Film Stars Don't Die in Liverpool

by Peter Turner

  I stood at the end of her bed watching her breathing. When I was sure she was asleep I switched off the light but left the door open in case she called out in the night. Then I went to the upstairs flat.

  The room was cold and in darkness.

  I dialled Paulette’s number in California – nobody answered.

  I sat by the window under the light from the lamp in the street, holding the telephone, just letting it ring . . .

  TWO

  ‘Let’s go and take a look at where I used to live,’ Gloria said, slamming on the brakes and throwing the car into reverse.

  We shot across to the other side of the road, managing to miss a truck that appeared from around the bend, and then the car stalled on a small ridge at the entrance to the drive. We slid back down onto the highway.

  I panicked. I wasn’t sure if I should be frightened from the left or from the right because I was in California, in a car going backwards, on the other side of the road, whichever that was, and the traffic was coming at us from every side. Suddenly we stopped. Then she accelerated. We veered back across the road, bumped up the ridge and ended safely in the driveway of a big house.

  ‘Gloria. Why did you do that?’

  ‘It’s not my fault, Peter. It’s that stupid gateway. It’s at the top of a mountain!’

  It was wonderful to get out of the car. I thought we were only going on a short trip but it had ended up being a three-hour journey. We’d driven to the shops in Santa Monica to buy groceries; Gloria had invited her mother and Joy, her sister, over for a meal. We took a detour through Hollywood and Beverly Hills on the way home; partly because Gloria’s driving was so awful that I couldn’t cope with going back on the freeway, and partly because it just seemed the best thing to do on a really beautiful day.

  For the first few days of my stay in California the weather had been dreary. It was drizzly and everything looked grey. Now, the sky was a diamond; the buildings and the roads, the cars and the people all glistened. Palm trees, plants and flowers, the colours of which I’d only seen in a paintbox, were new to me. The names of the roads excited me: Sunset Boulevard, La Cienega, La Brea and Vine. Everything was enchanting, even the people. They all looked beautiful, healthy and clean, dry-cleaned and rich, very rich. Especially in Bel Air, where every other house looked like a Beverly Hillbillies mansion.

  We were driving through Brentwood when Gloria spotted the house. It was an impressive-looking building, owned by the writer and producer Cy Howard, Gloria’s third husband and father of her daughter Paulette. The marriage ended in divorce. Their union lasted for a number of years between Gloria’s second marriage – to Nicholas Ray, the brilliant and innovative film director by whom Gloria had a son called Tim – and her fourth marriage to her former stepson, Nicholas Ray’s son Tony Ray, by whom Gloria had two more children. It was a family of complicated relationships.

  ‘What do you think of the house, Peter? Do you like it?’ Gloria whispered quickly.

  We had to peer through the protective screen of tall trees so that I could get a proper look, Gloria didn’t want to be ‘seen’ unannounced. I almost felt that at any moment we would be set upon by a pack of hounds and taken before the master on suspicion of being vagabonds and thieves. I was reminded of a time in my childhood in Liverpool when my brothers, John and Frank, took me on one of their escapades to steal apples from the gardens of the houses where the rich people lived. Once we were discovered, and because I was the youngest and couldn’t run as fast as they, I was left hanging on a wall and was the one that got caught.

  ‘Yes. I do like it,’ I whispered back. ‘It’s nice. Did you like living there?’

  ‘Yeah, it was fun.’ Gloria took my arm and we stood away from the trees. ‘Betty and Bogey lived right over there,’ she added, pointing to the mansion next door.

  ‘That must have been incredible,’ I said. ‘Did you see a lot of them?’

  ‘Oh no, not really, Peter. Not when I was married to Cy. How often do you run across the neighbours? But we used to spend a lot of time together when I was married to Nick. He and Bogey started up a film company. And I worked alongside him in In a Lonely Place. He taught me little tricks; “Just keep it in the shadows, Gloria,” he used to say. “Let the camera come to you.” I liked him. A few times he called me up.’ She folded her arms and thought for a while. ‘We used to go out on the boat, stuff like that. It was nice. Bogey just loved that boat.’ Gloria clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. ‘Hmm,’ she winced. ‘That Betty. She always looked so good.’

