Читать книгу The Unsolved Oak Island Mystery 3-Book Bundle - Lionel and Patricia Fanthorpe - Страница 4

Although they were born on different continents, my parents’ early years had much in common. Each started life in a family that struggled financially, each was forced to abandon formal schooling very early, and each chose a career in entertainment as the portal to adventure.

Once their lives intersected, my parents discovered they were a perfect match. They joined forces and set out, confident that their life together would be exciting and glamorous. Throughout the ensuing years, they encountered exhilarating highs and daunting lows, but true to their expectations, the life they shared proved to be a most extraordinary adventure.

My mother was English, born and bred, but Dad was a fourth-generation Canadian, born in Toronto.

Dad’s parents, Ernest and Annie Restall, had three daughters and four sons. Shortly after the last child was born, Ernest moved the family to the United States in search of a better life. Ernest was a hard-working skilled tradesman, but he was also a heavy drinker. After only a few years in the United States, Ernest and Annie separated; alcohol was blamed.

Ernest returned to Canada, and Annie and the children remained in the United States. Ernest had taught his trade, plumbing, to his oldest son, my father. By the time his parents separated, Dad was already working to help the family financially. He had left school immediately after graduating from grade eight. His sisters Lillian and Margaret did the same, securing jobs with the Bell Telephone Company. In those days (around 1919), you could leave school before age sixteen if your family needed your assistance. So at the earliest opportunity, each of the Restall children left school to help support the family.

Dad, his siblings, and his mother lived in Yonkers, New York. Soon, the older boys in the family — Dad, Goldy, and Bill — discovered dirt track motorcycle racing and became local stars. The name Restall hardly conjures up visions of speed, so the boys adopted the surname Lee, after General Robert E. Lee. Dad took the name Speedy Bob Lee, Goldy became Goldy Lee or Curly Lee, and Bill became Wild Bill Lee or sometimes Billy Lee. Bill lost interest in riding motorcycles pretty quickly, but Dad and Goldy were hooked. As well as motorcycle racing, they began trick riding inside a motor drome and were so successful that they took their act to Britain.

A drome (sometimes called a wall) is a huge barrel-like structure. Motorcyclists ride around on the inside of the barrel walls. Spectators pay admission, climb a steep staircase, and stand on a platform that goes all around the top of the drome. Then they peer down into the barrel, watching the riders roar round and round, now riding with no hands, now steering with their feet, now crossing one leg over to ride sidesaddle, now standing with both feet on one pedal with hands in the air. Sometimes two riders on separate motorcycles race along the wall, criss-crossing each other’s paths. Sometimes a car is driven inside the drome instead.

When my mother and father met, Mom was a dancer. She had been earning her own living, working with variety shows that played across England, from the time she was twelve years old. Mildred Shelley was born in Brackenhill, Ackworth R.D., England, in 1912 to Henrietta Shelley, née Greenwood, and Henry Shelley, a colliery banksman. Henry went overseas to serve in the First World War, leaving his wife and young daughter in England. In less than a year, Henry was killed in battle. Henrietta took little Mildred and returned to her parents’ home. Her father owned two or three fish and chip shops and was also a gentleman farmer, keeping a few cows, pigs, and chickens. He was a stern man who expected each of his children to work long and hard in the service of the family in exchange for room, board, and a very small allowance. Henrietta toiled alongside her younger brothers and sisters. There were plenty of jobs, so even little Mildred was pressed into service.

My mother recalled no happiness in that household, no fun, no kindness, no compliments — only work. She and her mother slaved for the dour old man. When the family sat down together at mealtimes, his was the only voice allowed to be heard. It was fresh in Henrietta’s mind why she had been in such a hurry to marry and leave home, but now she was a widow with a young daughter and few options.

Eventually Henrietta gathered enough money together for her escape, and she and Mildred were on their way. At that time in England, live theatre was flourishing. Comedies, dramas, musicals, and variety shows played in cities and towns all across the country. Henrietta had always dreamed of being an actress. Now she was determined to realize her dream. She proved to be a natural. With her commanding stage presence and magnificent speaking voice, it was not long before she was working in theatres across England and travelling to India, Japan, and other exotic countries for months at a time. Acting is an uncertain career, but Henrietta was almost never out of work.

While she was establishing herself as an actress, Henrietta sent my mother to live with her aunt and uncle in a rural seaside village in England. Mom told me that she doubted these people were really relatives, but they were warm, loving people who truly seemed to care about her. Life with them was idyllic.

Money was tight, but there was good solid food, the lovely seaside, and people who cared. Mom liked to recall the excitement when her mother sent money. Her aunt would take Mom on a shopping spree to buy beautiful new clothes. But many times during those years, my mother had only one school uniform, which she washed and ironed each evening. Sometimes she felt sorry for herself, wishing she had a vast wardrobe, but her aunt comforted her by saying, “Mildred, even if you wore a flour sack, you’d still be beautiful.” Maybe it was there that Mom learned to carry herself proudly in spite of everything.

