Stella slipped into the dressing-rooms to see Milton, who was so sure he had won himself a part in the new revue that he forgot to ask her to come out for dinner with him, as he had originally intended to do. She didn’t really mind too much. She was as equally thrilled for him, also being as certain as he was that he had got the part. No doubt they would be seeing much more of each other from now on. There would be plenty of time for dinners together.

  That evening she contacted Mike Farrow, who verified that Milton had got himself the part and that Mr Charles thought a routine with Milton and herself would prove highly successful – perhaps a spoof on Sonnie Hale and Jessie Matthews, two of the West End’s bigger stars.

  Rehearsals for the new revue began in a church hall on the Kilburn/Hampstead border, north London. It was cold, it was draughty, it was typical of all rehearsal rooms.

  All the principals of the show were leaning against or hanging around the upright piano, while the chorus were shuffling, tapping, and talking. Stella recognised one of the chorus girls as being a dancer in the Shanklin show. She recalled that she had been the one living with the manager there, until his wife and kids came down during the school holidays. The dancer had quickly vacated his home until term commenced, and then she was back as his free lodger. Her name was Nola, and it was her attractiveness that had caught Stella’s attention in Shanklin. She had a superb figure and natural blonde hair; not the type you pour from a bottle.

  For a moment their eyes met and they both half-waved, half-smiled in recognition of each other. Stella was thinking, I wonder if she thinks I’m good enough to be in the show? and Nola was thinking, I wonder if she knew about me and the manager in Shanklin?

  It was now ten twenty-five a.m., and everyone had been told to be there on time in practice costume for a ten-thirty start. They had all been doing their warm-up exercises. All they were waiting for now was the arrival of the famous Mr Woody Woodville. He had briefly met up with the stars, but he hadn’t met any of the chorus before, having had them chosen for him. Stella hadn’t realised he was black, and when she’d met him for a few seconds in the theatre office she had been so fascinated by his colour that she failed to take in anything that he had told her.

  Nola made the first tentative moves. ‘Hello, Miss Raven. I thought it was you.’

  Very formal, thought Stella, and then remembered that she had done a fair amount of radio work just recently, and to a chorus girl like Nola who was only really working so she could travel and find romance for free, Stella Raven was probably quite a well-known name.

  ‘Call me Stella,’ she said with a smile. ‘It’s nice to see a face that I know.’

  ‘Have you met Woody yet?’ asked the chorus girl.

  ‘Just briefly. What about you?’

  ‘The same.’ She shielded her mouth with a hand. ‘He’s black,’ she whispered. They both giggled at this. ‘I’ve been told he’s a terrific dancer,’ said Nola.

  ‘With a reputation like his, I can well believe it,’ one of the chorus called out to Nola.

  ‘Let’s catch up later for coffee or something,’ Stella suggested.

  ‘Okay. See you later.’

  Nola skipped off, hoping that she wouldn’t mention the manager from Shanklin should she know about them. The last thing Nola wanted was a bad reputation, though unfortunately she rarely behaved in a manner that would prevent her having one.

  Before Stella had reached the piano the door at the far end of the hall flew open, and a hundred feet above them, the church clock struck half past. Musical director Ron Berry entered alone, and everyone seemed to relax again.

  Ron strolled over to the piano, not looking up, down or around. Anton, the rehearsal pianist, rose from his stool to let him sit down, but Ron shook his head and beckoned with his hands for him to remain seated.

  Now he considered the cast, as they hugged against the piano. He was a great musician, director, and arranger, and usually received the respect of his players as the show progressed and they began to understand his genius.

  His complexion was as pale as aspirin, and there were black circles around his eyes like rippling pools of water. His thin, wispy, golden hair seemed to float above his head as if waiting for permission to land. His skin had a creamy pallor to it, and looked as if it hadn’t seen sunlight since he had had his school photo taken some thirty years ago. ‘I hate first day of rehearsals,’ he remarked, through a haze of bluish-grey cigarette smoke. Before he could go on to explain why he hated them the door banged open again and in strode Woody Woodville.

