The Boy I Love Read online

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2014

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Lynda Bellingham, 2014

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Lynda Bellingham to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

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  222 Gray’s Inn Road

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  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Hardback ISBN: 978-1-47114-897-2

  Trade paperback ISBN: 978-1-47114-901-6

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-47110-286-8

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by M Rules

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  A Tribute to Lynda

  We are so very proud to be the publishers of Lynda’s fiction. Lynda was brimful of ideas born of her lively imagination and her own experiences. She knew instinctively how people of every generation interact and had – of course! – a wonderfully keen eye for drama, and for emotion and love in all guises. She wrote of joy and sadness, conflict and union, old and young, past and present, with tenderness and wisdom. Tell Me Tomorrow, Lynda’s first novel, has three generations of women at its heart – a grandmother, a mother and a daughter – and Lynda dedicated the novel to mothers everywhere. These wonderful characters shone out on every page, to be joined, in The Boy I Love, by an equally memorable and delightful cast. On every page, in every description, in every word of dialogue, readers will hear Lynda’s voice loud and clear. How fortunate we are that Lynda completed her second novel this summer so that we can all rejoice in the talents of a truly gifted storyteller.

  Suzanne Baboneau

  Lynda’s editor

  November 2014

  The boy I love is up in the gallery,

  The boy I love is looking now at me.

  There he is, can’t you see, waving his handkerchief

  As merry as a robin that sings on a tree.

  George Ware, 1885, sung by Marie Lloyd

  Contents

  Act 1: Enter stage left

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Act 2: Take centre stage

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Act 3: Exit stage left

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  FINALE: The walk down

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Act 1

  Enter stage left

  Chapter 1

  Oh, Mr Porter, what shall I do?

  I want to go to Birmingham

  And they are taking me onto Crewe.

  Send me back to London

  As quickly as you can.

  Oh, Mr Porter, what a silly girl I am!

  September 1982

  Sally Thomas swallowed hard and smiled bravely as the whistle blew and the train began to pull out of the station. She gave a final wave to her family, standing at the barrier and already a blur, and sat down with a bump as the train picked up speed.

  ‘Oh, Mr Porter, what shall I do . . .’ The old Victorian music-hall song rang in her ears as she gazed out at the beautiful cream stone buildings of Cheltenham, her home town. It looked so picture-perfect in the early-morning sun. Traces of autumn tinged the leaves in red and gold, and there were flashes of burnt orange from the creepers that draped themselves over the houses like garlands.

  The girl could not help but think how different the landscape would be in Crewe. From gold to grey. Still, she would learn to love the difference between the two and make it her home for the next six months. Her first professional job as an actress! In July, Sally had managed to get an early audition for the upcoming season by physically taking herself to meet the director in Crewe, rather than waiting in line down in London with hundreds of other hopefuls. Her temerity had gained her a place in the company, and now as she fell asleep to the rhythm of the train, she dreamed of bright lights and velvet curtains, and her first introduction to Crewe Theatre just two short months ago . . .

  July

  She was shaken awake as the train shuddered to a halt at Platform One, Crewe station. As she stepped down from the train, Sally was overwhelmed by the size of the place. High above her, steel girders rose in Gothic splendour just like a cathedral. Her ears were bombarded with a cacophony of noise: engines grinding, whistles blowing, brakes screeching and the endless rumble of humanity – a river of people flowing towards the exit or breaking through to platforms to find their trains. Sally began to think she might have misjudged Crewe as just a town ‘up north’. The station, at least, seemed to be the centre of the universe!

  She joined the other passengers and was swept along to the exit and out to the taxi rank, where things were much calmer and quieter, thank goodness. She hailed a taxi and asked for the theatre.

  ‘Is it far?’ she enquired, hoping the answer would be negative as her finances were tight to say the least.

  ‘No, lass, just up the hill. Hop in. You working there?’ asked the cab driver, looking at her in his driving mirror as she sat back in the seat.

  ‘I hope to be, yes,’ Sally replied shyly. ‘I have got an audition today, as a matter of fact. So – fingers crossed.’

  ‘Well, good luck to you, lass. You will do just fine.’

  No more than five minutes later, the taxi slowed and stopped outside a beautiful Victorian theatre. It shone like a beacon to Sally. No matter the street was a little shabby, and next door there was a very run-down Chinese takeaway, to Sally it was the gateway to all her dreams. She paid the driver and thanked him for his good wishes, then got out and turned to the front doors. Putting down her suitcase, she pulled on the handle, only to discover that it was locked. She pressed her nose to the glass, shielding her eyes with her hand to peer into the darkness. There were no signs of life.

  ‘Great,’ sighed Sally. ‘Now what?’

