Stella, page 14
Sadie said, ‘Tommy Moran, don’t be so vulgar.’
They sat silently and motionlessly for nearly ten minutes. If they’d taken their clothes off they’d have resembled two newly sculpted statues. For the two of them, going out for a drink together was about as exciting as being in the dentist’s waiting room.
Tommy was thinking about Huddersfield drawing with Arsenal, and a little ironic smile had grown on his face, and Sadie was thinking about Stella. ‘What’s the time?’ she asked, suddenly, making Tommy miss Huddersfield’s equaliser.
‘Nine.’
She smiled. ‘Same as your Colin’s birthday, then.’ He didn’t react. The pools was not a joking matter. ‘What time do they close?’
‘About ten thirty, I think. Why?’
‘Drink up,’ she said.
‘What for?’
‘Drink up, then take me home. You can nip over to the “Pack” and have a quick ’un with your mates.’
He’d drained his glass before she’d reached the word ‘mates’. They walked home, making monosyllabic conversation. The first thing Tommy did on reaching home was to change back into his overalls. ‘Bye love – shan’t be long.’ He quietly closed the door behind him.
Sadie picked up the local paper and reread the piece about ‘Lancaster girl – Stella Raven – making it big’ for the umpteenth time. The part that most interested her was where it said she would be going to Manchester with a big revue. She ignored the remark Stella was supposedly quoted as saying to a reporter about not having time to see friends and family in not-too-distant Lancaster.
As she folded the paper she had already made up her mind. The three-piece suite would have to wait if they were going to see Stella’s show. And she knew she’d have to work hard on Tommy to convince him it would be worth it.
Chapter Eleven
It was celebration time for Woody Woodville, and that meant throwing a big party in a private penthouse suite of the Midland Hotel. The drink flowed, the merrymaking flowed – and Woody’s money flowed. Why? Because he was cleared of the murder charge: he was a free man.
Nola’s true murderer – Richard Smith, an unemployed docker of no permanent address – had been apprehended on a petty theft charge and, under questioning on that and other minor offences, also confessed to carrying out her murder.
The Chief Superintendent was informed at once. The confession fitted perfectly, right down to the last detail of how he’d deliberately incriminated Woody Woodville. His motive? Apparently he’d been having an affair with the ‘free and easy’ chorus girl just before the Shanklin season had commenced. He had threatened her during the season for admitting to fancying the manager there. When she went on to repeat the same thing with producer Woody Woodville it was all too much for him to bear.
He was a man prone to violent behaviour, especially when under the influence of alcohol. On the night of Nola’s murder he’d been evicted from three public houses for abusive behaviour.
Had he not been so calculating in his organisation of her murder his offence might have been seen as a crime of passion. Instead, it looked probable he would get the death sentence. However, his confession would play in his favour.
If Woody hadn’t been black he’d have looked paler for his nerve-racking ordeal. As it was, he just appeared a little thinner beneath his camel-skin drape.
Someone tapped a table and conversations petered out. By one of the doors, Milton finished a mouthful of nuts that sounded like a passing stampede. ‘Friends,’ began Woody. ‘That’s all I can say of all you beautiful people.’
And so began a long, well-rehearsed speech. Stella believed he’d put as much into it as the show itself. ‘When the chips are down, friends are all a man in need has got. I went through a rough time, I don’t deny it.’ Lester winced. He knew how many fabricated stories were going to develop during this speech. ‘The bread and the water, they made me lose a few pounds; but then so did this party.’ Courteous laughter emanated from the guests. It had to. He was host and he was paying.
After rambling on for another fifteen minutes he wound up saying, ‘Well, that’s the end of my few short words.’ An audible sigh of relief could be heard. ‘I’d just like to conclude by saying, eat, drink, and be merry: you are all brothers of Woody Woodville.’
Enthusiastic clapping erupted, and why not? It was the best way to ensure he didn’t say any more.
Milton, who had moved across to Stella, whispered to her, ‘Another speech like that and I’ll frame him for murder.’
