Diamonds at the Lost and Found

by Sarah Aspinall

  I knew that we had come as much to visit something called the Racquet Club as to see Miss Gillette, but I wasn’t sure what it was or why. The Racquet Club had a swimming pool and a Bamboo Room, and must have had something else very special about it, as it was only when my mother had discovered that it was right next door to where Miss Gillette lived, on North Indian Canyon Drive, that she had become determined to make the trip here at all.

  ‘Of course, Clark Gable was a regular at the club, he loved to play tennis there,’ my mother told Nick, as if Clark Gable was an old friend of hers that she knew all about. She’d also seen magazine pictures of Marilyn Monroe in her white bikini draped across the club’s diving board and Sinatra in the restaurant.

  ‘I understand the Saturday-night dances there are legendary?’ she said, as if Nick might go to these. It was clear that she was dying to see this club, and she mentioned it a few times until Miss Gillette said that she would try to arrange for us to have lunch there.

  Nick told us, ‘Really you have to be a member, and it is very, very exclusive, but of course Miss Gillette knows Frank Bogert!’ This was the mayor of Palm Springs, who was very important. He then said proudly, ‘Miss Gillette has permitted me to call the mayor’s office on your behalf.’

  He came back triumphant, having got us a table, and went to change into even smarter clothes. He then drove us around on a tour of the town in the spacious air-conditioned car but my mother checked her little gold watch constantly. At noon we at last drove through the security gate of the Racquet Club and walked across to the pool area where tables were set for lunch. The three of us sat down and ordered our food, but I could see this wasn’t enough and my mother had some plan. On a trip to the bathroom I saw her stop to talk to someone and she finally managed to get the manager to come over to our table.

  She explained to him, as I had heard her do so many times, ‘I’m a newspaper reporter over from England, so I’d love to know a little more about the background of the club so that I can write a double-spread feature for our readers, something that captures the glamour of its history, with some great photos.’

  She beamed up at him. ‘I’m just so excited to be here myself, after hearing so much about it from Mr Bogert. I was delighted when he arranged this lunch for us, so kind of him.’

  The manager became very friendly at the mention of Mr Bogert’s name; he fetched a book of photographs and talked about the club and all its famous visitors.

  He said that, although the club prided itself on its discretion, he felt able to inform us that right now Paul Newman was having tennis lessons over on the next court and Frank Sinatra had been in for dinner at the weekend. Audrey got him talking about Sinatra, who she said she had met once at Paramount studios. The manager said that Mr Sinatra had been in to check if the caviar was the right colour for a party he was holding there, and how everyone loved him – he was the biggest tipper in town. Sinatra had once dropped a fifty-dollar bill on the floor of the Bamboo Room, and then told them to just leave it there because, he said, ‘Think how happy the cleaner will be when he finds it in the morning!’

  My mother was very excited by all this. She was looking around a lot, and seemed agitated. I grew to know and understand this state she got into, where she would be distressed by her inability to make the most of an opportunity. She had gained access to this exclusive enclave, but was at a loss to know what to do with it. So what if Sinatra was here days ago, or if Paul Newman was on the next tennis court? She could hardly invite him to join us. Soon our lunch would be over, and we would be back in the confines of Miss Gillette’s luxury compound with nothing to show for it. That was the way her mind worked.

  She had to think quickly. She asked if there was anyone who the manager thought might agree to a short interview about the club for her newspaper column. This bought her some time and the manager went to talk to a man who was sitting across the restaurant at a far table. The two men glanced over at us, and then the man got up and came over to our table with the manager who introduced him.

  ‘This is Tony Burke, a fellow Englishman. But Mr Burke knows Palm Springs better than most of the Americans who live here.’

  Tony still had a London accent with a hint of cockney, although he said that he had lived in the desert resort for over thirty years. He told us that when he felt homesick he played a record he had of the bells at St Margaret’s in Westminster mingled with the traffic and noise of London. He could then picture the Embankment on a wet night with the rain reflecting the lights and shadows on its mirror-like surface.

