‘Ibsen,’ stated Miss Tully with some dislike. The plays of Ibsen had created a shock in London when presented. ‘A loathsome sore unbandaged’, The Times said,’ she added.
‘Ibsen, of course,’ replied Dorothy, ‘but also Shakespeare and Euripides and many others. And Miss Albury brought over the Comédie Française for a season to play Racine and Corneille for London audiences. Its quite respectable – I’m not arranging for Elizabeth to go on the music halls. I think,’ she said, turning to Miss Tully, ‘that in your heart you consider the stage to be a little immoral. But Sir Hector was a deeply respected man, knighted by the late Queen for his services as an actor-manager. Miss Albury is equally respected. I simply want Constance to see Elizabeth and decide if she is a promising actress, and perhaps offer her employment. If she did, she would take on the responsibility of looking after her, to some extent.’
‘I’m alarmed,’ said Miss Tully. This runs counter to Mr Warren’s wishes about Elizabeth’s future.’ Then she smiled. ‘On the other hand, if Elizabeth is seen by Miss Albury, and if she thought her sufficiently promising to make her an offer—’
‘It would not be your responsibility,’ said Dorothy.
Miss Tully smiled broadly. ‘It wouldn’t, would it?’
‘More tea, Miss Tully?’ enquired Dorothy.
‘Thank you so much, Miss Hamilton-Gordon.’ She held out her cup and saucer. The two women clicked their cups in a toast.
Dorothy met Constance Albury from the train next day. A short, dumpy woman, quite plain but with large, intelligent dark eyes, she looked very unlike an actress, the manager of a theatrical company and the leaseholder of a big London theatre. She wore an old black hat and coat and clutched a bulging leather portmanteau. She was in a bad mood and not very cordial. ‘It’s raining,’ she remarked disconsolately as they left the station.
Dorothy put up a large umbrella and replied, ‘The trap is just over here.’
They drove in silence for a few miles. Finally Constance said, still gruffly, ‘I’m sorry I’m not very communicative. I use my periods in Scotland to be alone, forget all about the theatre. No smiling, persuading, encouraging. No gossip, arguments, rehearsals. I retreat to Scotland and turn into a grouch, I’m afraid.’
‘I hope you’ll find Elizabeth worth coming all this way for,’ said Dorothy. ‘It’s more than good of you to make the effort.’
‘It’s in my interest to find talent,’ was all Constance Albury said, as they clopped along the road fringed by darkening fields and woods. They were moving towards the mountains; mist swirled across their slopes like smoke. Dorothy felt Constance Albury’s mood darkening. Once again she wondered if she had not been foolish in fighting so hard to get her to Mountview. At least, she reflected, Elizabeth had not been told, so if Constance saw the performance and pronounced her insufficiently talented, she would not be disappointed. The snag, reflected Dorothy, her mood beginning to match Constance’s, was that even if Constance offered her a job, no one knew if she would take it, or be allowed to by Robert Warren.
Constance Albury, a strong person whose presence alone could affect the moods of others – why, otherwise, was she one of the ten most notable actresses of her generation? – obviously sensed Dorothy’s gloom. She altered her position, sat up straight and said, ‘We must be nearly at Mountview. I’m looking forward to this performance. In London, one’s too busy to see anything other than plays involving actors one usually knows well. The pleasure almost disappears. This production will be quite a holiday.’
‘It will hardly be up to the standards of the London stage,’ said Dorothy.
‘No one could expect that. But it will not be stale,’ responded the dumpy woman. ‘And that’s perhaps more important than anything.’
Constance stepped from the carriage energetically and was taken to the staff common room for tea. The overawed staff and other guests, half expecting a tall, painted creature in silk, with ostrich feathers in her hat, were relieved to see that the famous Constance Albury was, offstage, a small, ordinary-looking woman in a simple brown woollen dress.
