Читать книгу Stella - Gary Morecambe, Eric Morecambe - Страница 8

Chapter Three

At weekends Tommy joined the girls at their various venues. He enjoyed helping out wherever he could. He was a strong boy, and his prominent muscles kept over-enthusiastic male admirers under control.

He was employed at the Lancil factory, making – or rather assisting in the making of – oilcloth.

He had become Sadie’s all-time favourite hero, and secretly they had shared kisses, as long as he promised to do it romantically, like in the films she had seen. Tommy went along with this. He went along with anything that kept her happy.

Towards the latter part of 1932 they were working the cream of anything that was going, even as far afield as Preston, and had twice worked Manchester.

Their post-office savings books had never looked healthier. Sadie had managed to save nearly every penny she had earned – after giving her mother an allowance. Stella had spent most of her earnings on clothing and on the act, realising that they wouldn’t progress without spending on themselves. Fashion was an important part of their song and dance act, and Stella didn’t want anyone thinking they were cheap and scruffy. Anyway, it was far easier for Sadie to save as she had kept her job going at the cake shop.

Tommy received a flat salary of five shillings every time he worked with them. It didn’t matter how large or small the date was; five shillings he received. Half of this went into his own post-office savings account, the rest he spent on treating himself.

Unlike the girls, he didn’t have to pay anything to his parents towards his keep: it had always been that way. Now and again he’d go to the market and buy in a load of vegetables as a gesture of his gratitude, and by doing it this way he guaranteed that his dad wouldn’t blow it all at the pub.

Sadie was quite content to drift through life without any changes. After all, she had never had so much money, so why should she want to change things? She thought they had become legendary figures when she saw a piece about them in the local press: ‘Stella and Sadie Raven are now household names throughout the whole of Lancaster.’ It also went on to say that Stella was renowned for her fashion sense and Sadie for her gentle personality.

One morning, during this busy period, Stella declared that she had discovered the opportunity for them to make sensational progress. She’d seen in a theatrical paper, The Stage, that there was to be a talent contest held in the north, called ‘The North-West, Go as You Please Show’.

The first prize wasn’t money – it was far better than that. If you won you were given a full week’s work at your nearest main theatre. For the girls that would mean the Winter Gardens, Morecambe.

The first instalment of the competition took place at the Alhambra Theatre, Morecambe, where they had to win the local heat. If successful, they would then go to the Hippodrome, at Ardwick Green, Manchester, for the second heat. This was followed by the semi-finals in Liverpool (no theatre confirmed as yet, due to disputes between various managements) and would conclude back in Manchester at the Palace Theatre. Stella entered them for it at once. ‘It won’t be easy for the others with us performing,’ she said confidently – maybe too confidently.

‘It’s a bit scary, though,’ said Sadie. ‘They’ll be some awful good ’uns having a go, Stella.’

She ignored Sadie’s reservations. If she took any notice of her sister they’d be permanently out of work.

On the day of the first local heat Sadie just managed to overcome a severe bout of nerves and Stella gave one of her most perfunctory performances. She’d made the classic mistake of having her mind already on the stage at the Palace, Manchester. They came second. An Irish pub tenor won the first heat, singing, ‘Mother Macrea’, followed by ‘I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen’. He was awful but – and this is the part Stella couldn’t comprehend – the public liked him. He was a short, fat man, well into his forties, who didn’t touch upon many right notes. But the public liked him. ‘Better luck to us next time,’ was Sadie’s only remark as the theatre emptied.

‘How on earth could they have liked him?’ cried Stella, gazing up at the heavens in stunned disbelief. ‘How could a garden gnome come in first? Did you see that orange doormat he wore on his head?’

‘I think that was a wig,’ said Tommy, keeping his distance as Stella was looking positively volatile.

‘Course it was a ruddy wig, which makes it all the more stupid that he won.’

‘Well, I thought he was quite good,’ said Sadie, very generously.

