Everybody's Somebody

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘Look at the mess they’ve made,’ she said. ‘They ought to sit up to the table like the rest of us.’

  ‘You sit up properly because you’re big girls,’ Rosie told her. ‘They’re only babies. Anyway, if anyone’s going to complain about the mess it’s going to be me, not you, because it’s my kitchen.’ She felt sorry for the twins, poor little things, having to put up with the Monster. It couldn’t be much fun for any of them, living with a man like that, especially when times were so tough.

  Thanks to the Wall Street Crash, times were getting tougher by the week. There was less and less work to be had and what there was of it was poorly paid. By the middle of March, unemployment had grown to more than one and a half million, no matter what the government was trying to do about it. By August, it was more than two million and rising.

  ‘It’s a vicious circle, seems to me,’ Jim said, sadly. ‘The more businesses close down, the more people out a’ work, the more people out a’ work, the less they have to spend, the less they have to spend, the more shops an’ businesses’ll close, an’ then there’s even more people out a’ work. It jest goes on an’ on. Manny says he’ll have to cut my wages again, next Sat’day if things don’t pick up.’

  Which they won’t, Rosie thought, but she didn’t say so. ‘Maybe I can get a job at another pub,’ she said.

  But there were no jobs available. ‘I could fill any job, ten times over,’ one landlord told her, ‘if I had the cash to offer one, which I don’t. Times are hard.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ Rosie told him sadly. And she was thinking, we’ll just have to cut back, until I can get some modelling, that’s all. But no modelling jobs were available either, now that Gerry was taking on so many commissions for portraits of the rich and famous. And things went from bad to worse, with unemployment figures climbing month by month all over the world. Germany had over ten million out of work and in America a quarter of the population had no job to go to. There were days, as the first two years of the thirties inched further into poverty and misery, when she wondered what on earth was going to happen next.

  What happened was a letter dated September 1931, addressed to Mr and Mrs Jackson, from the headmaster of Lant Street School. It was pleased to inform them that their daughter Gracie was one of a small group of pupils, who had been selected to sit the LCC Common Entrance Examination in January 1932 and ended,

  ‘If she continues to work as well and as hard as she is presently doing, we have every expectation of her success.’

  Rosie was on her own when it was delivered and she read it twice, because she couldn’t believe her eyes the first time. Then she burst into tears. Hadn’t she always known her Gracie would do well? Dear, earnest, hard-working little thing. She couldn’t wait for Jim to get home from work and read it too.

  He read it carefully, in his usual way, concentrating hard while his family waited with happy anticipation to hear what he would say. Then he read it to Gracie. ‘You’re a clever gel,’ he said. ‘Me an’ your mum are proud of you.’

  Gracie smiled her impish smile. ‘I know,’ she said.

  Our little girl going to a grammar school, Rosie thought, proudly. It was one of the happiest moments of her life.

  Chapter 22

  Young Gracie Jackson sat the scholarship exam the next January with perfect aplomb, heading off to school in the morning, as if it were just another day. Rosie wished her luck and watched her go but then there was nothing she could do but wait, and waiting was very difficult. She got on with her housework in a desultory way, but her mind was spinning with anxiety all day.

  Her clever daughter returned that afternoon to report that the exam was easy and to ask whether there was any plum jam left. ‘I could just fancy a slice a’ bread and jam.’

  ‘You can have the top brick off the chimney,’ Rosie said, admiring her.

  Gracie grinned at that. ‘I’d rather have jam,’ she said.

  Then they all had to wait again until the results arrived, and they weren’t expected until the end of the term, which seemed ages away. Rosie tried to keep everything as normal as she could and deliberately didn’t talk about it, just in case Gracie hadn’t passed, but she needn’t have worried. When the plain brown envelope finally arrived, the news it contained was everything she could have asked for. Gracie had passed the exam and won a state scholarship to attend whichever grammar school her parents chose. There was a list of possible schools enclosed and among them was their nearest one, St Saviour’s and St Olave’s in Southwark.

