Stella, page 21
The vent act – Bobby Perkins and Master – also met with a minor disaster. Master’s mouth jammed closed. The last three minutes of the routine was completed with an inanimate dummy, so killing off the illusion of good ventriloquism – as well as killing off the audience’s interest. Poor Bobby Perkins – or Booby Perkins, as he henceforth became known. He only received a courteous trickle of applause – hardly enough to stimulate attention in a small library.
The next night was near-perfection, and the third night was perfection. On the morning of the fifth performance two things happened to Stella. Firstly, she was sick, and then Henry Charles rang her at her hotel to inform her that the King of England – King George the Sixth – would, in person, be attending the Royal night at the Windmill.
Her sickness didn’t last, and she was back on-stage that night to face another standing ovation. But the following morning, she was sick again, and most mornings until the end of the run there.
There was a small dressing-room party held on the last night. It had to be small, because the dressing-rooms were so small. Everyone seemed cheerful enough, especially Tony, who had found himself a regular bed-warmer.
Stella found herself feeling more morose than happy. When would she and Bernard be able to spend some time together, away from his projects and her work and fans?
‘Here’s to the Windmill, kids,’ toasted Woody. It was met with many ‘hear, hears’.
Woody snapped for Lester, who at once moped into the room. Probably to his surprise, his boss only wanted to give him a glass of champagne. Lester gratefully accepted, then, taking it outside with him, promptly poured it down the nearest toilet. Bubbles did strange things to his nose.
An hour before the London-bound train was due to depart, Mike Farrow went to the hotel to collect Stella. She was glad he hadn’t come any earlier; she didn’t like people seeing her being sick.
They slipped quickly across the city to the station. A group of kids – a large and a particularly boisterous group of kids – was waiting to catch a glimpse of her as she left. She smiled warmly as photographs of herself and autograph books were thrust under her nose for signing. ‘Over here, Miss Raven.’
‘Thank you, Miss Raven.’
‘Give us a kiss, Miss Raven.’
‘I was first.’
‘No, I was.’
Stella firmly took them in hand. ‘Now, calm yourself down a bit. I’ll get round to all of you.’ A little girl – no older than four – squeezed between the legs of her big sister. It made Stella laugh. She stopped signing to pick her up. Mike wasn’t watching any of this. He was eager to get back to London. He had work to do. He stood by the door of their first-class compartment, waiting for her. ‘What’s your name, little girl?’ asked Stella. The child became bashful and stuck a thumb in her mouth.
‘It’s Sarah,’ said her older sister, as she nudged the girl as if telling her not to be afraid.
‘That’s nice,’ said Stella. ‘My sister’s called Sarah. Well, we call her Sadie.’
‘Why?’ finally spoke the child.
‘It’s a sort of nickname.’
‘What’s a nickname?’
Stella laughed. ‘You’d better get your big sister to explain that one, my little flower.’
‘Why’s your hair so short?’
Having found her tongue there seemed no stopping her. ‘I had it cut for a pantomime. I got to like it this way, so I’ve kept it short.’ The things kids pick up on, she thought.
As she bent to put the girl down she came over faint. Her hands went clammy and her forehead began beading with perspiration. Then her legs began quivering and she felt nauseous. ‘Mike, Mike!’ she shouted. He came bounding over, his awkward lanky legs making him a comical sight to behold. A porter was quick to clear a path through the kids, and she hobbled to the train on her agent’s arm.
‘Oh, I hate to disappoint them,’ she said, as he sat her in a private compartment and loosened her collar.
‘Sod ’em. You’re the one who’s unwell.’ She managed a smile as she glanced up at him.
‘I feel how you look,’ she said.
‘Why, thank you, Miss Raven. I do love a compliment.’
He touched her face, and in doing so experienced a buzz of affection for this frail, yet doggedly tough young star. ‘You’re as cold as a block of ice.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘Stop fussing.’
He shook his head despairingly. ‘When we get back I’m seeing to it you see a doctor.’ She groaned her disapproval, but she knew how determined Mike could be. As he went to fetch some coffee he couldn’t help wishing he could exchange his wife for Bernard Goldman’s.