‘But Sadie, dear,’ she said with frustration in her emotion-filled voice: ‘if he was only “quite good”, as you say, and he went and won the thing, and we came in second, does that make us not quite as good as quite good?’ Sadie was confused. She never had understood Stella’s logic.

Tommy stood several feet away with his hands dug deep into his pockets and a look of bemusement on his pallid face. ‘I’ll bet you he won’t get past the next round,’ said Stella. ‘In Manchester they’ve seen real pros, real talent. They have four or five number-one theatres in Manchester and so they know real talent, I’ll stake my life on it.’

‘I wouldn’t want you to go as far as that,’ said Sadie, seriously.

Stella studied her sister despairingly before saying, ‘And neither one of you is to go backstage and wish that big idiot luck for the next round.’ She turned on Tommy, who had moved even further away. ‘You hear that, Tommy Moran?’

He swung round with an angelic expression upon his face. ‘What was that?’

‘You heard me.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Come on, there’s nothing here for us any more. Let’s go home and tell our folks the worst.’

Once on the tram Stella managed to calm herself considerably. ‘I’ll give him this,’ she said, preparing to offer her first piece of praise for the tenor singer: ‘He knew exactly what the audience wanted. He sang the right numbers for the occasion.’

There was a glimmer in her eyes as if she was registering her own words as she spoke them. ‘Yes, that’s the secret, isn’t it? You give them what they want; not what you want.’

‘I think that’s quite so,’ said Tommy, bravely. ‘“Live and learn” is what my old man taught me.’

‘What’s he got to do with the business?’ she said, hurtfully. Tommy cowered and stared out of the window.

‘Don’t be mean on him,’ defended Sadie. ‘It’s not Tommy’s fault.’

‘I know, I am sorry. I just can’t believe we’re out of the stupid competition.’

Within two days Stella had a plan. They would go to Preston, put their names down at the theatre there and re-enter the competition. They could use their Aunt Alice’s name and address to avoid recognition. She lived in Garston, which was nearer to Preston than Lancaster. ‘But only by about two yards,’ Tommy pointed out. She was very pleased with herself, and even more pleased when Tommy revealed that he had a relation in Preston itself, and that they could use her address.

After an awkward journey they reached Preston, did their performance using Tommy’s relation’s name and address – and came in third. They were beaten out of second place by a young man who did the worst impression of Charlie Chaplin Stella had ever seen. ‘I didn’t even realise he was supposed to be Charlie Chaplin,’ declared Sadie. He, in turn, was beaten out of first place by a crippled accordionist and his dog that howled to all his tunes, hitting the right notes more often than his owner.

Stella asked Tommy if he had any relatives in Blackburn, but both he and Sadie were quite adamant that, as far as this particular competition was concerned, they were finished.

Stella was almost frantic from the lack of worthwhile work there was about during the ensuing period. The one thing that gnawed away at her mind more consistently than anything else was the question, would they ever really make it big? Both of them were now members of the Variety Artists’ Federation union, and they read the papers and periodicals appertaining to any form of entertainment. All Stella wanted was for them to have just one good job in the business so they could prove their worth.

Sadie had lost much of her enthusiasm since the big competition. She didn’t in any way blame her sister for their failure, but felt that, having put all her faith and trust in her for so long with such poor results, she’d be better off spending more of her time at the cake shop, doing an honest day’s work. She was also falling more and more in love with Tommy Moran by the second, and in recent years he hadn’t stopped being in love with her for a moment. In fact, if the truth had been known, his main reason for continuing to participate in their work as travelling chaperone was to now gradually save towards buying an engagement ring. He knew they were both too young for marriage as yet, ‘but there’s no harm in saving,’ he would keep telling himself.

What neither of them realised was that Stella was so blinded by her ambition to succeed that she hadn’t noticed their blossoming love. They’d wrongly assumed that she simply wasn’t interested.