  ‘That’s the one,’ Rosie said. ‘I’ll write an’ tell ’em.’ And did. It was a very proud moment.

  And it was followed by an even better one. The school wrote back within a week, to tell her that they had accepted Gracie’s application and had arranged a time when she could visit the school and meet the headmistress. Gracie took it calmly, but Rosie was so excited she could barely breathe. Then what washing, ironing, polishing and general titivation there was. Gracie had to be shining clean and on her best behaviour because, as Rosie kept telling her, this was a very special day.

  And despite her over-attentiveness, it was. The grand school building impressed them both and, once they were inside, there were so many wonderful things to see — hundreds of girls in gym tunics and scarlet blouses, a library where they were quietly reading, a gym where they were climbing up ropes, a huge empty hall, a field for games, science labs, a music room, an art room. Gracie’s eyes grew rounder with every step she took and by the time they were ushered into the head’s study she was almost speechless. But she listened dutifully as the headmistress told her she had been given a wonderful opportunity and that they hoped she would make the very most of it and, when she was asked if there was anything she’d particularly enjoyed on her tour, spoke up quite confidently to say it was the science lab and the music room. Then they were given an envelope containing what the secretary called ‘some more information about our uniform’ and went home, starry eyed.

  ‘I can’t wait to see you in your uniform,’ Rosie said, giving her daughter a hug. ‘Just wait till we tell your dad.’

  Jim took one look at their glowing faces and laughed out loud. ‘I can see I’m gonna get my ear bent this evenin’,’ he said, and he settled himself in his armchair, grinning at them. ‘Fire away!’

  They fired all through the evening, not even stopping when Rosie dished up the supper. At one point he took Mary on his lap, because he could see she was feeling out of it. ‘Listen to this kid,’ he said, cuddling her. ‘It’ll be your turn next.’ They were still telling him things when it was time for bed. But at last, and half an hour later than it should have been, Mary and Gracie were upstairs and tucked into their beds and Rosie could show him the list.

  And then everything changed.

  He read it through very carefully, while Rosie sat opposite him and waited. Then he put it on the table and scowled. ‘Good God alive,’ he said. ‘Do they think we’re made a’ money? Eight an’ eleven fer a tie an’ a hatband? It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘It ’ud only be the once,’ she said reasonably.

  ‘An’ blazers, an’ gym tunic, an’ blouses, an’ sports equipment. There’s no end to it. You tot that all up, it’s more’n I earn in a year.’

  ‘We don’t have to buy it all at once,’ Rosie urged. He was beginning to alarm her. ‘We can do it bit by bit. We might find some of it second-hand.’

  ‘You ain’t listenin’ to me Rosie,’ he said. ‘We ain’t got this sort a’ money. Never ’ave ’ad, never will ’ave. ’Specially now. Never mind do it bit by bit. We can’t do it at all.’

  ‘We can’t not do it,’ Rosie said, fighting back. ‘It’s an opportunity for her to better herself, an’ it’ll only come the once. If she doesn’t go, she’ll leave school at fourteen an’ go to work in Woolworths for a pittance or end up a skivvy. Is that what you want for her? Because I know I don’t. She’s worth more than that. A lot more.’

  Jim sighed and ran his fing
ers through his mop of hair. ‘You ain’t listenin’ to me,’ he said. ‘We ain’t got the money, an’ that’s all there is to it. I spend every penny I earn on rent, an’ food, an’ bills, an’ ordin’ry clothes. I can’t run to all this as well. Eight an’ eleven fer a tie, fer cryin’ out loud. It ain’t possible.’

  ‘We can make it possible,’ Rosie said, passionately. ‘I’ll get a job an’ pay for the uniform. We can do it. Truly.’

  But his mind and his jaw were set. ‘It ain’t possible,’ he said. ‘We got three million unemployed in this country. There ain’t no jobs fer no one. You know that. Not no more. It can’t be done. How many times I got to tell you?’

