Stella, page 10
‘Seems sensible.’
‘I also asked the manager at the music hall to do the same thing. I gave him half a crown – that was three weeks ago.’ She sighed and nodded at the staircase, probably thinking it was money down the drain. ‘Now would you like to see your bedroom?’
It was late that evening when Shipton returned from checking out the theatre. To his relief, the boy was in bed, so he had Jane to himself and he hoped a little bit of peace and quiet. They had had quite a major talk-through at the theatre, and he was thoroughly exhausted when he flopped into the settee and Jane had brought him in some supper. ‘Show all ready for opening tomorrow night, then?’ she enquired, interestedly.
‘Think so. A few hitches here and there that need ironing out, but we’ll make it in time.’ He swelled his chest and grinned. ‘Of course, my performance is all that really matters.’
‘Of course,’ she said, and then hoped she hadn’t sounded too sarcastic.
Not for a moment did he believe that on his first night there his hopes for ‘making it’ with Jane Butterworth would come true. Tuesday, possibly, Thursday, definitely. But Sunday? Surely not.
‘That was a delightful meal, Jane, and I shall now retire for the evening. Tomorrow promises to be as equally strenuous as today.’
‘Very well. Shall I show you to your room?’ It crossed his mind as being a slightly strange thing to say, as she had already shown him his room earlier on that day.
‘As you wish.’
There was a hungry, sex-starved glint in her eye as she pointed to the bed and said, ‘Well, here we are.’ He was sure he hadn’t misread it. But what if he made a lunge and discovered he had misread it? It would be exceedingly difficult, if not impossible, to find other lodgings at this time of night. She made the decision for him. ‘I’ll just switch out the lights and then tuck you up.’ For a moment he thought she had been living alone with the child for too long, but when he stretched himself tiredly out on the bed and she returned a minute or so later wearing nothing but a dressing gown he could see she intended to more than just ‘tuck him up’.
She was clearly not used to this kind of situation. Momentarily she leant against the doorway in a Bette Davis pose, then, switching off the light, moved towards him only to trip up over one of his discarded shoes. There was a loud thud as her head struck against the floor. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked worriedly, as he leapt off the bed and beside her on the floor.
‘Yes, I think so,’ she replied, dazedly, as he gently massaged her head.
He was close enough to inhale the scent of her flesh and he began to feel very hungry. He had another vision of thrashing legs and entwined bodies, and then she was slowly pulling his mouth onto her own and a minute later his vision had become a reality.
Chapter Eight
On arriving in Oldham, Stella – mainly to kill a little time before band call – went in search of the stage manager to see if he knew the availability of digs in town. She found him in a corner of the stage, checking through the show’s running-order. ‘Digs. Let me think.’ John Blocker was very busy, but he always had time for the shows’ artistes. ‘Mrs Winthrop’s full up. Got a house-load of midgets from the travelling circus. They lost a caravan en route so they’ve had to find some digs – but I’m sure you don’t need to hear all about that.’ She didn’t. ‘There’s our favourite bachelor friend, Thomas Davison, but I really wouldn’t recommend an attractive young woman like you staying with a somewhat dubious character like him.’ He gave his chin a slow scratch. ‘Mrs er, what’s her name. She lives in Tunstall Street. Yes, that’s right. She said she was after lodgers. She’s a widow, and appears to be pleasant enough. Why not try her?’
‘I will. Can you give me her name and number later on?’
‘Certainly. I think her name’s Butterscotch or something. Anyway, I’ll check up and let you know.’
After Chief Long Knife, ‘The Best In The West’, had done his band call Stella was called up. To her horror, she noticed a small pool of blood on stage, where the Chief had been practising his knife-throwing with his young female assistant. She grimaced, then got on with the job in hand, wondering how many pints of blood his assistant got through during the course of the season.
It was nearly one thirty when she pulled up on the yellow doorstep of 287 Tunstall Street. Jane Butterworth opened the door and Stella made an instant appraisal of her. Lonely, bored, tired out by child or children, and widowed – which she already knew. ‘Good afternoon. I’m from the Empire. Mr Blocker suggested I tried you for digs.’