The next two years were traumatic ones for Stella but not too unpleasant for Sadie. Work had come in fits and starts, and when they did work it was received with little remark or enthusiasm. One night, when her sister was already asleep, Stella lay wide-awake in bed, her eyes filled with bitter tears. The next morning she intended dissolving the partnership and going in search of a real job, as she’d heard Sadie call her own work at the cake shop.

When morning came, she descended into the kitchen to break the news to Sadie, knowing that it would probably come as a relief to her younger sister. But an historic occur-rence took place that was to change the whole pattern of their lives. For the first time since they had lived in Corkell’s Yard, a postman delivered a letter. It was addressed to Miss Stella Raven, c/o the Raven Sisters.

Mrs Ravenscroft gingerly accepted it from him when he knocked at the door – there being no letterbox, indeed, until then there had been no need for one. She gave a brief curtsey and carried it indoors, delicately held between thumb and forefinger as though she was going to take it away to have it tested for fingerprints. She placed it by the oil lamp for a while, then decided it should be on the mantle-shelf, where it would be more prominent. Then she sat down and watched it do nothing.

Glumly, Stella reached for the first mug of tea she saw poured out and drifted into the best room. Her mother had got the open fire alight, but it was still cold as yet. ‘You all right, Mam?’ she asked, when seeing how immobile she was in her seat. She nodded at the mantle-shelf as if it was holding her at gun point, and Stella gave a curious frown before picking up the letter that rested on it. ‘Stone the flamin’ crows,’ she gasped.

‘Don’t open it,’ begged her mother, and with unexpected animation she leapt forward, snatched it, and returned it back to what she felt was its correct position – on the mantle-shelf.

‘It’s got to be opened, Mam. It’s a letter – and it’s ad -dressed to me. It could be urgent.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she agreed. Then she said, rather smugly, ‘Mrs Milligan saw him deliver it, you know.’ Her face began to beam. ‘We’ll be the talk of the neighbour-hood.’

Stella opened it and read in silence for a moment or two.

‘Who sent it, then?’ asked her mother.

‘It’s from a theatrical agent I wrote to in London some weeks back.’

‘London?’ she gasped, as if her daughter had just said Hades.

‘Yes, Mam, London. You know it; it’s that place down south with big buildings.’

‘Watch your tongue, young madam,’ she warned. ‘You’re not so big that I can’t put you across my knee if needs be.’

‘Do you want to hear it, then?’

‘I’m not moving till I do.’

‘It says, “Dear Miss Raven, Thank you for your letter of the twenty-first inst. To confirm the advert in The Stage, yes, we are seeking new young talent to represent. We are a young agency with as much ambition as the artistes we have on our lists. Please call in to see us, accompanied by this letter. Yours sincerely, Brooksie (Ronnie Brookfield).”’

Stella put the letter back in its envelope and replaced it on the mantle-shelf. ‘What happens now?’ her mother asked.

‘How do you mean?’ Stella fenced with her.

‘You know. What happens now? Do you write to him again or what?’

‘Yes. I’ll write to him telling him I got his letter. Then I’ll go to London and visit him – probably fix up an audition with him and get any other work that’s about. There’s more prospects down there. Sadie and me may get good theatre work.’

‘And what do you think your dad’s going to say when you ask him if you can go to London?’

As far as Stella was concerned, her father had nothing to do with her decisions, and so she answered her mother with as much nonchalance as she could muster. ‘Well, Mam, for one thing I won’t be asking Dad, I’ll be telling him I’m going, and if Sadie and Tommy can’t come with me I’ll just have to go alone.’

Then her nonchalant air began to fade as she saw her mother’s eyebrows raise in shock. Stella raised a hand as she said, ‘I’ll have no rows about it. I’m not wanting to lose my temper, but I’ve made up my mind, no matter what. I have my own money and Sadie has more than enough to pay her own half.’

‘Sadie’ll pay half, will she? And where did you get that idea from? It was you that wrote to the agency, not our Sadie.’