  She looked up the street and was greeted by grey stone terraced houses, and a stray dog checki
ng out a lamp-post. Stepping back from the entrance, she told herself, ‘There has to be a stage door round the back somewhere.’ Sure enough, she spotted an opening at the end of the front of the theatre building, so picking up her things, she set off to investigate. The gap proved to be a narrow alleyway, and halfway down was a battered sign hanging from the wall: Stage Door.

  With a sigh of relief Sally pushed open the door and stepped into a dimly lit corridor. She ventured further in, expecting to meet a stage doorman – or woman, for that matter.

  ‘Hello? Anybody around?’ she called out. There was a small kiosk with a sliding glass window and an empty chair. It was lit by a table lamp with a red silk shade which had long since seen better days in someone’s boudoir. Sally thought it looked very incongruous, stuck in this little corner. A two-bar electric fire was glowing gaily and piles of newspapers lay on the floor – but nobody was there to answer her call.

  She followed her nose, and then the sign in big red letters painted on the wall leading down the stairs: to The Stage. Silence!

  The staircase wound round and down, and at the bottom there was a heavy wooden door. Sally pulled on the handle, opened it and stepped into the almost-darkness onstage. She could just make out a dim light in the far corner, presumably from the prompt corner. She tiptoed towards it, keeping an ear out for any sounds of life. She caught the odd word from someone whispering somewhere nearby . . . but could not quite make out who was talking. She moved between two black curtains and found herself right out on the stage. Suddenly a light hit her between the eyes like a laser, and she was completely blinded for a few seconds.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she called out. ‘Is there someone there? My name is Sally Thomas and I have come for an audition. Please take the light off me as I can’t see a thing!’ She moved towards the front of the stage, trying to get out of the spotlight, and peered out into the auditorium – but could see nothing because she still had spots in front of her eyes.

  Then, as her vision slowly adjusted, she felt a presence up to her left – and there in the box, she could make out a figure standing just inside the doorway. There was a red glow burning in the dark and the faint hint of cigar tobacco – but before she could speak, a voice filled the theatre with liquid gold. Sally had never heard such an incredible voice.

  ‘Sorry, young lady. Didn’t mean to frighten you. We have trouble with the lighting board. Who did you say you were again?’

  ‘Sally Thomas. Are you Giles Longfellow, by any chance?’ Sally was regaining her composure and feeling ready to present herself. After all, she had come a long way for this audition and had no intention of messing it up.

  ‘Yes, indeed I am. Eric, are you still up there?’ Giles Longfellow called up to the gods, to where his lighting man was perched on a follow spot trying to adjust the bulb.

  A voice wafted out from the darkness. ‘Yes, guvnor. All sorted. Be down in a tick.’

  ‘Thank you, Eric. Now, young lady, what are you going to do for me?’ The man in the box leaned over the rail towards Sally and she felt she could almost reach up and touch him.

  Suddenly, all the house-lights came on and the full beauty of the theatre revealed itself. It was like a wedding cake of pink and white stucco. The red plush seats and the gleaming brass rails set off the intricate plasterwork on the walls and the boxes, rising to a ceiling that was covered in cherubs and flowers. A huge crystal chandelier sent shafts of light down onto the seats below like rays of sunshine piercing a dark forest.

  Sally gasped and looked back up to the box, from whence came Giles’s richly mellow voice again: ‘Young lady, did you hear me? You look like a frightened rabbit.’ He stepped back and sat down.

  Sally gave him her full attention at once and announced with as much aplomb as she could muster, ‘I would like to do Portia’s speech from The Merchant of Venice: “The quality of mercy is not strained . . .”’

  ‘Very well, continue.’

  The girl walked to the centre of the stage and took a deep breath. This was the moment she had trained for and lived for. Her first proper audition for the professional theatre.

  Sally had left drama school six months ago, and had spent the intervening time writing to dozens of repertory theatres throughout the country. Some responded but most never did. It had proved very disheartening in the main, but Sally was determined and driven, and was not going to give up easily. She had managed to get a job at the British Drama League in Fitzroy Square, London. It was an extraordinary place, a cross between a library and advice centre for foreign students, offering drama courses and training for stage management. It also had offices for various departments in theatre, from the technical staff to visiting directors, and was a popular venue for theatres to hold auditions. Sally manned the ancient telephone switchboard, which was like a puzzle for wiring aficionados. Each line had a connection, but oh! – how often did she put the wrong plug in the wrong hole!

  ‘Bear with me, caller,’ was her cri de coeur all day long. ‘I am so sorry, sir, you have been disconnected.’

