Chapter Thirteen
Charlie broke the news of her engagement at the Cambridge to Lily on the tram home. Lily did what was disapprovingly known as ‘making an exhibition of herself’. She danced a teetering dance in the aisle of the tram, and sang a song which went, ‘I’m a little dicky bird up in a tree, So ha, ha, pussy cat, you can’t catch me’. Some passengers smiled; others looked at her with the air of those who knew that her youthful high spirits were doomed to be dashed – and soon. The tram conductor came up and requested her to sit down.
‘Don’t take that tone with me, my man,’ retorted Lily. ‘I’m going on the halls. Next week. At the Cambridge.’
‘I don’t care if you’re on your way to Buckingham Palace,’ said the conductor. ‘Sit down. You’re against regulations.’
But they had come to their stop, and Lily and Charlie left the tram. Charlie was pleased to see Lily happy, and was quite proud that he, with Cunningham, had brought this matter off so successfully. However, he was not quite as confident about Queenie’s reaction. On the face of it, here was Lily, who had shown no signs of being able or willing to settle in a normal job, about to embark on what might develop into a lucrative career. Even a middle-ranking popular artiste who stayed in work might earn in a year what a working man earned in half a lifetime. On the other hand, Queenie might say the stage wasn’t respectable. Music-hall people took to drink, their morals were questionable, they painted their faces like prostitutes.
He hadn’t even told Queenie they were going to the Cambridge, he thought with trepidation. As they approached their front door in French Street, he remembered suddenly that they hadn’t even bought the meat for supper.
Queenie, Rose, Dan and Lennie were sitting placidly round the kitchen table, enjoying a cup of tea and a slice of fruit cake. Much to Charlie’s surprise all Queenie could manage on hearing Lily’s news was, ‘Well – you might have told me you were going, Charlie. Still, it’s a bit of good luck, eh? And forty-five bob for a few hours’ work isn’t bad. I’ll get the boys new suits. They’re growing out of the old ones.’
It was Rose who made a fuss shouting, ‘What about me, then? Lily can’t hold down a job, gets the sack, hangs around the house all day, then she’s the hero of the hour for showing her legs on the stage. It’s not fair.’
‘Life’s not fair,’ said Queenie conclusively.
And Dan said, ‘I’d like a train set, Lily.’
‘We could set it out on the floor,’ Lennie added. ‘Go on, Lily. Get us one.’
‘All in good time,’ said Lily grandly.
‘Oh yes – Lily get me this and get me that,’ Rose yelled. ‘You’re so rich, Lily, can I lick your boots? What’s going on in this place?’ She turned to her mother. ‘She’ll ruin everything. Don’t let her do this.’
‘Your sister’s got a chance, Rose,’ Charlie said. ‘Don’t spoil her pleasure. It’s just mean-spirited.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Rose. She stood up. ‘I don’t care if it is. Lily, you’re a little bitch and I hope you suffocate.’ She went to the door and turned. ‘Better than that – I hope you get on the stage and everybody laughs and throws things at you. I’m going round to Annie’s to get some peace and quiet.’
The door slammed. Lily opened it and rushed down the passageway to the back door, which also slammed in her face. She threw it open, ran on to the pavement and cried at her running sister’s back, ‘Bitch yourself! Wait till you get home! I’ll kill you!’ Then she went back into the kitchen. ‘I’il need a better dress,’ she said. ‘And I know what I want it to be like.’
Lily’s name was not on the posters for that week’s show, which featured the famous stars Eugene Stratton and Kate Carney. However, she had brought with her a large personal audience of twenty for her début at the Cambridge. All the family came, including Charlie’s sister Mavis and her husband, who had travelled up from Gravesend, disapproving but unable to resist the excitement. There were also half a dozen of the regulars from Cunningham’s, the Barringtons from next door, and several other neighbours. Rose, however, had refused to come. Lily had negotiated free tickets for her family and half price for everyone else. This led to some disappointment – two of the neighbours left, finding they had to pay something for their tickets. Lily’s contingent helped to swell the fairly sparse audience for the first house on Monday. It was the start of a working week, and only about a hundred or so people felt well-off or enthusiastic enough to attend.
