Читать книгу Tales of a Tiller Girl - Irene Holland - Страница 9

Every night it was the same routine. As soon as it got dark the air-raid siren would go off as regular as clockwork. While I was at Italia Conti there were nightly bombings in London.

‘Action stations, Rene,’ boomed my grandfather’s voice from downstairs as the loud, familiar wailing rang through the streets. ‘Go and help Miss Smythe down from the attic.’

‘All right, Papa,’ I sighed.

Miss Smythe was the tiniest woman that I’d ever seen in my life; she was like a little bird with fluffy white hair that stuck up in a fuzzy halo around her head.

Instead of an Anderson shelter at the bottom of the garden like the one we’d had at our old house, my grandparents had a Morrison shelter in the dining-room. It was a big steel cage with a solid top that you could use as a table during the day and then climb underneath into the cage part during the bombings. It was a huge, ugly thing that almost took up the whole room, but at least it was warm and dry inside, and it was safer than being out in the garden in a rickety Anderson shelter.

By the time I’d helped the frail spinster down three flights of stairs we could have been bombed to high heaven. But finally we made it down to the dining-room.

‘In you go,’ I said as I gave her her a helpful push into the shelter.

‘Thank you, dear,’ she replied.

It was a bit of a squash with four of us all laid out in a row, and it wasn’t very comfy. When the air-raid siren sounded really early on like tonight I got so bored cooped up in that metal cage with three old people. But suddenly I had a great idea.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ll do a performance to cheer you all up.’

‘Rene, I really don’t think that’s necessary,’ sighed my grandmother wearily.

But I was all fired up after a day of singing and dancing at Italia Conti, and once I’d got a bee in my bonnet there was no stopping me. Every woman at that time wanted to look like the film star Jane Russell, and even though I was only twelve I was no exception. Much to my grandmother’s disgust I took off my nightie, whipped off the scarf that she had around her neck, wrapped it round my non-existent boobies and started flouncing around like a Forties risqué glamour girl in just my vest and knickers.

‘I know a fabulous Betty Grable number,’ I said, before launching into an enthusiastic rendition of ‘I Heard the Birdies Sing’.

‘I took one look at you and Cupid took a good swing,’ I sang, failing to notice that the three OAPs who formed my audience were sitting there with a look of complete horror on their faces.

‘Rene, I really don’t think this is appropriate,’ said my grandmother.

‘Oh, Gaga, you’re such a spoilsport,’ I said. ‘I’ve got another song I could do if you don’t like that one.’

‘Rene, that’s enough,’ said my grandfather sternly. ‘You’ll give poor Miss Smythe a heart attack.’

It was only then that I glanced over at the old woman and saw the shocked look on her face. I’m surprised she didn’t have a stroke on the spot.

‘I only wanted to try and cheer you all up while the bombs were coming down,’ I grumbled.

As usual we spent all night in the shelter under the table, and then at 7 a.m. I climbed out and went and got myself ready. I pulled my hair into a bun, made sure that my dance bag was packed, and then stepped over the rubble of the previous night’s bombings and headed to the Tube station. By now the war had just become part and parcel of my daily life.

My grandparents never showed any interest in my dancing and they never asked me anything about Italia Conti. There was no ‘How was your day?’ or ‘What did you have for lunch?’ I was left to get on with it, and that was what I got used to.

My grandmother would make an evening meal for me, although she was a dreadful cook. The pastry on her steak and kidney puddings was always as heavy as lead, and the filling was just as unappetising, with grey meat floating in a watery gravy. My grandfather would make himself useful around the house, and he’d boil up my washing in the big copper in the scullery and do the shopping every day.

In many ways he was a nicer, more approachable person that my grandmother, so it was him whom I asked to get me some sanitary towels when I started my periods.

‘Papa, when you’re out doing the shopping today, please could you bring me some sanitary towels from the chemist?’ I said, my cheeks turning red.

Even though he was very Victorian in some of his attitudes, he wasn’t the least bit embarrassed.

‘Yes, all right, dear,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you your women’s things.’

I think the reason he was always so keen to do the shopping was that it was an excuse to stop in every pub on the way home and have a few pints of ale. That day, when I came home from Italia Conti, there was no sign of my grandfather.

‘Where’s Papa?’ I asked my grandmother.

‘No idea,’ she sighed. ‘He went off to do the shopping and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since.’

By 10 p.m. I was starting to get worried. But Grandmother went to the front door before going to bed, and suddenly I heard the door open and then a terrible thud.

‘Good grief, Henry!’ I heard her yell.

I ran out into the hallway and there was Papa sprawled out face down on the tiled floor.

