‘The artists aren’t allowed to sit around in their costumes, Margaret. And if you see anyone eating in costume,’ Mrs Horton said, ‘you must tell me. Be discreet, but tell me at once.’ Margaret nodded. ‘Not only do most of the costumes crease easily, but stains are impossible to wash out. Costumes with sequins or rhinestones can’t be washed in the conventional way; they have to be taken back to Berwick Street and sent away to a specialist cleaner. Before the war it was often cheaper to make another costume. But now material’s rationed, fabric’s impossible to get, unless you want utility serge.’
Margaret laughed. ‘Kat wouldn’t wear utility serge unless it came from Harvey Nichols.’
‘Kat wouldn’t wear utility anything, full stop!’ Mrs Horton said.
As soon as she arrived in the morning, Margaret washed the small items and hung them over the hot pipes in the boiler room. While they were drying she joined Mrs Horton and Bert for elevenses. Afterwards, she set about mending and ironing. When the gloves and stockings were dry she sorted them into pairs, folding the stockings and ironing the gloves, ready to take to the dressing rooms after lunch. On matinee days it was at twelve, which gave them time to take the costumes to the dressing rooms before the company arrived.
The artists’ names were sewn into their costumes, which Mrs Horton and Margaret took to the dressing rooms and hung on a rail above the shoe rack. Gloves and stockings, and anything else that had been washed or mended, was put on the relevant artist’s chair. Jewellery and hats were placed on the dressing table in front of their mirror.
Bert brought up any telegrams, good luck cards and flowers that had been left at the stage door. He was like everyone’s granddad. He’d been the stage doorman and first-aider at the Prince Albert Theatre for over forty years. He could have – should have – retired several years before, but the theatre was his life. He was the first to arrive in the morning and the last to leave at night. He spoke to everyone with respect, including Margaret, although she could tell by the way he smiled at Nancy Jewel that she was his favourite. She was Margaret’s too.
Until she got to know the artists Margaret decided to keep her opinions to herself. She worked hard and saved her chatter for Bill when she got home.
CHAPTER FOUR
Annie’s words came into Margaret’s mind. “Don’t volunteer for nothing, they’ll take advantage of you.” Margaret sniffed – as Annie did – at the pile of ironing and mending she’d volunteered to do while she waited for Bill. She sniffed again at the underarms of Kat and George’s costumes. ‘Phew!’ After sponging them with rose water, she took them to the boiler room and hung them up to dry. On her way out she heard a ping, and suddenly it was dark. A bulb had gone. Looking along the corridor, she felt a sudden and icy chill. She rolled her shoulders, but couldn’t shake off the feeling. Annie had said the theatre was haunted by the spirit of a young girl. She said there was a cold spot on the landing, where the girl had stood before throwing herself down the stairs. Margaret wondered if she was standing in the spot and shivered. The stairs were steep and winding and made of stone. She looked over the banister and caught her breath.
She ran back to Wardrobe, flew through the door and slammed it shut. Leaning on it, she exhaled slowly. When she was sure no one had followed her, she stopped shaking. She arched her back and pushed herself off the door. ‘Bert’s downstairs, you silly goose,’ she said, ‘so get on with your job!’
Banishing all thoughts of Annie’s ghost and cold spots from her mind, she started on the repairs. After replacing a button on Betsy’s shirt, she took Goldie’s costume from its hanger and laid it across Mrs Horton’s sewing table. Goldie must have caught her heel in the hem; it had come down in two places. In the sewing drawer she searched the reels of cotton until she found one the same colour as Goldie’s dress. Five minutes later the dress looked as good as new.
Margaret ran her hands over the blue and silver beaded bodice. She had sewn the tiny round beads so neatly and close together that they felt level beneath her fingers. It had taken her hours. She grinned as she recalled the expression on Violet’s face when she asked her if seamstresses were allowed to try on the costumes “Not on your life!” she’d said, with a scowl that could have curdled the milk, yet just a few weeks later Margaret had been used as a dummy, because she was the same height and size as Goldie. Coveting the costume, she sighed. She would love to try it on now it was finished, but… But what? Who would know? No one!
In one movement she pulled her own dress over her head and threw it across the ironing board. She kicked off her shoes – she didn’t want to risk catching her heel in the hem – and stepped into the costume. She didn’t do it all the way up; she wasn’t able to reach all the small buttons at the back. She twirled and caught her breath. The dress looked as good on her as it did on Goldie.
Her heart
