  When late that afternoon Dave walked with Cherry to the village to catch the bus to London, he carried a parcel under his arm. “My hiking boots,” he explained. “These hard roads have worn the soles thin.” “Oh! I’m glad,” Cherry exclaimed. “You are going to like Uncle John. He’s our shoemaker. We call him that though I’m sure he’s really uncle to no one. He’s very old and still does all his work the hard way, by hand. Wonderful work it is, too.” Dave did like Uncle John. Seated there at his bench, a leather apron on his lap and nails between his teeth, he seemed to have just moved out of a very old story book. “Do you still make shoes as well as repair them?” Dave asked. “Oh, yes, now and then.” The old man’s smile was good to see. “I’ve made all the Young Lord’s shoes since he was a baby. “But then,” he sighed, “times have changed. You can’t get the leather any more. It used to be that I could make a pair of shoes and guarantee them for five years. Those times are gone. “But perhaps it is best that it should be so,” he added cheerfully. “Nowdays people like change. If you only pay one pound for a pair of shoes, you can afford more than one pair.” Taking a tack from his mouth, he drove it home, then another. “He lives in two small rooms behind the shop,” Cherry said when they were outside. “His little wife was just like him, always cheerful and kind. She died three years ago. “Nearly all the people in the village are like that,” she added as they walked on. “The butcher has his stall in front of his home. The baker’s shop is in his basement. So is the grocer’s. Everyone works. All are kindly. They never have much, but they make it do—and are happy.” Dave was to recall this picture with a sudden pull at his heartstrings in the days that were to come. The bus came lurching in. They climbed aboard and were away for London. Arrived in London they hurried up to the radio studio for Cherry’s audition. Singing in a bare studio with a strange accompanist, the girl was far from doing her best. For all that the director gave her a small spot on the “People’s Choice” program at 9:00 P. M. Once more on the street where shadows had grown long and dark, and people by hundreds were hastening home before the air raid siren sounded, Cherry gripped Dave’s arm as she said in a tragic whisper: “David, I never can stick it out. It will only be a dismal failure.” “Nonsense!” Dave laughed. “It’s only stage-fright. Come on. My uncle took me to a rare little basement eating place once. They serve good old American coffee and waffles with maple syrup. That will put you on your toes.” In the quiet of the sub-cellar, they drank great quantities of coffee and ate their waffles joyously. “I—I guess I’ll make it now,” Cherry murmured. Once more they were on the deserted streets. Then, as if to crush her high hopes, all hell let loose. The roar of powerful motors, the scream of sirens, the boom and bang of anti-aircraft guns filled all the night with terror. “I can’t let you in ’ere now,” said a burly guard at the entrance to the broadcasting station. “It is quite impossible. You shouldn’t be ’ere at all.” “But this lady is to sing over the radio at nine!” Dave protested. “Can’t be ’elped.” The guard was firm. “Orders is orders. No ladies hallowed in the station during an alarm. If you’d ask me sir, I’d hadvise a subway station at once, sir. Yonder’s one not ’alf a block haway.” The words were scarcely out of his mouth when there came a low, whining sound, followed by a flash that lit all the sky. Then came a roar fit to burst their eardrums, and a tremendous push that tossed them to the pavement five yards away. Without a word Dave scrambled to his feet, picked the slight girl up in his arms, dashed half a block, and was down two flights of stairs to the subway station before he fully realized what he was doing. Seated on the hard floor of the station, with thousands of people all about them, for a full moment they were completely silent. Then Dave began to laugh. Cherry joined in, and the spell was broken. The laugh over, they looked about them. The whole long platform was filled with people. Young and old, rich and poor, salesgirls in thin, shabby coats, gray-haired ladies in mink and ermine, they all were there. And all, it seemed, were bent on making the best of an unpleasant situation. Bye and bye they would do their best to snatch a little sleep, for tomorrow would be another day. “Look at them.” There was a catch in Dave’s throat. “They seem almost happy.” “Yes.” Cherry’s chin went up. “They’re not going to let Hitler get them down. He wouldn’t be pleased if he could see them now!” In a bright corner four old men were playing cards. In the shadows a shopgirl was whispering to her young man. Sitting on their bedrolls, two sedate matrons were knitting. Children were everywhere, and all of them whooping it