Stella, page 12
He’d reached the stage where he was hiding from her and telling her lies about why he couldn’t come back to the flat, and now the hotel, with her. ‘She’s the best ever, but, wow, an insatiable appetite.’
‘You’s always been the lucky one, Massa,’ said Lester, shuffling his feet like a comedy black manservant character from a film. Then he hung his head to give a round-shouldered appearance and, letting everything ‘hang loose’, he flayed his arms and drifted away.
Stella went into her dressing-room, which was a largish-sized box with a cracked mirror and uneven table. There was also a chair that, she’d discovered, left splinters in her behind and a tatty sofa so badly shredded she’d have been embarrassed to give it to her worst enemy. What was even more frightening was she knew it to be one of the better dressing-rooms.
She found a small pile of letter strewn across the table. One or two were from well-wishers, and there was one from her mother. She felt encouraged that her mother had ventured into the world of letter-writing: it had taken her some while to accustom herself to just receiving them. The note inside thanked her for sending the two comps and some money for the fare – both were accepted, gratefully. They would arrive in time to see the Thursday-night performance.
Stella twisted her mouth to form a bitter smile. She knew it wouldn’t have taken her dad long to decide. Anything that was free he was interested in.
The last letter she had left to open had an Oldham postmark on it, and if she hadn’t been so weary she’d have noticed it was addressed to Milton and not her. In fact, it was addressed to Shipton Bellinger, but then Jane Butter-worth wasn’t to know he’d changed his name again.
She hurriedly read through the letter, as if the faster she read it the less guilt she would feel about it being someone else’s mail. Despite it only stating that she would be attending the Wednesday matinee performance – was that all right? – she couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. It went through her body like an electric shock, jolting her upright. In a wicked way she was glad that Milton wouldn’t be able to reply in time. However, she wasn’t wicked enough to destroy the letter and pretend not to know anything about it. In fact, with an air of reluctance she took it straight into his dressing-room.
The dress rehearsal – put on for a selected audience that included local hospital staff and three bus-loads of old-age pensioners – was chaotic and consequently a minor disaster. Fortunately, and not completely unintentionally, the press were not invited to pass comment on this, the first proper performance.
It was the following night, the Monday night, that they had that privilege. And on that night the ghosts and gods of the theatre were in sympathetic mood, for the show went through an overnight transformation. As far as the paying public were concerned, it went without a hitch, and what little did go wrong was forgiven because of the quality of one particular artiste who that night became a star. The audience hunted through their programmes. What was her name? Ah, yes: Stella Raven.
The show ran half an hour over time, but the management could see that as being easily rectified; for a start, some of the routines could be severely cut back without damaging their overall effect.
The National Anthem played as all the artistes involved stood in two regimented lines behind the curtains, whispering excitedly to each other that they were sure the show was a sensation. As the lines broke up, ‘Stella, you were wonderful’ could be heard twenty times, and ‘Girls, you were great’ almost as many times. ‘Well done, Milton, you surpassed yourself’ was heard half a dozen times.
The chorus girls hugged anything that breathed, unable to contain the emotion on completing a successful first night after such hard work and so many inevitable traumas. Henry Charles was the first of the management to come back-stage, where everyone was milling about with large grins on their faces. He gently pushed aside staff and artistes alike, as if they were obstacles deliberately put there to irritate him, and made his way up to Stella as she made for her dressing-room. Mike Farrow was only inches behind him. Henry hugged her until she started gasping. He would have been willing to kiss her but the cigar in his mouth prevented him, and there had to be a better reason than kissing to make that cigar come out. And anyway, he’d never really been into kissing his own artistes; it wasn’t dignified.
He pulled back to allow Mike a look-in. ‘I wouldn’t go as far as saying you were perfection,’ said the junior partner with a grin that told her she was, without doubt, perfection, ‘but you came remarkably close to it.’
She said, ‘You always did know how to keep an enter-tainer’s feet on the ground, didn’t you Mike?’ Mike didn’t object to stretching forth and kissing her. In fact, he couldn’t wait. Why didn’t his wife taste so nice?
Henry said, ‘I’ve heard him use words like “not too bad” when he’s meant “brilliant”, so I think you can take it he’s fairly knocked out with you.’