Lily arrived at the theatre in her stage dress, run up overnight by Martha Barrington. It consisted of a satin bodice and a skirt made from five yards of white tulle, sprigged with blue rosebuds. She wore white shoes and stockings, and a flat white hat, also sprigged with rosebuds, pink this time, tipped perkily on one side. She wore her hair down her back. Lacking greasepaint of her own, she had to make do with what Stackpoole could find for her.
But when Zazal, the mindreader with whom Lily was sharing a small, cold dressing room, arrived later, she found a baffled Lily staring at the borrowed paints. She had never done her face before. The large woman took pity on her, and showed Lily what to do. ‘Not too much, or your mother’ll kill you,’ she remarked. Lily had been up all night with Martha, sewing the rosebuds on to her dress and hat. She had been at the theatre alone since six, in the tiny, bare dressing room which contained only a large mirror, an armchair with the stuffing coming out, and one stool.
‘You should have someone with you,’ Zazal said firmly, scoring bright blue above Lily’s frightened eyes.
Zazal alarmed Lily. She was a heavy woman of about forty who, having announced that she was satisfied with Lily’s make-up, now began rapidly to strip off her own clothes, keeping up a stream of monologue as skirt, jacket, petticoats and a large pair of pink drawers hit the armchair. ‘Stackpoole’s putting me and the old man on first, to warm them up, he says. I think he’s wrong, but what do I care? I’m doing second house in Camden Town, so at least we can get away in time for a bite to eat beforehand. The audience won’t be a happy one, that’s for sure. They’ve booked to see Eugene Stratton and Kate Carney, not me, or you, but Stratton’s sent a telegram saying he’s stuck in Brighton. The engine of his train broke down. He won’t get here till second house. So that leaves Kate Carney top of the bill, and otherwise we’re a right ragtag and bobtail.’
There was the unmistakable but startling sound of hooves in the corridor outside the dressing rooms.
‘What’s that?’ asked Lily in alarm.
‘Oh my God. He’s broken loose again,’ said Zazal.
Lily opened the door, then reared backwards. A donkey’s head came into the room. Zazal had picked up her umbrella from the corner and now advanced towards the beast. ‘Go back, Balthazar, go back,’ she cried, and the donkey retreated. Zazal slammed the door.
‘That’s what I’ve been telling you,’ she said, undoing her suspenders and rolling down her stockings. ‘That’s the other half of Tom Foy’s act. North Country comedian. Then there’s Arthur Reece, the patriotic baritone, Ida La Verne, the screeching soprano – and no Stratton. Just a donkey.’
‘Miss La Verne is here?’
Zazal’s voice lowered as she carefully pulled on her spangled tights. ‘Green’s got her in. He’s one of the owners. She’s his girl.’
‘Oh – I see,’ said Lily.
‘How old are you?’ asked Zazal.
‘Thirteen,’ answered Lily.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ was Zazal’s response as she pulled the tights over her ample thighs. ‘Where’s your mum?’
‘In the audience.’
Zazal tut-tutted. ‘I wouldn’t let my daughters here alone. In fact Mr Jenkinson – that’s my old man, his stage name is Zazov and me have done everything in our power to keep them off the stage. Still, I suppose things have changed. It’s not as rough as it used to be, that’s for sure. Now, I started as a trapeze artiste at seven years old – circus family, you see. If you couldn’t go on the trapeze, you were put in a clow
n suit and sent out. If you couldn’t do that, you cleaned out the elephant. Then you packed up, wet or fine, and rolled off to the next town, village or hamlet even God didn’t know about. Now I’m a crock; my bones ache something rotten. Can I tell you when it’s going to rain or can I not? Believe me, I can. Me and Mr Jenkinson are buying a shop next week, a drapery. I can’t wait. As for my daughters – never.’ She shook her head. ‘Never mind, dear, this is your début. You may go far. And next time, you bring your mother with you, or your auntie, or some respectable female. A pretty girl like you, all alone, oh dear, oh dear.’
There was a knock at the dressing-room door. ‘Well, at least it’s a human being,’ muttered Zazal. ‘Come in.’
A big and beautiful face came round the door, topped by a fantastic purple silk hat trimmed with white flowers and a cherry silk ribbon. This was the famous Kate Carney. ‘Hullo, Polly, my darling,’ she said to Zazal. ‘I heard you were here, and thought I’d wish you all the best.’
‘Good of you, Kate, and mine to you. Much on tonight?’