Those days with her aunt and uncle were the happiest of her childhood. When Henrietta returned from India one day and took Mom away, Mom and her aunt and uncle were heartbroken. But it was time for Mildred to earn her keep. She was twelve years old.

Henrietta enrolled my mother in a boarding school just outside London. There, girls from twelve to sixteen were schooled in the three Rs and taught to perform on stage. Their ballet teacher was Madame Kiesh, formerly a Russian prima ballerina. She claimed to have been a contemporary of Madame Pavlova. But the Dying Swan was choreographed for Pavlova, transporting her to fame and fortune, while Madame Kiesh was left to spark the talent of troupes of bedraggled English schoolgirls.

No doubt the study of ballet helped these youngsters develop flexibility, economy of movement, and grace, useful attributes in any kind of stage performance. But they spent much more of their stage time performing tap dancing routines than they ever did executing ballet steps. In a succession of variety shows, they tap danced and acted out minor, non-speaking roles in dramas and comedies while travelling from one end of England to the other. For one particular run the girls even left Britain and appeared for a couple of months in Paris with the Folies Bergère. Imagine those statuesque beauties sharing the stage with a gaggle of tap dancing English schoolgirls whose average height was 5’3”! It must have been quite a sight. This Parisian run was definitely a high point for the little troupe and contributed to some very swelled heads.

The school kept all the proceeds from the theatre bookings. The girls received their lessons, room and board, and a very tiny allowance. A lot of petty nastiness took place among the dancers. My mother learned to rely solely on herself.

It was at this time that she developed a love of books, especially science fiction adventures. Ryder Haggard and Edward Rice Burroughs were favourite authors. Perhaps this is when she developed another of her lifelong traits. She was a very private person, and fiercely proud. She would have swallowed a poison pill before letting anyone see any trace of weakness or vulnerability, any reason for pity.

Life on the road consisted of tight friendships or acrimonious vendettas among troupe members, a stream of faceless boarding homes, furtive puffs on sneaked cigarettes, and, under the watchful eye of their ever-vigilant chaperone, cuddles and kisses from a series of star-struck beaus, soon to be abandoned as the girls criss-crossed the country plying their trade.

As soon as Mom was old enough to leave the troupe, she had publicity photos taken and struck out on her own.

When Henrietta remarried, she and her new husband, fellow actor William Newley, toured together, while my mother did her best to be employed, self-sufficient, and elsewhere. She would audition for jobs and enjoy several months of work until the tour ended, and then she’d inquire around, audition somewhere else, and repeat the whole process.

It was at one of these junctures that her life and my dad’s intersected. He and his brother Goldy had enjoyed success as motorcycle performers in England. Now Dad wanted to use their drome act as a vehicle to see the world. Goldy, however, was ready for home. They agreed to part company. While Dad stayed on in Britain, Goldy undertook a short solo stint in Germany and Hungary and then returned to the U. S. for good. In 1932, he became Motorcycle Speed Racing Champion of the Eastern United States, dividing his time between motorcycle racing and motor drome work.

Dad continued with his plans for a tour of Germany. Thinking a woman at the Front of the drome would help bring in customers, he put the word out that he wanted to hire an attractive woman, preferably someone already in show business. Mom’s tour was coming to an end and she was about to be jobless, so along with other troupe members, she trudged down to the fairgrounds to audition, and the job was hers.

Perhaps the term “the Front” needs an explanation. Whether they play parks, fairs, or carnivals, each show has a raised stage in front of it where performers with props, in this case motorcycles, give spectators a taste of what is inside the show. Huge canvases painted with show highlights back the stage. One or two tall ticket booths with ticket sellers at the ready flank the stage, and an announcer with microphone in hand paces back and forth, entertaining the audience with elaborate descriptions of what they can expect to see once they pay their admission. He ends his spiel by urging on the crowd: “Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, and buy your tickets now.”

On the drome Front, performers didn’t just stand around like statues. In centre stage, one motorcycle was on rollers; Dad or one of the crew members started it up and did tricks such as hands in the air or standing on the seat while the Harley drove surely and steadily to nowhere. (Harley Davidsons and Nortons were used on the Front, smaller motorcycles inside the drome, and French motorcycles inside the globe because they were even smaller in scale, and the globe’s interior was less than sixteen feet in diameter.)

When Mom was hired, the plan was that she would lend a female presence to the drome Front, but it was no time before she learned to ride a motorcycle, first on country roads and then inside the drome. Soon she was a full partner in the show, riding every bit as well as Dad did, taking turns on the microphone to encourage people to come in and see the show and talking knowledgeably with fans about laps, centrifugal force, and rpm’s. She was billed as Mildred Lee, sister of Bob Lee. (These were the days when even movie stars did not admit they were married, for fear of killing the glamour they enjoyed as performers.)