With only ten days until the Royal opening night at the Windmill, Stella was informed by her doctor that she was to be a mother. Getting pregnant so soon after marriage, and with the promise of a long, full career ahead, had not been accounted for in any of her plans. She felt torn: she wanted to mother her child – their child – yet she wanted to stay at the top of the showbusiness tree; not take a long break to change nappies. And she knew that she was not the sort to neglect her child just for her own personal success.
Bernard came home five days later; but even before telling him the news, she had already made up her mind. After the Windmill week – the most prestigious week any artiste could wish to have – she would retire. Whether temporarily or permanently was yet to be decided.
Sitting up in bed on the night of his return, Bernard said to Stella, ‘When you have the kid we’ll move out to the country. We don’t need the hustle and bustle of London, and I want for our kid to grow up in the English countryside.’
‘I thought for a minute you were going to say the States,’ she said, with relief. ‘So whereabouts in the English countryside?’ she asked.
He said, ‘I was thinking Kent, maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s smart round there, and I’ve always liked it.’
She hadn’t thought much about life outside of London. Living in the city had always been so practical for her. But now, with a child on the way . . . ‘I suppose you’re right, love,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you’re the fella in property: see what you can come up with.’ He gave her a nothing-could-be-easier toss of the head, and said, ‘Leave it with me. Nothing could be easier.’
Henry Charles went through the main doors of the Windmill Theatre; a theatre built on the site of a windmill that originally stood just a few yards from what is now known as Piccadilly Circus.
Vivian Van Damm – General Manager of the ‘Mill’ and affectionately known as VD – poured Henry a large Scotch over two ice cubes as soon as he saw the agent approaching his office.
Henry raised the glass and said, ‘Here’s to a great week, VD.’ He took a biting sip of the Highland nectar, wincing in ironic pleasure as the golden liquid burnt his throat.
‘We’re only a three hundred-seater,’ said VD, ‘but, it goes without saying, we’ve sold out.’
‘As was expected,’ said Henry, ‘though I know the news will please Stella.’
VD beckoned Henry to be seated. ‘And how is your girl?’ he asked him, through a serious expression.
‘Stella’s fine. I think she’s just worried you’ll have her doing a fan-dance or a can-can.’
VD chuckled. ‘No, I promise no nudity for that week.’
‘I’ll tell you what, though,’ said Henry, his mind suddenly racing. ‘Royal Gala night apart, I could see if Stella would do a spoof can-can with the girls. With Woodville at the helm they could come up with an amusing routine in time for the show.’
‘Some of my girls scantily clad backing Stella Raven would add a certain spice to the week,’ agreed VD.
‘You fix it your end and I’ll fix it my end,’ said Henry, confidently. He knew how to handle artistes and producers. The secret was to make it look as though all the ideas had been theirs.
Van Damm said, ‘Now, what about the Royal night? Do you want your girl presented before and after, or just after in a more convivial atmosphere?’
‘I think just after.’ They were back on Henry’s favourite subject. ‘The thing is, it could be a bit chaotic just before the show goes on.’
His remark was destined to become the understatement of the year.
Chapter Sixteen
Stella was at first upset, then worried. How many weeks was it since she wrote to her mother and sister? It must have been at least three, and still she hadn’t heard a word. She wondered if they were holding a grudge against her: after all, it had taken her a long time to give in and make up with her sister. But then she knew her mother would still write even if just to tell her what a bad girl she had been. Sadie, understandably, might be holding a stronger grudge against her. But even so, she knew Sadie, too. She would write just to tell her she was not writing to her ever again. There was the fact that her mother hadn’t written many letters before. Maybe she was scared to. Stella could remember the first letter she had written . . .
‘Is this it, miss?’ asked the driver.
‘What? Oh, yes. Just drop me at the door there, please.’
She climbed out of the cab, paid the driver, tipped the driver, thanked the driver, then trotted into the Camden Dance Hall. The now-familiar sounds of tinkling piano and echoing taps caught her ears as Woody rehearsed the Windmill girls for a routine Henry Charles wanted them to do with her.