  We sat back in the car and Gloria put her head out of the window to have a last look.

  ‘Cy Howard just loved this place. He’s so proud of it. He adored it.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’ I asked.

  She thought for a while and then miraculously negotiated a three point turn.

  ‘I guess Cy and I just wanted different things from life. Who knows?’ She bumped the car back out of the difficult entrance to the driveway. ‘But I’m sure glad that I got that divorce, Peter. I might have had an accident just driving home!’

  The car squealed and tilted to one side as she turned the bend and careered on down the winding roads that led to the coast.

  Gloria lived in a caravan. She called it a trailer. Positioned along the Pacific Coast Highway not far from Pacific Palisades, between Santa Monica and Malibu, it had a stunning view of the ocean. After living in luxury houses in exclusive parts of Beverly Hills, now Gloria much preferred the trailer. She enjoyed it as a retreat on her visits from London and New York.

  ‘There’s no way that I’ll have a heart attack trying to keep up the payments,’ she told me. ‘I adore it. It’s cheap, it’s easy to keep clean and I don’t have to vacuum. Peter,’ she confessed, ‘I’ve never vacuumed.’

  It was small. The bedroom was at one end with the bathroom next door to it. In the middle was the living room that converted into another bedroom, and at the front end, overlooking the ocean, was the kitchen. Built on the side was a wooden cabin used as a day room and at the back was a little garden where Gloria grew tomatoes and flowers. The swimming pool, also used by other residents of the trailer park, was outside the kitchen window. I thought it idyllic.

  Her mother and Joy were sitting in the day room which was cool and shaded from the sun. Whereas Gloria genuinely looked a lot younger than her actual age, I suspected that Joy probably looked a lot older than hers. Although they were both tall, Joy was a bigger woman than Gloria, with a darker complexion, a deeper voice and a well-worn look. She didn’t wear make-up. She was plainly dressed. It was difficult to believe that they were sisters.

  ‘Well hello, Peter.’ Joy stood up to greet me. ‘I’ve been looking forward to making your acquaintance. Mother and I are just having tea and English muffins. Come and join us.’

  Mother wasn’t quite sure who I was but smiled and said, ‘Hello, dear.’

  She was well over eighty. Wearing a mauve twin-set and a row of beads, with her hair waved and rouge on her cheeks, she reminded me of a little bird, a little operatic songbird. Her voice was high-pitched and seemed to demand great effort. Her accent changed in varying degrees from a lowland Scottish to a proper English pronunciation, but sometimes fell into West Coast American slang.

  ‘Have you ever come across my friend Violet Fairbrother back there in England?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I’ve never come across her.’ I had no idea who Violet was.

  ‘Oh not now, Mother dear,’ Joy interrupted. ‘Peter doesn’t want to know about Violet now. Let’s ask him later.’

  Mother wasn’t easily put off. While Gloria prepared a meal of carrot juice, baked potatoes and salad, I sat enthralled while Mother unravelled some of her history and family background.

  Mother was called Jean MacDougall. She was born in Scotland but moved to England in her teens where she studied acting at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Along with her best friend, Violet Fairbrother, she was, she told m
e, a star pupil and went on to play Puck at a London theatre before being asked to join the Benson Players, a forerunner of the Royal Shakespeare Company, at Stratford-upon-Avon.

  When she married Gloria’s father, Michael Hallward, she gave up the theatre and they emigrated to Canada, where Joy was born. The family then moved to Pasadena, California, where Jean gave birth to Gloria. When she was divorced by Michael Hallward, Jean started teaching acting and elocution at her home to keep the family going. Gloria was her ‘star’ pupil and she was determined that her daughter would become an actress. One of Gloria’s first acting parts was as ‘Glamorous Gloria’ in a high school play. Jean’s encouragement and determination for her daughter to succeed were rewarded when Gloria, after leaving high school, was asked to play Dodie in Goodnight Ladies at the Blackstone Theatre in Chicago.

