Fallen Skies Read online

  3

  LILY HAD BEEN STAGE-STRUCK FROM BABYHOOD when she would drape herself in her mother’s old feather boa and traipse around the little flat above the shop, singing in her true little voice. Against all the odds Helen Pears had forced the corner shop into profit and saved the money to send Lily to ballet school and to a singing teacher. Scrimping on the household bills and hiding money from her husband, she had managed to get Lily a training which had been good enough to win her a place in the chorus of the Palais, owned by the Edwardes Music Halls of Southsea, Bournemouth and Plymouth. It was not what Helen Pears had wanted for her daughter, but it was the best she could provide. And it was the first step in moving the girl away from the narrow streets and narrow lives of Portsmouth.

  Lily might have been a dancer in the chorus line for ever, if she had not caught the eye of the musical director, Charlie Smith, in the first week of rehearsals.

  “Here, Lily, can you sing?” he asked during a break in one of the sessions. The dancers were scattered around the front seats of the darkened theatre, their feet up on the brass rail that surrounded the orchestra pit, drinking tea out of thermos flasks, eating sandwiches and gossiping. Charlie was picking out a tune on the piano.

  “Yes,” Lily said, surprised.

  “Can you read music?”

  Lily nodded.

  “Sing me this,” he said, tossing a sheet of music at her.

  Charlie started the rippling chords of the introduction. Lily, her eyes still on the song sheet, walked to the orchestra pit, stepped casually over the brass rail and leaned against the piano to sing.

  There was a little silence when she had finished.

  “Very nice,” he said casually. “Good voice production.”

  “Back to work everybody, please,” the stage manager called from the wings. “Mr. Brett wants to see the greyhound number. Just mark it out. Miss Sylvia de Charmante will be here this afternoon. Until then please remember to leave room for her.”

  Charlie winked at Lily. “Buy you lunch,” he said.

  The girls climbed the catwalk up to the stage and got into line, leaving a space in the middle for the soloist.

  “She’s got a dog,” the stage manager said dismally. “A greyhound thing. Remember to leave space for it. Madge, you’ll have to move stage left a bit. Lily, give her a bit more room.”

  “What does the greyhound do?” Charlie demanded.

  “Bites chorus girls, I hope,” Mike, the SM, said without a flicker of a smile. “From the top, please.”

  They ate lunch in a working-men’s café in one of the little roads near the Guildhall Square. Charlie drank tea and smoked cigarettes. Lily ate a bread and dripping sandwich and drank milk.

  “Disgusting,” Charlie said.

  Lily beamed and shamelessly wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

  “Would you like to be a singer?” Charlie asked. “Want to be a star?”

  “Course,” Lily said. “Who doesn’t?”

  “Not very old, are you?” Charlie asked. “Seventeen? Eighteen?”

  “I’m seventeen and a half.”

  Charlie grinned. “I could get you a spot. We’re an act short. We need a girl singer. But something a bit different. Want to do it?”

  Lily gaped for a moment, but then shot him a quick suspicious look. “Why me?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Why not? Someone’s got to do it. Who else is there?”

  “Madge Sweet, Tricia de Vogue, Helena West.” Lily ticked the names of three of the other five dancers off her fingers. “They can all sing.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Charlie said. “I’ve heard them all. They all sound like someone else. They’re all ‘in the style of’ . . . I’ve got something else in mind. An idea I’ve had for a while. D’you want it or not?”

  Lily grinned at him. “I told you already,” she said. “I want to be a star. Course I want it.”

  “Bring your ma here to see me this evening,” Charlie said. “I have my tea here too.”

  Back at the theatre, Charlie found the director talking on the stage door telephone, dictating a telegram to Miss Sylvia de Charmante at the Variety Theatre, London, due on the eleven o’clock train from Waterloo and still not arrived. Charlie took him gently by the elbow. “Lily Pears, in the chorus, I want her to try the song I told you about,” Charlie said persuasively. “You said we could give it a go. There’s no-one else available and a big gap in the second half.”

  William Brett flapped an irritated hand and said, thank God there were still some people who wanted work—and what more could he do to get that overpaid spoiled damned prima donna out of her hotel bed and down to Southsea for rehearsals?

  Charlie nodded and drifted across the stage and down the steps to the orchestra pit to play a few soft chords.

  “Places please, dancers,” the stage manager said with infinite patience from the prompt corner. “I shall walk Miss Sylvia’s steps and you can dance around me.”

  “Will you sing soprano as well?” Charlie asked.

  The SM scowled at him. “Like a bleeding canary if that’s what it takes to get this show on the road,” he said dourly.

  Lily waited till the afternoon tea break to tell the girls that she was to have a song in the show and then smiled smugly as they fluttered around her and kissed their congratulations. Her smile was as false as the kisses and the cries of delight. They were a company bonded by work and riven with jealousy. Lily’s luck was declared to be phenomenal.

  “I’m just so envious I am sick!” Madge Sweet said, hugging Lily painfully hard.

  “How will you do your hair? And what will you wear?” Helena asked. “You don’t have anything to wear, do you? This is your first show?”

  “I expect my ma will get me something,” Lily said. “She was in the business. There’s all her old costumes in a box at home.”

  The girls burst into high malicious laughter. “A hundred-year-old tea gown is just what Mr. Brett wants, I don’t think!” Tricia said.

  “Moth-eaten fan!”

  “Bustle and crinoline!”

  Lily set her teeth and held her smile. “I’ll think of something.”

  “You could wear your hair long,” Madge suggested. She pulled the pins at the back of Lily’s head and Lily’s thick golden hair tumbled from the roll at the nape of her neck and fell down. It reached to her waist. “You could wear it with a hair band and sing a girl’s song. Alice in Wonderland type.”

  “Little Lily Pears, the child star!” Tricia suggested sarcastically.

  “I shan’t be Pears,” Lily said with sudden decision. “I’ll use my ma’s stage name. She was Helen Valance. I’ll be Lily Valance.”

  “Lily Valance! God ’elp us!” Tricia said.

  “Dancers, please,” the SM called. “The flower scene. Please remember that in front of you is a conjuror who will be taking flowers out of your baskets and coloured flags and ribbons and God knows what else. The conjuror isn’t here yet either. But leave a space for him centre stage. We don’t have the baskets yet, but remember you’ve got to hold them up towards him so he can do the trick. Have we got the music?”

  “Music’s here,” Charlie said from the pit.

  “One out of three isn’t bad, I suppose,” the SM said miserably. “When you’re ready, Mr. Smith.”

  • • •

  Helen Pears shut the shop early to meet Lily at the stage door and walk her home. She knew her daughter was old enough to walk home alone, and there would be no men at the stage door until the show was open. But Lily was her only child and, more than that, the only person in the world she had ever loved. Helen Pears’s life had been one of staunchly endured disappointments: a failed stage career, an impoverished corner shop, a husband who volunteered in a moment of drunken enthusiasm for a ship which blew up at sea before it had even fired a shot in anger. Only in the birth of her fair-headed daughter had she experienced a joy unalloyed by disappointment. Only in Lily’s future could she see a life that might, after all, be