The Boat Girls Read Online Free PDF

Greece, and Crete and Italy and north Africa, and in the Far East against Japan.
    When she was sixteen, Rosalind left school and worked as a waitress while she auditioned for acting parts. Unfortunately, her height and her looks worked against her. The patriotic demand was for delicate English roses rather than for long-legged redheads of Irish descent.
    Now that the Germans seemed unlikely to land on the beach at any moment, the run-down terrace house was sold and a better one bought on the sea front, not far from the Winter Gardens. Actors and actresses, coming and going inproductions there, replaced the travelling salesmen and theatrical gossip was part of life again. There was talk of a completely new company being started up in a provincial theatre by a legendary Shakespearian actor. It was, Rosalind’s mother told her, her big chance. She must take the train there and walk straight in. Beg the great man for a part –
any
part, however small. Once she was in and he saw how good she was, the rest would follow.
    She had some trouble finding the theatre, wandering around dingy streets past bomb-damaged houses and heaps of rubble inhabited by cats and rats. The theatre had been damaged, too. A tarpaulin had been stretched over a part of the roof and the house doors had been blown out so that she was able, literally, to walk straight in. She opened an inner swing door leading to the back of the stalls, which was in darkness. The stage, though, was lit and two actors were rehearsing. She stood, motionless and unobserved, listening to Orlando and Jaques speaking familiar lines from
As You Like It
.
    Rosalind is your love’s name?
    Yes, just.
    I do not like her name.
    There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.
    What stature is she of?
    Just as high as my heart.
    Jaques made his exit and Rosalind her entrance – a slight, blonde-haired girl, just the right heart-high size for her rather short Orlando. An English rose.
    I pray you, what is ’t o’clock?
    You should ask me, what time o’ day; there’s no clock in the forest.
    Then there is no true lover in the forest; else
    sighing every minute and groaning every
    hour would detect the lazy foot of Time
—
    â€˜Nadine, darling,
do
try to pitch your voice lower and strut about like I showed you – you’re pretending to be a boy, remember? A
saucy lackey
. Orlando would rumble you in a second.’
    The rich, theatrical voice had come from the centre of the darkened stalls.
    The actress said sulkily, ‘I
am
trying. It’s the best I can do. Anyway, Paul wouldn’t notice if I came on stark naked.’
    â€˜Don’t be bitchy, sweetie. It doesn’t suit you. Take it again from
I pray you
. . .’
    They got as far as
Where dwell you, pretty youth?
when the voice interrupted again – wearily.
    â€˜All right, let’s stop there for the moment, shallwe? I think we
all
need a rest. Is anyone capable of making a decent cup of tea?’
    She moved then, walking boldly down the central gangway towards the stage.
    â€˜I am.’
    Heads turned to stare from the front row and the two people on stage shaded their eyes, peering in her direction. The actress, Nadine, said, ‘Who the hell’s that?’
    â€˜I’m Rosalind Flynn,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for work. Any work.’
    â€˜You’ve got a nerve, barging in here. Hasn’t she, Lionel?’
    The voice spoke languidly from her left. ‘She certainly has, darling. But I’m quite prepared to forgive her if she really can make a good cup of tea. Are you sure that you can, Miss Flynn?’
    â€˜Yes, quite sure.’
    â€˜Show her where it’s kept, somebody.’
    A plump, middle-aged woman who had been sitting at the front took her backstage where there was a cupboard-sized kitchen with a sink, a cold-water tap, a gas ring, a kettle, some dirty mugs, a teapot, a half-full bottle of milk, a soggy