‘Oh, right, yes,’ stammered a worn-out Jane Butterworth, not knowing how from having an empty house she could have gone to having a full one. Stella followed her inside. ‘I charge thirty shillings a week,’ she said confidently, ‘all meals included and tea on permanent supply.’
‘Fine. I’ve left my bags at the theatre, but I’ll bring them back tonight, after the show.’
They entered the sitting room. ‘This is my other lodger, Mr—’
‘Good-day to you madam; je suis enchanté. My name is Shipton Bellinger – actor. If Jane can’t fix you up with a bed I’m sure I can.’
Stella’s eyes flashed with surprise as Jane Butterworth intervened. ‘Well, if you two don’t mind sharing,’ she said a little naively.
‘Ho ho ho!’ said Shipton, his red eyes lighting up like ships in the night.
‘You mean share with George Arliss over here?’
‘The name is Bellinger – Shipton Bellinger,’ he corrected.
‘Well, change it. It sounds like the name of a pub.’
‘I only meant share the room,’ explained Jane, weakly. ‘Anyway, no trouble. I can sleep with Adolf and Ship . . . Mr Bellinger can have his room.’
‘Who’s Adolf?’ asked Stella, beginning to think that Mr Blocker had set her up for some sort of joke.
‘He’s my little boy. He’s five.’
‘Named after Hitler, isn’t that right, Mrs Butterworth?’ said Shipton, hardly able to disguise a smile and a chuckle. He looked at Stella. ‘You have heard of Hitler, I imagine? He’s a German chap. Lives in Berlin much of the time these days.’
‘I know who he is,’ she snapped.
‘I’ll make up your bed,’ said Jane, and immediately trotted up the stairs.
‘Where’s Adolf now?’ asked Stella in dulcet tones after she had gone.
‘At nursery school,’ Shipton whispered back.
‘And when did you arrive?’
‘Just last night,’ he sighed, and rolled his eyes at the memory. It was becoming very plain as to what the set-up was in this house, except for one thing.
‘So where’s the old man, then?’ Shipton waved her down and whispered in her ear.
‘He’s dead. Killed coming back from a football match.’
‘No need to speak so quietly, then,’ she said. ‘He can’t hear you.’
‘Madam, really. Respect for the bereaved.’
‘Suppose you’re right. All this travelling about tends to make me rather ruthless.’ He nodded with sympathy. He knew what being on the road was all about. ‘Mind you, he would have been better off staying at home and watching the reserve game.’
Shipton shook his head disapprovingly. He’d never met a girl with such a direct manner. ‘And how did you get a name like Shipton Bellinger?’
‘I thought it sounded dignified – a true actor’s name.’
‘Oh, it’s not your real name, then?’ she teased.
Jane returned. ‘There’s tea in the pot,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring it through.’
‘Thank you,’ they said in unison.
‘Actually, I’m looking for a new name; something really good,’ confessed Shipton.
‘Can’t say I blame you. Shipton Bellinger may as well be . . . I don’t know. Swan Vestas, or something.’
‘Charming. And what is your delightful name that gives you the authority to criticise others?’
She told him. ‘Hardly as formidable as Katharine Hepburn or Marlene Dietrich.’
‘And what’s your real name?’ asked Stella.
‘Paul Newman.’
‘I can see why you changed it,’ she said, sympathetically. ‘Have you had any other names?’
‘I was once Newport Pagnell,’ he reflected. ‘Oh, and Leon Solent.’ He waited for a moment for it to sink in. ‘Don’t you see?’ he said excitedly. ‘I take my names from an AA book.’
‘Yes, I see. Why not call yourself Milton Keynes, but spelt Keens, K.E.E.N.S?’
‘Hey, I rather like that.’ He lifted his head in an aloof manner. ‘Arise, Sir Milton Keens. Rather dignified.’
‘Tea, everyone,’ announced Jane.