  ‘There are things I miss,’ he told us. ‘I still have Fortnum’s marmalade with my toast in the morning, but just look at all this!’ He gestured around. ‘The place, the sunshine and palm trees – unbeatable.’

  He said that Harry Selfridge, who founded the London department store, had once told him, ‘It isn’t money you need, but to be where the money is.’

  ‘Best advice anyone ever gave me,’ he said. ‘Palm Springs has done pretty well for me. In fact I started as a journo like you, with the LA Times, then I worked with all the news channels like Pathé on their movie-star news stories. I’ve mixed with the Hollywood elite and eaten the finest foods …’

  My mother pretended to scrawl some shorthand in her notebook, but was too fascinated to do much of this. I could see that she really liked him, as she lit up while talking to him. He had an easy charm and a big laugh, and they shared a sense of fun as well as a love of movie gossip.

  She drew out all his stories: about the time he took Albert Einstein on a tour of the town; and about the Rodeo where he lent his cowboy hat to Marilyn Monroe. He was a great storyteller, and I could feel my mother’s hopes flickering like the lines on a heart monitor, the signal sometimes weaker, sometimes stronger. I knew how much she wanted some kind of continuation: an offer of dinner, or to visit his home.

  But time was up. Nick was doing a polite little cough which I think meant he needed to leave. She finally asked Tony, ‘So, do you have any family out here?’

  He grinned. ‘I’m not the marrying kind.’ He got up and shook her hand. ‘It was great to meet you ladies; sounds like quite some adventure that you two are on!’

  And that was it. Tony Burke wasn’t going to sweep us off to a new life in Palm Springs, nor was he going to come back to London and buy a flat for us all where he could hear the bells of Westminster without him needing to play a record.

  After Audrey had made one final bathroom trip to peer at Paul Newman through a hedge, we just had to leave with no chance of ever returning or seeing Tony Burke again.

  Back at Miss G’s, my mother was in her caged-tiger mode, pacing the room as she faced a dull evening; it all brought on a feeling of longing that I knew ate away at her. Nick had made it clear that he took a little time off for himself in the evening, as did the housekeeper, but dinner had been organized for us in the dining room at 6 p.m. At teatime Miss G finally appeared in a long evening dress, and took us out into the garden leaning on Nick’s arm as she walked. She led us all to a big orange tree, then pulled down a branch and plucked a fruit, as she explained that when she first came to this house she would squeeze these oranges for breakfast and this tree was her favourite.

  Then something very sad had happened, she told us. Someone she was very fond of, extremely fond of, died suddenly, and she said she would show us what transpired beckoning us into the house as she carried the orange with her. Nick obviously knew this story, as he shot past her into the kitchen to prepare a chopping board and knife. We all went in as she held the orange she had picked and rather shakily tried to cut it in half. Nick took over, severed the orange and pulled it apart.

  ‘There!’ she said dramatically. ‘My orange tree had turned its oranges blood red. How do you explain that?’

  My mother, for once, had no answer, and was struggling to be attentive. Miss G then announced that our visit had meant a lot to her and that she wished for us to have something special from the house to
remember her by.

  Audrey perked up at this latest offering, hoping that perhaps our trip out here had not been in vain. Miss G said that Nick would show us some of the things that she had picked out and we could choose a gift each: something for me and something for Audrey. My mother made an excuse for us to go to our room to wash our hands, where she quickly whispered that when we were shown the possible presents she would nudge me.

  This was the signal that I should choose that particular thing. We went back to Miss G and Nick. It was rather like the prizes on a game show, as Nick had laid out the things on a table and he gestured to them theatrically as Miss G described them.

  ‘This is a fine example of the Fabergé style, from the Russian court,’ said Miss G, as Nick waved his arms at a pretty decorated oval box like an Easter egg.

  ‘Then these Georgian snuff boxes are delightful, with this delicate enamel decoration.’ Nick gave a sort of ballerina wave towards some little boxes.

  ‘Ah! This here might be just the thing for Sally. It’s Grimm’s Fairy Tales, with illustrations by Arthur Rackham. It’s a first edition.’

