Stella, page 8
‘Oh, okay. Send her in.’
Stella marched boldly in and the secretary went back to her work but her hands were shaking too much for her to type properly.
Fifteen minutes later they emerged from Hutton’s office, Stella adorned with a triumphant smile. During her quarter of an hour she’d told him the traumas of her sister leaving and of Johnny Burton’s crude, unprofessional behaviour. Despite his reputation, she’d found Mr Hutton one of the better agents she had come across. ‘Goodbye, Miss Raven. I shall do all I can to help you,’ he promised.
He smiled at her departing back, and carried the smile across to his secretary, who returned it with a sharp, fiery glare.
He returned to his office wondering what he had said to upset her so much. She punched the typewriter, hurting her knuckles, and said aloud, but not loud enough to be heard by anyone but herself, ‘That’s the last time you come back to my place, you bastard.’
As she massaged her tender hand one of the phones rang. ‘K. Hutton Productions,’ she said angrily as if warning the caller they’d better have a damn good reason for calling.
‘Put me through to Hutton, please,’ demanded the caller.
‘Who is calling, please?’
‘Burton – Johnny Burton.’
She informed her boss of the call. ‘Who?’
‘A Johnny Burton. He’s a theatrical agent, I believe.’
‘Oh, yes. Tell him to get stuffed.’ The briefest of pauses followed, then, ‘And is it okay if I drop in tonight, say tenish?’
This was followed by a longer pause, then, ‘Yes, fine,’ she said casually, and reconnected herself to Johnny Burton.
Tommy Moran splashed ice-cold water across his freshly shaved face and gingerly tapped it dry with a cloth. A thin trickle of blood drew a route from his chin to his Adam’s apple.
Quickly, he tore a corner off the newspaper, a piece without print on it, and held it against the cut until it had sealed itself in place.
His brother Colin, who was, much to Tommy’s concern, his best man, was upstairs fighting with a very new, very stiff collar.
Their father was in the ‘Red Lion’, fighting with a very full pint of beer. Their mother was in the bride’s house, next door, applying her special gift of getting in everyone’s way.
Tommy was relieved to have the kitchen sink all to himself. He gazed thoughtfully through the rain-soaked window, hoping the disappointing weather wasn’t a bad omen of some kind.
He thought of Stella, his first love – a childhood fantasy of woman. How sad he was she wouldn’t be there to share in the joy of this special day. She hadn’t even sent a letter or telegram wishing them well. Sadie still believed she would make a surprise appearance at the service but Tommy doubted it. He had a more realistic conception of how deep Stella’s wounds were. Dissolving the partnership had dissolved a part of Stella’s life.
Tommy sighed and went upstairs, saying, as he went, ‘Hurry up, Colin. We don’t want to be late.’
‘I am hurrying,’ grunted back Colin’s voice.
Once upstairs, Tommy pulled out a long, slim box from beneath his bed. Opening it, he saw a thick dark suit that felt as though it had been made from sacking. It would be his best suit for the next few years and last him the rest of his life.
As he changed he pondered on how strange and unreal it all was. Tonight he would be in Blackpool with his new wife: tonight, Saturday and most of Sunday, and then back home for Sunday night – well, next door at the Raven-scrofts’. Then a couple of more weeks and they should have a home of their own.
Shirt and trousers in place, he struggled into the jacket, which was designed in the latest style – high-waisted, single-breasted, peaked rolled lapels, slanting pockets, double vents – and then skipped back downstairs, ready to make tracks.
Colin was hovering by the back door with a guilty expression on his face. Tommy said to him, ‘What are you up to?’
‘Er, I thought I’d just tell our Dad to drink up,’ he replied, awkwardly.
‘Like hell, you will,’ frowned his brother. ‘I’ll go with you, otherwise we’ll end up with both you and Dad missing, presumed drunk.’ He pulled open the door and took a positive step in the direction of Saint Luke’s Church – and the ‘Red Lion’ pub.
‘He’s not in there,’ announced Colin, emerging out of the entrance to the ‘Red Lion’ and wiping a sleeve across his mouth. ‘I wonder which one he’s at.’