‘You’re giving away my trade secrets,’ laughed Mike, and laughter was the theme for most of that night.
Because Stella had the biggest dressing-room, by about nought point eight of an inch, it was decided she should house the spontaneous party that Henry insisted on having; and when he also insisted on paying, there wasn’t one complaint or refusal.
Everyone appeared to be in sparkling form, except for Woody, who didn’t join the merry gathering until quite a while on into the evening. He’d been spending most of his time avoiding the ever-angering Nola. ‘Stella, Stella, Stella, Stella,’ he repeated several times as he approached her with arms out and head wobbling. ‘Magnifico! That’s all I can say, honey. Simply magnifico!’ Then he added, feeling he needed a bit of self-appraisal as no one had yet thanked him, ‘Of course, I knew you would be; I trained you myself.’ Like Henry, he didn’t try to kiss her as he was trying to give up kissing women for the time being. But he did snap his fingers and the dressing-room door immediately creaked open and in creaked Lester – or was it someone closing the door again? Lester had with him a silver bucket crammed full of ice that supported two very green and refreshing-looking bottles of Dom Perignon champagne. Lester passed the bucket to Woody before retreating from the room.
Woody said, ‘Stella, kid, drink a whole one of these yourself and get pie-eyed, ’cos there ain’t no other way, honey, you’ll be able to sleep tonight.’
Looking back at him with deep gratitude and immense respect she whispered a ‘Thank you, Woody. Thank you for everything’, and then she kissed him on both cheeks. ‘There’s just one thing,’ she said, pulling back as she remembered there had long been something she’d been meaning to find out.
‘What’s that?’ he said, a little confused. She clenched her lips and with a serious expression of full concentration she snapped her fingers. No Lester appeared. They all laughed at her unsuccessful attempt to copy Woody’s technique.
‘Has he gone away?’ she asked, thinking she’d snapped her fingers perfectly adequately. Woody just smiled as he snapped his own. In walked Lester and everyone laughed even more.
Woody whispered into Lester’s ear and he stepped back to open the champagne. The laughter didn’t upset him; he’d long grown accustomed to being used as a focal point of a joke. If he made people laugh by being a fairly old, black manservant, then what should he care? His boss paid him well. And he also just happened to love his boss.
As the gathering raised glasses in unison to toast Stella and the show, the door was flung open and in stormed Nola. Her legs quavered and she seemed to be having difficulty in focusing on anything. In her hand hung a half empty bottle of Scotch. ‘Hello, Nola,’ welcomed Stella, hoping to defuse what looked to be a highly volatile young chorus girl. ‘Join the party. By the way, I thought you did the Brazilian routine with Milton and me just great—’
‘So you’re here?’ she snapped, finally tracking down Woody, most probably by his shade rather than his features. The others in the room started up small talk, anticipating a major English-American confrontation. ‘So where’ve you been, you big black bastard?’ After this comment, even the small talk petered out.
‘Why, looking for you, honey,’ lied Woody, in a remarkably level tone. He was as anxious to avoid a scene as the others were. He didn’t want to turn the sweetness of the night sour; not after the hard work his performers had put in.
He deftly poured her a beaker of the champagne and passed it to her saying, ‘Welcome to the party, baby.’
‘Fuck the party and fuck you.’ Woody was glad that the latter sentiment wasn’t a request. Stella was quick to jump in with, ‘Why don’t you get changed, Nola, and we can all go back to the Midland and have a bit of a party there?’
‘Listen, you cow, I know all about you.’ There was a stunned silence. ‘You told him about the manager at Shanklin, didn’t you? You’re just a stupid, bleeding cow, that’s all. Just a stupid, bleeding—’ Woody slapped her hard enough for her to fall resoundingly against the nearest wall and slip down on her backside to the floor. It was a most effective way to curtail her accusations, as it left her unconscious. For some reason, no one had given the expected gasps of horror that normally accompany such scenes. In the circumstances everyone felt that Woody had taken the most sensible line of action.