  She wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t give up. It was far too important. There had to be something she could say to make him change his mind. But although they argued until it was past two in the morning and they were both exhausted, they were no nearer agreement than they’d been at the start.

  ‘I’m fer my bed,’ he said wearily. ‘We shan’t agree, an’ that’s all there is to it.’

  She made one last despairing plea. ‘Don’t tell her yet,’ she begged. ‘It ’ud break her heart. Give me a few days an’ see what I can come up with.’

  ‘A week then,’ he conceded.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘I’m damned if I’m going to let anyone take this away from her. Not now she’s come so far. I’ll think of something.’

  But he was already on his way to the stairs and she was making her vow to the air.

  The next day, when he’d left for work and the girls had gone cheerfully off to school, she walked into the front room, sat down in front of the phone, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and asked for Gerry’s number. She couldn’t think of anyone else who would employ her now but, with luck, he might have something he wanted her to do, providing he wasn’t still painting the rich and famous. Fingers crossed.

  It was Mrs Fenchurch who answered the phone and she was plainly pleased to hear her. ‘Wait there, my lovely,’ she said, ‘an’ I’ll go an’ get him for you. Shan’t be a tick.’ Then she was gone for what seemed to be a very long time.

  But there he was, eventually, a surprised question in his voice. ‘Rosie?’

  ‘Ah!’ she said, feeling a bit discouraged, and told him quickly before she could lose her nerve. ‘I just phoned to see if you had any work for me.’

  ‘’Fraid not,’ he said, lightly. ‘I’ve just got a commission to paint a full-length portrait of Lawrence of Arabia. Imagine that. The great T E Lawrence. It’s a real honour. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I? A real honour. The Uffizi Club broke open the champagne when they heard and I’ve been dining out on it for weeks, ever since I got the letter. Augustus is spitting feathers. Bernard Shaw recommended me, of course. I thought he would, because that was a damned good portrait, I did of him. Made headlines, though I sez it as shouldn’t.’

  She could feel her heart falling and shrinking. The rich and famous were getting in her way, just as she’d feared they might. ‘Ah,’ she said again, her voice small and apologetic. ‘I hope you didn’t mind me asking.’

  Even in his present euphoric state, he still felt enough affection for her to recognise that she was disappointed and that something was obviously wrong. ‘What’s up?’ he said, gently. ‘Are you short of cash?’

  The sympathy in his voice gave her a little hope, so she told him about Gracie’s scholarship and explained how desperately she needed a job that would pay her enough to buy all that expensive uniform. ‘I couldn’t bear to have to turn it down,’ she said. ‘Not now. It wouldn’t be fair after all the work she’s done.’

  He was thinking about it as she talked, wanting to help her. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, when she’d finished. ‘Why don’t you go and see if Alexander Korda could use you? He was very taken with you at my exhibition, if you remember. He’d have offered you a job there and then. He might have something for you. You never know.’

  She remembered in an instant, a short, dark man wearing thick glasses, and a voice saying, ‘Your face is your fortune. The camera would love you. If you ever need a job come and see me.’

  ‘Where would I find him?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s got a studio in Borehamwood,’ Gerry told her. ‘Elstree. Just starting on a new film, so he’s been telling me. If I were you, I’d go and see him. I’ll send you a map and instructions.’

  He was as good as his word. The map arrived in the afternoon post the next day, with a note written on the back. ‘It’s a huge place. You can’t miss it. Take the train from King’s Cross to Elstree and Borehamwood. Good luck.’

  She went the following morning, without telling Jim, just in case nothing came of it. It was a long journey and it ended with a long walk, but Gerry’s map was easy to read, and he was right about the size of the building. It was absolutely enormous and stood incongruously in the fields with a line of cars parked beside it, looking like six giant beach huts, stuck together side by side. It had a bold sign right across the front of it saying ‘British International Pictures’, so there was no doubt that she’d come to the right place, and the entrance seemed to be through another, smaller hut. She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and walked in.