  By the end of a busy day, Sally would be distraught – but her boss, a lovely man called James Langton, was ever ready to offer her encouragement. James had always been associated with the theatre in some way. Sally was never sure if he had been an actor himself, years ago. He certainly had theatricality about him – and great charm. James ran the Drama League like an historic institution and had taken Sally and another young actor, Jeremy Sinclair, under his wing. Every time a theatre booked the rehearsal rooms to hold auditions, he would ring down and inform them both. This meant that the two actors could ensure that at some point, they were able to insinuate themselves into a position to get an audition.

  Sally used to wait until the director had seen everybody, and then she would appear at the door and announce that – what a coincidence! She was an actress and not a telephone operator, after all, and would they please let her audition? Most of the time it worked a treat, but so far she had not managed to get a job. Then one afternoon Mr Langton had come down to her little booth and informed her that Crewe Theatre would soon be holding auditions for its new season, starting in September, and that she should write or phone. Sally wasted no time: she immediately rang the theatre and was told that the director, Giles Longfellow, would indeed be coming down to London to the BDL to hold auditions, but if she was able to come up to Crewe before then, he would be delighted to see her ‘in situ’ as it were. Seizing this opportunity to get in early, she made an appointment for the following week.

  Now here she was, standing on the stage at Crewe, launching into her audition piece with gusto.

  Halfway through, however, Giles Longfellow called down from the box, ‘Thank you, my dear, that will do. Can you sing?’

  Sally was completely thrown by this question. Not because she couldn’t sing, but because he had not let her finish her speech. She stammered a, ‘Y-yes, I can.’

  ‘Then away you go,’ came the response from above.

  Sally sang the Victorian music-hall song called ‘The Boy I Love’, made famous by the great Marie Lloyd. It was a good choice as she could sing it unaccompanied. Her strong, clear soprano voice filled the auditorium with the sweet, affecting melody, and was rewarded by a handclap from the director.

  ‘Well done! Delightful. Stay there – I am coming down.’ And Giles disappeared.

  Sally admired yet again the elegance of the box and noted that there was a coat of arms on the front. The Royal Box – how very appropriate for the flamboyant Giles Longfellow, she decided. Maybe one day she would be singing to Royalty in the box! Her daydreams were interrupted by the arrival of the Director.

  ‘You did well, my dear, and I am very pleased to say I think we can offer you a place in our company next season. You are not experienced enough to play leads, but depending on how well you adapt, and how hard you work, I can certainly promise you some decent roles – and thanks to your fine singing voice I see you in some of our musical productions. It does mean yo
u will have to accept some stage-management work, but at least you will get your forty-two weeks in the theatre, which will make you eligible for your full Equity card. Do you have an agent, by the way?’

  Sally had not managed to attract the attention of an agent so far, but she had discussed this with Mr Langton and he had offered to advise her, should the need arise, on the financial side of things. So bearing this in mind, she replied, ‘No, but I have a manager called James Langton and he has said he will deal with the fee, if that is convenient to you, sir.’

  ‘James Langton as in the British Drama League?’ Giles looked amused.

  ‘Um, yes. Do you know him?’ asked Sally.

  ‘Absolutely, my dear! We are old friends. But what is his interest in you, may I ask?’

  Sally was not sure which way this conversation should be going, but decided that honesty was the best policy.

  ‘I work in reception at the BDL,’ she explained, ‘and Mr Langton very kindly helps me find auditions, et cetera, while I am working there. He has been so supportive, and told me that any time I needed advice, he would help me. So I just thought to mention him to you with respect of salary or whatever. I hope that is all right?’

  ‘Of course, no problem at all. I will talk to him asap. Thank you for coming all this way, dear, and I look forward to welcoming you to the new company in September.’

  ‘Oh, thank you so much, Mr Longfellow, I am thrilled to be working for you and I—’

  But he had gone. Disappeared like a magician, without the puff of smoke, although the smell of his cigar drifted across the footlights like a longlost memory. Sally’s heart was thumping. She had her first job! Going to the footlights, she took in the auditorium one last time from top to bottom. She loved it! And then she looked up to the Royal Box – and blew a kiss.

  Chapter 2

  Giles Longfellow was ambitious, but he was also weak. He had talent, but lacked the iron will to pursue his dreams to their ultimate conclusion. All his life he had been led by his heart – well, his nether regions, to be absolutely blunt. He would fall wildly in love and indulge every emotional level of his intellect and physical need. This would last for months, or sometimes only weeks, but it drained him of all his energy and left him reeling. In his youth it had cost him a promising career as an actor because he would lose all interest in a job if the mood for love took him over, and employers soon realized he was a liability. Not only because his stagecraft suffered as his concentration wavered, but on one particular occasion his pursuit of happiness with one individual had led to accusations of rape and he had only just escaped jail.