As soon as Mom was competent on the motorbike, she and Dad took their act to Germany. Cupid’s arrow must have found its mark swiftly, for just weeks after their arrival in Hamburg they were married. Throughout the next few years my parents travelled back and forth between Britain and Germany many times.

Among motorcycle enthusiasts in Germany, Bob and Mildred Lee were celebrities. Germans love high-performance machines, and they admire skill. Their appreciation of my parents bordered on adulation. And Mom found she had a knack for language; it was no time before she was using German phrases to chat with her new motorcycle fans.

In their early trips to Germany my parents performed in a drome. Later, they purchased the globe. The globe was a ball, nearly sixteen feet in diameter, held about five feet off the ground by steel poles. The ball was made of steel strips criss-crossed to give it strength and to provide a full view of what was going on inside. There were plenty of globes in Europe at the time; motorcyclists rode solo inside the ball, horizontally or vertically. My parents called their globe the Globe of Death, as did other globe owners. But it was their performance that was unique. The highlight of the show was their double act. Here is a description: Dressed in their high-necked shirts, jodhpurs, and sleek riding boots, Bob and Mildred Lee step inside the Globe of Death, where two motorcycles stand waiting. Mildred climbs on her bike and starts it up; Bob puts his hand at the back of her seat and assists her to push off, then lets go as her machine starts to drive in circles near the bottom of the globe. Bob watches as Mildred’s circles grow larger and larger until she is riding exactly horizontally at the mid-point of the globe. Bob climbs on his motorcycle, starts it up, and traces Mildred’s path until he is riding right behind her. Now both of them are making horizontal laps. Then slowly Bob changes the angle of his laps until he is riding absolutely vertically in the globe, crossing Mildred’s horizontal path. They ride like this at right angles to each other for several minutes. Standing on the ground inside the tent that encloses the globe, the audience stares, transfixed, as the riders and their motorcycles zoom by, defying gravity. First one motorcycle, horizontally, then the other, vertically, speed past, driving round and round in the steel cage. The globe shudders with the sheer force of the machines hurling themselves against its sides. All the while the mind-numbing rhythmic roar of engines created by those alternating laps engulfs the audience. It is mesmerizing. Then slowly Bob changes his path angle and gradually returns to Mildred’s horizontal track; Mildred makes smaller and slower laps until she is down at the bottom of the globe, where she stops, still seated on her motorbike, watching as Bob begins his descent. His last laps become smaller as he slowly and tightly circles Mildred and brings his machine to a stop right beside hers. Then, switching off their motorcycles, in unison they step off, smile, and wave to the crowd.

The act was breathtaking. It never failed to thrill the audience. Often people paid to watch again and again.

Another unique feature of their act was the automobile, a tiny car that Dad designed and constructed to drive in the globe. With Dad as the driver and Mom as his passenger, they sped around in the globe horizontally and then vertically, looping the loop in their automobile, as the announcer on the Front had promised. Men in the audience were especially fascinated by the little car and often excitedly waited after the show to examine it more closely and to ask questions about its construction. In Germany, Mom and Dad had an accident in that car. A fine dust had coated the globe and the little car skidded and crashed. Mom sustained a deep cut under her chin that, fortunately, left only a tiny scar; Dad received a broken arm. They considered themselves very lucky.

Dad was always very safety-conscious. He did his best to engineer accidents out of the equipment, machinery, and timing of their act. In their entire time performing together, they had only two accidents.

The longer they were in Germany the more popular they became. An avid photographer, Dad compiled album after album of photographs taken in Germany: photos of himself and Mom as young lovebirds walking in a park, feeding the swans, snuggled together in a drifting rowboat, and as celebrities among dozens of leather-jacketed fans on their own shiny motorcycles. There were photos taken in cabarets, in the lush countryside, and on fairgrounds jammed with spectators.

It was an exciting time for my parents, but it coincided with the time when the Nazis were coming into power in Germany. On the streets, convoys of trucks drove by, each with rows of soldiers sitting back to back, rifles pointing out into the street. On the fairgrounds, one day Mom and Dad stood horrified as a Nazi officer shot a teenage boy for no apparent reason. Bystanders rioted in response. Anxiety and fear were everywhere. Then one day my parents returned to their hotel room and found it had been ransacked. All of Dad’s undeveloped films had been pulled from their canisters and strewn across the bed. They packed their bags and left for England immediately.

They found Britain much changed. Anticipation of war preoccupied the country, and money for entertainment was scarce. What little work my parents were able to get did not involve the Globe of Death. Instead they found themselves riding in dromes owned by others. Engagements were sporadic and pay was paltry. For long spells they could get no work at all. At one point they were even reduced to selling cough drops to put food on the table.