Josephine Tully, who had seen her, years ago, as a passionate, demanding Cleopatra, knew there must be more to Constance Albury than she was revealing; in fact suspected that the dowdy, suburban housewife might be just another role in Constance’s repertoire. Nevertheless, she was reassured to see her chatting amiably to the Mayor and his wife, and then to Lady Bedale, wife of the biggest local landowner. She was pleased, though astonished, to observe her roaring with laughter at something said by Harry Bidwell, the owner of many grocery stores in the area. Bidwell was a man with a daughter at Mountview, and a great deal of money, but not by any stretch of the imagination what might be called a gentleman. Miss Tully concluded that a great lady would make anyone feel at ease, whoever they were. She was even more surprised a moment later when, to emphasise a point she was making, Constance Albury, like a man in a pub, got up close to Bidwell and jabbed a finger in the direction of his waistcoat. To the great, all things are permitted, thought Miss Tully, and gathered up the party of dignitaries. It was time for the performance.
Dorothy sat between Miss Tully and Mile Lebas, the French teacher, in the front row of the seats in the great hall. Behind her, parents and friends of the school talked in low voices. Dorothy felt very nervous. Constance Albury was not so much her friend as her father’s, Dr Hamilton-Gordon having been the Alburys’ family doctor. For thirty years he had been called in to attend illnesses in the household, and had become fast friends with Constance, whom he had first known when she was a motherless girl of ten and already her widowed father’s worried little housekeeper. Now Dorothy felt she had rather presumed on the friendship. Having called the distinguished actress-manager all the way from Edinburgh to see a school play, she was hoping she had not overestimated Elizabeth’s talent, and was afraid Constance would think it all a waste of time.
Looking through a hole in the curtain on the platform in the hall, the girls of the cast had been gossiping and whispering about the audience of parents and local people already seated.
‘My mother’s hat,’ Sarah Laidlaw had groaned.
‘I think Farmer Miller’s drunk – his face looks very red,’ declared someone else.
‘Don’t laugh so loud,’ hissed Emily, who was playing the lout, Tony Lumpkin, in a squashed hat and gaiters, and had been told off more than once during rehearsals by Dorothy, the producer, for unnecessary coarseness. ‘He’s a coarse character,’ Emily had protested. ‘There is no need to be quite as coarse as that,’ Dorothy had told her. ‘From time to time you seem to be giving an impression of a person who is intoxicated. It’s quite unsuitable.’
Now, as the distinguished guests who had been entertained by Miss Tully entered in a group, Emily whispered, ‘Stop tittering. Keep your voices down. Look, there’s the Mayor, and Lady Bedale. And who’s the little woman in the frumpy hat? They’re treating her like a somebody.’
Sarah Laidlaw pushed her aside. ‘Let me see.’ She scanned the front seats. ‘I don’t know. All the old faithfuls are here, but I don’t recognise her.’
‘A poor relation of Miss Tully’s,’ suggested a girl.
‘No,’ said Emily. ‘She’s important, you can tell.’
The curtain went up. The first scene took place, in which the arranged marriage of Kate Hardcastle is discussed. Then in came Elizabeth, playing a girl of eighteen faced with meeting for the first time the husband arranged for her by her father. Elizabeth, in her wig and plain dress, was lively, full of boldness and spirit, emotions masking the timidity of a young woman in love and fearing to lose her lover. It was a performance, thought Dorothy, that seemed to draw on experiences Elizabeth could not have known and use information about the world she could not really have. She had also looked very beautiful. Dorothy was consoled by the thought that whether Constance Albury offered to take Elizabeth into her theatrical company or not, she would not, could not, feel she had wasted her time.
&nb
sp; Once the play was over, the audience began to disperse, drifting out, or standing chatting in groups. There was a crowd round Miss Tully, congratulating her on the girls’ performance.
Meanwhile, the dumpy woman climbed on stage with assurance and made her way through the closed curtains. She ignored Dorothy, who was carefully taking off Elizabeth’s wig so that the powder on it would not be shaken off into the air, and said, ‘A word with you, young lady.’
Elizabeth looked down at her. ‘With me?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Any corner will do.’
‘The staff common room?’ suggested Dorothy, quite fearful now that the moment of decision had come.
