Applause (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 2) by Madalyn Morgan (best authors to read txt) 📕

watchman, must have secured them and returned to the theatre by the fire exit. She expected the audience to have been evacuated by now, but she thought Bert and Miss Lesley might still be inside. Balancing on top of the sandbags she began to knock. No one came.

She looked up. The sky above the docks was a palette of oranges and reds. Every night for almost six months the Luftwaffe had bombed the East End. Margot thanked God she worked and lived on the north-side of the Thames – though the bombs were getting closer every night.

Several ambulances sped past as Margot walked down the Strand. She waved down the only black cab she’d seen in twenty minutes. ‘The ambulance station at St. Thomas’s, please.’ The cabbie nodded and pulled out into the traffic. By the time she arrived, Bill and his crew had been called out to Fleet Street.

‘Will you give him a message when he gets back? Tell him I’ve gone home.’ The controller cupped his ear. Margot shouted above the scream of sirens and the ringing of the ambulances’ bells as they raced through the gates. ‘Tell him not to go to the theatre. We haven’t got any power, so I’m going home.’

‘There aren’t any buses going your way from here, Mrs Burrell. I’ve just been told nothing’s going north over Waterloo or Westminster Bridge. Gerry’s been targeting buildings along the river. Fleet Street’s been hit--’ The controller’s two-way radio began to buzz and crackle.

‘I’ll walk until I see one.’

‘It’s too dangerous to walk. Get yourself down the underground. It’s the only place you’ll be safe in London tonight.’

‘I suffer from claustrophobia,’ Margot shouted, which was a slight exaggeration. But the thought of spending the night with hundreds of strangers huddled together like sardines, not knowing when or if they’d get out, sent an icy ripple up her spine. If one of the underground stations close to the river took a direct hit the whole network would flood. She shuddered. ‘I hate the thought of being trapped in an underground station.’

The ambulance controller looked at her as if she’d brought something unpleasant in on her shoe, and shrugged. ‘It’s up to you. But it is the sensible thing to do!’

‘You’re right, but there’ll be city buses going to Euston and North London from Kingsway – I’ll pick one up there. Will you tell Bill, please?’

The controller nodded. ‘Be careful,’ he shouted after her, but before she had time to reply she heard a shrill whistle followed immediately by an earth-rocking explosion. It was too close for comfort, so when the controller’s two-way radio console began to buzz like a hive of demented bumble bees, she made a bolt for Westminster Bridge. ‘Taxi!’ she called, running into the road.

The taxi swerved to a halt. ‘What the ‘ell?’ the cabbie shouted out of the window. ‘Not waiting for Gerry then?’

‘What?’

‘Running into the road like that, you could’ve got yourself killed.’

‘Sorry, but there’s so little transport about. Can you take me to the Aldwych?’

‘Sorry love, I’m not going that way. I can drop you off at Trafalgar Square.’

‘That’ll be fine.’ She jumped into the cab and it sped off. It wasn’t fine, but it was better than nothing. ‘How much?’ she said, getting out of the cab on the south side of the square.

‘Have it on me, love. I’ve done for the night. I’m on my way home.’

‘Thank you,’ she shouted above the high pitched wail of the air raid siren as he drove away. She squinted and looked through the drizzle. Trafalgar Square’s landmark in the blackout was Admiral Nelson – if there was enough moonlight to see his silhouette – and if you didn’t walk into a lion first. Margaret crossed at St. Martin in the Fields and ran up to Charing Cross station. From there she walked up the Strand to the Aldwych.

The taxi rank outside the Waldorf Hotel was overflowing with people, as was the bus stop further along. It seemed pointless to queue at either. She looked around, half expecting an ARP Warden to march her across the road to Aldwych underground station. But not tonight. The entrance hall was packed. Two brawling men tumbled out of the station, stopping only when the air raid siren began to wail again. As enemy aircraft roared overhead, Green Park’s searchlights chased them across the sky, followed by the ack-ack of anti-aircraft guns. Men and women who couldn’t get into the underground station turned and ran in every direction. Thankful there wasn’t room for her, Margot walked on. Bill knew her fear of the underground and wouldn’t expect her to be down there anyway.

Before turning into Kingsway, Margot was stopped in her tracks by a thunderous explosion. The docks were being blitzed again. She looked ahead. It wasn’t only the docks; Fleet Street had been hit too. Flames, whipped by the wind, rose hundreds of feet in the air above the roofs of a dozen buildings. Pinkish-white smoke ballooned upward in a great cloud. Margot stared into the sky, transfixed by the tiny bright specks of flashing light as anti-aircraft shells burst, lighting up the barrage balloons, turning them from silver to pink. She put her hands to her ears to muffle the sound of the shells.

She jumped back onto the pavement as several fire engines, bells clanging the warning that they weren’t going to stop, flew past. When the road was safe to cross she ran to the beginning of Fleet Street. She watched as the first engine pulled up in front of the first burning building, the second in front of the next, and so on. As they pumped water onto the flames the buildings hissed and thick smoke billowed into the sky, falling back to earth as black rain. Margot wondered whether she should offer to help, but Bill always said however well-intentioned the