Stella, page 22
‘It’s four o’clock,’ she pointed out. ‘Lunch has gone by.’
He thought for a second. Nothing altered Woody Woodville’s plans – least of all time. ‘Okay, then. Tea’s on me today.’
‘That’s better,’ she said.
Stella led the way to the dilapidated staircase that would take them down to ground level. It made a useful short-cut to an emergency exit door that opened onto Great Windmill Street. Because of her high heels she was struggling with each downward step as if learning to walk for the first time. Without any warning one of them snapped and, with a yelp, she plummeted downwards.
It happened all so quickly that her stunned companions just stared at each other for a moment while she lay groaning at the foot of the staircase, her head wedged against the exit door. Then they sprinted down to her and reached her, simultaneously.
‘So you can tell Stella that the message is, her sister’s in hospital and her parents visit her daily so aren’t at home very often. The feeling is they probably haven’t had a chance to answer her letter and that Sadie, because of being indisposed, has been unable to. Charlie Duncan couldn’t elaborate on that.’ This was Mike on the phone to Bernard.
Bernard said, ‘I see. Well, thanks for all your trouble, Mike. I’ll pass on the message as soon as she’s back.’ He laughed ironically. ‘It’s crazy. I’m to tell her her sister’s in hospital when she gets out of hospital herself.’
‘That’s life, Bernard,’ said Mike, sharing the irony.
When Stella returned that evening – positively uneasy on her legs and pale-faced – Bernard presented her with a bouquet of flowers. ‘It’s like when we first met,’ she remarked, through a faint smile, and her mind momentarily drifted back to a dashing young man seated self-assuredly in a box at the Empire Theatre, Leeds.
‘You’ve only been gone two days,’ said Annie, giving ‘Miss Stella’ a kiss, ‘but I know what that hospital food’s like. Yuk! I worked for a week in a hospital canteen once. I was filling in for a friend. Well, she weren’t so much of a friend as someone I’d met when—’
Bernard dropped a firm but friendly hand on her shoulder. ‘Er, yes. Okay, Annie. I think we’ll take dinner now. I know you’ve been hard at it all afternoon, and I, for one, am ravenous.’
Mainly because of who she was, the hospital had arranged for an ambulance to drop her at the flat. She’d told them there was no need for special treatment but they’d insisted – for the sum of three personalised autographs.
This amused Bernard. ‘An example that nothing’s unobtainable to the rich or famous. Everyone has a price.’
Stella wasn’t hungry, though she did her best so as not to disappoint Annie. Afterwards, she took Bernard into their bedroom. Seating him on the corner of the bed, she then leant against the wall, facing him in an attempt to find a relaxed posture. She didn’t really succeed, and ended up standing upright with arms crossed, a little like how she’d seen Henry when dictating a letter to one of his secretaries. ‘I’m afraid I lost it, Bernard,’ she eventually said, in a level voice. He looked at her quizzically.
‘Lost what, angel?’
‘Our baby. I’ve had a miscarriage.’
Her eyes were puffy and tired. Not only was it torturing her to tell him this but it was taking her to the verge of breaking down and crying. She knew this because she could remember the last time she had broken down and cried. It was when Sadie had given up the partnership in preference to Tommy Moran. That all seemed a century ago to her now.
Bernard’s chin fell the moment she told him. ‘Oh, dear God,’ he finally gasped, and pinched the bridge of his nose to restrain his own tears from falling.
‘The doctors said it would have been the fall that caused it,’ she explained in a whisper, though she didn’t know why she was whispering. ‘I’m sorry I’ve let you down,’ she wept, as the first of the tears welled up in her eyes.
He jumped up and held her tighter than he’d ever held her before. ‘There’ll be other times,’ he assured her, and assured himself. But he seriously began wondering if there would be. Once the emotional aspect was over would she really take the risk of becoming pregnant again? Somehow he doubted it. He sensed a great burden being lowered on to their relationship. He prayed they would be strong enough to come through.
