_Chapter_ VIII Roll Out the Barrel
When late that afternoon Dave walked with Cherry to the village to catchthe 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 uncleto no one. He’s very old and still does all his work the hard way, byhand. Wonderful work it is, too.”
Dave did like Uncle John. Seated there at his bench, a leather apron onhis lap and nails between his teeth, he seemed to have just moved out ofa 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 madeall the Young Lord’s shoes since he was a baby.
“But then,” he sighed, “times have changed. You can’t get the leatherany more. It used to be that I could make a pair of shoes and guaranteethem 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 ofshoes, 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 theywere outside. “His little wife was just like him, always cheerful andkind. She died three years ago.
“Nearly all the people in the village are like that,” she added as theywalked on. “The butcher has his stall in front of his home. The baker’sshop is in his basement. So is the grocer’s. Everyone works. All arekindly. They never have much, but they make it do—and are happy.”
Dave was to recall this picture with a sudden pull at his heartstringsin 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’saudition. Singing in a bare studio with a strange accompanist, the girlwas far from doing her best. For all that the director gave her a smallspot on the “People’s Choice” program at 9:00 P. M.
Once more on the street where shadows had grown long and dark, andpeople by hundreds were hastening home before the air raid sirensounded, 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 uncletook me to a rare little basement eating place once. They serve good oldAmerican coffee and waffles with maple syrup. That will put you on yourtoes.”
In the quiet of the sub-cellar, they drank great quantities of coffeeand ate their waffles joyously.
“I—I guess I’ll make it now,” Cherry murmured. Once more they were onthe deserted streets.
Then, as if to crush her high hopes, all hell let loose. The roar ofpowerful motors, the scream of sirens, the boom and bang ofanti-aircraft guns filled all the night with terror.
“I can’t let you in ’ere now,” said a burly guard at the entrance to thebroadcasting station. “It is quite impossible. You shouldn’t be ’ere atall.”
“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 ladieshallowed in the station during an alarm. If you’d ask me sir, I’dhadvise a subway station at once, sir. Yonder’s one not ’alf a blockhaway.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when there came a low, whiningsound, followed by a flash that lit all the sky. Then came a roar fit toburst their eardrums, and a tremendous push that tossed them to thepavement five yards away.
Without a word Dave scrambled to his feet, picked the slight girl up inhis arms, dashed half a block, and was down two flights of stairs to thesubway station before he fully realized what he was doing.
Seated on the hard floor of the station, with thousands of people allabout them, for a full moment they were completely silent. Then Davebegan to laugh. Cherry joined in, and the spell was broken.
The laugh over, they looked about them. The whole long platform wasfilled with people. Young and old, rich and poor, salesgirls in thin,shabby coats, gray-haired ladies in mink and ermine, they all werethere. And all, it seemed, were bent on making the best of an unpleasantsituation. Bye and bye they would do their best to snatch a littlesleep, for tomorrow would be another day.
“Look at them.” There was a catch in Dave’s throat. “They seem almosthappy.”
“Yes.” Cherry’s chin went up. “They’re not going to let Hitler get themdown. He wouldn’t be pleased if he could see them now!”
In a bright corner four old men were playing cards. In the shadows ashopgirl was whispering to her young man. Sitting on their bedrolls, twosedate matrons were knitting. Children were everywhere, and all of themwhooping 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 LadyApplegate’s home once. It was truly quite wonderful. Now—” shehesitated, “well, you see, I’m just helping out down here, sort ofsocial service work, don’t you know. And I thought you might not mind,well, you know,”—she hesitated—“well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind singinga song or two for these people. They’d think it quite the berries if youwould.”
“Well, that—” Cherry laughed, “that’s what I came to town for, to singon 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. “Youcan’t help loving these people, don’t you know.” Her tired facebrightened as she spread out her arms. “Not one of them knows whetherhis 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 singfor them, Miss Ramsey?”
Cherry nodded.
From somewhere a small piano was made to appear. A little Irish girlwith a tumbled mass of red hair took her place before it. A smallplatform—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. Leaningover, she whispered to the girl at the piano, giving her the name of herfirst 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 tous,” Miss Meeks announced. “Let’s give her a hand.” The applause wastumultuous.
Somehow, a light, not too strong, was made to play on the slender girlas 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 drownedout the sound of exploding bombs.
“More! More!” came from every corner.
The social worker slid a microphone before the singer. Bending over, asmile on her lips, Cherry once more whispered a title. Then, lifting hervoice high, she cried: “Roll out the Barrel! Everybody sing! Let’s makeit ring!”
Everybody did sing,—more people than Cherry will ever know, for throughthe microphone that had been placed before her, Cherry was at lastsinging 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 theyjoined 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 listen
ed after that song was over, that even theFührer must have heard the applause that followed, heard and shuddered.
Dropping into a mellow mood for the oldsters who recalled that otherterrible 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 bewitchingsmile on her face, she sang: “No! No! No! Papasista.”
When the roar of applause had died away, Dave heard a gray-haired ladyin a Persian lamb coat say:
“Such a vulgar song!”
“Quite,” agreed her mink-coated friend. “Vulgar and wonderful. I quitelove this war. It has given me one more chance for a fling at life.”
“All out for England!” Cherry called into the megaphone. “Everybodysing, ‘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: “Godsave the King.”
There followed a shuffling of feet. Every man, woman and child was onhis feet. Even the enemy planes above seemed to hush as the gloriousNational Anthem rolled over England from Dover to Newcastle.
There were tears in the social service worker’s eyes as she tookCherry’s hand. “You’ll come again, won’t you?” she said in a low voicefull of meaning. “Often and often.”
“If—if you need me,” was the quiet reply.
“And you said you couldn’t do it!” Dave laughed happily as he guided herup the stairs and back to their sub-basement for one more cup of goodAmerican coffee.