  The black American paused after two paces, as if waiting for a spotlight to hit him. Then he continued forward, and for most of them in the show it was their first sight of Hollywood.

  He looked slowly from the chorus to the principals, and smiled a smile so white anyone standing within two feet would have had to blink. He was under six foot by about a sixteenth of an inch, fantastically good-looking in a film-star way, and dressed in a suit that could only be Savile Row. His white silk shirt was French and from it hung a pearl-grey tie. He had a soft American accent, and his head would gently wobble at the end of sentences to help accentuate his meaning. ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, in a precise voice. ‘I’m sorry I’m a little late – I offer no excuse, but please forgive me. Also, don’t think any of you here can get away with it. Only the boss can do that.’

  As if on cue, the door burst open once again, and in stepped another black man – one much older than Woody Woodville and completely bald. All eyes turned to this new figure. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Woody, again. ‘I’d like you all to meet Lester. Lester is the poor unfortunate man who looks after all my needs.’

  Lester had been through many such introductions and merely offered a weak smile as he stumbled up to the piano. ‘Lester has been with me many years,’ continued Woody. ‘Now there are two reasons for this: number one being that I love him.’ Stella wasn’t the only one to blush. ‘The other reason is, that I like to prove to people that not all blacks are full of rhythm. Lester couldn’t dance barefoot on a tray of coals.’ He laughed at this, though it was a line he had used many times before. The company laughed dutifully with him.

  Woody clapped his hands for attention before the laughter had had a chance to subside. ‘Okay, now,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this show rolling.’ He delicately removed his jacket and hung it up on a collapsible hanger he kept inside one of his pockets. ‘I want everyone close up to the piano as they can get without falling in it, and we’re going to go through all the music in the show.’ An attack of nerves made Ron Berry go whiter than normal. Everyone squeezed up close, and when Woody snapped his fingers, Lester trotted obediently up to his side.

  They were all hanging on to the piano as if it was a raft at sea. Ron Berry was conducting the rehearsal pianist for the tempos with an unlit cigarette, the company laughed where they were supposed to laugh, and maintained silence at similarly appropriate moments.

  Woody whispered something in Lester’s ear half-way through a number and he shuffled away up to Nola, taking her to one side. Lester asked her something and she shrugged as if to say ‘Why not?’ and then returned to the others without giving anything away, though she was thinking to herself, this could be better than the manager at Shanklin.

  At eleven thirty Woody shouted, ‘Coffee – or maybe I should say tea?’ Everyone smiled, mainly from the relief of having a break. Woody snapped his fingers and from a distance of over forty feet Lester heard the sound and came sauntering over to his boss. With a satisfied grin and a mug of coffee, Woody wandered over to Milton and Stella, who were discussing a routine they now did together in the show. ‘Hi, Milt, Stella.’ He patted both their backs as though they were fellow gospel-singers. ‘I thought this afternoon we could go over the maternity ward skit and the dance routine at the end of it. I’m going to call the skit “Tea for Three”. Okay?’ He looked pleased by his own inventiveness. Milton looked worried.

  ‘Er, could I talk to you about the dance routines, Mr Woodville?’

  ‘Woody. Everybody calls me Woody,’ said Woody. ‘Only my dear Mama calls me by my real name, and that name I tell to no one – not even Lester.’ He flashed his teeth.

  ‘I understand,’ said Milton.

  ‘Okay then, Milt – shoot.’

  ‘Thank you, Woody. Well, the thing is I’m really an actor more than anything else, and although I can put a nice little point number over all right and do a little bit of comedy, I’m afraid I just can’t dance. Really – I can’t.’

  Stella felt she was intruding on the situation and subtly extricated herself by feigning a need for more coffee. ‘ Stella’s a wonderful dancer,’ said Milton. ‘I wouldn’t want to let either of you down just because of my own incompetence.’

  Woody gave him a steady look. ‘Milt, I’m going to ask you something, and I don’t want to hurt your feelings. Do you mind?’

  ‘Please.’ Milton half-bowed.

  ‘How old are you?’ Milton glanced across to Stella to make sure she was out of earshot.