After a long, paralysed silence he suggested they went into the main room and told Annie. Later on, after Annie had taken herself to bed and he felt his wife was in slightly better spirits, he told her the piece of news Mike Farrow had given to him. ‘In hospital?’ she gasped with disbelief. ‘But she’s healthy. I wonder what’s happened to her.’
‘Well, your folks have been visiting her so I guess she must have busted a leg or something,’ he said, trying to underplay the situation. His wife’s nerves were tingling enough as it was. ‘Maybe you should send her a postcard or something.’ The idea appealed to her.
‘Yes. I’ll give Mike a ring and get the address of the hospital.’
She did so and also plied him with a dozen more questions, all of which he couldn’t answer. It was impossible. He simply didn’t know any more than what he had already told Bernard. ‘I’m sure Charlie will get back if there’s any further news,’ he promised her.
She hung up. She no longer felt sorry for herself, concerned about her own problems. She was worried for her sister. Worried and frustrated. ‘I’ll never be able to go and visit her whilst I’m stuck with rehearsals,’ she mumbled.
‘Go up and see her then as soon as the show’s over,’ suggested Bernard. ‘If Sadie’s had an accident she won’t be coming to London, anyway.’
‘You’re right.’ She gave him a hopeful smile, and he answered the question before it was delivered.
‘Yes. I’ll come with you. I’ve yet to meet this gorgeous sister of yours.’
She kissed him on the mouth. He was glad she was perking up a bit. The glint had returned to her eyes. ‘That’s wonderful. I’ll take Sadie a copy of the theatre programme to read while she’s recovering.’
‘I’m sure she’d like that.’
Then she said, through a blank expression, ‘I just wish I knew what she is recovering from.’
Tommy Moran was as pale as the doctor’s overcoat, which he was following up to the reception desk. ‘There’s a small parcel containing personal effects,’ the doctor explained in a diplomatic tone. ‘It would be best if you’d take it with you now. We wouldn’t want to risk misplacing it and causing you any inconvenience.’
‘Aye. Okay,’ said Tommy, hoarsely.
The doctor moved uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He hated this part of his job. ‘Is there anything I can do for you now? Anything at all? Perhaps something to steady the nerves?’
Tommy’s vision was transfixed to the cream-coloured concrete floor. If asked what he was staring at he wouldn’t have known. All he was aware of was bodily numbness, and the antiseptic aroma of the place that, paradoxically, put people – whether patients or visitors – off going to hospitals. ‘No, ta. I need nothing now.’
The doctor glanced at his watch without taking in the time. ‘I must be going,’ he said. ‘The mortician – Mr Webster – will be in touch with you regarding the, er, deceased.’
‘Yes, I know. I was told that.’
‘Then I shall say goodbye, Mr Moran. My deepest sympathy to you and your family. I’m so sorry there was nothing more we could do.’
‘Aye!’
The doctor went away. He had other sick and dying patients with concerned relatives to cope with. Tommy outstretched his hands like he was sleepwalking. The girl at the reception put the parcel into them. ‘There you go now, Mr Moran,’ she said, with controlled cheerfulness as she tried to bring him back to the land of the conscious. She didn’t want to send him home in too much of a daze. She’d seen all of this so often before. Strange how it never became any easier.
Without further word he turned and walked blindly along the corridor, and through the big swing-doors into the late summer sunshine. How could you die on such a lovely summer’s day. You loved it warm like this, didn’t you Sade? He marched mechanically for the bus stop, wondering what would become of him now his wife was dead.
Jack and Lilly Ravenscroft stared contemplatively at each other over the rims of their tea cups. A clock ticked relentlessly on the mantle-shelf, surrounded by old mail. It had lived there so long that its sound had become a part of the silence. They would have been more aware of its presence had it stopped. ‘Stella will have to be told,’ said Jack, finally. One of them was due to mention Stella; it just happened to be him.