  Nick was waving at an old leather book with beautiful pictures in it that I would have loved to have. I had run out of books and was plodding through something I’d found in the house called The Carpetbaggers, although I’d failed to work out what a carpetbagger was. It was obvious Miss G wanted me to have this lovely book, but I was still waiting for the nudge.

  Then, when we came to an emerald and diamond ring, my mother nudged me gently so I said that it was very nice. Miss G didn’t seem sure, and asked if it was the best thing for a young girl, but my mother quickly said it would be perfect for when I was older. She chose a necklace for herself, but when we got back to the room she seemed very pleased with the ring, which I never saw again.

  Before we left I asked her once more about when she had met Miss G again, after the time they met on the ship. Miss G had asked my mother about her travels after she had left New York, and had produced a faded postcard, written by Audrey from Antoine’s in New Orleans. For once my mother had seemed reluctant to talk about it, biting her lip and changing the subject. Miss G looked at her sadly, but didn’t press her.

  Now I tried myself, eyeing the box containing my emerald ring. I’d done as I was told, after all.

  ‘Was it fun travelling round America in those days?’ I asked, hoping to gently lead her to the story.

  ‘Yes, there used to be a wonderful train from New York called the Super Chief. It was the first sleeping-car train in America, so I spent my prize money on a ticket to Los Angeles; they called it the Train of the Stars because of the number of celebrities who used it. The dining car offered champagne breakfast with Santa Fe French toast.’ She sighed at the memory of these past luxuries.

  The train had taken her through the farmlands of Kansas and Missouri, the rocky river valleys of Colorado, the deserts of Arizona and New Mexico, before it arrived in California two days later and made a special stop in Pasadena for celebrities to disembark before the crush of LA’s Union Station.

  By then she was into her story and carried on.

  She had found a cheap hotel room and written another letter:

  Dear Mr Gable,

  I don’t know if you will remember our meeting in Southport, when I was lucky enough to give you tea and accompany you on a tour of the town …

  Then she took a bus to the gates of Paramount studios and hand-delivered it.

  The grim hotel she was in, and the sheer size of Los Angeles, almost defeated her. Her money would soon run out, and she felt lonely and overwhelmed. She missed James terribly, but didn’t want to go home without a Hollywood story for him, so in a panic she went through her book with its many contacts, the tattered scraps of paper with scribbled names and numbers. She dug out Miss Gillette’s elegant gilt-edged card and wrote to the address, suggesting that they might meet for tea.

  It wasn’t long before a reply came inviting her to stay, and soon afterwards Miss Gillette’s chauffeur was whisking her off into the great wide avenues of Beverly Hills and through the gates of Miss G’s lavish Italianate villa. Audrey had yet again landed squarely on her little feet, and it was only a few days later that a letter arrived for her, forwarded by the hotel, from the Publicity Department at Paramount:

  On behalf of Mr Gable we invite you to visit the studios next week, Tuesday 11th April. We hope that Mr Gable will have an opportunity to greet you in person.

  On the appointed day she presented herself at the gate and was taken on a tour of the studio backlot. She saw Dorothy Lamour playing a countess in the set of a Mexican bar, and then waited for some time before a publicist took her to a row of small bungalows buried among gardens of deep foliage. She felt that she was really in Oz now and had finally infiltrated the land of the movie stars. They walked into the one of the bungalows and there was Gable eating a sandwich. The publicist introduced ‘Miss Audrey Miller, from England’ and he stood to shake her hand.

  ‘You probably don’t remember our meeting in Southport. I came quite a way to say hello to you, didn’t I?’

  He laughed. ‘Well, of course I remembered. The Palace Club in England. That is really something!’

  She said cheekily, ‘Yes, and it was a long, long way from Southport to Melrose Avenue, so I hope I will be getting that return cup of tea.’

  He looked at her, impressed, and laughed again.

  She was given tea, and he asked her about her adventures so far. He was relishing her story of the radio show when a visitor walked in to see him, a young actor called Rand Brooks who had acted with him in Gone with the Wind. Gable introduced them, suggesting to Rand that he show Audrey the town. Rand said that it would be a pleasure and as he left he made a date to meet her.

