by Jake Arnott
Eddie never begrudged this. He had no interest whatsoever in getting involved in the heavy end of the business. He didn’t want his looks spoiled. But he did get off on the risks that he took in burglary. I think he got an almost sexual thrill from a successful job. All that adrenalin. He always kept me slightly in the dark about his activities but I could usually tell if he’d pulled off a big one, a coup as he’d call it, because afterwards he’d be a bit lacklustre in bed.
Not that I had any complaints for the rest of the time. I had a very good time with Eddie. He made me feel special. I felt good about myself again. I lost weight, dressed well, felt attractive. I had a much more glamorous time then than I’d ever had with the other ‘business’. I didn’t worry any more about being a has-been actress.
I did have nagging doubts in the back of my mind that all of this was going to mean trouble in the long term but I paid them little heed.
We drove down to the South of France together in an Aston Martin. We headed for Nice first and stayed at the Hotel Westminster on the Promenade des Anglais. We both loved the open expanse of the boulevards, the palm trees swaying in an offshore breeze from the warm blue Mediterranean. We spent days lying in the sun, evenings happily struggling with the intricacies of haute cuisine. We mocked each other’s phrasebook French but revelled in the life of acting so fucking sophisticated. Then we moved on to Cannes. Driving along the Croisette, past all the best hotels, the Majestic, the Carlton, the Martinez, Eddie turned to me.
‘When I’ve pulled off the really big one,’ he declared, ‘me and you could retire down here.’
‘It’s a nice thought,’ I replied lazily. Eddie would always talk of pulling off the really big one.
‘I’m serious.’
‘Of course,’ I humoured him.
‘No, I really mean it, Ruby. Me and you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, I’m asking you to marry me.’
I said yes, in the end, after a bit of coaxing and joking that the ring he finally produced was probably a snide (a fake). I’d never imagined that Eddie was that serious about me. Perhaps that he thought it was all a bit of a laugh. I was good company and a useful companion at the social gatherings that he preyed on. I’d got used to being used. I always thought of myself as more of an accomplice than a girlfriend. And I did worry about getting married to a professional thief. He wasn’t exactly going to make an honest woman of me, was he?
It was like a romantic dream. Maybe breathing in the clean air of the Côte d’Azur went to my head. But I felt relaxed and free for the first time in my life. It was almost like happiness. I convinced myself that me and Eddie could love each other.
So we went back to London and made the arrangements. Me and Eddie got married in the spring of 1966. It was Harry that gave me away in the church. My mother was in the front pew as we made our vows but Dad had died a few years back. I think that Mum was happy for me that day. She seemed glad that I’d finally found someone. And it was hard not to like Eddie.
‘Make sure you look after her, young man,’ she said to him at the reception at The Stardust Club.
And for a while, he did. We had a honeymoon in Tenerife. Then we moved into this lovely house in Greenwich that looked over the river. Eddie started an antiques business which was a good cover for his other activities and actually made us money too. And I got a bit of work here and there. A nice part in a television play.
Me and Harry didn’t see so much of each other. And when I did see him then it would be with Eddie. Occasionally, after a few drinks, Harry would want to confide in me about something or someone. He was happy for me in my new life but I think he missed our old friendship.
In the summer Eddie and me went back to the South of France. We rented a villa in Haut de Cagnes. ‘More sophisticated than St Paul de Vence,’ Eddie assured me, ‘more arty.’ It was a beautiful place, built into the terraced hillside with a wonderful view of the Alpes Maritimes. Intoxicated with the scent of wild thyme and bougainvillea we went into a kind of dream. Eddie was the rich successful man with cosmopolitan tastes and I was his wonderful glamorous wife. But, of course, we’d need a coup to make it real. Eddie would have to pull off the really big one.
Back in London everything seemed so grey. It was good living near the river. The way that it curled around the Isle of Dogs out towards the sea gave us a sense of escape. We held on to our dream as the reality of living together became more strained. I never knew where Eddie was or what he was up to. And yet I was expected to provide some sort of security amidst his dangerous lifestyle, to keep house and cover for him. We never seemed to have a regular income. We’d either be flat broke or Eddie would be waving about a big wad of cash, proceeds of God knows what. Our relationship wasn’t based on anything settled. The dream kept us going but it burned at us.
A year later we were finally and brutally woken up from that dream. And quite literally woken up. Six o’clock in the morning the Flying Squad raided our house and dragged Eddie out in handcuffs. They had a warrant to search the premises and they pulled everything apart from top to bottom. Eddie had been involved in an armed robbery. It wasn’t his usual style but the dream had driven him to desperate measures. The job had all gone wrong and a cashier had been shot and wounded. It was all a horrible mess.
They found a wad of cash from the robbery in my handbag so they held me as an accessory after the fact. This was a way of getting at Eddie. He did a deal in return for all the charges to be dropped against me. He signed a statement admitting to the robbery and asked for eleven other offences to be taken into account, and I was released the same day. I should have been grateful in a way. I didn’t fancy a stretch in Holloway, that’s for sure. But I felt angry at him none the less. Angry at him for getting involved in something heavy. Someone had been hurt and that gave me a bad feeling. And most of all angry at him for being caught.