‘Aye, I know. But not straight away. I’ve had a letter come. It says she’s to do a big London show very soon. She wanted us all to go.’
‘We’ll tell her afterwards then, eh? Give her a chance to get her show out the way.’
‘Aye, okay. She may miss the funeral though.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. These things take time to arrange,’ he said. ‘Got to get the priest an’ everything.’
‘Aye, but Stella and Sade weren’t talking. I wonder how she’ll take the news.’
Jack could only see her taking it one way. ‘She’ll be devastated. They were sisters, you know. And partners for some of the time. They just lost contact with each other when Stella became a big name.’
‘I think we lost contact with Stella when she became a big name,’ said Lilly, philosophically.
She began snivelling and pulled out a hankie from up a sleeve a little like a magician producing a silk one from supposedly nowhere. ‘It’s so sad,’ she cried, and blew her nose very loudly. Jack began to slowly pace the room.
‘Why, oh, why did you choose our Sade?’ he said with eyes pointing accusingly up to Heaven.
He went to pour his wife another cup of tea but, for the first time that he could remember, she refused it.
Chapter Seventeen
‘Try cutting the tempo. The chorus can’t keep up with you.’ This was Woody talking to Freddie Banbury; they were the only vertical figures to be seen amidst the orchestra. Their long, bored faces and rolled-up sleeves were evidence it had been a hard morning. There’d be a few pints sunk during the lunch break.
Stella breezed by them all mouthing a ‘goodbye’ as she left the dance hall. Her body was responding well to the various exercise routines she was putting it through.
Mustn’t overdo it though, she thought as a cab swerved to miss her and the driver made a suitable gesture to let her know what he thought of her. I’ll have to get through a week of the real thing very soon.
Her next stop was Henry’s office. She went there for her now-weekly ritual of dealing with the wads of fan-mail that poured in. Unless there was a specific or unusual request within the mail Henry would have one of his secretaries type standard replies and Stella would merely have to sign her name to them. To a degree it could be considered cheating, but at least she made some sort of effort. She knew of other stars who didn’t even bother to read the mail, let alone reply to it.
As she sat cross-legged at a desk, getting on with it, Henry attended to other business. A few yards away, in his own office, sat Mike Farrow. He’d just answered the phone to discover he was speaking to Charlie Duncan in Morecambe. Charlie came straight to the point. ‘It’s her sister,’ he explained. ‘She died a week or so ago.’
For a second Mike felt as though he’d lost an own next of kin. Ironic, as he’d never even met Sadie Ravenscroft. ‘What did she die of?’ he eventually asked. Charlie fleetingly thought of the old gag:
– What she die of?
– Shortness of breath.
He answered him. ‘A stomach disease. Some sort of growth in her stomach. Bloody awful, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is, Charlie, it certainly is.’ Mike took a deep breath. ‘Okay, Charlie. I’ll be in touch again. Thanks for getting back to me.’ They replaced receivers.
I can’t tell her about this with the show coming up, he thought. She’ll go insane. But what right have I to withhold the information? I’ve got to. Henry would be furious if I upset her so close to the show. I’ll drop in and see Bernard at the weekend, when he’s back from looking at property in Kent. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Then he can decide when she should be told, if her parents don’t tell her first. He’ll know the best moment.
He pulled out a rare cigarette from a gold-plated box on his desk. Subconsciously he took in the inscription.
‘To Mike Farrow. A personal thanks for all your assistance in making it possible for me to break all existing box-office records during my summer season at the Queen’s Theatre, Blackpool, 1936. Love, Max Miller.’
Yes. That’s it. I’ll leave it to Bernard to decide.
Mike was in need of a strong coffee. He slipped into Henry’s office and made for the kitchen, hoping she wouldn’t notice him. He couldn’t face telling her about the phone call. ‘Hi, Mike,’ she said, cheerfully. ‘Don’t I get a good morning any more?’ She hardly looked up as she spoke, which was a good thing or she might have sensed there was something up.
