sleep.
Thinking of sleep, Cissy stifled a yawn as she executed the kick-ball-changes, twirled the straw boater above her head and advanced, high-stepping with the others, to the front of the stage for the finale. The previous night had felt endless and she’d only managed a couple of hours’ disturbed sleep before having to help dust down all the costumes. Then her mother had insisted she help with the housework, and she’d only just had time to do her make-up and hair before she was due at the theatre for rehearsals.
The thought of another show tonight, and the very real possibility that she would be spending yet more sleepless hours in the shelter beneath the theatre, didn’t lighten her mood. But it wasn’t the cold, the long hours or Horace’s continued sniping that was really bothering her. It was the fact that her mother suspected something was wrong – which it was – and that she could never confide in her about it. For Jack Witherspoon’s worrying ultimatum was not a subject to be discussed with anyone, least of all Peggy.
‘Eyes and teeth,’ shouted Horace, ‘and stick out those tits. It’s what the punters want, God help them.’
Cissy plastered on the false smile and stuck out her meagre chest as, with a clash of chords, the music ended.
‘Hold the pose. Now, bow and flourish those hats.’ The cane rapped the floor. ‘Together!’ he roared.
Cissy sneaked a glance at her best friend Amy, and they shared a grin as they bowed and flourished to order.
‘Enough.’ Horace drew a pristine handkerchief from his jacket pocket and delicately mopped his brow. ‘How on earth I’m supposed to work with these people, I have no idea,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Ghastly, absolutely ghastly.’
He swept off the stage, ignoring Mrs Philips who usually bashed out tunes at the Jolly Sailor, but who’d been roped in to play the piano for rehearsals when the pianist was too drunk to oblige. ‘Take ten,’ he shouted from the wings. ‘Then you’ll do the whole routine again until I’m satisfied you know what you’re doing.’
Cissy and the other girls quickly grabbed their overcoats and bags from the wings and hurried into the freezing corridor. The dressing rooms downstairs weren’t up to much, but someone had brought in a kerosene heater and they could huddle around that until they had to be back on stage again.
Cissy was about to follow Amy down the narrow stairs when her way was barred by the troupe manager, Jack Witherspoon. Her low spirits plunged further as she looked up at him and realised the moment had come to make a decision.
Jack was about the same age as her father, with dark hair and eyes and a luxuriant moustache of which he was very proud. Broad-shouldered, handsome and always immaculately dressed, he wore a wedding ring and looked as trustworthy and urbane as a bank manager – which was why her parents had agreed to her joining the troupe. But Cissy had learnt to her cost that Jack Witherspoon was not at all what he seemed.
‘We need to discuss those publicity photographs,’ he said.
She tried to keep the tremor out of her voice. ‘I don’t mind doing the usual sort of thing, but that’s as far as it goes, Jack.’
‘Now, Cissy, be reasonable, darling.’ He put his arm over her shoulder and firmly steered her along the corridor. ‘You do want to get noticed, don’t you? And those shots won’t go to just anyone, but to some very high-powered people in the industry who are always looking for new talent.’
Cissy found herself in his office with the door shut and Jack barring the way out. ‘Of course I want to get noticed,’ she replied, ‘but not like that.’
He reached out a hand and wound a strand of her bleached hair round his finger. ‘You’re very lovely, you know, and quite the little star. I only want what’s best for you, Cissy, and after all the years I’ve worked in this business, I’ve got the contacts to do something very special for
Thinking of sleep, Cissy stifled a yawn as she executed the kick-ball-changes, twirled the straw boater above her head and advanced, high-stepping with the others, to the front of the stage for the finale. The previous night had felt endless and she’d only managed a couple of hours’ disturbed sleep before having to help dust down all the costumes. Then her mother had insisted she help with the housework, and she’d only just had time to do her make-up and hair before she was due at the theatre for rehearsals.
The thought of another show tonight, and the very real possibility that she would be spending yet more sleepless hours in the shelter beneath the theatre, didn’t lighten her mood. But it wasn’t the cold, the long hours or Horace’s continued sniping that was really bothering her. It was the fact that her mother suspected something was wrong – which it was – and that she could never confide in her about it. For Jack Witherspoon’s worrying ultimatum was not a subject to be discussed with anyone, least of all Peggy.
‘Eyes and teeth,’ shouted Horace, ‘and stick out those tits. It’s what the punters want, God help them.’
Cissy plastered on the false smile and stuck out her meagre chest as, with a clash of chords, the music ended.
‘Hold the pose. Now, bow and flourish those hats.’ The cane rapped the floor. ‘Together!’ he roared.
Cissy sneaked a glance at her best friend Amy, and they shared a grin as they bowed and flourished to order.
‘Enough.’ Horace drew a pristine handkerchief from his jacket pocket and delicately mopped his brow. ‘How on earth I’m supposed to work with these people, I have no idea,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Ghastly, absolutely ghastly.’
He swept off the stage, ignoring Mrs Philips who usually bashed out tunes at the Jolly Sailor, but who’d been roped in to play the piano for rehearsals when the pianist was too drunk to oblige. ‘Take ten,’ he shouted from the wings. ‘Then you’ll do the whole routine again until I’m satisfied you know what you’re doing.’
Cissy and the other girls quickly grabbed their overcoats and bags from the wings and hurried into the freezing corridor. The dressing rooms downstairs weren’t up to much, but someone had brought in a kerosene heater and they could huddle around that until they had to be back on stage again.
Cissy was about to follow Amy down the narrow stairs when her way was barred by the troupe manager, Jack Witherspoon. Her low spirits plunged further as she looked up at him and realised the moment had come to make a decision.
Jack was about the same age as her father, with dark hair and eyes and a luxuriant moustache of which he was very proud. Broad-shouldered, handsome and always immaculately dressed, he wore a wedding ring and looked as trustworthy and urbane as a bank manager – which was why her parents had agreed to her joining the troupe. But Cissy had learnt to her cost that Jack Witherspoon was not at all what he seemed.
‘We need to discuss those publicity photographs,’ he said.
She tried to keep the tremor out of her voice. ‘I don’t mind doing the usual sort of thing, but that’s as far as it goes, Jack.’
‘Now, Cissy, be reasonable, darling.’ He put his arm over her shoulder and firmly steered her along the corridor. ‘You do want to get noticed, don’t you? And those shots won’t go to just anyone, but to some very high-powered people in the industry who are always looking for new talent.’
Cissy found herself in his office with the door shut and Jack barring the way out. ‘Of course I want to get noticed,’ she replied, ‘but not like that.’
He reached out a hand and wound a strand of her bleached hair round his finger. ‘You’re very lovely, you know, and quite the little star. I only want what’s best for you, Cissy, and after all the years I’ve worked in this business, I’ve got the contacts to do something very special for
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