‘What does he look like?’ George shook her head. ‘God knows what Goldie saw in him.’
‘Or why she stayed with him for so long,’ Betsy said.
‘Fear,’ Margot whispered. ‘She was scared to leave him. Frightened for her life in the end. She told me he was really nice to her in the beginning. It was after she found his BUF membership that he began to show his true colours.’
‘The bastard!’ George said. ‘I hope they throw away the key.’
There were the normal questions about name and address. And then the Clerk of the Court read out the first charge, failing to answer the call up. All three admitted their guilt. What else could they say?
The judge asked them if his information was correct – that they continued to support the aims and principles of the British Union of Fascists, even though it had now been disbanded. Dave Sutherland brought his heels together and shouted, ‘Guilty as charged and proud of it!’ His two mates nodded.
The judge slammed his gavel down on its block. ‘Eighteen months on the first charge. If the war is not over by the time you have served your sentence you will be interned under Section 18B until it is. Take them down.’
The judge stood up and the court followed. Margot, George and Betsy, holding hands, gripped each other tightly as Dave Sutherland and his cronies were escorted down to the cells.
For a moment the three women stood as if frozen, speechless. It was George who broke the silence. ‘Thank God the pathetic bully got what he deserved.’
Margot nodded. ‘He’ll be in jail until the war ends at least. That’s a much longer sentence than he’d have got for beating Goldie up.’
‘And they won’t be given an easy time by the other inmates,’ George said, ‘or the prison warders. No one likes traitors and cowards.’
George put her arms round Margot and Betsy. ‘Let’s go. We’ve got a show to do.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘It’s been a year since the theatre re-opened and we’re still getting fantastic reviews,’ Margot said, drinking tea and eating toast while reading the reviews in the newspapers. ‘They’re still walking out of Sherwood’s There Shall Be No Night at the Aldwych. Don’t know how it keeps going. It says here that it’s too tragic, too close to what’s going on in real life. Well it would be, wouldn’t it?’ she said, more to herself than to Bill. ‘Bob Hope’s still in London. There’s a lovely photo of him with a crowd of GIs. Look, Bill...’ Margot pushed the newspaper under her husband’s nose. ‘I’d love to see him while he’s here. Not much chance of that though. Vera Lynn’s been in town too; in Trafalgar Square, entertaining the Navy. Good Lord, the BBC’s complaining about Strike A New Note at The Prince of Wales. They’re saying that, because Zoe Gail sings “I’m Gonna Get Lit Up When The Lights Go Up In London” she’s encouraging people to get drunk.’
‘Well, getting lit up is modern slang for getting drunk,’ Bill said.
‘It might be,’ Margot said, laughing, ‘but no one’s going to get “lit up” on a ration of one bottle of gin every eight weeks, are they? I like Zoe Gail, she’s fun. So,’ Margot said when she’d finished reading, ‘the Prince Albert Theatre is still at the top of the West End theatre listings.’ She folded the last newspaper and added it to the pile at the side of her chair. ‘You’re quiet,’ she said, looking up at Bill. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I was thinking. Well, wondering really.’
‘What about?’
‘Whether or not you’re going to do The Talk of London?’
‘I’d forgotten about it. Bernard Rudman hasn’t been in touch for ages.’
‘What if he gets in touch?’
Margot knew Bill wouldn’t like what she was about to say and wished he hadn’t asked. ‘I’d probably do it.’
‘I knew it!’
‘How could I turn it down?’
Bill wasn’t listening. ‘Seven shows a week, two late spots at the Albert Club and a late night at The Talk. You’ll be ill again.’ He got up from the table, picked up his wallet and went into the hall.
‘Where are you going? You haven’t finished your breakfast.’
‘To work.’
That night when she got home from the club, Margot took off her coat and tiptoed into the flat hoping Bill was in bed, but not asleep. She needed to speak to him, persuade him that a spot on Saturday night at The Talk of London wasn’t going to be too much for her. Also, they hadn’t made love for goodness knows how long. She opened the bedroom, but Bill wasn’t there. A surge of panic rose from her stomach. She felt nauseous and swallowed hard. What if he’d been injured in a raid? Had she pushed him too far this morning and he’d left her? Margot’s heart began to thump against her ribs. If he talked to Jenny, she’d do her best to persuade him to leave. She ran into the sitting room. ‘Bill!’ she shouted, feeling relief and anger at the same time when she saw him asleep on the settee. ‘What are you doing in here? Why aren’t you in bed?’
‘Must have fallen asleep,’ he said, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He squinted at the clock on the mantle shelf. ‘Good God, it’s one o’clock. I’ve got to be up at six.’
‘You should have gone to bed.’
‘I did go to bed, but I couldn’t sleep for worrying about you. Where the hell