‘I’m sorry, my darling,’ he said. ‘I was miles away there for a moment. Lost in the world of thoughts.’
‘Cheerful ones, I hope?’
‘Yes.’
He diverted from the coffee to the hidden rotating bar. ‘A bit early for that,’ remarked Henry.
If he knew what I know he wouldn’t be saying that, thought Mike. But he made no reply – and still had a drink.
Mike didn’t contact Bernard straight away. He kept putting it off for as long as possible, perhaps hoping the problem would go away. Two days before the night of the Royal Gala – with Stella still oblivious to her sister’s death – he decided he must tell Bernard. He had delayed long enough. If he delayed any longer she would only end up hearing through her parents – or worse still, the press. How long before they would put two and two together?
He decided that his course of action would be to deliver a letter marked personal attention of Bernard Goldman. That way no one would need to see him. He could slip it through the door-flap and then jog off down the street.
Annie brought a freshly baked cake into the room. ‘It’s not as solid as it looks,’ she explained. ‘I’m afraid I went a bit haywire with the ingredients. It’ll be fine, though.’
‘I’m sure it’s lovely,’ supported Stella.
Bernard reserved his judgement until the tasting of it. He reached forward with the water jug. As he poured, the click of the door-flap could be heard. ‘Mail at this time of night?’ commented Stella, as she delicately carved through a piece of cake. ‘It’s the latest post we’ve ever had delivered,’ she joked.
Bernard scraped back his chair and went to investigate. ‘It’s addressed for my personal attention.’
‘Better see what it is.’
‘No need to, angel,’ he said. ‘It’ll be more boring details from the estate agency. They said they’d send me some more. Guess they want to save the postage, the mean rats.’ He tossed it onto a sideboard.
‘They haven’t come up with much of any interest yet, have they?’ she said.
‘These things take time, angel.’
He returned to his seat and tried a piece of the cake. ‘I’ve got news for you, Annie. It is as solid as it looks.’ She didn’t argue with him.
Stella was helping Annie with the washing-up when Bernard picked up the hand-delivered letter again. He was grinning as he opened it. He remembered that the last details he’d been sent couldn’t have been more unsuitable. He wondered what little delight they had for him this time.
His face lengthened as he read. When he’d finished he tucked it securely into his inner jacket pocket. Stella remarked upon its absence the moment she came back into the room.
Trust you to have such sharp eyes, he thought.
‘Who was it from, then?’
‘Just more property.’
‘Any good?’ she pressed.
‘No. Lousy.’
He thanked God she didn’t ask to take a look at it for herself.
When they’d undressed and were climbing into bed he smuggled the letter into his top drawer, beneath a batch of documents to do with property. She never looked in there, just as he never looked inside her personal drawer.
Thinking it a cunningly clever move to have made, he laid himself down and in the darkness concerned himself with how and when he was going to tell her about her sister. What would be the consequences of her knowing? He recalled how much she’d been talking about her recently: how she planned to patch things up once the show was over. What an emotional upheaval it would all be, and how guilty she would feel for having disowned her for so long. All these thoughts, and more, flew furiously around his head, ensuring him a restless night’s sleep.
There was an aura hanging over the Windmill Theatre that afternoon as Stella’s cab pulled away from it in the direction of Trafalgar Square. She glanced back to witness the ever-increasing distance diminish her bold name that stood high above the Revudeville sign.
The West End’s famous landmark always had an aura about it, but today it was extra-special – almost tangible. People were outside its doors, struggling vainly for any possible tickets before the show’s commencement that very evening. Reports that King George would be there had quadrupled the interest, and Henry Charles was woefully regretting not hiring a larger theatre – one that could get more people in and, therefore, more money in the till.
Stella turned round once her name had been blotted out by a brown jumble of buildings. She had more than just butterflies today. She could hardly believe that in another five hours she would be appearing in front of her King. The grand honour had come around so quickly. But she knew that if she could get through tonight’s show she could get through the whole week; that was a fact.