His case came to trial three months later. He pleaded guilty and his brief tried to make a strong case for mitigation. But he hadn’t named anyone else in the robbery and not all of the loot had been recovered. His previous form went strongly against him as well. He was sentenced to seven years.
The press had a field day. Pictures of me leaving the courtroom in tears. Headlines: RUBY AND THE ROBBER. Blonde Star Breaks Down As Husband Is Sentenced. Since when was I a star? It was so humiliating. And just the sort of publicity that I did not need. There goes my so-called career, I thought for the umpteenth time.
I was on my own again. No work and no money. The antique business went into liquidation. The Sunday People offered to buy my story. Ruby tells all, that sort of thing. I was almost tempted but they were only offering £500, the cheapskates.
Eddie got sent to Wandsworth Prison. A horrible place. The cons nicknamed it the Hate Factory and for good reason. At least it was close for visits. Our dream of the South of France now seemed so stupid. It was all used up. Reality was like a bad hangover. I’d become a jailbird’s wife. Eddie had become, what they called in the East End, an away. There were regular collections in pubs in that area, where villains congregated, for the aways. So every so often a couple of faces would turn up on my doorstep and hand over twenty-five quid or whatever to ‘help out’. They always came in pairs in case a visit to an away’s wife was misconstrued. They would never even cross the threshold. The implication was that with Eddie in nick I couldn’t be seen with another man. I was supposed to lead a chaste life now, just waiting for the next visiting order. It wasn’t as if I had any other prospects but I resented this sort of enforced abstinence. It was like fucking purdah or something. I took the money for a while though and tried to look grateful. I needed the cash.
So I got back in touch with Harry. I could be seen out and about with him. Him being queer meant that no one could point the finger. Also, he was well respected and well feared so I didn’t have to worry about taking shit from anybody. I’d lost the house in Greenwich to the receiver so Harry found me a flat in Chelsea. He
insisted on paying the rent. At least for as long as it took for me to get back on my feet. I didn’t really know what I was going to do, though. There was no work coming in and I didn’t even have an agent any more. I was off the books as soon as Eddie went down.
I worried about being in debt to Harry. Of owing favours. And I’d kind of promised myself after Eddie’s trial that I’d try and keep away from villains. But I didn’t really have any choice.
Harry was still pursuing his dream of being an impresario with The Stardust Club. I think that was one of the reasons he liked having me around. I was a link, however tenuous, with legitimate show business. But Harry’s dreams of the big time on that score were about as ridiculous as mine had ever been.
His latest venture was booking Johnnie Ray for a two-week residency at the club. Poor old Johnnie Ray. His career was on the skids and his voice was going. He was off the booze but his liver was wrecked. Cirrhosis had nearly killed him. And he was still hooked on huge quantities of heavy-duty tranquillisers. He’d come to England to escape a pile of back taxes owed to the US Inland Revenue. And here, at least, he could get regular work. Even if it did mean doing the working men’s club circuit up North. Harry thought he was lucky to book him. He somehow imagined that Johnnie was still a big-time performer. But he hadn’t had a hit since the fifties. With his strange melodramatic gestures and wailing voice he was, at best, merely a novelty act.
On opening night Harry tried to scare up an impressive guest list. As it happened it was the usual mix of ex-boxers, minor celebrities and major-league villains. There was, however, a representative of a social group that had not been regular attenders at The Sawdust before. The police. I knew that Harry paid off policemen from time to time but I’d never expected to meet one in his club. This was how things were changing.
As I sat down at his table, Harry introduced me to a thick-set sullen-faced man in a cheap suit. He had eyes that seemed too small for his face.
‘This is Detective Chief Inspector George Mooney,’ Harry said.
Harry gave me a sly wink as Mooney took hold of my hand. His palm felt limp and clammy. I gave the Detective Chief Inspector my best Charm School smile. Eyes and teeth.
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Ryder,’ he said.
His expression was impassive but there was something sly about how he looked around the room. He seemed to be watching everything but his little eyes gave nothing away. They were like peepholes.
‘I’ve seen some of your films, Miss Ryder,’ he said.
‘Not exactly cinema classics.’
‘No, but you had class. It’s like you know they’re trash and you’re acting above it all.’
‘Yes, well, that attitude always got me into trouble with directors. One reason my career never went anywhere. Being married to a convicted criminal didn’t help either.’
‘Yes,’ said Mooney, coldly. ‘That was unfortunate.’
His attention was distracted for a moment and I started to make a move to another seat, away from him, but I felt Harry’s hand on my arm.
‘Be nice to him,’ he hissed in my ear.
So I sat back down in my seat. Mooney smiled at me and was about to say something but just then the band finished their overture to polite applause, and the compère came to the microphone.
‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Now, here he is, the man you’ve all been waiting for. The Cry Guy, The Prince of Wails, Mr Emotion himself. A warm welcome please, put your hands together and let’s loudly laud the legendary Lachrymose Lochinvar, The Nabob of Sob, Mr Johnnie Ray!’