‘Look who I found asleep on the doorstep worse for wear,’ she tutted. ‘He must have nodded off stood up with his head resting on the door, because when I opened it he fell straight in.’

Gaga was certainly not amused.

‘Are you all right, Papa?’ I asked, trying to pull him up.

‘I’m fine, Rene. And don’t you worry, I’ve got your women’s things,’ he beamed, handing me a large packet of sanitary towels.

But for the most part I dealt with things on my own, and there were only a few times that it bothered me. One of those was at the end of my first year at Italia Conti when the school put on its annual production of Where the Rainbow Ends. It was a very famous play about a group of children who have to rescue their parents and face lots of dangers on the way. In the end they’re helped by St George, and it’s all very English and patriotic.

‘It’s going to be at the Coliseum,’ said Tony excitedly. ‘’Ere, imagine that, Rene. Us lot prancing round on one of the West End’s biggest stages.’

‘And in front of the King,’ said Daphne.

I couldn’t believe that we would be doing a Royal Command Performance for King George and Queen Elizabeth. I was even more thrilled when I was given a brief solo to perform.

‘Irene, I’d like you to be the evil blue fairy,’ Miss Moira the ballet teacher told me. ‘It’s your job to flit from one side of the stage to the other. Do you think you can do that, dear?’

‘Yes, Miss Moira,’ I said.

I was even more chuffed when I saw my costume – a blue dress with a boned bodice and a skirt with floaty bits of fabric coming off it.

But my heart was in my mouth as I turned up to rehearsals. With over 2,300 seats, the Coliseum was the biggest theatre in the West End and I was completely overwhelmed.

‘This place is huge,’ I sighed as I stood on the eighty-foot stage and stared out at all the seats. ‘It’s going to take me all day to dance across this stage.’

It seemed to go on for ever, and there was a huge, ornate domed roof and marble pillars.

We were thrown in at the deep end, as we were expected to learn the routine in half a day and we only had a week of rehearsals.

‘At the end of the performance the whole cast will come back on stage, and you must all turn stage right and curtsey to the royal box,’ Toni Shanley told us. ‘But there must be no staring, and under no circumstances must you look directly at the King and Queen, as that would be a breach of royal protocol. Please cast your eyes downward.

‘Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Miss Toni,’ we all replied.

I was fascinated by the whole idea of the royal family.

‘Do you think they’ll just use the normal theatre toilets like everyone else?’ I asked Tony Newley.

‘Oh, Irene, don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘They’re royalty. They don’t go to the lav.’

I was so naïve that I didn’t realise he was joking, and for many years afterwards I still believed that the royal family were too posh to go to the toilet!

Soon it was the night of the big performance. As I waited in the wings for my turn to dance on stage I just felt tremendously excited rather than nervous.

‘Blue fairy, on you go,’ whispered Moira Shanley.

Right on cue I ran onto the stage. The bright lights dazzled me and I could only make out the first row of the audience as the rest of the auditorium just looked very black. I took a deep breath and forced myself to remember Miss Toni’s words:

‘Focus on the front row of the dress circle. That way you’ll lift your head up, and the audience will see your eyes and the whole of your face. And smile, girls. Smile.’

As I danced across that stage I made sure that I had the biggest, broadest smile on my face. But the strange thing was, it wasn’t forced or fake. I was genuinely happy, as I suddenly realised in that moment that my dream really had come true. Here I was, nearly ten years later, dancing like one of those fairies I’d seen in the pantomime at the Clapham Grand. Not only that, it was on the stage of the biggest theatre in the West End. Performing in front of that huge crowd gave me such a thrill.

‘If only Mum were here to see me,’ I thought to myself.

But there was no time to be sad, and soon I was curtseying to the King and Queen and basking in the audience’s applause. Everyone was on a high and even strict Miss Toni seemed pleased with our performance.

‘That was a job well done, everyone,’ she said, although her face still didn’t crack a smile.

I was still buzzing afterwards, and I didn’t want to take off my fairy costume and get changed back into my ordinary clothes, as that would mean it was all over. As I got ready to go home I watched the rest of my classmates being greeted in the dressing-room by their proud parents, who had all come to watch the show.

‘Oh, Daphne darling, you were absolutely wonderful,’ said her mother, handing her a red rose and a huge box of chocolates.

Others were being lavished with hugs and kisses and praise for their performance. I knew there was no one in the audience who was there for me, but I hadn’t expected there to be. As I squeezed my way out and headed to the Tube I refused to feel sorry for myself or let it get to me.