‘Sod him,’ said Tommy. ‘C’mon. Let’s get to the church.’
They sat next to each other on the edge of the front pew. ‘I’ve a splinter in my bum,’ moaned Colin, in a voice that echoed through the old stone building.
‘Shush. You can pick it out later,’ Tommy told him.
They lowered their heads in prayer. Tommy asked for a happy marriage, a nice house, a few kids, and enough money. Colin asked the same person to make sure Tommy and Sadie had a good time in Blackpool, that their Mam found their Dad, and Preston North End beat the living daylights out of Manchester City on Saturday – thanks a lot, Amen.
At the conclusion of Colin’s prayer the arched door swung open with a bang, and Mrs Moran came bounding down the aisle in a more meaningful fashion than she had done thirty years ago.
She was short and dumpy, and resembled Colin more than Tommy. ‘Where the flamin’ hell’s yer father?’ she snapped.
‘We don’t know,’ answered Tommy with open palms.
‘He’s not in the “Red Lion”,’ said Colin. ‘I’ve checked.’
‘I’m not fussed where he’s not, I want to know where he is.’
‘How about the “Dog and Partridge”?’ suggested Colin. ‘The taxi driver’s been there and four other blood . . . flamin’ places, and he’s not in any of ’em.’
She nodded sharply towards the entrance where a poor excuse for daylight was seeping in. ‘Poor Sadie’s sitting on her arse in that taxi with no one with her.’
‘But it’s Jack Ravenscroft’s job to give Sadie away,’ said Tommy, ‘not our Dad’s.’
‘Jack went looking for him and now he’s gone missing,’ she said.
‘I think the vicar wants us to get a move on,’ remarked Colin, as the agitated clergyman came slowly across to them. ‘Are we Catholic, Mam?’ asked Colin, seriously.
‘Don’t ask flamin’ stupid questions at times like these,’ she replied.
‘I hope Dad gets here all right,’ said Tommy.
‘Bugger ’im,’ swore Colin, and he promptly received a short, sharp clip around the ear from his mother.
The vicar ‘ahemmed’ to the congregation – which numbered, in total, eight – and then stepped forward, summoning the two brothers to do likewise. Mrs Moran slumped into her seat. The organ wheezed into Wagner’s Bridal March, ‘Lohengrin’, and Tommy estimated that it would cost him another thirty bob on the day – and it did.
He whispered in Colin’s ear, ‘Have you got the ring?’ His brother rummaged in his pocket and clinked about in his loose change until he found it. Tommy breathed a sigh of relief.
The vicar lifted his head as the bride appeared in the doorway in a light-blue two-piece outfit, with a pillbox hat glued firmly at an angle on her head.
She didn’t look as incongruous as she could have done, walking up the aisle on the arm of an unshaven taxi driver who looked remarkably calm and experienced in this sort of fill-in role.
Jack arrived as they were all leaving the church and Mr Moran didn’t arrive at all. He was later discovered to have gone straight to the reception being held above the Palladium cinema.
It could have been a more enjoyable reception had Colin tried to avoid making a speech that consisted of jokes about sex-starved brides and a German doctor called Dr Kuttithoff.
Heads turned when Mr Moran collapsed in a drunken heap on the floor. To give him credit, he did manage, though it took him three and a half minutes, to climb back into his chair. Tommy was more irritated that, out of the forty guests, none of them had bothered to attend the service than the fact his father didn’t even know why they were there and what was being celebrated.
Tommy’s mother was upset that someone had invited ‘Lancaster Lil’ – the biggest scrubber north of the border. She was locally famous, or infamous, for being able to drink any man under the table, her chain-smoking, her free lessons in sex to beginners, and charging only two and six for professionals. She wasn’t the wealthiest or prettiest of people. She cradled Tommy’s dad in her arms, and began rocking him as if he was a baby she was trying to put to sleep.