‘Only here and the good old Tiv. But I have to put in an extra number here, because of Stratton. Well, my dear, I must rush off to put on my slap and learn my words – new song. Hullo, my dear,’ she said to Lily. ‘Just starting? Good luck to you, love. Where’s your mother?’
‘In the audience.’
‘That won’t do,’ said Kate Carney. ‘Always keep Mother by you, dear,’ and she disappeared.
‘What a lady,’ Zazal reported. ‘Salt of the earth – no scandal round her name, and never will be. Emulate her, Lily, and you won’t go far wrong. And don’t forget your mother next time, like she says.’ From her basket she produced a metal flask and a matching cup. ‘Turn your back, dear, I’m just going to have a nip of gin. Stay off the booze, for Christ’s sake, it’s brought many a good artiste down, but, forgive me my sins, I’ve got to do it, my bones won’t move without it. Cock your ear out the door. I think I can hear the overture.’
Lily opened the door as Zazal swigged from her cup. There was music playing. ‘Get straight into the wings,’ instructed Zazal. ‘Then keep quiet and out of the way. That’s the way to learn.’
And so Lily, for the first time in her life, stood, knees knocking, in the wings of a theatre, looking across the stage, knowing that on the other side of the curtain sat people, the audience, who had paid to see her, whom she must please and seduce. This thought came to her clearly, as she stood there alone. I must make them like me, love me. I must.
Zazal and Zazov were on stage now, doing their act, in front of a restless audience. The wings were becoming crowded. There was the immaculately dressed patriotic baritone, the equally immaculately dressed Josh Heartwell, master of ceremonies, in his top hat, and the beautifully dressed Ida La Verne, who smelt strongly of scent. She did not recognise Lily but looked her up and down and said nastily, ‘Nice dress your mother’s made.’
Zazov and Zazal ran off stage. They went back to take their bows. Then Heartwell touched Lily’s shoulder, said, ‘Good luck,’ and went out to introduce her: ‘For the very first time on any stage, our own local girl, pretty little Lily Strugnell.’
‘Good luck, darling,’ whispered Zazal.
Lily’s music was playing. She thought she would faint. At that point she felt a distinct pinch on the behind. This revived her. She ran on stage, looking behind her. A grinning Tom Foy, made up and wearing a brown bowler, gave her a wave. Lily was furious and confused. But the brightly lit stage awaited her. Suddenly, her legs lightened. She drew a deep breath and entered the middle of the circle of spotlight. She had felt awkward, her face thick with make-up. She had been cast down by Ida La Verne’s comment about her dress. Now she forgot all that. She could do it. She could. She opened her mouth – and nothing came out. The orchestra’s conductor, experienced, played the introduction again. This time she was ready. As if it didn’t belong to her, she heard her own voice soaring up: ‘If I was a blackbird, I’d whistle and sing. I’d follow the boat that my true love sailed in.’
The small figure, who had evidently had to master her nerves, had aroused the audience’s sympathy. But that would quickly disappear if the performance was bad. However, Lily’s lovely clear voice, singing this simple, touching song, soon moved them. They applauded. Gaining confidence, she sang her comic song, and they laughed and clapped. She came off the stage, gasping, was pushed back on by Heartwell, took a clumsy bow, came off again, burst into tears and fell down in the wings. The master of ceremonies stepped over her on to the stage without any change of expression to announce the next act. The patriotic baritone pulled her roughly to her feet and said, ‘Get out of the bloody way, girl,’ then advanced into the wings, straightening his collar and smoothing his moustache. Lily heard the audience clapping as he walked masterfully on stage. Tom Foy said, ‘Here, girl, I’ll get you to your dressing room.’
‘No thanks,’ said Lily, remembering the pinch.
Then Ida La Verne kicked her discreetly on the leg. (She found the black mark later above her ankle.) ‘Get her out of here,’ hissed Heartwell. A grumbling stagehand supported her, sobbing, back to the dressing room, where Zazal was putting on her boots and lacing them up as fast as a fireman. ‘My God,’ she said, struggling into her coat, ‘what’s this? Did they boo?’
‘No, they clapped,’ sobbed Lily.
‘Good for you, darling,’ Zazal said, putting her arm round her and breathing gin fumes in her face.
‘Here, Poll, are you ready?’ asked Zazov, coming through the door in a brown suit. ‘Oh my Lord, what have we here? You did well, Lily. I was watching from the other side. You could have milked a few more bows.’