As part of your training at Italia Conti you were also sent off to appear in other productions during the school holidays. In the early Forties there were little variety theatres in every town and suburb, so there were endless opportunities to perform in summer seasons and pantomimes. I did a short tour with the Sadler’s Wells Opera in which I played a gingerbread child in Hansel and Gretel, and I appeared in a variety show in Brighton. There were no such things as chaperones in those days. We just got on a train on our own and got on with it. A lot of the time we had to find our own places to stay.

When I was thirteen we were sent to work at a pantomime at the Theatre Royal in King’s Lynn. Normally you wrote to the theatre where you were performing and they organised your digs, but our train was late into Norwich and by the time we got there that evening to speak to the stage manager it was all closed up.

‘What are we going to do?’ said my friend Ruth, who had been sent to perform in the show with me.

‘Don’t worry,’ I told her. ‘We’ll just find somewhere ourselves.’

So we ended up walking up and down the streets, knocking on doors to see if we could find a bed for the night. But nobody had any room for the two of us, and as it got later and later we were getting more and more desperate. Then we knocked on the door of a terraced house and an old man opened it.

‘We’re dancers working at the local theatre and we’re looking for somewhere to stay,’ I told him. ‘Do you think you might be so kind as to put us up for the night?’

‘Well, I’m sure I could sort summink out for a couple of lovely young ’uns like you,’ he said in his broad Norfolk accent.

He seemed like a nice, kindly man so we followed him into the house and he showed us his bedroom.

‘You ladies can ’ave this room and I’ll have forty winks downstairs,’ he said, giving us a toothless grin.

Ruth and I looked at each other in horror. The place was absolutely filthy and everything was covered in a sheet of dust. His bedroom had a strange musty smell and the sheets looked like they hadn’t been boiled up in the copper for years.

‘What shall we do?’ whispered Ruth when he went back downstairs. ‘This place is revolting.’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ I said. ‘It’s getting late, and I don’t fancy wandering up and down for hours in the dark.’

Even though his house was filthy he seemed like a nice old fellow, and he was letting us stay for free. But neither Ruth nor I got much sleep that night. We both slept fully dressed on top of the bedclothes and we even left our coats on. Bed bugs were very common in those days and I spent most of the night scratching. Neither of us could wait to leave in the morning.

‘I feel so grubby,’ said Ruth. ‘Before we go to the theatre shall we go to the baths?’

Most towns and cities in the Forties had what were known as public baths. Sometimes our lodgings didn’t have much hot water to go round or even a proper bath, so they were a godsend when we were working away from home doing a show.

When we walked in there was a woman sitting at a little kiosk.

‘Ninepence for a first-class ticket or sixpence for second,’ she told us.

The only difference was that with the first-class ones you got two towels and a scoop of bath salts, and with the second-class ones you only got one towel.

‘Second will be fine,’ I said.

It was expensive enough for us as it was.

She handed us both a meagre piece of soap that had been cut from a big block. Soap was rationed during the war and you couldn’t get any nice, sweet-smelling ones, just this rock-hard green stuff that didn’t lather up no matter how hard you scrubbed. Shampoo wasn’t available either, so you had to use the same soap if you wanted to give your hair a wash, but I’d stopped doing that after I’d discovered how badly it stung my eyes.

‘I can’t wait to feel clean again,’ said Ruth as we went upstairs and sat on the second-class bench until the numbers on our tickets were called.

‘I know what you mean,’ I replied. ‘I still feel all itchy and I’m sure I heard rats scurrying around last night.’

I didn’t mind waiting in the public baths as it was all steamy and warm in there, and you could hear the sound of people singing echoing around the tiled walls. Finally it was our turn and an attendant showed me to my cubicle. It had a stone floor and a huge iron roll-top bath with copper taps but no plug in it.

‘Give me a shout when you’ve finished, love, and I’ll empty out the water for you,’ the attendant told me.

I suppose it was like that to stop anyone from running endless baths. It felt wonderful sinking into the piping hot water after spending the night in that filthy bed. After I’d got out I washed my clothes and underwear in the bathwater, and then got changed into some clean things. Whenever I went to the public baths I would always bring my dirty washing with me.

‘Thank you,’ I said to the attendant.

She went in and opened the tap to let the water out. It was also her job to collect any leftover pieces of soap. These would be melted down and made into a new block, although the thought of that always made me cringe a bit.

‘Ahh, that’s better,’ sighed Ruth. ‘I feel clean again.’

‘Now we’d better go and report in with the theatre,’ I said.

The stage manager was very apologetic about the mix-up with our lodgings.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’ve got you somewhere to stay. You won’t have to go wandering the streets again tonight.’