‘Mam, I’ll be going down to try and find work for the both of us. It’s always been me that’s taken care of fixing everything up. I even do all the music, the dance arrangements and everything else to do with the act.’ She paused for a second, conscious that she may have been playing for too much sympathy. ‘Look, she has a nice little nest-egg in the Post Office, and I doubt she’d even have to give up her job at the shop to come with me, but she will have to pay her own fare.’

‘She won’t be allowed to leave work just to take fancy trips down to London,’ said her mother firmly, as if she, herself, employed her at the shop.

Inwardly Stella sensed that her mother’s concern was over the loss of keep-money rather than the temporary loss of two daughters. ‘You know, Mam, when you talk like this it’s easy to see why you and Dad never got anywhere.’

Was she really speaking to her own mother like this? she quickly thought. ‘You have no spirit of adventure, which is why one day you’ll die in this horrible little prison and nothing of interest will have ever happened to you. There’s a land of opportunity out there; not here in Lancaster, Morecambe, or Preston, Mam. It’s down there, in London.’

Stella had once seen Miriam Hopkins do a similar speech in one of her films substituting Lancaster, Morecambe, and Preston for Palm Beach, Long Island, and Pasadena.

Her mother stood up, walked over to a taper, and lit the fire. She was having difficulty in quelling her anger. ‘If your father could hear you talk like that he’d tan your arse, Stella Ravenscroft. And I’d help him. Now set the table, Miss Uppity.’ With a touch of resignation Stella opened the knife-drawer, making as much noise as she could. Her mother left the room and quickly Stella reached for the letter on the mantle-shelf. ‘And you can leave that where it is,’ said her mother’s distant voice. ‘Your dad’s to read it before it goes walking.’

Jack and Lilly Ravenscroft were still thumping the kitchen table and laying down the law while Sadie and Tommy were at the station waving Stella off on the London-bound train for her first-ever trip ‘down there’.

Within a few days Jack and Lilly received a postcard from their wayward daughter, as they began to refer to her. It just said that she had arrived safe and soundly, and that the weather was no different to that in Lancaster. She sent her love to them all and put a PS, saying that Mr and Mrs Gosling, the people she was staying with, send their very best, and a PPS, saying that ‘Streatham is really quite lovely.’

The postcard became another ornament for the Raven-scroft mantle-shelf.

Ronnie Brookfield’s tiny office at the back of Charing Cross Road was as drab and dirty as he was. The only promise of work came through such expressions as ‘As soon as I can fix anything for you, I will’ and ‘Believe me, you will be the first to know’, and ‘Is your sister as pretty as you?’

To her surprise, he also asked her if she minded doing stag parties. He produced a pen from his cheap-looking, badly stained blazer. ‘What, no phone number? Er – Oh well, no matter. I’ll be in touch by post. Goodbye, Miss Ravel, er, Miss Raymond, er, Miss Raven.’

She went round at least another half a dozen more agents, some quite prominent, others as dubious as Mr Brookfield’s outfit. More promises were made and more time seemingly wasted. Her money was running short. It was time to vacate the ‘Big City’ and return to the smaller one of Lancaster, hoping that the fare and various other expenses hadn’t proved to be money down the drain.

She’d been home six weeks. Her letter was still on the mantle-shelf and just beside it was the postcard. Both were memories of London, but what worried her more was that both were rapidly becoming memories of a career that seemed destined not to happen.

At about this time Corkell’s Yard received another rare visit from the postman. This time he delivered a larger envelope than before. ‘Telegram for Miss Raven,’ he announced, pushing it into Mrs Ravenscroft’s hand. Her head was swimming with excitement as she signed her name in full: Lilly Elizabeth Ravenscroft.

She could sense the neighbours peering at her from behind closed curtains. Stella hurriedly made some tea, allowed it to brew for only a moment, and then poured it out for both of them. As she finally reached for the telegram her mother said, ‘Let’s have a biscuit.’