There was a tense and embarrassed atmosphere by now mainly encouraged by Colin’s speech but decided by Mr Moran’s behaviour. Mrs Moran looked coldly at the spectacle of her husband swaying in the arms of Lancaster Lil, both singing ‘You were meant for me,’ then quietly walked over to Colin and whispered in his ear. Her son dutifully followed her across the room as she made for his dad.
Sadie, who had been observing them, nudged Tommy nervously. Colin hoisted his dad out of Lil’s arms, him still singing away, and his mother landed a firm punch on Lil’s nose, sending her sprawling across the floor, dazed and blooded, and unable to move for several minutes.
Colin took his dad downstairs and out into the open where he sat him against a lamp post. He returned to help his mother lift up Lil and lay her across the food table, face-down in the sausage rolls. When they returned to their seats they were given a spontaneous round of applause, and the rest of the reception was fairly enjoyable.
Tommy and Sadie, contrary to tradition, were last to leave their own reception. ‘Tommy darling,’ said Sadie as they finally made to go.
‘Yes, love?’
‘There was no telegram from Stella, was there.’ It was a statement more than a question. Tommy thought for a second before replying.
‘It might have been mislaid.’
* * *
* Cranbourn Mansions in London’s West End was the head office for Moss Empires.
Chapter Seven
It took Stella just two days to find a new place to stay and a week to put her new act together. She’d had one or two ideas in her mind before Sadie had left but they were ideas created specifically for a partnership – not a solo performer. Therefore she’d had to make alterations and refinements to suit the new and unexpected position she found herself in.
She settled in a small place in Mornington Crescent. In the same block were a couple of other acts who hardly ever seemed to find work and several prostitutes who never seemed to stop work.
She booked a rehearsal room and a pianist, and really started to work on polishing her solo act, which had now developed from just singing and a little dancing to also telling a few light-hearted anecdotes and sharing one or two jokes with the audience. There was one phone on the same floor as her flat, when it rang, she would take the gamble of answering in case it was some work coming in, but invariably it was someone asking what she would do for fifteen bob. As far as she was concerned, this place was somewhere temporary and cheap.
She wrote occasionally to her parents, telling them of any progress she was making, always painting a better picture of how things were. She would never make reference to Sadie or Tommy, and, at this time, didn’t know or care that they were married.
Everyone, no matter what line of business they are in, needs a little bit of luck. Stella was given some, and it brought about a major step forward in her career.
In a way it began with Johnny Burton, the cheap over-sexed agent she’d locked in his own office. He’d had to phone his way out. The locksmith who released him listened astounded to his story and told someone else, who in turn told someone else, and so on. Through the various agents and bookers it became quite a famous story, and with each rendition it grew more exaggerated. This made it easier for her to find work, as she was quite well known by managements even before making an approach to them.
She picked up an important week’s work before starting rehearsals for the summer show in Shanklin, and she took full advantage of it to test out her new-look act. Being a town date, most agents and bookers came to see her – having read her letter saying, ‘Stella Raven, comedienne extraordinaire, not to be missed’ – and, although a little nervous and new, she did impress them.
The summer show in Shanklin opened and it was a big success. The landladies told their boarders to go and see it, and soon they were playing to packed houses. Much to Stella’s own personal pleasure she found she was often approached during the daytime to sign an autograph or two, a new experience for her.
After it had been running for five weeks Mr Henry Charles came to the island. Henry Charles was the big West End impresario of the era. The reason why he should have made a personal call to the island was that his wife was born there, and was at present visiting her mother, who still lived there. He’d come down to join her for the weekend.
The moment he arrived, his wife told him of the glowing reports on the show. He drew heavily on a fat Cuban cigar he was rarely to be seen without. Once, a close friend and colleague had arranged to meet him at seven o’clock one morning for a pre-working day meeting. One thing’s for certain, he’d thought. I’ll catch him without that damn cigar in his mouth. But he didn’t.
‘Who’s in it, then?’ he asked, letting the ash fall onto his mother-in-law’s carpet, and he rubbed it in uncaringly. He’d paid for the carpet, the car, and the house: he felt he had a right to do as he wanted.