Glory days were behind them. They were celebrities no more. Later, both Mom and Dad referred to this as the worst time in their lives.

It seemed a gift from heaven when at last Patty Conklin, of Conklin Bros. Shows, offered to pay their fare to Canada — and, more importantly, the fare of the globe — if they would join one of his cross-Canada carnivals. Dad would happily have worked anywhere, but to be back in his birth country was wonderful. He came over, signed the papers, then sent for my mother and me.

I had been born in England and was left in the care of a nurse in England while Mom and Dad went about their work in Germany. When they returned to Britain for good, the three of us travelled together, towing a tiny house trailer. By the time Mom and I boarded the SS York to follow Dad to Canada, I was two and a half years old.

The Conklin Bros. carnival consisted of rides, games, food concessions, and various shows, such as the girlie show, the Wild West show, the swim show, and the Ten-in-One (the carnival name for what some people call a freak show). The carnival played in cities across Canada for spots of from four days to ten days, with show people living on the show train throughout the season and equipment travelling in box cars at the back of the train.

I travelled with the show for a couple of years. When the show was set up, it was like living in a village. You knew everyone. Then suddenly everybody would pack up and move on to a new place where the village would reappear, but now the streets were in different locations. You had to search for your friends, but they were there.

When I was four, Dad and Mom and I went to Hawaii for nearly six months. They rode motorcycles as a free act in a drome in an amusement park. There was no tent, and no tickets were sold. People came down to see the free show and stayed to enjoy the paid attractions.

With only two shows a day, and none on Sunday, Mom and Dad had plenty of leisure time. Although I was only four, I have many fond memories of Hawaii. Among them are Dad patiently painting a big red toe in each of my sandals so I would know which shoe to put on which foot, and on another day in a seaside park showing me how the banyan tree puts down roots and becomes a totally new tree wherever its branches touch the ground. I can remember sitting with Mom, examining the intricate detail of the flower garden portrayed on her beautiful new cream and mauve Japanese silk kimono. While we were in Hawaii, she took lessons in dancing the hula, and then taught me the dance through a little Hawaiian song called “Manuella Boy.”

When we returned to Canada, Mom hired five or six young women and trained them in the art of the hula. She created an authentic Hawaiian show to tour the carnival circuit along with the globe. The Hawaiian show presented, through dance, all of the moods of Hawaii, from the vigorous Hawaiian War Chant to the sensuous Aloha Oi. People of all ages enjoyed it.

Dressed in a green floral floor-length sarong, wearing a cluster of leis, Mom joined the Hawaiian show announcer inside the tent and, sharing the microphone, the two of them talked their way through a little skit that cast them as tour guides on a cruise ship that was bringing the “passengers,” the audience, to Hawaii. Then, as the dancers began to weave their magic and the announcer guided the audience through the rest of the journey, Mom crept away to the small tent behind the shows, changed into her shirt and jodhpurs, and stepped on to the stage of the Globe of Death just in time to rev her motorcycle and do her loops. She dashed back and forth all afternoon and evening between the two shows.

Incidentally, while on the road Mom watched over her girls with laser-beam scrutiny, which, undoubtedly, she had learned from her own chaperone many years before.

Dancers in the Hawaiian show usually wore long grass skirts in a natural straw colour, although for some numbers their skirts were made of orange cellophane. You couldn’t see through them, of course, as the skirts were densely packed with strands of cellophane, but each strand caught the light and shimmered as the dancers moved across the stage. Lelani, the star of the show, who really looked Hawaiian with her long, lustrous black hair and slow, smooth, undulating hula, wore a dark green cellophane skirt for her solo. She was magnificent.

I was part of the Hawaiian show until I realized that the laughter erupting from the audience each time we ended a particular dance was directed at me. Far too vain to be the butt of a joke, I walked away from my show business career forever.

The Hawaiian show lasted only one year. Not surprisingly, appearing in both the Hawaiian show and the Globe of Death was simply too much work for Mom.

Erecting and dismantling the globe at the beginning and end of every spot was extremely hard, heavy work. A crew of strong young men travelled with us, helping with set-up and tear-down, helping to maintain the motorcycles, and appearing on the Front. Some did solo rides inside the Globe of Death. Some of them remained life-long friends.

In 1941, when Bobby was born (and I was six years old), Mom and Dad decided that carnival life was not for their children. After that, we all lived together in a house in Hamilton, Ontario, in the off-season, and, in spring, when the carnival started up, Bobby and I were sent to live with Aunt Net, Uncle Bill, and Uncle George, Dad’s uncles and aunt, in a grand three-storey house on Silverbirch Avenue in Toronto, two blocks from Balmy Beach. There, for four months of each year, Bobby and I immersed ourselves in the activities of our Toronto pals while Mom and Dad worked the carnival circuit by themselves.