‘If you like,’ said Constance Albury. ‘You take me there,’ she said to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth glanced questioningly at Dorothy Hamilton-Gordon, who nodded. She led Constance off the stage and down corridors to the staff common room. ‘What a warren,’ commented Constance as they walked. Elizabeth, who had started slowly, ended up hurrying to keep pace with Constance’s rapid step. She wanted to say, ‘What’s all this about?’ but politeness forbade it.
‘How old are you?’ Constance asked her.
‘Sixteen and a half,’ said Elizabeth.
‘You’re leaving school at the end of term?’
‘Yes.’ They were at the common room door. Elizabeth opened it. Inside, two maids were putting out a buffet for staff and any guests who wished to stay.
‘Have you any whisky?’ Constance asked one of them.
‘No, mum, only fruit punch,’ the maid replied. ‘Would you care for some?’
‘No thank you,’ Constance told her emphatically.
Elizabeth was completely bewildered. Who was this funny little woman who had demanded a private word with her and was now calling for an unladylike drink?
Constance swung on her and said, ‘My name is Constance Albury. I have the lease of a London theatre, the Imperial, for a year and probably longer. I need a girl to train. I want you to join my company for a probationary period. If we suit each other, you stay. If not, I terminate your contract in March. The salary is half a guinea a week. Accommodation will be arranged and provided, and adequate supervision given on account of your youth. If you have friends or relatives to live with, your salary will be adjusted accordingly.’
Elizabeth stared at her.
‘It’s a good opportunity,’ Constance said sharply. ‘You’re talented, but you require training. You will get none better than mine. We can both benefit from the arrangement. I assure you, you are talented – I’m seldom wrong.’ She looked fiercely at Elizabeth. ‘You’ve heard of me?’
‘Of course,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You’re suggesting I should join your company as an actress, Miss Albury?’
‘And as a stage-sweeper when required, a mender of costumes and maker of tea for the leading lady. For the latter post, tact is required. Can you make tea tactfully?’
Elizabeth nodded.
‘Do you want to think it over?’
Elizabeth thought of the prospective teaching post at Fallowfield, looked into Constance Albury’s large dark eyes, believed in her and the offer, and answered, ‘No. I should very much like to join your company, Miss Albury.’
‘Good,’ Constance Albury said. ‘You have Miss Hamilton-Gordon to thank for this. She knows where to find me if you have any questions. Welcome to the Constance Albury Theatrical Company. Now I must get into my cab or I’ll miss the train. I look forward to seeing you in London on the first September. Don’t fail me.’
She was quickly gone. Elizabeth stood in the room as the maids went on bringing in food for the buffet table. There was a mistake. She had been rescued. It must be a mistake. She was going to London. She was going to be an actress, part of Constance Albury’s troupe of players. She wasn’t good enough. Her uncle would not let her. But even if her uncle tried to stand in her way, this time her mother would – must – at least try to oppose him. She must. And she, Elizabeth, must go and find Miss Hamilton-Gordon and thank her. Thank her so very, very much.
Chapter Twenty
For the first two years after they met, the lovers, Lily and Jack, moved effortlessly, as if on clouds, savouring all the pleasures the newly Edwardian London had to offer. They were young, handsome, in love, excited, and had money to burn.
They went to the races in a convoy of carriages filled with friends and relations. They dined at the Trocadero, the Café Royal and the Ritz. They went to Brighton and Paris for weekends. They rented an enormous flat in a substantial block in Kensington and filled it with expensive furniture, servants, friends and hangers-on. There was a party every night, unless they were at someone else’s party, whether in Mayfair or Limehouse. They were up all night. They slept all day.
When Gerry Finlay married Maggie Sullivan, whom he had been quietly courting for two years, the turnout at the church was a wonder to the two thousand East Enders who blocked the streets and pushed and shoved to get a view of the bride and groom and, even more, Jack and Lily and the guests they brought with them – Lily’s friends from the music hall, Jack’s from the world of boxing, Sam Stackpoole, Mo Laschmann and Jack’s upper-class fans, including the son of a duke. What crowned everything was the arrival of the great Marie Lloyd, with two of her sisters. Police were needed to get the small woman in a big feathered hat through the jostling crowds. And in addition there were fifteen Sullivans, Sarah Finlay and Reg, both a bit the worse for wear, and the Strugnells, all in new clothes, Queenie wearing a diamond brooch given to her by Lily. She kept her hand over it protectively right through the ceremony, and afterwards.