  Mother chaperoned her daughter everywhere (and went on doing so throughout most of Gloria’s career), so when Gloria was asked to understudy Sabina in The Skin of Our Teeth at the Plymouth Theatre in New York, Mother went with her. She coached Gloria in the part that turned out to be her first important break, that of the young Scots barmaid in a play called Highland Fling, which was directed by George Abbott. From that performance Gloria was asked to play a very good part in the Broadway production of The World’s Full of Girls. She was spotted by Louis B. Mayer, taken back to California and put under contract to MGM.

  Small parts in films like Blonde Fever, Without Love and It Happened in Brooklyn followed before Gloria made an impact in the movies. She was hired out by MGM to the RKO Studio to play the coarse and sluttish tart in the controversial film Crossfire, directed by Edward Dmytryk. Gloria was nominated for her first Academy Award.

  ‘I wish that Gloria would have tried harder,’ Mother said. ‘She was just as good an actress as that other blonde girl.’

  ‘Who are you talking about, Mother?’ Gloria shouted from the kitchen, agitated by having to listen to her mother’s reminiscences.

  ‘Oh you know, dear,’ Mother replied. ‘That nice girl who had the affair with the President.’

  ‘It’s true, Peter.’ Joy leant forward and spoke to me confidentially. ‘Gloria would never apply herself properly. She’d never talk to the columnists. I used to get them on the phone going crazy. “That girl’s going to ruin her career if she won’t talk to me,” they used to say. But Gloria would never talk. She’s always hated gossip; even though she created quite a lot. And she’d never dress herself properly. When we used to go over to Zsa Zsa’s house, her mother would say, “Oh that Gloria. She could make something of herself. If she’d only fix herself up a bit.” But that’s Gloria, Peter. She’s impossible. She didn’t even wear a new dress when she won an Oscar! She just threw on a mink. Gloria likes to do things her way.’

  ‘That’s enough talking about me,’ Gloria called out. ‘Save your mouths for dinner. It’s ready.’

  After the meal Mother fell asleep and Joy brought Gloria up to date on family news until it was time for them to leave.

  The sun had set. The evening was warm and lovely. Gloria and I sat together by the edge of the pool.

  ‘Why don’t you like people talking about your career?’ I asked. ‘Don’t you like being an actress?’

  ‘Yeah, sure I like being an actress. But that’s why I like it when we’re in England. It means something there. I just don’t like this movie-star stuff. It’s nothing. Sometimes I wish I’d have continued on the New York stage instead of going to Metro. Maybe that might have worked out well. Who knows?’ She shrugged her shoulders and nestled her head against my chest.

  ‘Let’s go for a drive along the coast,’ I said. ‘It’s a beautiful night.’

  ‘Oh let’s do that, Peter!’ Her face lit up. ‘It’ll be fun. You can practise using the car.’

  We stopped off in a parking lot on the way towards Malibu and sat on the bonnet, looking out across the ocean. There were little bonfires burning along the beach where people were having parties and, somewhere, someone was playing a guitar. The sky was a magenta colour and seemed to be lit from behind with golden rays. The moon was full and sat on the surface of the ocean. It was the most stunning evening sky.

  ‘Oh Peter! Look what’s happening!’ Gloria jumped off the front of the car and ran towards the beach.

  I could hear other voices, shouting. There was tremendous excitement.

  ‘Quick, Peter! Quick, come and take a look! The grunion are running! The grunion are running!’

  I looked down on the beach. There were thousands of silver-coloured fish twisting and jumping, circling and flapping. The beach was a mass of silver. The little shimmering fish were washed up on the sand by a wave, another would take them back to the sea again. The grunion were on the run. It only happens once in a while.

  ‘Peter . . .’

  I dreamt Gloria had called my name. I moved. I was warm until I moved but then I was cold. It was morning. It was light, a running-water coloured light. I could almost feel the rain as it hit the window and imagined how long each drop was taking to slide down the glass.

  The couch I was lying on was at an angle and I’d been sleeping in a groove. I was covered by a coat, my horrible old overcoat, and a bit of a blanket. The coat was torn and I was caught up in the lining and, because I’d moved, my back was only covered by a sleeve.

  ‘Peter . . .’

  It wasn’t a dream. It was Gloria who’d called my name. I threw off the coat and the blanket and ran down the stairs to the middle room.