  ‘ Thirty-seven,’ he whispered.

  ‘How old were you when you had your first woman?’

  ‘Well, Woody, I really don’t quite see how that piece of information benefits my problem over the dance routines, and—’

  ‘I’m waiting, Milt.’ Milton shrugged resignedly.

  ‘Eighteen or nineteen, I suppose. Yes, about eighteen.’

  ‘So until you were eighteen you had all the equipment but no knowledge?’

  ‘I suppose it could be looked at in that way,’ he admitted.

  ‘And that’s the way it is with dancing,’ said Woody. ‘You’re thirty-seven?’

  ‘ Thirty-eight, actually,’ confessed Milton.

  ‘You’re thirty-eight, and all this time you’ve had feet but no knowledge. Well, that first lady gave you the knowledge of what to do with your equipment and I’ll be doing the same with your feet. You’ve heard of Fred Astaire? Well, not only will I have you dancin’ like him but singin’ like him.’

  He dismissed Milton and snapped his fingers. Lester, who until that moment had looked hard and fast asleep in a corner of the room, jumped up as if he’d heard a fire bell. Then he slouched over to Woody as fast as his ancient body would permit. ‘Stella?’ Woody commanded, and she joined him at the same time as Lester, despite the servant having a considerable lead. ‘I’ve got big hopes on you, kid. From what I hear, you’re very good. I guess this is a big break for you, huh?’

  ‘I’m hoping so. It’s the sort I’ve always wanted – always dreamt of. I’m just a little surprised it seems to have come so soon.’

  ‘Just make the most of it, kid. You’re never too young to be famous.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she promised.

  ‘You must do more than try,’ he said, with a touch of annoyance. ‘From tomorrow on you’ll be workin’ your butt off, I promise. And if you fail, kid, it won’t be through any fault of mine.’

  He softened again. ‘You’ll make out okay. It might cost our friendship though. No one likes a slave-driver.’ Did she see Lester give a nod of agreement? ‘The good Lord provided you with looks and talent. It’s not often someone gets such a good deal, so don’t screw up on it. Anyway, I want you to know that all the help you need, I’ll give you, kid. That’s what ol’ Woody’s here for.’ Brief pause and fade out on smile, and, ‘EVERYONE BACK TO PIANO.’

  They were allowed an hour off for lunch, and Woody let them leave at four, it being their first day. ‘Principals here at ten tomorrow morning, dancers – nine thirty.’ The room was cleared in ten minutes. The only people left were Woody, and Nola. ‘Coat,’ ordered Woody. Lester disappeared into the hall to fetch it. As soon as his back was turned he waved a hand at Nola to come towards him. ‘I’ve been watchin’ you close all day, Nola, and I like what I’ve been seein’. I think you could make a good first girl – you know what a first girl is? It’s the girl who has to learn all the routines from me, and when I have to do rehearsals for the skits and stuff she takes charge of the other dancers and makes sure they keep rehearsing in my absence. What do you say?’ He showed her his teeth without having to take them out.

  ‘I think I could do that all right, Woody.’

  ‘Sure you can, but you know it could mean a few late nights back at my place, talking over routines and learnin’ things?’

  ‘Back at your place?’ she gasped, with a pout you could lean on.

  ‘Of course. I’m a busy man. I’m doing the whole show, I’m going to need help along the way and someone to talk with, relax with, maybe.’

  Lester returned with the overcoat. Woody snapped his fingers twice and Lester abruptly halted. ‘Surely Lester is someone to talk to and relax with?’ she teased.

  ‘Maybe you hadn’t noticed, kid, but Lester and I do a finger routine. I could hold a conversation with Lester and break three fingers. Now come on. What do you say? I’ll give you a raise. What are you currently on?’

  ‘Three pounds fifteen shillings a week,’ she lied. It was only three pounds ten shillings.

  ‘Okay, let’s make it er’ – he knew very little about the English currency – ‘three pounds twenty shillings.’

  Nola laughed. ‘Over here we call that four pounds.’

  ‘Well, I’ll give you five pounds a week. Does that sound okay?’ He knew he was in when he saw the surprised delight on her face.