They took over a hotel in Aldgate for the day. Two hundred guests were invited; ten wagonloads of food, beer, wine and spirits were delivered. Early in the morning three carts of flowers were wheeled in and arranged. There were two bands, on separate floors. And Jack had bought the bakery for Gerry as a wedding present.
This was the year, 1903, when Jack won the lightweight championship of Great Britain at the Albert Hall, and when Lily achieved second place on the bill at the Alhambra, just below Marie Lloyd. Their combined income was nine thousand pounds, enough to buy a dozen streets in Whitechapel.
After the wedding, and while the new Mr and Mrs Finlay were beginning their honeymoon in Brighton, Jack and Lily and their friends Ivy and Harry Moran got into Jack’s Mercedes Benz and drove up to stay with Hugh Stanton – a landowner, and stage-door Johnnie – at Happ Hall in Suffolk. Jack could barely drive – they went into a bush once and chipped the corner off a village post office. They arrived laughing at the country house where Hugh had asked them to spend part of July.
At Happ Hall they got up late, bathed in the river on sunny afternoons, and played golf and tennis. After tea, Lily and Flo Pym, a music-hall artiste who was Stanton’s lover, got into a carriage, drove to the station, took a train to town. From there they went on to the theatre at which they were both appearing then met late that night at the station for the last train back to Happ Hall.
Once back, the party went on. They played billiards, sang, danced in the picture gallery to the newfangled gramophone, chased each other in moonlight through the park or over the lawn down to the river. Often Jack caught Lily, by prior arrangement, in places by the river bank or in the wood, where they made love. Just as often they would go to bed, leaving the others downstairs. In the charmed world of Happ Hall they were never tired, still besotted with each other.
Under a tree one afternoon, Flo asked Lily, who was lying back on the grass, drowsing, ‘Why don’t you two make it legal, Lily?’
‘You sound like my mum,’ Lily replied. She opened her eyes and closed them again, seeing Jack’s face, feeling his hands on her body.
‘Well, why don’t you? Hasn’t he asked?’
‘He did once, after Gerry’s wedding. But he was a bit drunk.’
‘You should make him ask again,’ Flo told her. Flo craved marriage, but Hugh Stanton had told her he could not marry her. It was not unheard of fo
r women from the music halls to marry rich, even aristocratic men, but Stanton had made it plain to her that if he married her he would forfeit his uncle’s money. He wasn’t well off, he said, and unless Flo wanted him to start hunting for a rich wife now, she’d better wait until his uncle died and handed on a fortune made, and still being made, in the South African gold-fields. So Flo sighed, and waited. She prayed for Stanton’s uncle, a healthy man still enjoying his meals, his strolls and his London club, to die. She knew it was wrong, but did it all the same. She visited fortune-tellers frequently, hoping for news of a change in her life.
Lily told her, ‘I keep thinking if we got married it might spoil everything. He’d start taking liberties and I’d start nagging. Do you know what I mean? I think people are happier when they’re not married.’
‘You’ll start a baby,’ warned Flo.
Lily shuddered. ‘Don’t be horrible. I’m beginning the summer tour next week – the Midlands, up to Carlisle, then all over the West Country. Then I’m booked solid up to Christmas, and for the panto at the Lyric. I haven’t got time to get married, still less have a baby.’ She yawned and fell asleep.
Unfortunately for Lily, Flo was right about the baby. She started her tour with a week in Oxford, spending the weekend in London with Jack because she could not bear being parted from him. Then the tour began in earnest. Lily was only able to return to London every fortnight.
It was in a crowded, smoky railway carriage with Ivy and Harry Moran on the way back from Carlisle that she began to feel sick. She asked Harry to put out his cigar, which he did, but even so she had to bolt to the lavatory, where she was violently ill.
‘Must have been something I ate,’ she told them.
On the platform at Crewe another wave of nausea hit her as they were supervising the removal of their hampers from the goods van. She felt very dizzy. Ivy put out an arm to support her. ‘You’re ill, Lily,’ she said.
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