Love or Duty (14 page)

S
arah sat in front of the dressing room mirror, powder puff in hand. She leaned forward, peering into the glass, wondering where the naïve young girl she had once been had gone. Life here in New York was so different – noisier, brasher, faster – and she loved it.

‘My destiny,’ she whispered.

Since disembarking from the
Queen Mary
all those months ago she’d hardly spared a thought for those she had left behind. Of course, she had wept when she said goodbye to her family on the quayside at Southampton but she’d soon recovered in the excitement of her new adventure. Then the telegram about her father had come and she had cried again. The tears hadn’t lasted long. She sternly told herself that there was nothing she could do. She could have gone back – the voyage only took four or five days and she could have telegraphed asking Louise to delay the funeral. But what would be the point? she asked herself. Besides, she had signed a contract and she couldn’t let the others down. At least, that was what she told herself.

The show was a success, enjoying rave reviews, especially for the young unknown singer playing the part of Amy. Offers were already flooding in, including one from a top Hollywood producer. She sighed, wondering if the price had been too high. Was starring in films worth what she’d had to do to hold Ralph Beauchamp’s interest? She looked at her reflection and pulled a face. She’d learned a lot since that first experience with Steve Forbes and the main lesson had been that, with her looks, men were easily manipulated.

The show had another week to run and then she’d be off, across that vast continent to embark on yet another adventure – that’s how she must think of it, an adventure.

A tap on the dressing-room door warned her that she was due on stage.

‘Coming’, she called and stood up, throwing down the powder puff in a cloud of perfumed dust which settled on the letter lying among the tubes and jars of make-up.

As usual the show finished to tumultuous applause and many curtain calls. Sarah took her final bow, then rushed off stage. She was exhausted and, despite the exhilaration she always felt at the end of a successful performance, she wasn’t sorry that the end of the run was in sight. It was time to spread her wings, to tackle something more demanding than the part of the youngest March sister.

As she began to remove her make-up, her hand brushed against the letter. When it had arrived, she’d only glanced at it briefly, unwilling to be reminded that, while everything was going so well for her, the sister she loved seemed to be trapped in a life of boring domesticity. Not that Louise complained of course. But Sarah could read between the lines. Rather her than me, she thought, at the same time chiding herself for her selfish thought.

‘I’ll write later,’ she promised herself. ‘Tomorrow, when I’m not so tired.’

But she wasn’t too tired to join her friends for a late supper and drink. And in the small hours of the morning, as she tried to sleep, her thoughts reluctantly returned to Holton Regis and the family she’d left behind. It was hard to imagine Steyne House without her father. How were they coping without him? And was her mother really ill? Sarah had long suspected that Dora’s famous ‘heads’ were a bid for attention and that Stanley had always indulged her.

Louise had told her she was volunteering at the children’s hospital and Sarah was glad she was able to get away from Dora’s demands for a little while. She seemed very happy with her ‘war work’, although as far as Sarah could tell nothing much had happened after the first panics about bombs and gas attacks. It all seemed very far away to her.

I’m glad I got away in time, she thought, as she drifted off to sleep. Poor Louise, stupid Louise. Why didn’t she stand up for herself, make a life for herself? She could have been married with her own family by now or if, like Sarah herself, she wanted a career, she should have stayed on in the theatre. Now, she was stuck in Holton Regis, an old maid, doing good works and running around after Mother.

Sarah woke late the next morning, a sour taste in her mouth from the
cocktails
she’d drunk the night before. Thank God there was no matinee today, she thought, pulling the satin quilt up over her head. But she couldn’t get back to sleep.

Rubbing her eyes, she sat up, blinking in the bright sunshine that streamed through the uncurtained window. ‘Coffee,’ she muttered, and
staggered
across to the corner of the room where a sink and a gas ring served as a kitchen.