  ‘What do I have to do for that?’ she asked, pointedly.

  ‘Only what you want, when you want. I can’t be fairer than that. Now, where do you live in town?’

  ‘I share a flat with two other girls . . .’

  ‘These girls aren’t in the show, are they?’

  ‘No. They work at the Windmill Theatre.’

  ‘Okay, fine. Now tell me where you live.’

  ‘Primrose Street, just at the back of Liverpool Street Station.’

  ‘How far is it from here?’

  ‘Ooh, I’m not sure. Ten minutes by cab.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll give you a lift. What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Tonight. You know, when it gets dark.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Okay, so I’ll give you my address.’

  He wrote a street and number on the back of a card and passed it to her with a pound note. ‘Come round tonight and we’ll have dinner,’ he said. ‘The money’s for the cab. Be there at seven – no – make that eight. Don’t dress up – come casual.’

  Nola collected her belongings and they stepped outside to Woody’s car – a beige 1920 Silver Ghost – preceded by Lester, who opened the door for them. ‘You’ve got me for three months,’ said Woody. ‘That’s three wonderful months for you, kid.’

  He squeezed her hand, and being a professional, she squeezed back. In her mind she had it all worked out. If the show ran for six months she would have one hundred and twenty-five pounds – apart from the meals and the odd presents he would bestow on her. She hoped Stella Raven would keep quiet about the manager in Shanklin.

  They were well into rehearsals and the show was looking quite polished. Nola was also looking quite polished. She would turn up each morning with eyes bright as diamonds and a cheerful, confident little skip in her walk.

  Milton was feeling just as confident but for a different reason. He had to admit that Woody had been right; at least, he now gave the appearance that he knew how to dance. After each successive rehearsal he would stagger home to a hot bath and soak away the aches and pains of a ten-hour day, nine of which would have been spent dancing.

  As for Stella, well, she was word-perfect: she was dance-perfect, sketch-perfect, and her comedy timing surprised even herself.

  As the show progressed towards its opening, Woody attended rehearsals, looking more like Cricklewood than Hollywood. He was so tired that when he snapped his fingers Lester had difficulty in hearing him. And it wasn’t the schedule that was killing him – it was Nola.

  The thought of opening in Manchester in ten days’ time made Stella buzz. She sensed that something special was going to emerge from it, as if all her life, and the hard work she’d put into it, had all been for this moment in time. She decided she should send her parents a couple of tickets: they’d enjoy seeing the show and telling all the neighbours about it. Woody had allocated each performer a reasonable amount of complimentary tickets – or at least, he arranged through the Manchester management that these ‘comps’ were to be put by.

  Nola, like Stella, couldn’t suppress her excitement at shortly opening at the Opera House, Manchester. She had never had it so good, and, looking at the drained Woody, never so often. She was looking forward to staying at the Midland Hotel in a single room very close to, and being paid for by, Woody.

  Milton felt he was at the stage where he wanted to perform all they’d rehearsed in front of an audience. If he rehearsed any more he was sure he’d overpeak, and the show was too important for him to risk that happening.

  They all travelled up to Manchester in a reserved compartments, their mood being one of excitement and anticipation. Milton made himself comfortable, waiting for the train to ease out of the station, and reflected on the journey he’d made to Oldham where he’d first met Stella. It was as though that episode in his life had been enacted by a different person, certainly not the dancing, singing Milton Keens. They arrived slightly ahead of time on the Saturday night, which was a good thing, because it was a show with lots of scenery and costume changes, and so there was much ironing, hanging, and unpacking to do.

  Sunday afternoon was to be dress rehearsal with the band. No doubt it was going to be a chaotic affair, but somehow it always works out by the opening night. Adrenalin keeps the stage workers going and money keeps the management going. All Nola concerned herself with was keeping Woody going. Woody summoned Lester with a feeble snap of the fingers. ‘Is there any way you can keep her away from me; just ’til the show opens?’ Lester smiled.

  ‘But I thought you were the King?’

  ‘Maybe so, but I’d like to abdicate for a couple of days.’

 

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