  While Gable took a phone call Audrey stepped out of the bungalow into the warm damp air. It was just starting to rain, the sky was darkening, when Frank Sinatra, holding a drink, stepped out of the nearby bungalow – he put out his hand to catch a raindrop and smiled. They shared a joke, he laughed and raised his glass to her before disappearing back into the shadows.

  Audrey practically danced all the way back to Beverly Hills to tell Miss Gillette how she’d had tea with Clark Gable, and actually sat in his very own personal bungalow and he’d called her Honey; she’d talked to Frank Sinatra and made him laugh, and now Rand Brooks was going to take her out for the evening.

  She ran up to her room and wrote a long account of her day to James, giving him her new address in Beverly Hills. She imagined him being so pleased and impressed by all she had done. A couple of nights later she was writing another letter describing how Rand had taken her to Santa Monica where there was dancing on the pier, and the moon shone on the ocean. A group called the Make Believes were performing, and one of them knew Rand, and they all ended up drinking beer together.

  The entertainers were good company; their affectionate banter made her laugh. They were looking for someone to help out on their tour, taking tickets and booking things, and she told them that she might be interested. It seemed almost churlish to turn her back on these chances, she told herself, and she knew that James would agree. After all, it would only be for a few weeks.

  Miss G did sound a note of caution. There was a way she had, of simply raising one of her eyebrows, that Audrey sometimes found hard to decipher, but Audrey was quick to reassure her hostess that James had wanted her to have a big adventure before they settled down. Just a week or two later Audrey was off on the road with a promise to Miss G to send her a picture from Antoine’s.

  Mum at Antoine’s, New Orleans, with a friend.

  ‘So you sent it?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, but didn’t look at me.

  ‘Did you eat snails?’

  She nodded with a look of misery.

  She was now anxious that we should be on our way, and became more cheerful again as she pushed Tony Burke’s card into the book of contacts and pulled out a new one. It wa
s for a ship’s purser called Dick.

  12

  Sally and Audrey at Sea

  ONCE THE SUITCASES were back out on the bed, my mother was happy again and any disappointments were forgotten. I was excited that now we could go on a ship, the ship that Dick worked on as a purser. A cruise sounded moonlit and romantic, and as we packed she talked about the ‘rituals’, which sounded like something that painted warriors did, whooping and dancing around a fire.

  These rituals were, she said, the ‘Neptune crossing’, a fancy-dress party and a Hawaiian luau. I asked what we would wear to a fancy-dress party, and she started to create characters out of our suitcase clothes; she pulled out her black catsuit and my black trousers and said we could make little ears and tails and sing ‘What’s New Pussycat?’ and she sang about my pussycat eyes, making big eyes and stroking her invisible whiskers, and my pussycat nose, kissing my nose. I learnt the words and we sang it together. I knew that the faster I grew up, the more she loved me and the more we were a team.

  Then she grabbed her leopard-print bikini and wrap and said, ‘Or the Flintstones?’ We tried them on – I pulled up her underslip to my armpits like a dress – and sang the ‘Yabba Dabba Doo’ song, me as usual rather tunelessly, and did a Flintstones duet. I watched us in the mirrors and thought we looked great.

  I had high hopes that the cruise ship was exactly what we’d been looking for: full of love possibilities for her, and places for me to explore. We were sailing from Miami, but we arrived there with hardly any time to look around. My mother wanted to visit a huge hotel called the Fontainebleau where they had filmed a James Bond film, so we stopped there for coffee and, when she noticed an old actor called Cesar Romero in the lobby, she spent so long talking to him that we had to run to get our bags to board the ship.

  Walking up to the ship was even better than we’d hoped, with the calm, blue ocean and promise of the horizon ahead of us. At the top of the gangway stood the crew in crisp white uniforms waiting to greet us, and at the bottom was a gaggle of photographers ready to take our picture. My mother had a new dress with a pretty sun hat and matching raffia clutch bag, and spent ages posing for them and making them laugh, but I wanted her to hurry as I couldn’t wait to see our cosy cabin. I loved the idea that this huge hotel on the water would float right up to all these exotic ports and our little cabin would float there with us.