‘He pinched me – and then she kicked me,’ Lily sobbed. ‘I’m not coming back here no more.’
‘Who pinched you?’ asked Zazov.
‘Tom Foy, of course,’ replied his wife. ‘Awful man. Was it Ida La Verne who kicked you? Never mind, it’s only spite. She can’t understand why the audiences don’t like her.’
‘Because she can’t sing in tune,’ Mr Jenkinson said. ‘But you can, my dear. All you need is practice – and to learn how to dodge. Next time someone knocks you sideways or treads on your foot or gives you a kick, kick back. You’re an East End girl – you know how. Polly, love, if we’re going to get a bite before Camden Town we’ll have to go.’
Left alone, Lily went to the glass and saw her face streaked with make-up. The thought came, even as she sobbed again: I wasn’t bad. They liked me. Just then Queenie and Charlie burst in with Dan and Lennie, followed by the Barringtons and Cunningham, all looking very proud. They were exclaiming, praising her, passing on the comments of others in the audience, and as they all spoke at once, Queenie cleaned off her face and called her ‘silly girl’. Then Stackpoole entered, looking very smart, and said, ‘Well done, Lily. Come here – tomorrow – at ten o’clock, and bring your father. Mr Strugnell, I’d like to have a word with Lily, you being present, if you don’t mind.’ Then he disappeared.
Lily was wafted from the theatre with a coat thrown over her dress. At the bottom of the corridor, though, she spotted Tom Foy at the stage door. She dropped back a little. As she passed him, he turned with a smile to congratulate her, and Lily reached up and grabbed his nose. She tweaked it firmly so that he cried out, ‘Oh!’ Then she hissed, in a low voice, ‘Don’t you never pinch me no more.’ As she caught up with the others, she called over her shoulder, ‘Good night to you, Mr Foy.’
Tom Foy, with tears in his eyes, laughed.
Chapter Fourteen
‘I don’t know what it’s all about. It’d better be worth losing half a day’s pay for,’ Charlie grumbled the following day as he and Lily approached the Cambridge through the noise and bustle and heavy traffic of Commercial Street. Lily, who had been forced back into the tight tartan dress, worn with black shoes this time, her best, and a green hair ribbon, said, ‘Perhaps he wants to book me for next week, too.’
‘Always the optimist,’
Charlie said.
‘Best thing, Dad,’ replied Lily, sounding to Charlie older than her years.
She had dreamed of her little brother Eddie’s death last night. It was a dream she often had. She was in the attic again, listening to his laboured breathing. Then it stopped. She hated that dream. After I’m a success, she had mourned, lying staring up into the dark in her little truckle bed in the French Street kitchen, I’ll never have this sad dream again. Or will I? Her heart gave her a very quick answer, like one of Queenie’s snappy responses, ‘Yes, you will. Why should you ever forget? Use it – use it so that something like that can never happen again. So you’ll always be able to make sure it doesn’t.’
The doorman let Charlie and Lily in and took them through a door opposite his desk into a carpeted corridor and up some stairs to the offices. Sam Stackpoole was there behind a big desk. In the corner was a severe-looking lady, typing. Lily gazed about in awe. They sat down in two green leather chairs in front of the desk. Stackpoole offered Charlie a cigar from a silver box on his desk. Charlie, as if to the manner born, accepted it.
‘You’ll take a cup of tea?’ Stackpoole asked.
‘I don’t mind,’ responded Charlie.
Stackpoole raised a commanding finger. ‘Miss Dickinson – if you please.’
‘Yes, Mr Stackpoole,’ she said, and went out of the office.
‘So – let’s get down to cases,’ said Sam, and did so. His position as manager at the Cambridge, he said, was very satisfactory to him. Charlie nodded. But he had the idea, he explained, that now he could branch out – in short, become a theatrical agent, getting bookings for artistes, negotiating the best terms for them, making sure all went smoothly. The business, he told Charlie, was a difficult one. The artistes, if unsuccessful, needed someone on their side; if successful, they needed someone to sort things out for them. It wasn’t uncommon for a popular singer or comic, or even a group, to work in three, four, five theatres a night, all over London. Some would try to manage seven engagements an evening, starting perhaps in Romford and ending up at midnight in Streatham. This took organising, and when it went wrong, he said, it could go very wrong indeed. Charlie said he could imagine.
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