After morning rehearsals were over we went to get some lunch at the local British Restaurant. These were communal kitchens set up in towns and cities during the war to feed people who’d been bombed out of their houses or had run out of ration coupons, or just people like us who needed a cheap feed. For ninepence you could get a basic meal, such as a bowl of soup or a steaming plate of stew. Afterwards we traipsed round to our new digs, which was a big Victorian terrace house.

‘This looks a bit better,’ said Ruth.

We knocked on the door and a middle-aged woman and a girl in her twenties who I assumed was her daughter answered it. They were both wearing pink satin dressing-gowns, which I thought was a bit odd as it was the middle of the afternoon.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘The theatre sent us. They said you could put us up while we’re doing the panto.’

‘Oh, er, yes, dear,’ she said. ‘You’re the theatricals, are you? Come on in.’

An American army officer in uniform was standing in the hallway.

‘Hi, gals,’ he grinned. ‘Are you the new recruits?’

‘Oi, you, keep yer mouth shut,’ the woman said in a hushed voice, ushering him away. ‘They’re two nice young ladies from the theatre. You keep yer ’ands off.’

She took us up to our room on the first floor. It was a six-bedroom house but, looking through the doors as we walked past, we noticed that all of the bedrooms seemed to have been split into two.

‘Why do two women need a twelve-bedroom house?’ I asked Ruth.

We soon found out. Every fifteen minutes or so the front doorbell would ring and we’d hear the sound of people traipsing up and down the stairs. They were up and down all afternoon and into the evening.

‘Who are all these callers and what are they doing?’ I said, puzzled.

Ruth and I peeped through the keyhole, and every once in a while an American soldier would walk past arm in arm with a pretty woman wearing nothing but a lacy dressing-gown.

‘Oh, my giddy aunt,’ said Ruth. ‘I think I know what this place is, Irene. It’s a knocking shop.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘It’s a brothel,’ she replied. ‘For the Yanks.’

I was very shocked when she explained what that meant. I might have been streetwise, but I was still very green in some respects. I’d heard that these places existed but I was completely terrified.

‘Give me that chair, Ruth, and I’ll barricade the door,’ I said. ‘I don’t want any of those GIs losing their way and wandering into our bedroom by mistake.’

‘Perish the thought,’ she said.

We were both absolutely petrified. Ruth and I slept in the same bed, and we spent all night clinging on to each other. We couldn’t get out of there quickly enough the next morning.

‘You sent us to a brothel,’ Ruth told the stage manager when we got to the theatre. ‘We can’t stay there.’

Once again he was full of apologies.

‘I’m dreadfully sorry, there’s obviously been another mix-up,’ he said. ‘We didn’t realise what type of place it was.’

Thankfully at last we were sent to a proper boarding house, where we stayed for the month that the panto was on, but I vowed never to go to Norfolk again!

I was so naïve in those days, and as for boys, I didn’t have a clue. I wasn’t as glamorous as some of the other girls at Italia Conti. I didn’t wear any make-up, and I was a funny little thing with skinny legs and two long plaits.

But I did have a bit of a crush on one of the dancers in the King’s Lynn panto, who was tall and blond.

‘Isn’t Malcolm lovely?’ I sighed to Ruth. ‘He’s like a Greek god.’

‘Oh, don’t waste your time admiring him,’ she said. ‘He’s a queen.’

‘What do you mean,’ I gasped. ‘Is he royal?’

She just rolled her eyes at me and laughed.

‘For God’s sake, Irene, where have you come from?’

‘I really don’t know what you mean,’ I said.

For someone so streetwise and independent, I really was quite ignorant when it came to matters of the opposite sex.

After I’d been at Italia Conti for a couple of years the school moved out of Tavistock Square. Miss Conti had found a permanent home for it in Archer Street, just off Shaftesbury Avenue. The only drawback about this new location was that it was slap-bang in the middle of London’s red-light district. It was directly behind the Windmill Theatre, famous for its nude shows and ‘we never close’ slogan. As I walked down Archer Street on my way to class in the morning, a lot of the doorways would be open and I’d see men disappearing up the carpeted stairways with their bare light bulbs.

No one had ever sat down and told me about the birds and the bees, but I learned what I could from playground gossip and talking to friends. One day at Italia Conti I could see a big group of pupils gathered round in a corner of the corridor looking at something.

‘Come and have a gander at this, Rene,’ shouted Tony Newley.

Out of curiosity I went to see what they were all so interested in. Much to my horror it was some black-and-white photos of men and women with their clothes off doing all sorts of odd things.

‘Eurgh!’ I shrieked. ‘How disgusting.’

Then I ran away and all the boys laughed.

A lot of the older girls had boyfriends, but I just wasn’t interested. Daphne, who was a year older than me and was 15 by now, was very beautiful and she was always getting asked out by American soldiers.