  She was looking towards the door waiting for me to arrive.

  ‘I didn’t hear you,’ I said. ‘I’ve just woken up. Are you okay?’

  ‘I guess I’m okay.’ She turned away. ‘I thought you were going to stay in here, Peter. You said that you were going to sleep on that other little bed right there. You sneaked off.’

  ‘You fell asleep and I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she sighed. ‘That wouldn’t have mattered.’

  Gloria was mad at me for leaving her by herself. I recognized the expression. It was just like a New York morning. She would get up early and disappear into the bathroom to take a shower and put on her make-up. Eventually she would return looking glamorous, but pouting and sulking heavily. If I’d fallen asleep again she would wake me up with bits of breakfast, which usually consisted of a glass of milk mixed with lecithin granules and vitamin B powder. Then the pills: a calcium magnesium, a ‘C’ and a ‘D’. After that I’d get a cold boiled egg, a strange piece of toast and an apricot kernel. Coffee would come last. She’d stop sulking when I’d say something nice and then we’d get on with the rest of the day. I always enjoyed her morning sulks.

  Even though she was ill and uncomfortable, the sight of her sulking now was pathetic and sweet and it made me sad.

  ‘Your hair looks nice.’

  ‘Your mother fixed it,’ she said.

  ‘You look much better today.’

  ‘I feel much better.’

  ‘Do you want me to get you anything?’

  ‘Your mother’s done everything for me. She’s already been in and helped me out.’

  It was obvious that my mother had been about. The covers on the bed looked neat and tidy and there was a cup of tea on the table next to it. Gloria looked fresh and alert and her hair did look presentable. She really was looking better than she had the night before.

  ‘I’m going down to the kitchen,’ I said. ‘And then I’m going to the health food shop.’

  ‘Okay, Peter, but don’t forget the grape juice. I need the black grape juice. And get me that book by Adele Davis, it’s called Let’s Get Well.’

  ‘Do you want me to get you some magazines?’

  ‘No, thanks, Peter. I don’t want to look at a magazine.’

  ‘Do you want me to bring you a radio?’

  ‘No, thanks, Peter. I don’t want to listen to the radio. I just want to be alone. I’m thinking.’

  The window was open. It was cold so I closed
it.

  ‘No, don’t do that,’ she said. ‘Please leave it open. I want the window open.’

  My mother was on her knees sorting out the cupboards underneath the kitchen sink.

  ‘I was just coming to wake you.’ She looked up as I came through the door.

  ‘There’s no need for you to be doing that, is there? It’s a bit early in the day.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for me, nothing would ever get done in this house. Joe’s been on the phone –’ she stood up to tell me – ‘and he wants you to meet him in that health food shop in Lower Breck Road. He hasn’t got time to come here and collect you. He’s got to do something to the car.’

  ‘What time did he say?’

  ‘Round about eleven, so you’d better get a move on,’ she added, looking towards the clock. ‘It’s just turned half past nine.’

  Breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast was instantly produced and my mother got back down to clearing away the pots and pans with a determined look in her eye. We didn’t mention Gloria but I wasn’t convinced that she was really absorbed in her household chores, so I sat in silence eating the food. When she started to dismantle parts of the gas stove and began cleaning the steel grill with a knife, I thought that perhaps it might be wise to speak.

  ‘I had a terrible sleep,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not surprised. I covered you with a blanket. I don’t know why you didn’t get into bed.’

  ‘I stayed up to telephone Gloria’s daughter in California,’ I explained. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’

  ‘And what did she have to say?’ My mother sat down at the table. ‘When is she coming here? Did you tell her that we want to take Gloria to the hospital?’

  ‘She wasn’t at home,’ I said. ‘I’ll try again later.’

  ‘Well somebody’s got to come.’ My mother looked alarmed. ‘Because if they don’t I won’t be going to Australia on no holiday. I wouldn’t go away and leave somebody sick in my house. I just couldn’t do that. I’ll have to look after Gloria.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m going to call the doctor when we get back. We’ll try to get Gloria to go to the hospital. Everything will be all right.’ I stood up to leave the room. ‘Anyway, Mum. Why were you awake in the night?’