He snapped his fingers and in came Lester again. Nonchalantly, the old servant hoisted up the fallen female as if it was a regular part of his work – and it probably was. ‘Let’s hope she sobers up in time for tomorrow night’s show,’ joked Woody, and soon everyone had managed to overlook the tiny blemish to their special evening.
There was an unspoken understanding that Nola wasn’t worth spoiling their celebrations for, and it was Woody’s own attitude towards her that had seemed to cement this understanding.
Minutes later the door opened again, and there was a sudden hush as, just for the briefest of seconds, they thought Nola had come round and returned to throw out some more drunken abuse. But it was Milton who filled the doorway. He was naturally surprised that everyone had gone quiet on his entrance. ‘Hi, folks,’ he said weakly. Conversations welled up again as Milton moved sheepishly over to Stella. ‘I’m not intruding, am I?’ he asked through an awkward smile.
‘Of course you’re not,’ said Stella. ‘It’s “open house” here tonight. Everyone’s welcome; especially you.’
He surveyed the smoky, busy room. ‘I guessed it would be a little hectic here. That’s why I changed and had a bite to eat before coming along.’
‘MILTON!’ cried Woody, with unnecessary fervour. He gave him the same open-arm treatment he’d given Stella. ‘Just magnifico, Milt, that’s all I can say.’ Stella found herself clinging to Milton’s hand. Was she afraid she might lose him? Should she let go? ‘Jesus, Milt, didn’t I tell ya, didn’t I tell ya?’ Woody was now clutching poor Milton’s cheeks as he spoke. It was the nearest Milton had ever been to a complete face-lift. ‘Why, baby, you looked more like Fred Astaire out there than Fred Astaire would have done. You were so hot that when I was at the back of the stalls I heard some guy say to his friend . . .’
‘Well done, Milton,’ congratulated Henry Charles. He didn’t realise he was interrupting Woody in full flow: and if he had known, he wouldn’t have cared less. ‘Mike and I thought you did a splendid job.’ It was best he mentioned Mike. Mike was renowned for his acute appreciation of strong talent: if Mike said something or someone was good, then Henry invariably went along with it. He never told Mike this, of course. That would be like a milkman telling his workhorse he couldn’t survive without him.
‘Er, thank you, Mr Charles,’ said Milton. Quickly he turned back to Woody. He was eager to hear what Woody had overheard in the back of the stalls. ‘Excuse me, Woody.’ Woody was involved in another conversation – another moment in time.
‘Yeah?’ he said, irritably.
‘You didn’t quite finish. What was it you heard someone say about me being as hot as Fred Astaire?’ Woody furrowed his brow in thought.
‘Oh, right,’ he said remembering. ‘I heard him say, “Do you know that all those male dancers are fags”?’ Woody moved away, leaving Milton motionless – quite stunned. As he resumed his other conversation he would have had no idea that he could have hurt Milton’s feelings.
Stella gave the back of Woody’s dinner jacket a severe frown, and she squeezed Milton’s hand to comfort him. ‘He’s not always too subtle with his words,’ she told him, but she knew she couldn’t cover up for him: Milton knew Woody as well as she did.
Milton said, ‘But if that’s what he did hear, then how many times between now and the last night am I going to be called “one of those fag dancers”?’
She shrugged in an easy way that said, who really gives a damn about the odd unpleasant remark? It served to catch Milton’s notice better than if she’d dished out the usual selection of sympathetic sentiments. He said, with a respectful glint in his eye, ‘That’s the remarkable thing about you, Stella Raven.’
‘How do you mean?’ she asked, suspiciously.
‘Well, you push and push with grim determination, and eventually you overcome.’
‘Maybe people give in just to shut me up.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Now he found that he was squeezing her hand. ‘You’re a wonderful girl as well as being a wonderful performer, and what makes you all the more wonderful is that you don’t even realise it.’
Stella had never been the bashful type, and normally she could reply to these sorts of compliments with a ‘don’t be so daft’. But this time the words struck right through her core, making her cheeks burn. What frightened her was that she couldn’t understand why she was so defenceless. But then, she hadn’t understood why she’d felt so nervous for Milton when he’d been auditioning.
Her embarrassment, if that’s the right word to describe what had caused her hot flush, was all the more amplified when Woody approached, saying, ‘Cut that out, you kids. Stop the loving looks. I’ve enough problems without having to arrange a wedding.’