The week passed by like all weeks in variety – quickly if you were doing well, slowly if you weren’t. For Stella, it was passing reasonably quickly. It was also passing quickly for Shipton, but not because he was finding much success with his play – he wasn’t – but because he had something to look forward to each night after work, and it wasn’t just dinner.
Stella tried to remain well out of the situation, knowing that men like him were not too serious when it came to love affairs while touring. The final night would be the actor’s farewell, which is the same as a soldier’s farewell, only quicker.
Poor Jane. She believed in love at first sight and Shipton believed in love at first opportunity.
Within a few weeks of appearing at Oldham things really began to move for Stella. She was with London’s top theatrical agency, and Henry Charles rang her every three days to see she was well and to arrange various bits and pieces, such as a photo session and an advert in The Stage, announcing her representation.
She made a point of dropping in to see Ken Hutton – who, incidentally, had found himself a new secretary, much to Stella’s relief – and thanking him for all his help and advice. He was very happy for her, and said, ‘One day I’ll be able to boast that I was the one who started you.’
What made life that much easier for Stella was that Mike Farrow was as good as his word – he really was a genius at his job. He put her on a short tour of ‘ one-nighters’ with an improved comedy act he had helped her work on for a couple of weeks. She was thrilled with his assistance and advice, and felt he had added a new dimension to her performance – given her a sophistication that she had before been lacking.
It was the West End that mattered the most. As Mike told her, ‘No one to my knowledge has gone to New York or Paris direct from Watford or Grimsby.’
Looking up to him admiringly she had said, ‘You’re a genius, Mike.’ He had just smiled back at her.
‘Maybe so,’ he had said. ‘But the important thing now is that I have to make you into one.’
Henry Charles would turn up in rehearsal rooms once in a while, just to see how she was progressing, but most of his advice came with his regular phone calls, as he didn’t want to tread on the toes of his younger partner.
She felt it slightly significant that an important occasion like her twenty-first birthday should have been celebrated in London with her new-found friends and colleagues and not with her own family. But that was how it was in the late summer of 1935, with a rosy career ahead of her, and nothing, seemingly, to upset it.
Chapter Nine
Beneath her tough surface Stella was an innocent young woman. She had never had a boyfriend, let alone slept with a man. Sexual activity, even the awareness of it, had not been permitted time and space on the Stella Raven agenda of important things in life.
There had been admirers that she was aware of – including her own agent, Mike Farrow. But Mike was married, and because he had too much at stake to risk philandering with his artistes, she didn’t feel threatened by his abundant innuendoes.
As she moved positively along Shaftesbury Avenue on January the third 1936, she began to wonder if she would ever become involved with someone of the opposite gender. She doubted it.
Shaftesbury Avenue was bustling with people: people with either sickly expressions brought on from over-indulging on Christmas Day or frustrated expressions – of which Stella had one – brought on because they couldn’t understand why the festive season had to drag on for so long.
She glanced up to the heavy sky and, as if this had been a signal, the black uneasy clouds decided to open. Biting rain swept down in torrents. As she approached the Cambridge Circus end of the Avenue she felt a bump and heard an angry sigh. Looking up, and ready to make an apology, she was startled to find her friend from Oldham standing before her. ‘Well, stone the crows. If it isn’t Mr Shipton Bellinger.’
He gave her one of his exaggerated bows. ‘And the one and only Miss Stella Raven, of whom the world seems to hear a little more of each day, may I add with a large amount of envy?’
‘A long way to go yet,’ she said, discarding his flattery. ‘So tell me how life is treating you, Shipton?’ He delayed before answering.
‘Actually, the name’s Milton Keens. I took your advice and changed it.’
He was quite sure Stella would give an almighty belly-laugh on hearing this, but she surprised him by appearing to be genuinely pleased. ‘It has to be better than Shipton Bellinger.’
People were nearly queuing behind them as they stood in the rain for some minutes, reminiscing over Oldham and Jane Butterworth with her son, Adolf. Eventually, he pulled her arm and they sheltered in the foyer of a theatre. ‘Where were you going to in such a hurry?’ he asked.