Mike Farrow was engaged in conversation with Henry Charles. They were discussing the press and Henry looked very pleased. He realised that Woody, being proven innocent, had unwittingly created excellent publicity for the show. Previously, the publicity had centred around a murder, whereas now it centred around a producer – their producer – having been wrongly accused. Henry could see the headlines and almost taste the money of the punters. People loved a show that was entwined with mystery. He said to Mike, ‘C’mon Mike. Let’s go down to the lobby and assist the press boys in their task.’
‘Visitor, Mr Keens,’ announced the doorman through a gap in Milton’s dressing-room door. Milton lowered his hair-brush and frowned at himself in his narrow mirror.
‘Oh God, I’d forgotten all about her,’ he groaned. ‘Better send her down.’
‘Okay.’
Like Milton, Stella was staring into a dressing-room mirror – her own one. She was trying to concentrate on her eyeshadow, but her mind kept forming a picture of the late Nola, and she knew she would be glad when they left Manchester because they could leave behind them the air of death that seemed to linger over the Opera House.
She decided to get a second opinion on her make-up and skipped down the corridor to Milton’s room. A tilted corridor clock warned her she had only fifteen minutes left until she was due on-stage. She burst in on him saying, ‘Hey, Milton, what do you think of my eye—’
She glimpsed his visitor sitting primly on a stool in one corner. ‘Hello, Jane,’ she said. ‘I forgot you were coming to the show today.’
She thought, that sounds so stupid. I wish I hadn’t said it.
‘Hello, Miss Raven. It’s nice to see you again.’ Stella couldn’t believe Jane found it nice at all. In fact, she hadn’t seen two such long faces as those that confronted her now.
Stella looked questioningly at Milton, and then said, somewhat dryly, ‘Has there been a death in the family?’
‘Er, look; I’ll catch up with you after the show, Jane,’ he said, ushering her out into the corridor.
‘Okay, Shipton,’ she smiled.
‘It’s Milton, actually.’
‘Oh yes. Sorry. Forgot.’ Jane disappeared to take her seat in the stalls.
‘That didn’t appear to be the happiest of reunions,’ remarked Stella.
‘It wasn’t,’ came the blunt response.
‘So I can presume you told her.’
‘Told her?’
‘Told her about us.’
He gave an ironic smile. ‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘She told me about herself.’
‘Explain that,’ said Stella, understandably a little confused. She hadn’t the time for Milton’s usual evasion of the point.
‘All right, then,’ he said. He could have added, ‘if that’s what you want,’ but he didn’t. ‘Jane Butterworth is pregnant and it seems I’m the proud father-to-be.’
He slumped back into a chair, burying his head in his hands. If he could have reproduced it on-stage he’d have had no problem in achieving a long and successful career in straight acting. ‘The things you women put us poor men through,’ he said, accusingly. If Stella hadn’t been so stunned she’d have rebuked him for making such a glib and controversial remark.
‘What will you do?’ she asked, tonelessly.
‘That, my dear, would seem to be the ultimate question.’
‘And what does she have to say about it?’
Was there venom in the way she said ‘she’? he wondered. He stretched slowly across his dressing-table and picked up one of his cigarettes. They weren’t his in the strictest sense, as he hardly ever smoked. Someone had left them there – most likely it was Mike Farrow – so Milton had claimed them.
He lit up and sucked the soothing smoke deep down into his lungs before releasing it through flaring nostrils. ‘She says I should do the gentlemanly thing and marry her.’ He gave a short, derisive chuckle. ‘Gentlemanly! I ask you. How pathetically old-fashioned.’
Stella said nothing for a moment or two. Her mouth hung limply open as if waiting for a thermometer to be put in it. She attempted to detach herself from the situation by considering the problem objectively.
‘I was always told that if a fella got a girl in trouble, next mistake he could make would be to marry her. It would be for the wrong reason and only bring about further disaster.’ Letting her objectives fade away, she said, ‘And also, I don’t want to lose you, Milton.’ She gave a tiny shrug as she tried to explain. ‘I may not be as deeply in love with you as you’ve been claiming to be with me, but I know it will come in time. I know I’ve never wanted someone near me as much as I’ve wanted you.’