‘I’m not too sure,’ replied Mrs Charles, scowling at the mirror for revealing too many wrinkles on her face. She reached across the dresser for her make-up bag and began working on them. ‘We’ll have to take a walk out that way later and have a look at the names outside the theatre.’
‘Good idea,’ he agreed. He didn’t like weekends away from London. His London office was his life. Weekends merely upset the pattern of his work. Just walking by a theatre was at least some compensation.
They walked arm-in-arm and reached the theatre at exactly six o’clock. They were only out taking the fresh air, and hadn’t planned on going inside. The show was due to raise its curtain at six ten. At six five, having seen few names of interest, the Charleses turned to go home. Then the heavens opened and, with an endless sky of grey hanging over them, it looked like they intended staying open.
Henry Charles pointed with his cigar at the main doors and said, with a touch of irony, ‘Fancy taking in a show?’
As they went to leave at the end of the performance Mr Charles was recognised by the management. ‘Indeed an honour sir’, and ‘Come this way’, and ‘A few drinks with the artistes’ were the types of comments bestowed upon him. With a shrug they followed him into a spacious back room and were handed a glass of ‘first-night’ champagne – beer and spirits from then until the last-night party being the only alcoholic beverages supplied – and duly met the performers. ‘And this is Stella Raven,’ said the manager with a quick flourish of the wrist, eager to move onto one or two more well-known faces. Henry Charles pulled up in front of her.
‘Stella Raven, eh?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she replied weakly, as if she’d just been introduced to the King of England.
‘That song “Stormy Weather” that you sang – bit inspirational playing it for laughs like you did.’
‘I was told it was bucketing down outside, sir, so it seemed the natural thing to do. Sort of cheer people up.’
Henry Charles gently nodded and moved on down the line. Afterwards, he pulled out a pen and put a little tick next to the name of Stella Raven where it appeared in his programme. That was the biggest piece of luck she would ever have, and she would say in better times that it was ‘ heaven-sent’.
At the end of the season Stella returned to London with little money left in her post-office savings account but a fair amount of cash in her pocket which she put into her account at the earliest possible moment.
One of her first priorities was to find a small flat as near to the West End as possible, for that was where it all happened. While she hunted, she took digs in Brixton – where very little happened. At least, that was what she thought until she received a message from Henry Charles, via Ken Hutton.
Charles had been told that Hutton kept contact with her over possible work-availability, and so told Hutton to tell Stella to pay him a visit in his London office at eleven thirty on Wednesday morning. It was then Monday, and Tuesday afternoon by the time Hutton had managed to get hold of Stella with the encouraging message.
The reception to Henry Charles’ office was larger than any flat or digs she’d stayed in. ‘Mr Charles will see you now, Miss Raven,’ an attractive secretary informed her; one who’d been as carefully chosen as the furnishings surrounding her.
Impulsively, Stella glanced at her watch. It was precisely eleven thirty, and she knew it was accurate because she had checked it first thing that morning. Mr Charles was clearly quite a time-keeper.
The secretary minced towards the panelled oak door and gently knocked. Stella heard nothing from within, but the secretary, with her ear to the door like a sink plunger, suddenly smiled and opened the door for her. Smiling a quiet thank you, Stella edged past her and inside.
Henry Charles languished in an upright leather chair that was big enough to be a throne and, in this particular building, it was a throne. ‘Come in, Miss Raven, and please sit down,’ instructed a talking cigar.
If she hadn’t been so nervous she would have laughed at the sight of this large man seated in an even larger chair, with what appeared to be a tree trunk protruding between moistened, pouting lips. But she was nervous – very nervous.
He said, ‘How do you feel the summer show went?’
‘We were told that it broke all existing records there.’
‘I think you were told the truth,’ he purred, knowing it had been a huge success. ‘Would you care for a drink?’
Probably to help me relax, she thought. ‘I wouldn’t mind a small sherry, if that’s no trouble.’
‘If it was to be a trouble I wouldn’t have asked,’ he told her, and she could tell that he wasn’t being nasty – just truthful.