While she waited for the coffee to percolate, she tipped everything out of her handbag, hoping there was a cigarette left in the packet. As she snatched at it, she caught sight of Louise’s letter. As she re-read it, she could tell her sister wasn’t really happy despite her efforts to sound cheerful. It couldn’t be much fun, looking after Mother with only Polly to help in that great big house, and now there was rationing to put up with as well. At least there’d been no bombs so far, Louise wrote, although being so far from any big city, that wasn’t really a worry.

She should have come out here with me, Sarah thought, as she lit her cigarette and took a deep drag. She poured the coffee, adding a generous helping of sugar and sat down at the little table by the window, looking down on the busy streetscape below. So many people, so much noise, so much
life
. If only Louise could see it, she’d realize what she was missing. She stubbed out the cigarette and went to the dresser, scrabbling in the drawers for pen and paper. She’d invite her for a visit. They could travel out to California together. Surely she could leave Mother for a week or two.

But, as she sat down to write, chewing the end of her pen, she realized it would be impossible. The Atlantic liners had all been requisitioned as troop ships and besides, ships were being sunk by U-boats every day. Louise’s visit would have to wait till the end of the war, and who knew how long that would be? Perhaps it was just as well, Sarah thought. Much as she loved her half-sister, she knew Louise would not approve of the way she was living now – the drinks, the parties, her relationship with Ralph. In the end she wrote very briefly saying she hoped Mother would be better soon and
reassuring
her family that everything was going well for her.

She didn’t mention that the Hollywood producer wanted her to change her name, or what she’d had to do to ensure a starring part in his next film.

The letter took a long time to reach Holton. When it came through the letterbox, Louise snatched it up eagerly; it was months since they’d heard from Sarah. Standing in the hall, she scanned the single sheet, relieved that everything was going well for her half-sister but disappointed that it didn’t contain more detailed news.

A querulous voice came from upstairs. ‘Was that the post, Louise?’

Louise sighed. ‘Yes, Mother. I’ll bring it up in a minute.’ She went into the kitchen, lit the gas under the kettle and began to prepare Dora’s breakfast tray. Despite her determination not dance to her stepmother’s tune, she had begun to realize it was easier to give in than to make a stand. Since Polly had left them to work in the Vickers factory in Southampton, she’d had to manage alone.

In a way, it was a relief that nowadays Dora rarely left her room, spending most of the day in bed and only getting up for a short while in the mornings. She didn’t come downstairs but sat at the window, watching and commenting on everything, from the amount of time the ARP warden spent in his hut at the end of the road to the shabby look of the Local Defence Volunteers as they drilled along the promenade.

When Louise came up to remove her tray or to help her to the bathroom, she would try to detain her, going on at length about the shortcomings of those who were mismanaging the war in general and Holton Regis in particular. ‘I’m going to write to the council about it,’ was her frequent threat and Louise would fetch her notepaper and fountain pen, pleased that she had something to occupy her.

Thank goodness she doesn’t come downstairs these days, she thought, glancing round the shabby kitchen where she spent most of her time now. She’d have plenty to criticize here. She finished setting the tray and put Sarah’s letter on it.

She settled Dora in her chair, making sure she had her spectacles, pen and paper, and edged towards the door.

‘Sarah doesn’t have much to say for herself, hardly worth writing at all,’ Dora said.

‘I expect she’s busy.’

‘Too busy to write to her mother?’ Dora’s voice was sharp. ‘And why did she address it to you?’

‘It’s to both of us, Mother. It would be silly to write separate letters.’

‘I suppose so.’ Dora sighed. ‘I’ll have to write back, though I don’t know what I’ll say. You shouldn’t have told her I was ill. I don’t want her worrying.’

‘Why not tell her about the Red Cross parcels? She’ll be reassured if she knows you’re well enough to do war work.’

In an effort to keep Dora occupied and to stop her from dwelling on her imagined ill health, Louise had enlisted the help of Mrs Howard, who was in the WVS. Since Dora refused to get actively involved, Mrs Howard had provided wool and needles and persuaded her to knit socks and scarves for the troops. It hadn’t really worked; often Louise came into the room to see her stepmother gazing out of the window, her knitting idle in her lap.

