‘Excuse me?’ she called to the man in the box office. ‘Is there somewhere where I can wash my hands?’
He lifted his head from his book and looked at her as if she’d asked to borrow a fiver. ‘Through the door to the Stalls, along the corridor on the right.’
Margaret nodded her thanks and began to follow his directions. But as she reached for the handle, the Stalls doors opened.
‘Mrs Burrell?’
‘Yes!’ Margaret stepped back in surprise and a lock of hair fell onto her face. She pushed the offending strand behind her ear and put out her hand.
‘Pamela Lesley. How do you do?’ she said, shaking Margaret’s grubby hand.
‘Sorry!’ Margaret felt the blush of embarrassment creep up her neck. ‘Perhaps,’ she said rummaging in her handbag, finding her handkerchief and offering it to Miss Lesley, ‘you could…?’
‘Thank you, but there’s no need. If you’d like to follow me.’ Looking over her shoulder, the front of house manager smiled her thanks to a now attentive-looking man in the Box Office. Not a book in sight, Margaret noticed.
Miss Lesley led the way through the door with Stalls written on it in gold lettering. When Bill took Margaret to the Hippodrome in Coventry they always sat in the stalls. She followed Miss Lesley down a carpeted corridor that was the same colour as the front of house furniture. There was a border between the carpet and the skirting that was painted cream like the walls. Margaret looked up and caught her breath. The walls were covered in photographs: Gertrude Lawrence, Jack Buchanan, Beatrice Lillie, Jessie Matthews and Stanley Holloway – all in gilt frames.
There were film posters of William Powell and Myrna Loy in Double Wedding. Clark Gable and Jean Harlow in Saratoga. And the new Twentieth Century-Fox film Hollywood Cavalcade starring Alice Faye and Don Ameche, which Bill had promised to take her to see.
On the opposite wall, Charles Laughton in Alibi and Richard Herne in Wild Rose looked down on her. She began to hum the Jerome Kern song Look for the Silver Lining and walked into the back of Miss Lesley.
‘Oh! I’m, I’m so sorry,’ Margaret stuttered. ‘I didn’t know you’d-- I was looking at the photographs and--’
Miss Lesley looked over the top of her glasses, opened the door on her right, which said Front of House Manager, and motioned Margaret to go in.
Margaret whispered, ‘Thank you,’ and entered.
‘Take a seat, Mrs Burrell.’
‘Thank you,’ Margaret said again, sitting on a straight-backed chair in front of a big walnut desk.
Pamela Lesley, in a smart navy-blue skirt and jacket, sat behind the desk. She was a tall woman, but the chair’s high brass-buttoned back almost dwarfed her. Behind her were more posters and more photographs. The posters looked older than the ones in the corridor. Most had faded and some were brownish-yellow in colour, but the photographs looked as if they’d been taken recently. They were clear and well-defined, and the people in them were dressed in modern clothes.
‘Tell me about yourself, Margaret,’ Miss Lesley said suddenly, making Margaret jump. ‘Where are you from?’
‘A small village called Woodcote, near Lowarth, on the borders of Warwickshire and Leicestershire.’ Miss Lesley nodded, but said nothing. ‘My father was a groom on a country estate.’ Margaret sat up straight, which she always did when she was trying to impress. ‘Head groom actually, at Foxden Hall, until the war. I was born on the estate. I’ve got three sisters, one older and two younger, and an older brother.’
‘And what about school? Did you like school?’
‘Oh yes! I loved it!’ A slight exaggeration. ‘I went to the C of E junior school in the village until I was eleven, then to the Central School in Lowarth until I was fourteen.’ Margaret wondered whether she should tell Miss Lesley that she’d passed the Eleven Plus. She wanted to, but if she did the front of house manager was sure to ask why she hadn’t gone to the Grammar. So, because she didn’t want to admit her family couldn’t afford the uniform, she said nothing.
‘And have you worked since leaving school?’
‘Yes!’ Margaret was surprised that Miss Lesley could think it possible that she hadn’t worked in six years. ‘My first job was as a clerical assistant in the office of a factory in Lowarth. When I married Bill last year... Oh, it was a lovely day. The newspapers said that July the first 1939 was the hottest day since records began. Oh!’ she said, suddenly aware that her chatter wasn’t relevant to the conversation. She cleared her throat. ‘When I married Bill, I moved to live with him at his mum and dad’s house in Coventry. The company I worked for didn’t want to lose me, so they gave me a job in the wages office of their aircraft factory.’
‘And what brings you to London?’
‘My Bill had been poorly when he was little and didn’t pass any of the armed forces medicals, so he couldn’t join up. He was really upset that he couldn’t fight for his country, so Dad had a word with Lord Foxden.’
‘Lord Foxden?’
‘Yes, who Dad worked for before the war. Lord Foxden’s something high up in the Ministry of Defence--’ Margaret stopped abruptly. ‘Bill said it’s all very hush-hush. Walls Have Ears,’ she whispered. ‘I hope it doesn’t matter me telling you.’
Miss Lesley smiled. ‘I promise not to tell anyone.’
‘Well, Bill went to see Lord Foxden and his Lordship said that because Bill could