Woody snapped for Lester. ‘See you guys later,’ he announced, as Lester handed him a walking-cane with a carved swan’s head that he’d taken a fancy to being seen with.
When all had drifted their various ways Stella made Milton turn around while she changed into something more suitable for the Midland Hotel. ‘It’s too late for food,’ said Milton, ‘but I’ve got some brandy back at my digs just round the corner.’
‘Is that an invitation?’ she asked and at the same time told herself to refuse it if it was. Think positive, Stella. Think career, Stella. But I can’t seem able to.
‘There’s certainly no reason why you shouldn’t come back for a nightcap.’
‘Tomorrow night’s show is a good reason for not going back for a nightcap,’ she pointed out.
A few more appealing smiles by the ever-appealing Milton soon dented her willpower; enough anyway for her to go back to his place for a nightcap.
The digs he was in – Milton didn’t like the ‘togetherness’ of hotel life on the road – were closer to the Opera House than she’d realised. In daylight it stood in its shadow.
The tramps and alcoholics that dotted the early-morning street did little to encourage her to give up hotel life for digs. She thought Milton quite mad to not only put up with digs but to take them out of preference. ‘It’s what I might have expected,’ she said, as she fumbled with a switch before a bare bulb, hanging shamefully from the centre of the ceiling, threw a meagre amount of light onto the bleak furnishings.
He moved to a box, explaining as he went that he’d not had time to unpack properly. ‘It’s only cooking brandy,’ he apologised, holding out the dark bottle as though it were contaminated, ‘but it’s brandy.’
‘I think you’d better taste it first before confirming that.’ She pointed at a two-seated sofa that had a spiral spring climbing out from it. ‘Mind if I sit down?’
‘Sorry, how rude of me,’ he replied, all a fluster. ‘Well, cheers,’ he said, with some apprehension as he raised his grimy glass and passed the other one to her.
She said, ‘Cheers, and down the hatch as they say, whoever “they” are, and most probably back up again if it meets with the other stuff I’ve drunk tonight.’ Milton winced. She couldn’t tell if it was the brandy or her remark that had caused him to.
In an ensuing short silence she briefly reflected on the glass of Benedictine she used to share with Sadie at Christmas time. The house would be nearly as bare as Milton’s digs, but much much cleaner. Their dad would be busy sharpening the carving knife ready for the capon or, if finances permitted, the turkey. It didn’t matter how tight things were – how hard up they were, they’d always laugh, tell jokes, sing carols. Other folk thought they were strange, but then other folk wallowed in self-pity. Not the Ravenscroft family. ‘How do you see me?’ asked Milton, breaking in on her thoughts.
‘With my eyes,’ she replied, dryly.
‘No, really. It’s important to me.’ She saw his seriousness.
How was she to see a man who had been knocking off the landlady where they’d been staying and who had cropped up in the same revue as her, and was now seemingly turning his affections onto her? ‘I suppose I see you as a kind, generous man, but who’s prone to shyness and who’d rather see himself as being another Douglas Fairbanks than an original Milton Keens.’ She was pleased with the way she summarised him.
But Milton twitched. She’d unwittingly touched the right nerve. ‘You certainly answered my question with direct honesty,’ he responded, and a little sourly too, she noted.
‘Would you have wanted it any other way?’ Then, before he could reply, ‘I didn’t say I objected to how you are.’
He shrugged off his hurt with a heavy chuckle and, with a large swig, finished off his brandy. Stella had taken just one sip. She didn’t intend drinking any more. She’d tasted better cough-mixture.
Milton sensed there was something forming between the two of them: something that would go beyond a platonic friendship. What he couldn’t understand was why he failed to visualise thrashing legs and heaving bodies, and hear the cries of ecstasy, as he normally did when lustful for a particular female. He could only assume he was either very tired, or that – which was rapidly becoming the more likely – he’d fallen in love with a young woman called Stella Raven. ‘It’s very late,’ he said suddenly, leaning forward as if about to make her a proposition. She felt her defence barriers going up. ‘Why don’t you consider camping down here the night?’