Johnnie skipped onto The Stardust stage, nearly tripping over the microphone lead, and launched into a song. His performances were always bound to be dramatic. With his degree of deafness he could never afford to be tentative or subtle about how he pitched his voice. He just had to throw it out there with all the conviction he could muster, hoping that he’d hit the right notes as his voice quavered around recklessly. His body flailed about as if it was following his vocal struggle. It was desperate. He became a parody of himself. In the middle of the second number the microphone picked up feedback from his hearing aid and the whole of the club was drowned out by a piercing shriek. He had to stop and start over again. Somehow he managed to get through his set and Harry led a loud and appreciative applause, which seemed more of an expression of relief that it was over than anything else. Except, perhaps, sympathy.
‘Well, what did you think of tonight’s show, Miss Ryder?’ asked Mooney.
I shrugged.
‘Johnnie had a bad night.’
‘Are you a friend of Mr Ray’s?’
I shook my head. I’d never actually met Johnnie. I knew him and Harry went back to a certain extent. Harry had set him up with boys when Johnnie had been in London in the past and Johnnie had been at some of Harry’s infamous ‘parties’.
‘I much prefer Tony Bennett. These over-emotional performances aren’t really to my taste.’
Mooney got up to go and talk to Harry. He gave me another limp, damp handshake.
‘It’s been a pleasure,’ he said. ‘I do hope we meet again.’
The Johnnie Ray residency was not a great success. Harry had managed to fill the club on the opening night but that was about it. After that nobody came. The Sawdust never did great trade anyway. It was in the wrong end of Soho and it had never managed to build enough of a reputation to draw a crowd. And Johnnie Ray wasn’t a big enough attraction to reverse the trend despite Harry’s desperate faith in him. When it came to show business he was just far too sentimental. He had some dewy-eyed notion of some magical world of entertainment. To be honest, I don’t think Harry ever realised how ruthless you had to be to be a successful booker or an agent. Consequently he made silly and unprofitable decisions. Like booking Johnnie Ray. The thing was he actually liked performers, which goes against rule number one in show-business management. And he tended to book the acts that he liked, and that usually meant the ones that were woefully out of fashion.
So anyway, after a week of empty houses for Johnnie, Harry cancelled the residency and paid him off. It was all done very amicably and Johnnie actually appreciated having a bit of a break after all the gruelling trudge around the northern club circuit. Harry shut the Sawdust and put a sign on it: CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT. He had plans for it, he informed me.
The Stardust reopened after a few weeks as The Stardust Erotic Revue. Harry tried to appear enthusiastic about it but you could see his disappointment. His dream of legitimate show business had finally evaporated and there to replace it was a strip club.
He showed me around as they were getting ready for the reopening. It looked flash. All black and chrome with a completely rewired lighting system. It seemed cold and sterile now. It wasn’t the Sawdust any more. A group of bored-looking girls were rehearsing their routines and out of curiosity I sat in. It was a bit of a shambles, really. Some of the girls could move quite well, obviously trained dancers down on their luck. But some of the others just didn’t have any idea. It was all a bit slapdash and when I told Harry what I thought he grinned at me.
‘Well Rube,’ he said, ‘why don’t you take it in hand?’
And I thought, why not? I’d learnt enough back in my Cabaret Club days of what worked with the punters, even though we had kept more of our clothes on back then. So I started to knock it all into some sort of shape. Harry was impressed.
‘You could be our choreographer,’ he suggested.
It was a bit of a grand title for organising a tits-and-arse show. But I set about it with as much professionalism as I’d put into any other job. I used all sorts of things that I’d learnt from the business and parodied them. Routines and costumes that were like a joke version of sex and performance but would work for the punters. Artistic direction based on a simple premise: men are suckers. They’d think that it was all very tastefully done.
And the girls that didn’t move so well I put through their paces. Basic things like posture and deportment that
I’d been taught when I was under contract with the Rank Organisation all those years ago. Yeah, I even had some of these girls going up and down the catwalk with books on their heads. I couldn’t help laughing when I thought about it: The Ruby Ryder Charm School.
I also sorted out the terms of employment of the girls with Harry. It only seemed right to treat them properly. Despite everything else that was going on in Soho those days, The Stardust was run on very orthodox business lines. The club paid the girls’ National Insurance stamps and they had Equity contracts. Harry liked the idea that the strippers in his club would be able to go on and do legitimate theatre work.
So although they had to bare all to the dirty-raincoat brigade twice nightly, the girls were well treated, and for the most part didn’t mind working for us. They knew they wouldn’t get any hassle from Harry. The sight of naked female flesh did nothing for him after all. His detachment made the girls feel at ease and meant that he could be very business-like about the running of the club, unlike the old days when he’d been booking the has-beens of the cabaret circuit.
And I was on a wage. I could pay my own rent now. I felt a lot better about not being beholden to Harry even though I was a bit wary of becoming involved in his world. But it was a job. It wasn’t exactly how I’d imagined my career to turn out but, hell, that’s show business.
