‘Mm… something smells good,’ Bill said, entering the room and sitting at the small table.
Margaret placed her husband’s meal in front of him and kissed his forehead, before sitting down with her own. ‘Enjoy your supper, love. I’ve spent your birthday coupons on it.’
Bill raised his eyebrows. ‘So what are we celebrating if not my birthday?’
‘My job. You are looking at the Prince Albert Theatre’s new usherette.’
‘Well done!’ Bill stood up, leaned over and kissed Margaret on the lips. ‘I think that calls for a glass of sherry,’ he said, his brown eyes sparkling.
Margaret watched her handsome husband open the cupboard in the sideboard. As he reached in for the bottle a lock of thick fair hair fell onto his forehead. Sherry in one hand, he ran his fingers through his hair with the other, pushing the rogue wave back into place before returning to the table.
‘To my clever, beautiful wife,’ he said, pouring them both a glass. ‘I’m proud of you.’
‘Well I never. If it ain’t Miss London,’ Margaret heard someone shout. A sudden fluttering in her chest made her catch her breath. It was probably one of the workmen who had been working on the building when the roof of the café collapsed and almost killed her. She wondered if the man who had saved her life was up there, but she daren’t look.
‘‘Er Ladyship ain’t wearing brick-red today, Chippie,’ another called.
‘She don’t arf scrub up well. Ay, Miss London?’ the first shouted. ‘Give us a twirl!’
Margaret lifted her head, stuck her nose in the air, and pretended she hadn’t heard the commentary. Then, when she reached the Prince Albert Theatre’s stage door, she stopped and turned. Putting the fingers of both hands to her mouth, as she’d seen film stars do in the flicks, she blew them a kiss, keeping her arms outstretched for some seconds in an exaggerated pose. She entered the theatre to a chorus of comments and wolf whistles.
‘Hello, I’m Margaret, Margaret Burrell. I’m an usherette,’ she said proudly.
‘Bert Masters, stage doorman.’ He put out his hand.
Margaret took the old man’s hand and shook it. ‘How do you do, Mr Masters?’
‘Call me Bert, everyone does. You’ll be here to see Miss Lesley then. I’ll take you through.’
Margaret followed Bert along a dimly lit corridor, past big black double doors with STAGE written on them in white lettering, down a flight of half a dozen stairs and through a pass door. She recognised where she was immediately.
‘Here we are, Miss.’ Bert opened the staff room door and stood back to let Margaret enter.
‘Thank you.’
‘Right you are. Enjoy your first day, Miss,’ Bert said, before disappearing through a door with PUBLIC on one side and PRIVATE on the other.
Margaret didn’t have long to wait for Miss Lesley, who greeted her warmly and led the way to the auditorium, explaining as they went what Margaret thought was common sense. ‘The show starts at seven-thirty. You need to be in the auditorium, in your uniform and with your torch, by seven, which is when the doors open to the public. As the audience enters the auditorium,’ she said, opening the stalls door and ushering Margaret through, ‘you ask them for their ticket.’ Miss Lesley paused and Margaret nodded. ‘Each ticket has a letter for the row and a number for the seat. Your section is from J to S, seats eighteen to nine. Is that clear, Margaret?’
Margaret nodded again. ‘Seats one to eight are on the other side of the auditorium, aren’t they?’ she said, walking from row J to S.
‘Yes, they are Jenny’s responsibility.’ Margaret opened her mouth to ask about the other usherettes, but Miss Lesley carried on. ‘You point your torch at the floor, at the beginning of the row that corresponds with the letter on the ticket. Then, as soon as they begin to make their way along the row, you go back to the exit and help the next person, or people. When the lights go down and the curtain goes up, you can take your seat. But,’ Miss Lesley said, ‘stay alert for any latecomers. It can’t be helped with the delays in public transport. And if the air raid siren sounds you’ll need to be on your feet, ready to show people to the exit. A percentage of the audience will want to stay and have a singsong. For those who don’t, show them out and come back as soon as you can. I’ll be with you this afternoon and tonight, so don’t worry.’
Margaret wasn’t worried. She didn’t think she needed any help. ‘At the interval,’ Miss Lesley continued, ‘you stand when the orchestra begins to play the last number. Then, as soon as the curtain starts to come down, you open the exit doors. Only after your section of the audience has gone to the bar, toilet, or wherever it is they wish to go, can you leave. And I suggest you do. Have a cup of tea and go to the toilet; the second act is over an hour long. Whatever you do, you must be back at your post five minutes before the second act begins. That way you’ll be available if anyone needs you. You then close the door, pull the curtain and find your seat. At the
