Ruby Jackson - A Christmas Gift

‘May I help you?’ asked the one behind the counter and her voice reinforced what Sally had just been thinking. She wondered now if she could learn to speak like the lady. That accent would be perfect for some parts.

‘I’d like to see the blue cloak in the window, please.’

‘Exquisite, isn’t it? Maude, you’re closer. Be an angel and bring the young lady the evening cloak.’

‘In a jiff, Fedora.’ Maude’s voice was pleasant but not in the same league as that of the elegant Fedora.

Sally tried to memorise the sounds – as well as the strange name.

And then, somehow she was before a mirror and the cloak was on her shoulders. The blue of the velvet made her eyes appear bluer, deeper and brighter than ever. Whatever it cost, she had to own this wonderful cloak.

‘What a picture,’ said Fedora. ‘Honestly, Maude, doesn’t it look as if it was made for her?’

Maude looked at Sally, seeing her neat skirt, well-ironed blouse and hand-knitted cardigan. ‘Not frightfully practical, but yes, very lovely. For something special, may I ask?’

Sally had been bursting to tell someone, anyone. ‘I’m going to London, to the Theatre Royal, actually; it’s more or less on Drury Lane. I’m a guest of Miss Constance Marshall.’

‘Good heavens, surely all theatres closed a few days after war was declared?’ said Maude. ‘And as for Connie Marshall, I thought she retired years ago.’

‘Obviously not.’ Fedora turned to Sally. ‘Forgive Maude, she’s decided not to read the newspapers until the end of this ghastly war.’ In a louder voice she added, ‘The theatres have been reopened, Maude.’ She turned back to Sally. ‘That does sound like a perfectly lovely evening, my dear. I’m afraid the cloak is rather expensive. It’s by a top designer, and the money is going to war charities.’ She looked as if she was at war with herself.

‘We’ve had it three weeks and no one has even looked at it,’ Maude reminded her.

‘Two pounds ten shillings,’ said Fedora at last. ‘I know that’s a lot but I can’t let it go for less.’

Sally had winced but she had to have the cloak. It was as if the designer had had her in mind when he had created it. ‘I have five shillings in my bag but I have the rest in my Post Office account.’ She fished her purse out of her bag and emptied the coins it contained onto the counter. ‘Could I put this as a down payment, please? I have to go back to work now but I’ll take the money out tomorrow. Honestly, I will come back.’

‘I can’t let you take it with you, dear, not without payment.’

‘I understand, but please take my five shillings – a deposit, as it were. I swear I’ll come back tomorrow with the rest.’

‘Of course we’ll take it. The cloak was made for you, wasn’t it?’ said Maude.

A few minutes later, Sally, feeling as light as a soap bubble, left the shop and hurried back to the theatre. Her father would be unhappy about the amount of money she had spent on a cloak for one evening but he would also say that it was her own hard-earned money and, if she chose to waste it, that was entirely up to her.

Neither parent had been particularly happy about her going to a London theatre with an actor older than her own father.

‘Of course, seeing and hearing Ivor Novello is quite wonderful, pet,’ said Elsie, ‘but we just don’t like the idea of our young daughter being alone with this man, with any man.’

‘Mum, he’s my boss and he was famous once – even you and Dad know that. And I’ll only be alone with him while he’s driving us to London and back again right after the performance. Don’t spoil this, please. What if I actually meet Miss Marshall?’ She dreamed of meeting Novello, the star, but surely that was much too wonderful even to mention.

‘Very nice, I’m sure,’ said Bert. ‘I think we should let her go, love,’ he turned to his daughter, ‘but he picks you up here, Sally, and he’ll shake my hand and tell me exactly what time you’ll get home – and it had better be not long after the play ends.’

Just over two weeks later, Sally sat, a mere five rows from the stage of the Tamise Theatre, admiring the classic profile of the world-famous Ivor Novello as he starred in his own musical The Dancing Years . Only now, towards the close of the performance, was she able to breathe properly, for Fedora had been perfectly correct and the production had been forced to change theatres early in September. Elliott had been so sure of himself that he had never examined the tickets and had driven to Drury Lane to find the theatre completely deserted. There he lost his temper and shouted some words that Sally was glad she did not understand, but recovered in time to drive to the Tamise Theatre where he again embarrassed Sally by pushing his way through the waiting crowds.

At last she was relaxed after twice resorting to pinching her arm to assure herself that she was indeed in a London theatre, that she was enveloped in a strikingly lovely blue velvet cloak, and that the great man himself had actually spoken to her.

She’d been so excited to meet Connie Marshall, who was rather grand and gracious. It was just before curtain up, and visitors shouldn’t have been backstage, but Connie found time to ask Sally very kindly about her theatrical career and Sally was saved from revealing the disappointing truth when her mouth literally dried up at the sight of the great – and very handsome – star of musical theatre approaching behind the elderly actress.

‘Enjoy, poppet, sorry, got to fly,’ was all he had said as Connie quickly introduced Sally, but he had spoken to her and she would never forget it.

She wished she could forget Elliott’s closeness. His right hand strayed several times to her knee and when she had joked that she needed to pinch herself, she had not liked the tone of his voice when he said that he would be delighted to do the pinching. As the evening wore on she became more and more sure that she had made a dreadful mistake in accepting the older actor’s invitation. She almost wept as she realised that had she not accepted, one of the most famous men in the entire world of musical theatre would never have smiled at her or spoken to her.

The curtain went down. The theatre exploded with cheers and clapping and stamping feet as the audience stood up. Back came the cast, bowing modestly, kissing flowers that were thrown and often sending them back to the original thrower. It was wonderful, but at the back of Sally’s mind was a band of cold fear.

He’ll take me straight home, she told herself. He promised. Everything will be all right.

‘Come along, darling. We’re going backstage for drinkies.’

‘But it’s late, Elliott, and you said we’d leave after the performance.’

‘And we will, sweet child, but first we have to do the polite, you know. Must get rid of the black mark I earned. We’ll pop in on old Connie again – she is a darling, isn’t she? Can’t think of anyone else who would risk Ivor’s wrath just before a performance but then, she is so terribly fond of me. If he’s not too besieged, we’ll see darling Ivor and have some champers. Ever had champers, Sally B?’

Champagne was not something ever served in the Brewer house. How exciting. It was a dream … except for that niggle of worry. But, of course there would be no problem; they worked together. Elliott was merely being theatrical and silly.

‘I can’t stay long, Elliott. My parents will worry.’

‘You’re not a child, Sally. Silly girl. Here we are.’

Seeing that the great man’s dressing room was already packed full, Sally turned to leave but Elliott held her hand painfully and pulled her along behind him through the crowd.

The air rang with cries of ‘Dahling’, ‘Wonderful’, even ‘Mahvellous!!’ The practical Petrie twins would be amazed to learn that ‘Mahvellous’ and ‘Dahling’ were actual words, Sally thought.