On grazed hands and knees, Margaret picked up her comb, lipstick and powder compact, which now had a cracked mirror and was covered in brick dust. Returning them to her handbag, she sat back on her heels and looked at her hands. How can I go to a job interview looking like this? she thought. But if I don’t go, the builder who saved my life would have risked his life for nothing. And what would Anton Goldman say? I’ve pestered him to get me the interview for more than six months.
‘Anyone would think you don’t want this job in the theatre,’ she said to herself. She did want it. She wanted it badly. Getting a job as an usherette was only the beginning. One day she was going to be an actress and sing and dance in a West End show. It was what she had dreamed of all her life. She was going to be famous and she wasn’t going to let a bit of muck, or a few cuts and bruises, stop her.
With renewed commitment, Margaret took a handkerchief from her handbag. She spat on it and wiped the streaks of dirt – a combination of tears and brick dust – from her face. She took out the compact. The powder puff was dusty too, but after blowing it and flicking it about, she pressed on the circular gauze and patted her face. Carefully she dabbed extra powder under her eyes to hide the red blotches made by her tears. She then put a dot of lipstick on each cheek and gently rubbed it in to give the appearance of a healthy glow, before applying the cherry red stick to her lips.
She made her mouth wide, then pressed her lips together, rubbing top against bottom until the colour was spread evenly. Satisfied with what she saw in the small mirror, she dropped it back into her bag. She then took off her stockings, gave them a shake, and put them on back to front. The holes, made when her knees met the stone steps of the vestibule, were now at the back of her legs and were less noticeable. ‘Ouch!’ As she twisted her body to check that the lines she’d drawn with her eyebrow pencil on the back of her legs that morning had not rubbed off, an acute pain stabbed at her side, reminding her that she had fallen on her gas mask. Turning again, but slowly, Margaret could see the lines that pretended to be seams were still there.
Before leaving the church, Margaret took off her jacket and gave it a shake. Minute specks of brick dust swirled through the air. Caught in the beam of light shining through the open door, the particles looked like snowflakes in a Christmas dome.
She looked at her wristwatch. If she was going to the interview she needed to leave now. Ignoring the pain in her side, Margaret bent down, took hold of the strap of her gas mask and put it over her shoulder before picking up her handbag. Stooping, she made her way to the top of the steps and the door. In the doorway she took a deep breath and slowly stood up straight. With her head held high, she stepped out into the September sunshine.
The soot-stained chimney that had almost killed her lay on the pavement in front of the door. Although it was partially hidden by broken roof slates, cracked guttering, and lumps of plaster, Margaret could see it was two chimneys cemented together. Her legs felt like blancmange. She put out her hand and held on to the doorframe to steady herself. It would definitely have killed her if the workman, who she wouldn’t recognise now if she tried, hadn’t pushed her out of the way. She blinked back her tears and started to step over the debris. Then she stopped. The chimney was too high to climb over, especially in shoes with high heels, and there was so much rubble on either side of it she wasn’t able to go round. She rolled her eyes skyward in exasperation and froze. Half a dozen workmen on the roof opposite were watching her. She hated to admit defeat, but she had no choice. Smiling thinly, she shrugged her shoulders and walked back the way she had come.
She could still hear them laughing at the corner of Maiden Lane and Southampton Street. Without looking back, Margaret half limped, half ran along the Strand to the Prince Albert Theatre.
Bursting through the theatre’s main entrance and out of breath, Margaret approached a young man sitting behind the window of the Box Office. ‘I’m here to see the front of house manager, Miss Lesley. My name is Margaret Burrell.’
The man lifted his head from the book he was reading and looked Margaret up and down. ‘If you’d like to take a seat,’ he said, and went back to his book.
‘I have an appointment!’ Margaret said, somewhat put out by his lack of interest.
‘I’ll let Miss Lesley know you’re here.’
Margaret walked across to a maroon-coloured seat that ran the length of the wall on the far side of the foyer and sat down. Looking around, she was hardly able to contain her excitement. The wallpaper was maroon with gold stripes. Regency, it was called. It was like the wallpaper advertised in her magazine – and it was expensive. The paper Dad