His suggestion had been met with fiery reaction from the contracted chorus who, through their agency, claimed they could do as good a can-can as the Windmill dancers. Henry was quick to calm things down, but he had to promise them further work in the process. And how did Woody – the choreographer, and therefore the one most in contact with the new girls – feel about it all? ‘If they’ve got no clothes on, baby, I’ll train ’em day and night, whoever they are,’ he’d told Henry.
Woody saw Stella come into the hall. ‘Keep that pace going girls,’ he ordered, and went to greet her. ‘Hi, honey. Why not take somethin’ off and join in?’ She overrode the humour.
‘I’d love to,’ she said seriously and distractedly, ‘but I’ve a few personal matters to sort out.’ Woody sensed the tension in her voice. He decided not to push her.
‘Okay. There’s no big deal, anyway. We can go through the routine tomorrow if you like.’
‘That’s great, Woody,’ she said. ‘And thanks.’
‘No trouble, honey. Just make sure you bring your feathers with you next time,’ he teased. She wagged a finger at him.
‘I believe, Mr Woodville, that you’re loving all of this, aren’t you?’ He couldn’t deny it.
‘I’m in seventh heaven, baby.’ He returned to work.
She went straight to Henry’s office. He wasn’t in. He was busy with a Laurel and Hardy tour, or so his secretary said. Stella wasn’t that bothered. If he wasn’t there, then he wasn’t there. Mike Farrow was there. He, like Woody, could tell immediately when there were things on her mind. Her serious mood, her anxious mannerisms were two of the many telltale signs. ‘I need a bit of help, Mike,’ she finally built up to say.
He responded with ‘Anything, my darling. You know me.’
‘I’ve been trying unsuccessfully to get hold of my family for some time, just to let them know about the Windmill show. I’ve heard nothing back from them.’ She told him of the two letters she had posted from Bradford. ‘I could understand only one of them replying, but both of them not replying? Well, it’s a little strange, wouldn’t you say?’
Mike, who’d been standing until now, sat down and made a steeple with his hands and then rested his long, narrow chin on the spire. ‘Yes, I see. It is a little strange.’ He felt a bit like a doctor diagnosing an illness.
‘I don’t know what to do next,’ she confessed, miserably. ‘They’re not on the phone, and I’m tied up with rehearsals, so I can’t get up to see them. Have you any bright ideas?’
Come on, Mike. You must have an idea, he told himself. That’s why Henry needs you so much.
One thing Mike didn’t want, and any good agent would be the same, was his top artiste having domestic problems just prior to doing a major show. It needed dealing with. ‘I do have an idea how I can find out what’s going on,’ he said at length, lifting his head off the spire. ‘I know someone I can contact up there. Someone who can check into things.’
‘Oh, thanks, Mike,’ she squeaked. The guilt she was feeling over Sadie was growing more each day. She had to make up with her before any more time passed by.
I should never have ignored her when she came to Manchester to see me. She made a big brave effort – but I just wouldn’t let it drop. Oh, Stella, your stubbornness and selfishness will be the death of you, she said to herself. ‘And you’ll let me know as soon as you hear anything?’ she said out loud. ‘Oh, and tell your contact to tell my folks about the Windmill show. I’ll keep them seats reserved for the opening night, and I’ll arrange transport up here for them.’
‘Will do.’
Nervously she toyed with her wedding ring. ‘I hope they haven’t all turned funny on me,’ she remarked.
‘If they have,’ said Mike, ‘I’ll sign them up. We need new acts.’
Jean and I may have patched things up, he thought, but what I’d do to be married to you, Stella Raven.
‘I’ll see you later, Mike.’
‘Yes. See you later, darling.’
Mike waited a full two minutes while a secretary traced Charlie Duncan. Finally, Charlie came to the phone. ‘Hi, Mike, what is it?’ said the cheerful northerner who was stage manager at the Winter Gardens, Morecambe. Mike told him about Stella.
‘So if you can find out something we’d all be most grateful,’ he concluded.
‘Anything for our Stella,’ he said. ‘She’s a local lass, yer know?’
‘Yes. I know, Charlie.’