‘Rehearsal rooms.’
‘A new show?’
‘Maybe soon, but just rehearsals at the present. I rehearse almost every day,’ she said.
‘Practice makes perfect,’ he said, and she wasn’t sure if he was teasing or not. ‘I’ve been following your career with great interest. Even caught you on the radio last week. You must slow down a bit – you may become famous.’
‘And how’s it working out with the new name?’ He shrugged despondently.
‘A new name unfortunately doesn’t create a new actor; but I get by. I’ve just finished touring in a musical. I didn’t think I could sing, but you live and learn. Next week I audition for a new revue for the Henry Charles, called Bits and Pieces, so wish me luck.’
‘Bits and Pieces? Well, now, there’s fate in action for you. I start rehearsals for it in a couple of weeks’ time.’
Milton lit up. ‘How wonderful, to work together.’
‘Let’s hope you pass the audition all right.’ There was a short pause. ‘Look, I must dash now. They’re funny about times at the rehearsal rooms. Where are you living?’
‘In a flat at the back of the Windmill,’ he replied. ‘Let’s say that even if I don’t make the show, we’ll go out together one evening.’
‘Lovely. When?’
‘I have a diary that’s virtually empty, so you name the time. Better still, catch up with me after I’ve auditioned.’
He smiled nervously. ‘I could do with a bit of moral support.’
‘Fine. See you on your big day, then.’
They went off in separate directions. Stella had found that meeting up with Milton had been oddly distracting, and she never did manage to get her routine together at rehearsals all that morning.
A week later she found herself sitting at the back of the circle at the Savoy Theatre, all on her own, watching the auditions. When she heard Milton’s name announced, currents of nerves electrified her body. He emerged from the side of the stage, shielding his eyes against the intensity of the footlights as he tried to focus on the jury, who were slumped phlegmatically across the first row of seats in the stalls.
Henry Charles was propped on the edge of the stage with secretary and house manager in close attendance. He murmured something to them and then asked loudly, ‘Are you Keens?’
‘That I am, sir,’ he replied, with his old-fashioned Englishness.
‘Milton Keens?’
‘Yes, sir, that’s right,’ his voice quavered.
The jury began to mumble amongst themselves as Henry Charles considered his long list of names. Milton stood there, waiting like a pupil brought before the headmaster for an imminent thrashing. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Keens,’ he said. ‘We thought you were someone else.’
‘My name’s Milton Keens,’ he declared.
‘Yes, we’ve gathered that. We had you down as a Shipton Bellinger, but I’m informed’ – here he glanced at the house manager – ‘that you are in the habit of changing your name?’
‘Yes, sir. That is, I used to be.’
‘I see,’ drawled Charles, chewing on his extinguished cigar. ‘Okay, let’s get on with it,’ he instructed.
‘Er, Mr Charles, I thought I’d give you a small reading from Pickwick Papers, at the point where Sam Weller is taken into the employ of Mr Pickwick.’
‘Mr Keens, I appreciate that your love and living has been acting, but on this particular occasion I just want you to sing. Is that possible?’
‘Yes, sir,’ whispered back Milton. He nodded to the pianist, who at once began to play the out-of-tune baby grand.
Stella was positive her pounding heart could be heard down in the stalls. She looked at her hands, balled like fighter’s fists in her lap, the whites of her knuckles so prominent they almost shone in the dark auditorium.
Milton sang quite well and did a passable impression of Jack Buchanan. He followed that with a not-so-memorable impression of Maurice Chevalier, which went into a very funny idea of a mix-up between both impressions – a sort of Jack Chevalier and Maurice Buchanan routine.
Stella laughed quietly in the circle and Henry Charles laughed loudly in the stalls. ‘Thank you, Mr Keens,’ he said, with a shade of optimism when Milton had concluded his act. ‘Very good indeed. Leave your phone number and the name of your agent with the stage manager, please . . . NEXT. Ah, Miss Davenport – when you’re ready, please.’