He didn’t dare glance up, knowing that just seeing her gentle face and wide blue eyes after such lovely words would only serve to destroy him all the more quickly and totally. ‘Thank you,’ was all he croaked.
‘TWELVE MINUTES, STELLA!’ bellowed an echoing voice. She didn’t bat an eyelid.
‘Funny, I only came in here to ask your opinion on my eyeshadow.’
‘It looks great,’ he said emptily and without even glancing up.
She bent down and kissed him on the forehead, wondering as she did so if their futures were destined not to be shared.
The curtains descended on average applause. The performers weren’t discouraged. Most matinees were poorly attended whatever the theatre, whatever the show. At least, they could be thankful it was an audience mainly consisting of elderly people who’d come in from the rain to warm up and have a little snooze. During school holi-days it was scruffy kids whose only interest was in the chorus girls’ legs and how many performers they could pelt with half-chewed toffees.
Back in her dressing-room Stella checked her watch. Another couple of hours and she’d be making up for the evening performance. It was a treadmill but it was one she’d chosen to step onto. She thought of herself working in a cake shop in Lancaster and all at once that treadmill seemed paradise.
Allowing time for Jane Butterworth to leave, she knocked on Milton’s door. He poured himself a large measure of whisky from a bottle Woody had given him when discovering they both shared a love for a ‘drop of the malt’. ‘Well, she’s gone,’ he said. ‘Sadly, I think it’s only for the time being, though.’
‘It’s to be expected,’ she said, generously. ‘If a fella got me up the spout and tried to do a runner, I’d have his guts for garters.’ Despite his dire situation, Milton couldn’t resist a short laugh.
He pushed a beaker of whisky into her hand. She held it at arm’s length as if it was contaminated. ‘You’re not turning into an alcoholic, are you?’ she asked. ‘You won’t solve any problems by drinking yourself stupid, you know.’
‘Don’t cast such a lurid light over me, Stella.’ He raised his beaker in salutation. ‘I’m merely relaxing my overworked, overstressed mind and body. Cheers!’
He threw back the drink and then tossed the empty beaker at a waste-paper basket, missing it by feet. ‘Come on,’ he said suddenly, and then made a positive step towards his jacket. ‘No point in hanging round here feeling sorry for ourselves. Let’s take some air.’
Mr Adams began pulling out a trumpet from a deep case he’d brought with him. ‘It says on your form,’ said Mike Farrow, ‘that you’re a vent act. I didn’t know you could play trumpet.’
‘There are many people who don’t know I play trumpet. There are many people who don’t know I play trumpet after they’ve heard me play trumpet.’
Mike linked his fingers behind his head and leant back. It was turning into a long and tiring day. Why had he been the one to get lumbered with auditioning new acts for the revue?
Henry had said, ‘They’ll be two acts dropping out after Manchester. I’ll leave it with you and Woodville to organ-ise replacements.’ He said who but he didn’t say why. And Woodville had said, ‘Mike, baby, I’ll leave it all in your hands. I’ll just take care of their routines once you’ve got them signed up.’
And now here he was with this third talentless act of the day. ‘Would you like to hear my rendition of “The Last Post”?’ enquired Mr Adams.
‘With the word “Last” in it, how could I refuse?’ replied Mike, a shade sarcastically.
He thought despairingly of the next act due in. Mr G. H. Duffy, ‘genius of the glockenspiel’, as he billed himself. There was a firm knock at the door and for a second he thought Mr Duffy had arrived early. Instead, Stella poked her pretty face into the office – the same office where the Chief Superintendent had held his interviews – and to Mike, it was like someone had let summer into the room.
Simultaneously, Mr Adams played the opening notes of ‘The Last Post’. Stella immediately burst out laughing, thinking it was a comedy routine. Once she had started laughing it was all Mike could do to prevent himself from joining in. The effort sent him puce.
Mr Adams, with a look of indignation, flung his trumpet into the case, slammed it shut, heaved it down from the table where it was resting, and stormed out of the room.