‘I don’t really feel up to doing anything today.’ Dora crumbled her toast and pushed the plate away. ‘I can’t eat this. Isn’t there any bacon?’

‘Mother, you know it’s rationed now. We’ve had our share for the week.’ Louise didn’t tell Dora that she’d eaten her ration as well.

‘I don’t understand it. Surely we produce bacon in this country. I can understand rationing stuff that comes from abroad but—’

‘It’s to make things fair and to stop people profiteering from the war, Mother,’ Louise said. ‘Now, are you sure you have everything you need. I have to go out in a minute.’

‘Do you have to? I hate being alone.’

‘Yes, I do. It’s war work, Mother. We all have to do our bit.’ She closed the door and ran downstairs with a sense of freedom. Three hours away from the house, away from Dora’s whining, three hours doing the work she had come to love.

She walked out into the fresh spring morning with a smile on her face, her shoulders back, her step light, as if a burden had fallen from her shoulders. She loved her work at the children’s hospital and was pleased that she’d dismissed her earlier misgivings.

Her good mood almost evaporated as she recalled the contents of Sarah’s letter. Surely she could have said more about the Hollywood offer and when she would be leaving New York? Still, she knew from experience that the hours at the theatre were long and tiring and she supposed they were lucky to have received a letter at all.

She’d write back tonight, tell Sarah about Alfie and her voluntary work. She wasn’t sure if she’d mention her growing friendship with James, though. She didn’t want Sarah reading too much into it. She wasn’t even sure herself if friendship was the right word.

She crossed the road and entered the former dance hall that had escaped the worst of the fire. It had remained boarded up for years while the council tried to decide whether they should find a use for it or have it demolished. For some time it had been used as a furniture warehouse and when Dr Tate had suggested using it as temporary hospital for the children from London, there had been some opposition. But his nephew had gathered a band of volunteers who had put up partitions, installed plumbing and painted the building inside and out.

The wall that faced the sea across the stretch of grass was now almost entirely glass and the children’s beds faced the windows. It was the first time some of them had been exposed to so much light and sunshine and they thrived on it.

Louise smiled and waved, getting waves in return. She entered by the side door, leaving her coat in the cloakroom.

‘Good morning, Miss Charlton. Lovely morning, isn’t it?’ Matron said, getting up from her desk.

‘What would you like me to do today?’ The real nursing was done by the staff who’d come down from London with the children. But Louise had shown herself willing to do anything to help, whether it was feeding a child too sick to hold a spoon, cleaning up after them or simply comforting a child crying for its mother.

Most of the patients weren’t really ill. They’d been brought to Andrew’s East End clinic suffering from a variety of ailments, many of them the result of poverty and malnutrition. In the past the parents had often been
reluctant
to send their children away to convalesce. With the coming of war Andrew, with the backing of the government’s mass evacuation plans, had persuaded them that the seaside was the best place for them.

Now, after several months of good food and sea air, Louise was delighted to see the pale under-nourished children beginning to bloom.

‘I wondered if you’d like to take little Alfie Briggs out in his wheelchair as it’s such a nice day. He’s a bit down this morning,’ Matron said.

‘Any particular reason?’ Louise had grown fond of Alfie, although she told herself sternly that she didn’t have favourites.

‘His friend Susie went back to London yesterday.’

‘Back? Is she well enough?’

‘She’s much improved. When her mother turned up saying there’s not going to be any bombing and that she’s needed at home we couldn’t refuse.’ Matron sighed, ‘I wish the doctor had been here. He might have been able to persuade her to let Susie stay.’

‘Why is she needed at home?’ Susie was eleven and Louise knew that often older children were needed to look after their smaller brothers and sisters. But Susie’s two brothers had been evacuated to Somerset.

Matron coughed. ‘Well, Mrs Tyler’s in a certain condition and she’ll need Susie when the baby comes.’

Louise nodded. What a burden for the poor child. Her own discontent with her lot seemed trivial when she considered what hard lives some of these children had. ‘I expect Alfie will miss her. A walk along the prom might cheer him up. I’ll be back in time to help with the lunches,’ she said.