Stella went to the tiny pantry and returned with a tin with Peak Frean stamped on it. The Peak Frean biscuits had long since been eaten and the tin had been purchased some years ago. It now contained a lower vintage of biscuit but good enough for them to dunk in their tea. ‘Read it out,’ said her mother, with crumbs all over her lips.

Stella opened it and read: ‘Miss Stella Raven, Corkell’s Yard, Penny Street, Lancaster, Lancs.’ Her mother nodded a few times, as if giving her approval. ‘Can fix you Babes rehearsals Dec Five Six weeks see below own fares Theatre Royal Portsmouth Phone Affirmative Brooksie.’

Her mother waited some moments before asking, ‘Is that showbusiness talk?’ Stella shakily reached for her tea and sat down. ‘Well, come on. Explain it all to me. Remember, we’re just plain simple folk up this way.’ That was a gentle dig – a small attempt at revenge – for the comments she’d made about them some weeks ago.

‘What it means is, Babes in the Wood pantomime rehearsals, starting December fifth with a six-week run for ten pounds a week between Sadie and me. We have to settle our own fares and I must phone them right away if the answer’s yes.’

‘Where’s it say all that?’ asked her bewildered mother, turning the telegram over and over in her hands as if the missing words would magically fall out onto her lap.

‘A telegram’s like code, Mam. They do it that way ’cos it’s cheaper.’ As she spoke her mind was already way ahead of her, carefully planning what sort of digs she would be looking for and how much she would be able to spend whilst in Portsmouth.

‘I see,’ said her mother. ‘Well, be a good girl and put telegram on mantle-shelf for your dad to see when he’s back from work.’

She sat back, looking at the three pieces of correspond-ence and sighed. ‘My, we’ll soon be needing a longer mantle.’

‘Ten pound a week’s not a bad starter in the big time, is it, Mam?’ She felt she mustn’t let her change the subject until she had been given a definite go-ahead. She couldn’t keep Brooksie waiting. She had to phone him before her dad was back from work or it might be too late.

‘Hmmm. But you’ve got to split it with Sadie. That makes a big difference doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, Mam, but five pounds a week is twice as much as Dad gets.’

Before she’d finished the sentence she knew that she had made a grave mistake.

‘Two pounds five your dad gets, and he has to work hard for it, not singing and dancing about the place, but solid hard work. Your dad’s got a good name. Everybody says what a good worker he is, everybody says that.’ Her cheeks were crimson with anger, though Stella wasn’t sure whether it was because she had insulted his name or because her mother wished he could earn as much as five pounds a week. Either way, she appeared to calm as easily as she had flared. ‘How much will the railway be?’

‘About twenty-five bob return, third class. Then Sadie will be able to earn more than she can in the cake shop.’

‘A guinea a week she earns,’ established her mother with a pointing, almost threatening, finger. ‘Our Sadie’s like Dad. She’s a good worker. Why, only just the other day I went into the cake shop for a penneth of broken biscuits and Mrs Coverdale, she’s manageress there, said, “Hello Mrs Ravenscroft. What a good worker your Sadie is . . .”’

Stella wondered if it would be best to hunt out good digs that cost more or bad digs and so save more.

‘“. . . I’ve never known any girl work as hard as your Sadie.”’ Her mother nodded at least five times as if to say, there now, so no more argument. Stella wasn’t arguing.

Stella’s mind returned from Portsmouth. ‘Yes, okay, Mam.’ She had stopped listening after ‘A guinea a week she earns . . .’ ‘I’m off to see Sadie to tell her to give up her job at the cake shop, come home and get packing, ready for our long journey down to the wicked south.’

‘You’ll have your dad to see about all this, and don’t think I’m going to stick up for you either.’

‘Going to Portsmouth is no worse than going to London, Mam. And going to London isn’t like going to Hell. You can always come back from London.’