Stella felt terrible. ‘Oh, Mike, I didn’t realise . . . I mean, it was for real . . . I’m so sorry . . .’ He waved her down.
‘Not to worry,’ he said. ‘I think you saved me a job. But try not to make a habit of it. God knows, one day we may get someone talented come and see us for an audition.’
He stood up to stretch his aching back. ‘Now, what can I do for you, Stella Raven?’
‘It’s my parents,’ she explained. ‘They’re seeing the show tonight. Do you think you could see to them a bit, just ’til afterwards?’
‘Be my pleasure to,’ he lied – but he lied well. ‘And now I’ve something for you.’ She looked quizzical. She couldn’t guess what it could be. ‘There’s a beauty contest on Saturday. We’ve been approached to see if we could volunteer a judge. I thought it would be a bit original to suggest a female. Would it interest you?’
She didn’t really like that sort of thing, though she knew Mike was only trying to please her. ‘The local press will be there,’ he added, ‘and maybe a couple of the nationals, even.’ All at once she was more interested.
‘I’ll go,’ she said.
‘Good,’ said Mike, and the knock at the door told him Mr G. H. Duffy had arrived.
The show came and went that night, and so did Stella’s parents. It had been an odd reunion between the three of them. Sitting in Stella’s dressing-room, she listened as they told her they’d ‘quite liked’ the show, especially Milton Keens – much to Stella’s irritation. More amazingly, she found that they could only see her position in show-business as being temporary until something more secure came up.
This was mainly the attitude of her mother, for her father wasn’t complaining about anyone or anything once Stella had stuck a bottle of light ale in his hand. And then her mother started going on about Sadie and Tommy and how she should make up with them.
The only light relief came when Woody burst into the room. ‘Hi, honey,’ he said to Stella, in his familiar forthright tone. ‘Wonderful show – truly.’ Then he focused in on her parents. ‘These your grandparents?’
‘No, Woody,’ she said. ‘These are my parents.’
‘Hi, folks. You must be mighty proud of your offspring. Ain’t she just the best?’ Then with a smile he was gone.
‘What’s to do with him?’ asked Jack, in a low and startled voice.
‘Nothing, Dad. He choreographed the show.’
‘Sounded bloody funny to me.’
‘Language, Jack,’ corrected his wife.
‘And he’s black,’ he said, as if it was a sin.
‘He’s American, Dad. One of the finest producers in the business.’
She knew it was pointless trying to explain: she knew it was pointless trying to explain anything new in her life. She could almost touch the distance that had grown between them. Basically, they had nothing left in common any more, other than being directly related. She loved them as they loved her, but only as family should always love their own. They didn’t understand the first thing about showbusiness and, perhaps more significantly, they didn’t want to understand.
They said their goodbyes at the stage door – though in reality they’d been said when she first left for London. There was a room arranged for them at the Midland, courtesy of Henry Charles, but she knew she wouldn’t be seeing them off in the morning.
Despite the unease of their reunion the tears still flowed between mother and daughter as they hugged each other goodbye, and Jack hovered in the background hoping they’d get back to the hotel in time for a pint.
Mike Farrow hadn’t been entirely accurate in informing Stella she was to be a judge of a beauty contest. It was, in fact, a fashion show – and she was pleased by his mistake. She could guess how he had come to the wrong conclusion: judges, clothes, women, beauty – a beauty contest, he’d have thought.
There were five other judges, all of whom had arrived just before she had. She was a little disappointed that no one seemed to recognise her, though she did find when she told them about the revue they knew exactly who she was. ‘Did you know that murdered girl very well?’ was the most repeated question of the day.
Champagne flowed as the judges acquainted themselves with each other, then silence was called for as the mayor – all four feet nine of him, accompanied by a rather bulbous wife – strode confidently into the meeting-room of the civic hall to greet them. ‘Hello, Miss Raven,’ he beamed, when finally reaching her. She noticed how his head had a natural tendency to tilt backwards – hardly surprising, as there must have been few people he met of his own height and even fewer who were smaller than him.