  There was a pimply youth in a yellow Holland overall sitting watching the door, with his very large feet propped up on the desk in front of him. He didn’t put them down or smile. He just said, ‘Yerss?’ in a questioning sort of way.

  Bull by the horns, Rosie thought. ‘Rosie Jackson, come to see Mr Korda,’ she said, glaring at him.

  ‘He’s doin’ auditions.’

  What a bit of luck, Rosie thought. ‘I know,’ she lied. ‘That’s why I’ve come.’

  The youth looked at a long piece of paper that was lying on the desk in front of him. ‘You’re not on here,’ he said and gave her a look, heavy with suspicion.

  The connecting door was being opened and another young man was walking in. Slightly older than Pimples and infinitely better looking. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve come to see Mr Korda,’ she told him. ‘For an audition.’ She noticed that Pimples was sitting up and had put his feet on the floor, so this one had authority.

  ‘Where’s the time sheet?’ he said, looking at Pimples and the youth handed a piece of paper across the desk to him and oiled an answer. ‘All ready an’ waiting, Mr Gordon, sir.’

  ‘They’re all on set,’ Mr Gordon said. ‘If you’ll just follow me.’ And he led her through the door into the studio.

  It was a huge place and very confusing, being a series of long corridors lined with identical doors, each with its own printed sign, ‘Make-up’, ‘Costume’, and endless dressing rooms all numbered, and there were so many people rushing about, pushing tea trolleys and long rails full of costumes or carrying little boards with papers clipped to them, that it made her head spin to be walking through the melee but, in the end, they arrived at a door labelled ‘Studio 4’ and walked through into a different world. It was just a huge space, but it had the brightest lights she’d ever seen, all shining like suns, and standing quite still in the middle of the room, a woman in a full-skirted dress and a cap and apron. There were cameras on stilts grouped in a half circle all round her and several men with those odd boards and, standing to one side watching it all, Alexander Korda, looking exactly the same as he’d done at that party and obviously in command. It was remarkably quiet for such a large space and so many people, so she stood very still and watched and waited. And after a few seconds Mr Korda called, ‘Action!’ and the cameras began to buzz like mosquitos and the woman walked about until she reached a table where she stopped and said, ‘Will that be all, sir?’ in the oddest of voices, high pitched and wobbly, as if she was going to burst into tears. And Mr Korda called, ‘Cut!’ and everybody began talking and moving again.

  Now, Rosie thought, and she set her chin and walked through the room until she was standing beside the great man himself. ‘Mr Korda,�
� she said. ‘You won’t remember me…’

  But he was smiling at her. ‘Gerry’s model,’ he said. ‘I remember you very well. I can’t remember your name, but I never forget a face.’

  ‘Rosie Jackson,’ she said. ‘You told me if I ever needed a job I was to come and find you. So I’ve come.’

  He considered her for so long she began to feel anxious. Then he shouted, ‘Hamish!’ and the young man called Mr Gordon ran towards him, saying, ‘Sir?’

  ‘Screen test for this young lady,’ Mr Korda said. ‘Rosie Jackson. Cook. See to it will you.’ And Mr Gordon led her through the door and out into the corridor again.

  From then on, the day became peculiarly disjointed. She was dressed in a servant’s costume like the other girl had worn, was given a card with her lines printed on it, and had her face plastered with make-up, which the make-up girl assured her was so that she would be seen under the lights, and after that she just sat about with a group of other costumed women, drank tea, ate sandwiches, gossiped and waited — endlessly. It seemed hours before Hamish appeared to call her to the studio. But then when she got there, it was as if she’d never been away. It was all exactly the same, except that she was the girl under the lights and Mr Korda was calling, ‘Action!’ for her.

  She walked boldly across to the empty table and spoke to it as though she was saucing a customer in the RAC Club. ‘Will that be all, sir? Or was there something else?’ And Mr Korda called, ‘Cut!’ and roared with laughter, and at that, the intense quiet in the studio was broken and everybody else laughed too.