Far From Home by Ellie Dean

the drawers and found the few shabby bits of clothing that must belong to Danuta, she felt a twinge of pity. The poor girl clearly possessed very little, and Polly knew enough from the newscasts to realise that Danuta’s journey here must have been fraught with danger. No wonder she was finding it hard to settle.
    As she hung her dresses in the empty wardrobe and placed her shoes at the bottom, she couldn’t dismiss the memory of those haunting photographs. Had Danuta left her family behind in occupied Poland – or were they dead?
    Polly closed the wardrobe door and placed her own precious photographs on the mantelpiece before pausing for a moment in deep contemplation. Peggy had said Danuta needed a friend – well, she did too. Perhaps sharing this room wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
    Polly pushed the empty cases under her bed and resisted the urge to lie down on the tempting eiderdown. If she closed her eyes now, she would probably sleep for hours, and she had to get to the hospital without further delay. Grabbing her washbag and clean clothes, she plucked the towel from the bed and hurried to the bathroom.
    The Apollo Theatre had been built in the latter part of the last century when the railway had opened up the way to Cliffehaven and people began to take their holidays at the seaside. It stood squarely on the corner of Cliffe High Street and Queen’s Parade, which ran the length of the promenade, and had, so far, survived the air raids.
    There were elegant doors leading into a grand foyer where large chandeliers had once graced the ornately decorated ceiling – these had been taken down for the duration – and sweeping staircases led to the different sections of the auditorium. The balconies, boxes, pillars and ceiling were heavily gilded, the walls covered in thick flock wallpaper, and the velvet tableau curtain which drew up and back from the stage was deeply fringed with gold tassels. At night the theatre took on an air of mystery and grandeur, but in the harsh light of day, it merely looked tatty.
    The small troupe of dancers, singers, musicians, comedians and acrobats were playing at the Apollo for a week before they went on the road again. It was a respite for all of them, for the travelling had proved exhausting, and it was good to be in one place for more than a night.
    Rehearsals were in full swing that afternoon and the dancers were being put through their paces before the evening show. Cissy was wearing a leotard beneath her wrap-round cardigan and shorts, but despite the fast tap routine she’d been rehearsing with the other girls, she was chilled by the draught which always blew from the wings. She could also feel her nose twitching from the dust that rose from the stage with every pounding step, and tried to sniff away the urge to sneeze.
    ‘Cecily Reilly! Concentrate!’ The dance master hit the floor with the gold-topped cane he always carried. ‘You have the grace and aptitude of an overfed carthorse.’
    Cissy glared at him and caught up with the others as Mrs Philips hammered out the tune on the upright piano. Horace Dalrymple was a vicious old queen who considered himself far too gifted and important to be stuck in Cliffehaven with a bunch of hoofers he regarded as having little talent. He was habitually dressed in a dark suit and black fedora, with a gaudy cravat tied at the open neck of his flamboyant silk shirts. His hair was a shade too long, and several shades too black for a man in his sixties, and the cane was not an added affectation – he liked nothing better than to rap ankles and knees with it when he was displeased.
    Cissy and the other dancers had eagerly awaited his arrival, for he was considered to be one of the best choreographers in the business, but they were soon to be disappointed. His star had clearly been extinguished some years ago, and his routines proved very ordinary, with no flare or imagination to set them apart, and Cissy could have danced them in her