up in hilarious fun. “Excuse me,” said a smiling young lady. “Aren’t you Cherry Ramsey?” “Why—why yes, I am.” Cherry looked into a pair of eager blue eyes. “I knew it!” the young lady exclaimed. “I heard you sing at Lady Applegate’s home once. It was truly quite wonderful. Now—” she hesitated, “well, you see, I’m just helping out down here, sort of social service work, don’t you know. And I thought you might not mind, well, you know,”—she hesitated—“well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind singing a song or two for these people. They’d think it quite the berries if you would.” “Well, that—” Cherry laughed, “that’s what I came to town for, to sing on the radio. But the guard wouldn’t let us go up to the station.” “I shouldn’t wonder,” Miss Meeks, the social worker murmured. “Listen!” There came a deep, low rumble like the roll of distant thunder. “You can’t help loving these people, don’t you know.” Her tired face brightened as she spread out her arms. “Not one of them knows whether his home will be standing in the morning. But you see how they are.” “Yes—yes I see.” Cherry swallowed hard. “The radio,” Miss Meeks murmured. “Now I shouldn’t wonder. Will you sing for them, Miss Ramsey?” Cherry nodded. From somewhere a small piano was made to appear. A little Irish girl with a tumbled mass of red hair took her place before it. A small platform—a heavy packing box—was placed beside the piano. After shedding her heavy coat, Cherry stood before her strange audience. All lovely in gold and blue, she caught their eyes at once. Leaning over, she whispered to the girl at the piano, giving her the name of her first song. The social worker clapped her hands for silence. Deep, appreciative silence followed. “Miss Ramsey, a friend of Lady Applegate, from Dorset way, will sing to us,” Miss Meeks announced. “Let’s give her a hand.” The applause was tumultuous. Somehow, a light, not too strong, was made to play on the slender girl as she sang. “In the gloaming, Oh my darling, When the lights are dim and low.” She sang the song through to the end. The applause that followed drowned out the sound of exploding bombs. “More! More!” came from every corner. The social worker slid a microphone before the singer. Bending over, a smile on her lips, Cherry once more whispered a title. Then, lifting her voice high, she cried: “Roll out the Barrel! Everybody sing! Let’s make it ring!” Everybody did sing,—more people than Cherry will ever know, for through the microphone that had been placed before her, Cherry was at last singing on the radio. From end to end of England the song boomed on: “Roll out the Barrel.” Every platform in the subway had its radio. Station by station they joined in until the whole tube, miles on end, echoed with the song. “Roll out the barrel! We’ll have a barrel of fun Roll out the barrel! We’ll put the blues on the run.” It seemed to Dave as he listened after that song was over, that even the FÜhrer must have heard the applause that followed, heard and shuddered. Dropping into a mellow mood for the oldsters who recalled that other terrible war, Cherry sang: “There’s a long, long trail a-winding Into the land of my dreams, Where the nightingale is singing And the white moon beams.” Then, scarcely pausing for breath, leaning far forward, a bewitching smile on her face, she sang: “No! No! No! Papasista.” When the roar of applause had died away, Dave heard a gray-haired lady in a Persian lamb coat say: “Such a vulgar song!” “Quite,” agreed her mink-coated friend. “Vulgar and wonderful. I quite love this war. It has given me one more chance for a fling at life.” “All out for England!” Cherry called into the megaphone. “Everybody sing, ‘We’ll roll the old chariot along’.” They sang. They roared. They sang. “If Hitler’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him. If Tubby’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him. If Il Duce’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him. If the devil’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him. We’ll roll the old chariot along And we won’t tag on behind.” In the hush that followed, Cherry announced in a low, husky voice: “God save the King.” There followed a shuffling of feet. Every man, woman and child was on his feet. Even the enemy planes above seemed to hush as the glorious National Anthem rolled over England from Dover to Newcastle. There were tears in the social service worker’s eyes as she took Cherry’s hand. “You’ll come again, won’t you?” she said in a low voice full of meaning. “Often and often.” “Everybody Sing” “Everybody Sing” “If—if you need me,” was the quiet reply. “And you said you couldn’t do it!” Dave laughed happily as he guided her up the stairs and back to their sub-basement for one more cup of good American coffee. |
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