Read Online The Silent War by Victor Pemberton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Victor Pemberton
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row, front stalls. And what a night to be there, after the announcement earlier in the day that the Allies had launched their eagerly awaited invasion of mainland Europe!
It was also only the second time she had met Harry Smike, and she really quite liked him. He wasn’t, of course, as sexy and good-looking as Lennie Jackson, but she did have to admit that he had a smile that was quite titillating. The two boys were sitting on either side of the girls, so that during the show after the broadcast, Sunday and Pearl could exchange intimate chitchat about their boyfriends without being overheard.
Henry Hall himself clearly warmed to the heady atmosphere his show always generated, and his tall, gangly figure, immaculate in black tie and dinner suit, blended beautifully with the red plush, gold-tasselled stage curtains, which tastefully matched the stall and dress-circle seats, and the ornate gold-leaf stuccos around the stage boxes. Although he seemed to Sunday to be a shy man, when Henry Hall raised his baton, the sounds coming from his talented band of musicians sent Sunday into a state of total ecstasy. And the moment he made a reference to ‘our gallant boys who are now fighting the Nazis on French soil’, the place rocked with thunderous cheers. Sunday also clapped hard and long with the rest of the audience as each ‘guest’ appeared, especially those who sang, but she even laughed at the special guest, Jeanne de Casalis, whose ‘on the telephone’ act as the dithery ‘Mrs Feather’ was a great favourite with everyone.
During the broadcast, Sunday had been so carried away by the excitement of the occasion that she hadn’t realised that Harry Smike was not only holding her hand, but squeezing it. On one occasion, whilst a marvellous young singer called Dorothy Squires was singing ‘You’ll Never Know’ with her husband Billy Reid at the piano, Harry even leaned across and kissed Sunday on her ear. By the time the half-hour broadcast had come to an end with Henry Hall’s familiar fade-out song, ‘Here’s To The Next Time’, Harry had snaked his arm around Sunday’s shoulders.
After the end of the first house show, Sunday and Harry came out of the theatre with Pearl and Lennie, and they all went to have a drink at the pub by the railway bridge just near the Tube Station. Considering it was a weekday, the place was absolutely crowded, and the two girls had to wait on the pavement outside whilst the two fellers fought their way through to the counter.
‘Listen, Sun,’ yelled Pearl, trying to be heard above the rowdy singsong coming from inside the pub. ‘I’ve bin wantin’ ter say ’ow sorry I am – about wot ’appened down the Afenaeum the uvver Saturday night.’
All of a sudden, Sunday felt awful. She was the one who should be apologising, not Pearl. It happened every time. If ever she, Sunday, was in the wrong, she could never bring herself to say so. And even now, as she looked at Pearl’s dumpy little face all racked with unnecessary guilt, she couldn’t actually put into words what she really wanted to say. So she made do with, ‘Forget it, Pearl! It doesn’t matter.’ She had to shout really loud, for the singsong inside had been replaced by loud, boozy cheers.
Pearl waited for the row to calm down before speaking again. ‘It
does
matter, Sun,’ she said. ‘Lennie ’ad no right ter take me off an’ leave you on yer own. It was – ’orrible. I told Lennie.’
‘Stop apologising, Pearl,’ Sunday said brusquely. ‘You’re always apologising. I’ve forgotten all about it.’
‘Well,
I
’aven’t, Sun. I ’ate it when you an’ me fall out. You’re the best friend a gel could ever ’ave. An’ that’s the ’onest troof.’
Sunday felt as though she wanted to curl up and die. Just for once why couldn’t she say that she was the one to blame, not Pearl? Why couldn’t she say that she was the one who walked out in a huff that night, because she was jealous – jealous
It was also only the second time she had met Harry Smike, and she really quite liked him. He wasn’t, of course, as sexy and good-looking as Lennie Jackson, but she did have to admit that he had a smile that was quite titillating. The two boys were sitting on either side of the girls, so that during the show after the broadcast, Sunday and Pearl could exchange intimate chitchat about their boyfriends without being overheard.
Henry Hall himself clearly warmed to the heady atmosphere his show always generated, and his tall, gangly figure, immaculate in black tie and dinner suit, blended beautifully with the red plush, gold-tasselled stage curtains, which tastefully matched the stall and dress-circle seats, and the ornate gold-leaf stuccos around the stage boxes. Although he seemed to Sunday to be a shy man, when Henry Hall raised his baton, the sounds coming from his talented band of musicians sent Sunday into a state of total ecstasy. And the moment he made a reference to ‘our gallant boys who are now fighting the Nazis on French soil’, the place rocked with thunderous cheers. Sunday also clapped hard and long with the rest of the audience as each ‘guest’ appeared, especially those who sang, but she even laughed at the special guest, Jeanne de Casalis, whose ‘on the telephone’ act as the dithery ‘Mrs Feather’ was a great favourite with everyone.
During the broadcast, Sunday had been so carried away by the excitement of the occasion that she hadn’t realised that Harry Smike was not only holding her hand, but squeezing it. On one occasion, whilst a marvellous young singer called Dorothy Squires was singing ‘You’ll Never Know’ with her husband Billy Reid at the piano, Harry even leaned across and kissed Sunday on her ear. By the time the half-hour broadcast had come to an end with Henry Hall’s familiar fade-out song, ‘Here’s To The Next Time’, Harry had snaked his arm around Sunday’s shoulders.
After the end of the first house show, Sunday and Harry came out of the theatre with Pearl and Lennie, and they all went to have a drink at the pub by the railway bridge just near the Tube Station. Considering it was a weekday, the place was absolutely crowded, and the two girls had to wait on the pavement outside whilst the two fellers fought their way through to the counter.
‘Listen, Sun,’ yelled Pearl, trying to be heard above the rowdy singsong coming from inside the pub. ‘I’ve bin wantin’ ter say ’ow sorry I am – about wot ’appened down the Afenaeum the uvver Saturday night.’
All of a sudden, Sunday felt awful. She was the one who should be apologising, not Pearl. It happened every time. If ever she, Sunday, was in the wrong, she could never bring herself to say so. And even now, as she looked at Pearl’s dumpy little face all racked with unnecessary guilt, she couldn’t actually put into words what she really wanted to say. So she made do with, ‘Forget it, Pearl! It doesn’t matter.’ She had to shout really loud, for the singsong inside had been replaced by loud, boozy cheers.
Pearl waited for the row to calm down before speaking again. ‘It
does
matter, Sun,’ she said. ‘Lennie ’ad no right ter take me off an’ leave you on yer own. It was – ’orrible. I told Lennie.’
‘Stop apologising, Pearl,’ Sunday said brusquely. ‘You’re always apologising. I’ve forgotten all about it.’
‘Well,
I
’aven’t, Sun. I ’ate it when you an’ me fall out. You’re the best friend a gel could ever ’ave. An’ that’s the ’onest troof.’
Sunday felt as though she wanted to curl up and die. Just for once why couldn’t she say that she was the one to blame, not Pearl? Why couldn’t she say that she was the one who walked out in a huff that night, because she was jealous – jealous
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