‘Watch that language. You’ve been there once and look at the swear-words you’ve picked up.’

‘Goodbye, Mam. See yer . . .’

She was out of the house before her mother could say ‘Jack Ravenscroft’. She fell into the cake shop and saw Sadie serving Mrs Pritchard three coconut macaroons. ‘That’ll be fourpence, Mrs P.’

‘How much?’ challenged her customer.

‘Ooh, sorry, Mrs P. Er, threepence please.’ Out the corner of her eye she could see Stella doing an uncanny mime of Mrs Pritchard quibbling over the price. She had to stop looking at Stella to prevent herself from breaking up into laughter, which she was prone to do at the least amusing comment or action her sister made.

Mrs Pritchard checked her change and, with a groan and a frown, turned and stomped out of the shop, not even acknowledging Stella’s presence. The bell above the door rang and she slammed the door shut. ‘What are you doing, visiting me here during hours?’ whispered Sadie with a mixture of concern and excitement. Stella related the story about the telegram and her subsequent discussion with her mother. ‘Portsmouth!’ gasped Sadie. ‘That’s further than London, that is.’

‘You’re sounding like Mam did.’

‘But it’s a long way.’

She spied Mrs Coverdale coming out the back office. ‘Quickly, order something or I’ll be for it.’

‘Yer what?’

‘Order something, quickly,’ urged Sadie. She smiled sweetly at Mrs Coverdale, who eyed her with an amount of suspicion.

When Stella saw Mrs Coverdale she said to her, ‘One of your cakes just spoke to me.’ Sadie felt herself age by a hundred years.

‘What you on about?’ growled the manageress.

‘It’s one of your delicious cakes. It spoke to me. It said, “Please eat me, I’m so delicious.” I’ll just have to buy it.’

She looked from one sister to the other. ‘I hope you’re not as daft as yer sister,’ she said to Sadie, at length. Sadie shoved the cake forcefully into Stella’s hands.

‘There’s your cake.’

‘And how much is that?’ she asked sweetly, producing a purse and pretending to hunt through it for change.

‘Sixpence,’ was Sadie’s reply.

‘How much?’ asked Stella, reverting back to her impression of Mrs Pritchard. Sadie just managed to contain herself.

‘Sixpence, please.’

She held out her hand and Stella pretended to put money in it. It was something they had done before. She rang up sixpence and rattled the change about in the wooden till for effect.

Mrs Coverdale, ever-suspicious of youth in her shop, marched over to see what was going on. Stella quickly warned her sister. ‘Ooh, and Mam says you’re to bring home twelve black puddings for Dad’s tea.’ Sadie closed her eyes and opened them again, hoping she would be many miles away.

‘Twelve?’ said a disbelieving Mrs Coverdale as she stopped in her tracks – much to Stella’s relief.

‘No. I said two, Mrs Coverdale,’ she corrected, innocently. Mrs Coverdale squeezed a finger into her ear and shook it about.

‘I must be going deaf. Could have sworn you said twelve.’

The shop door opened and another customer stepped inside. She moved to serve her and both Sadie and Stella dropped their shoulders with relief.

Stella found a public phone and rang up Ronnie Brookfield, confirming that they would be in attendance at the first rehearsal on the fifth of December. She had found it easy to convince her sister that eight weeks away from Tommy was not the end of the world. ‘Think of all that money you will be able to save towards a wedding dress,’ she’d remarked glibly, not expecting a ‘that’s true’ reply.

Jack Ravenscroft had also been easy to convince. He’d considered the extra few bob that they would pull in for them during their absence. With a big, hearty smile, he’d then given his decision. ‘Of course you can go, my darlings. Why, I couldn’t think of anything better for you.’

Lilly Ravenscroft had muttered under her breath about the dangers of ill-doings that went on in the south, but no one was paying her much attention on the matter by now.

Stella and Sadie Raven – Sadie, in all honesty, a little reluctantly so – were now in showbusiness proper.