Stella awoke feeling decidedly jaded. Stop thinking you’re ill, and you’ll feel better in no time, she urged herself. So she did, and she felt worse.
She thought about the day ahead of her. The words ‘Press Conference’ sounded like the death-sentence to her. The things that have to be done in the name of publicity.
She checked her watch. Nine o’clock. She didn’t have to be there until twelve. Mike was collecting her at eleven thirty. He arrived dead on time and they reached the Café Royal five minutes earlier than was necessary. There was a pleasant atmosphere there. One of anticipation and excitement. Stella was very popular with the press at this time. They’d designed many a good story around her. But even though she was a star, it took several minutes to pull the forty or so members of the press away from the bar where the free booze was.
She was led by Henry to a raised platform where she was seated to face the gathering. Behind her was an upright piano. It wasn’t there for her benefit. It was there for the benefit of the Café Royal. However, when someone shouted out, ‘What sort of songs will you be doing at the Windmill?’ she couldn’t resist singing a few bars, accompanied by Freddie Banbury at the keys. ‘That’s the sort of song I’ll be doing,’ she said, to big applause.
‘Is it true you’ll shortly be enjoying a happy event – that you are pregnant?’ asked a young reporter. His shifty eyes shot from note-pad to Stella Raven. The room instantly hushed. Was this a story that no one else but this young reporter had got hold of? Muffled conversation broke out and Stella flashed a look at Mike Farrow, who shuffled uneasily in his suit.
She didn’t want to confirm she was pregnant just yet. It was bad for her image to be seen as a mum-to-be when she was launching a new show. It somehow looked wrong. She’d told Henry, Mike, and Bernard that she wouldn’t announce it until after the show. She could only presume that this young reporter had heard a rumour through a friend of a friend of a friend of the doctor’s. ‘Where did you hear that?’ she asked, as lightly as she could without looking guilty.
‘Sorry, Miss Raven,’ he smiled. ‘I can’t reveal my sources in front of my colleagues here.’
‘Well, I’m afraid your sources have jumped the gun,’ she said. ‘I’m just enjoying practising.’
That was a bit close to the mark, she at once told herself. But at least it had the desired effect to shut them up – except for one more question on the subject. ‘So we can print that you’re not pregant, then?’ asked another reporter.
‘You can print nothing of the kind,’ she replied, very calmly. ‘If you print things like that you might as well print that I’m not a brunette or that I’m not a foreigner.’
They got the point. But it wouldn’t stop one clever one – probably the young one who’d started it all – printing ‘Stella Raven denies she’s pregnant.’
The rest of the conference was far less exciting. It eventually petered out rather than concluded. But Henry was pleased with how it had gone. It would give her prominent coverage before the show went on.
From the conference she went back to her flat. Woody rang her there to let her know that a run-through with the Windmill girls would be at the Windmill Theatre itself. They were to be there no earlier than two and leave no later than four fifteen. She met him there at two. She was pleased with the routine. It was saucy without being offensive. She thought it one of Henry’s better ideas. She also knew that whatever the chorus may have thought, there was no way they could have done it as well as the Windmill girls.
Mike spent the afternoon hovering in the background. When he had heard about Windmill girls, semi-clad, Windmill Theatre, two p.m., he was first there. Afterwards, he swaggered across the stage under a hot collar and introduced himself to the girls – individually. Stella scowled at him, saying, ‘Come on Casanova, it’ll only send you blind.’
He trailed behind her to a dressing-room. She didn’t take long. She just slipped a thick pullover and a pair of slacks on over her work-out costume.
As they went to leave they bumped into Woody, who hadn’t exactly been hurrying to escape the predominantly female gathering. He’d been visiting a second floor to the building where there was virtually another complete stage. This was used by the incoming artistes to produce and rehearse their show while the current performances went on beneath it. But Stella’s show wasn’t allowed the use of it for rehearsing. Their one-week stay was considered a one-off type performance, not a major production. Ironically, of course, it was as big as any production the Windmill would see for some time, but apparently that didn’t count: it was judged on a time-element basis only. ‘Okay, kids,’ said Woody. ‘Lunch is on me today.’ He wrapped a long arm around each of them and looked like a drunk being supported.
