty yet. The hangar will be packed with children in uniforms, and all of them needing a good laugh or to ogle a gorgeous girl. Come along, let’s give it a twirl – and show a bit more leg this time.’

‘Show yours; they’re better than mine, and besides, it’s a waltz. Millie’s instructions were decorum, decorum and … and decorum.’

‘Come on, Cinders, wrap that shawl round your waist as if it’s your ball gown. Then – with decorum – use your thumb and middle finger to lift your skirt oh so frightfully genteelly. That’s it. Gadzooks, I saw some calf there. Scrumptious.’

‘You are an idiot.’

‘But lovable. You, Cinderella, were lifting the wrong side; left hand for skirts while dancing, right hand for while climbing stairs. Good rule.’

‘Whose rule?’

Sebastian smiled rakishly. ‘Grandmamma’s. A truly terrifying woman, as you know, darling, so please don’t force me to send for her.’

Sally said nothing. She had heard of her co-star’s formidable grandmother many times before but whether the lady actually existed she still, after almost four years, had no knowledge.

They left the hut styled ‘Stars’ Dressing Room’ and moved to the war-scarred hangar, which was serving as a theatre.

‘The engineers, bless them, have made this place almost presentable,’ Sally said, looking round admiringly.

‘The boys will be pleased. We should cut down the date palm and decorate it.’

‘Don’t even think about it, Sebastian. The lads I was talking to yesterday swear they’ll get dates from it soon.’

In the surrounding area, several companies of Allied troops were stationed and too many of them were in the makeshift wards. Most waited for orders and trained for who knew what day after day. Some would be repatriated, possibly in the plane that would take the ENSA company home. Some were still too ill to move and would be forced to remain until the overstretched medical team got them well enough to travel.

It was the wounded whom Sally thought of most often and for whom she worked. As leading lady of this small troupe, she would star as Cinderella but she would also be expected to sing and dance in choreographed short pieces and, since both she and Sebastian had acted on stage and had appeared in film – he was a former child star – and were quite well known, they would take part in several selections from popular plays or films.

Sally loved every minute of her work with ENSA. She knew just how much a favourite song, a smile, a touch of the hand, a blown kiss meant to so many of these men and she worked just as hard on a hastily knocked-up stage – thanks to the Corps of Engineers – as she did on the London stage. She knew Sebastian well, having worked with him in several productions and shared his London flat. At another time, he could have been an Academy Award contender. Perhaps he would be some day. And so to the waltz of the handsome prince in his satin suit and his mysterious princess in her glorious gown and dazzling glass slippers.

‘Let’s try to work it out with my hand on your shoulder,’ Sally suggested. ‘Once we’re in sync I’ll try hitching up poor old Cinders’ magic frock. You hum something.’

His right hand immediately found its way to the top of her hip. Once that touch would have set her on fire but that was long ago now. Sally smiled, not at all sad to acknowledge it now meant only that her partner was ready to dance.

For once he did not begin.

‘Hum, Sebastian.’

‘I hate being asked to hum. All I can think of is “Rum and Coca-Cola” and I’m sure that’s not three-four time.’ He hummed the calypso.

‘Where’s the dratted pianist when you want him?’ Sally muttered in exasperation.

‘Do you know, my angel, that your frown has just reminded me that one of the Russians, Tchaikovsky perhaps, wrote a ballet, Cinderella ?’

‘Bound to be a waltz in it and that would be rather terrif, wouldn’t it? Hum it.’

Sebastian saluted. ‘I would, mein Führer , but the old brain must be slipping a gear because nothing is coming.’ He looked at her face and saw signs of an impending storm. ‘I’ll just count. Right, one two, three, one two three …’ He stopped counting and dancing and incidentally stood on Sally’s foot at the same time.

‘Good Lord,’ he yelped.

‘You called, m’lord?’ came a voice from behind the stage, and a burly man in an elderly overall walked across to the piano.

‘Gus, my angel, just when we needed you. Cinderella can’t waltz, comes of doing nothing all day but sitting by the fireside poking the cinders. Can you produce a waltz, perhaps from Tchaikovsky’s ballet?’

Gus pulled up the ramshackle stool that stood near the piano. He and Sally looked at it rather doubtfully. ‘How’s this theatre’s insurance cover, Seb? These little beauties are worth a fortune.’ He wiggled ten short, stubby fingers before them.

‘What’s left of my entire Christmas and blessed New Year’s Day alcohol allowance,’ said Seb by way of answer. ‘Even in sunny downtown Egyptian desert there appeared the odd bottle of something to go with the turkey. Rather an odd bouquet, like pressed dates.’

‘I put my faith in the army,’ said Gus, tentatively approaching the stool. He pressed down on it. There was a crack like the sound of a pistol shot. ‘Solid as a rock,’ he lied, and sat down. He played a few notes and stood up. ‘This hasn’t been tuned since it was built and the bloody thing’s a Bechstein. Should be shot, whoever owned it.’

‘It’s a piano, Gus.’

‘It’s a helluva lot more than that; it’s a casualty of war, Seb. This here is one of the greats. You should know that. How the hell did it ever get here? Unforgivable.’

‘Can you do something to help it, Gus?’ Sally asked gently. She was surprised by just how upset this burly man was, and, although he was new to this company, she knew that he had managed to survive some gruelling years in the conflict.

Gus smiled. ‘I sure as hell am not going to plonk out a waltz or anything else on it for you till I’ve had a good look inside. If you can hum a few bars I’ll whistle Cinderella’s waltz from the ballet, Prince Lanky Legs.’

He did not wait for Sebastian to answer but began to whistle a lovely tune. Gus’s whistle was in a class of its own, a musical instrument.

Cinderella and her prince waltzed effortlessly round the stage. Sally was quiet when they stopped. She had danced, eyes closed, safe in Sebastian’s familiar arms to music she thought she knew. For a few minutes she had been a world away from war and disaster, dirt and pain.

‘Thank you, Gus. That was perfect. Was it the Cinderella waltz?’

‘Naw, haven’t heard that. That was vintage Irving Berlin.’ He took Sally into a hold and began to dance with her, singing as they moved.

A familiar cold splinter pierced Sally’s heart. She tried to ignore it and smile. ‘“What’ll I Do” … lovely old melody, Gus. I do hope you can heal the piano.’

‘I’ll do my best – and then I’ll see who I can blackmail into sending it back to Blighty with other equipment.’

‘They’ll say it’s not equipment, Gus; hardly the same as a three-ton lorry.’

‘It’s Equipment – vital to mental health, His Majesty’s Forces of. Watch me. I can out-argue any barrister.’

Two weeks later, the company climbed into the cab of a large army lorry to be driven, together with a few lucky soldiers who were being repatriated, to the nearest safe aerodrome. Sally had driven over every type of surface in every kind of weather – over hills, across riverbeds, through swollen rivers – but the trip across the desert was one of the most unpleasant. First, there was no actual road; secondly, it was so hot that it was difficult to breathe, and just touching a metal part of the lorry could cause quite a painful burn. Sally’s preconceptions of Egyptian scenery had suffered several blows on this trip. She had expected miles and miles of sand dunes, with here and there a small oasis, exactly what she seen night after night in the films she loved watching from the projectionist’s booth at the Dartford cinema where her father had worked since his return from the battlefields of the Great War. Yes, there were miles of sand dunes, but to her surprise there were hills – not tall dunes but actual hills – most multistriped by coloured bands of what one of the soldiers told her were minerals. Once she saw a camel, his robed rider seemingly oblivious of their presence as he made his measured, stately way across the sands.